Black and White Martial Emperor (Wuxia Novel)

 
“Is he finally dead…?”
Even a corpse demon dies when its head is severed. How much more so a man?

Thud!
The Wind and Thunder Axe slipped from his blood-soaked hand and crashed to the ground. A weapon he once swung as lightly as a switch now felt as heavy as a mountain.
Yeon Hojeong looked down.

His hands, wrapped tight in chains, were nothing but mangled flesh. How he had managed to grip and swing an axe the size of a man’s body with hands so ruined was a wonder in itself.
Clatter.
The shattered chains slid away.

“Knew it would end like this.”
The bitterness almost made him forget the pain. With these hands, he wouldn’t be able to lift chopsticks again, let alone an axe.
Still, he had traded them for the head of the Sect Lord of the Cult of Perversity, the most depraved among the so-called Three Teachings. That was enough. True, both he and that bastard were now left too broken to even feed themselves—but at least it was done.
“Is he dead?”

Hojeong turned his head.
An old man sat slumped against a rock. It was none other than Mo Yonggun, Alliance Lord of the Martial World.
“You didn’t see his head fly?”

“I can’t see.”
Hojeong frowned. Only then did he notice Mo Yonggun’s eyes—clouded, lifeless. He had gone blind, his sight burned away by grievous injuries and the overuse of inner force.
Hojeong staggered closer and sank down in front of him.

“It’s finished.”
“You’ve done well.”
Yes. He had.

To bring down the Cult of Perversity, orthodox and demonic had joined hands—an alliance unthinkable in all the history of Murim. For centuries, the two sides had been locked in bitter enmity, yet the cult’s depravity had been vile enough to drown even that hatred.
But today it ended. The cult, the alliance… and his own life.
“Are you holding up?”

“…Well enough.”
“You would. You’re the man they called the first Grandmaster of the Demonic Path.”
So they said…

Hojeong did not mention that the cult leader’s final strike had already severed his meridians.
He was only clinging to life with the dregs of his qi. Sooner or later, he would die.
“Didn’t expect you to flatter me.”
“I only speak the truth. Without you, we could have crushed the Demonic Alliance ten years ago.”

“And if you had, your people would’ve been wiped out long before today.”
“That’s true. Strange, how fortune turns. Never thought we’d end up relying on you.”
Hojeong let out a dry chuckle.

After a silence, Mo Yonggun spoke again.
“Why did you choose that path?”
“What path?”

“You weren’t born of the demonic side. Had you joined us, you could have made a name as one of the greatest under heaven. Why cross over and become their leader instead?”
“What’s the point of asking that now?”
“I’d like to leave this world with my questions answered.”

His voice rang hollow.
Hojeong sighed.
“How long can you last?”

“Not half a turn of the hourglass.”
Damn it.
Normally, he could see a man’s condition at a glance. But with his own meridians torn and his qi nearly gone, even that sense was dulled.

‘So he’s at the end too.’
Bitter indeed.
“Any last words?”
“My life is my testament.”

“Fitting for the Alliance Lord.”
“Then what about you?”
“…It just turned out that way.”

Of course there had been reasons. But he wasn’t about to spill his past before a dying man.
Mo Yonggun smiled faintly.
The smile /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ of a blind man carried a strange melancholy.

“As expected of you.”
“I’ll see you off.”
“Thank you.”

Death changes a man. Him, and this one too.
“And…”
“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“…”

“You old—”
Thunk.
Hojeong stiffened.

“Gugh!”
Blood burst from his lips, carrying a foul stench.
His eyes dropped to his chest. A needle, so fine it was barely visible, was embedded above his heart.

‘Cowhair Needle?!’
His head snapped up. The blood-smeared face of the old man before him was dark and ghastly, his breath ragged.
Hojeong’s bloodshot eyes widened.

“Dang… Kwan!”
The Tang Clan Lord of Sichuan, Deputy Alliance Lord of the Martial World.
Hojeong had seen it—Tang Kwan’s chest pierced by the Sect Lord’s Dark Wasteland Finger. Even if the strike had missed the heart, the force should have ruptured his meridians. How was he alive?

And why strike him?!
“I won’t ask you to understand.”
Hojeong turned his glare on Mo Yonggun.

The Alliance Lord’s voice was low, heavy with regret.
“If I die, who is left to stop you? As things stand… the orthodox world cannot hold back the Black Emperor’s Citadel.”
“Khak!”

“In the afterlife, I’ll offer my apology. Come with us.”
Damn bastards—had they left me be, I would’ve died anyway.
The fragile line keeping his meridians intact snapped. The Tang Clan’s most vicious poison, Severing Intestines Powder, burned through his qi, melting his organs from within. The agony was so immense he could not even scream.

Those sons of bitches—if they had to use poison, did it have to be this vile?
Hojeong dropped to his knees.
At the same moment, Tang Kwan toppled over. His task complete, the tension gone, he died first.

