The veil of night was slowly thinning, its weight retreating from the mountain ridges, and with it, the first strands of light unfurled across the serene courtyards of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace. Soft pink hues touched the rooftops like the breath of spring, and dew-laced petals shimred faintly as if the palace itself had stirred from its slumber.
Jinmu stepped onto the stone path leading to the training ground, each step careful, deliberate. His black robes rustled lightly in the morning breeze, his wooden practice sword slung across his back. He had morized the terrain on his way in, but still, every corner of the palace felt unfamiliar, pristine, untouched by male presence. The architecture of the Lotus Palace felt fluid and circular, almost like it resisted straight lines on purpose—much like the won who ruled it.
So this is Yeonhwa Lotus Palace...
He wasn’t surprised that it was beautiful—he had heard tales—but sothing about being here in person made him feel like he was walking into an entirely different rhythm of the world. There were no guards stopping him, no curious disciples pointing swords at his throat. Instead, he felt the weight of dozens of silent gazes pressed against his back.
They were already gathered.
The courtyard unfolded like a sacred lotus. Wide stone tiles frad by raised wooden walkways, training dummies in the shape of plum trees, and long silk banners drifting in the breeze, painted with verses and petals. Won in matching lavender uniforms stood in half-circles, so perched along the railings, others seated formally on polished stone benches. Their eyes were fixed at the center of the courtyard—not on him just yet—but on the one who stood there already.
Daohye Yeoryeong.
The Palace Master of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace was standing calmly, hands folded behind her back, robes fluttering slightly around her like the wings of a crane. She was older than he expected—not aged—but tempered. Hair the color of twilight bound by an orchid pin, eyes like morning frost. She didn’t need to raise her voice or announce her presence; she simply was.
Jinmu walked slowly across the courtyard, unhurried. Not because he wished to show arrogance—far from it—but because he didn’t want to seem intimidated either. This wasn’t a duel of blades. This was diplomacy written in footwork and posture.
He felt the whispers rise as he passed through them.
"...a man?"
"Did the Palace Master really invite him?"
"I heard he helped Haria... but is he really worth this?"
"It’s been decades since a man was allowed inside..."
He didn’t glance at them. Didn’t even let the twitch