“Why…”
The word slipped out.
Guilt twisted Mo Yonggun’s face.

“I am truly sorry.”
Hojeong’s vision dimmed, growing cloudy.
‘Why does the end always have to be rotten?’

Just when it seemed the worst, it got worse still. Just when it seemed he might reach the best, it turned to less. Always like this. That cursed fate of his, half blessed, half damned, had played its final trick.
He had mastered legendary martial arts, yet never become number one. When he rose high, it was only to find himself lord of the demonic path.
A weary life, never the greatest, yet always bearing the heaviest burdens.

Still… he had lived as best he could.
‘Alliance Lord. You’d better apologize properly in the afterlife.’
 

****
“Ever steadfast in our devotion to the House of Yu, may we be granted a thousand years of prosperity, under the gaze of the gods above…”
A chant, even and clear, resounded in a bright, ringing voice.

‘Hm?’
Beneath the tranquil sound lay the heavy scent of incense.
‘What is this? A temple?’

But it wasn’t a Buddhist sutra being chanted.
“Please continue to watch over us, that the glory of our house may last a thousand years.”
With the resonant prayer came the shuffle of movement all around.

Hojeong opened his eyes.
‘What?’
On all sides, people knelt, bowing low.

He blinked.
‘What the hell is this?’
And why did this place feel so familiar? The garments, the austere altar—he had seen it before.

A tug at his shoulder made him glance back.
His jaw dropped.
“Huh?”

A boy, still bowing, peeked up at him. His face blanched.
Frantic, the boy gestured—urging him to bow.
But Hojeong could not.

“Jipyeong?!”
The solemn air shattered.
The atmosphere chilled. But Hojeong had no time to care.

That boy before him—
The lively face, the starlit eyes. It was his younger brother, Yeon Jipyeong. The same brother who had perished with their clan in the calamity twenty-six years ago.
‘A dream? An illusion?’
Impossible. He was not a man to mistake reality for fantasy.

Even if it wasn’t real—
Even if their bond had been broken—
To see family again, even in a dream…
A fierce surge of emotion rose within him.
“Jipyeong!”

He seized the boy in a fierce embrace.
Yeon Jipyeong looked bewildered. Had his elder brother lost his mind?
He whispered urgently, small and quick.

“B-Brother! Stop it! You’ll get punished!”
“You little brat…”
That warmth, that trembling—
Yes. It was him. His brother. Hojeong’s eyes blurred with tears.

“Brother! Brother! Seriously, what’s wrong with—”
Then—
“Hojeong.”

He froze.
That voice—he knew it too well.
Releasing Jipyeong, he turned slowly.

At the altar stood a middle-aged man, glaring at him with terrifying eyes.
“What are you doing.”
Not loud, not harsh. Just calm words, heavy with crushing authority.

As a child, that voice had terrified him. He had avoided his father to escape it.
“…Father?”
Yeon Wi’s brow furrowed.

His eldest son rose unsteadily, walking toward him with eyes filled with disbelief, awe, and longing—nothing like the boy he had known.
A striking moment indeed. For his firstborn had never once met his gaze, shoulders always bent under the weight of oppression.
“F-Father!”

Hojeong rushed toward him, ready to throw his arms around him.
Yeon Wi moved.
In an instant he caught his son’s wrist and pressed down.

Thud!
“Urgh!”
Hojeong dropped to his knees, his legs robbed of strength by the surge of qi.

“To cause a disturbance during a memorial rite—have you lost your mind?”
Even the chill of that voice now felt almost dear.
Hojeong lifted his head.

Yeon Wi faltered, just for a moment. His son’s eyes brimmed with sorrow.
Strange. The boy was different today.
“The offense of disturbing the rites will be addressed later. Go to my study and wait.”

Cold as ever.
But the reply was not.
“Yes, sir!”

Too bold. Too firm. Yeon Wi, unsettled, turned away.
Hojeong rose and looked around.
Every eye was on him. Twenty or so family members stared in confusion.

He tried to smile. But his face froze.
‘Wait.’
Caught up in emotion, he’d missed it. Something was very wrong.

His eyes dropped to his chest.
The Cowhair Needle was gone.
‘I… didn’t die?’

Not just that.
‘No. More than that…’
He scanned the room again. Shock dawned.

‘This is my past.’
He checked his hands, his body. Ran fingers through his hair. Felt the fabric of his clothes.
Yes. It was his body—yet not. No scars, no calluses, none of the marks of a man forged in endless battles. Instead, a lean frame, clean hands—the body of his youth.

“This can’t be… is this truly possible…?”
“What are you muttering!”
Yeon Wi’s rebuke cracked like a whip. Hojeong ducked his head, sheepish, and slipped out.

Once outside, he looked again.
“…It really is my home!”
One of the Seven Great Clans of martial world, famed as the strongest. Barely fifty years of history, yet its presence rivaled any of the others.

The Yeon Clan of Green Mountain.
And its First Young Master, Yeon Hojeong, had returned.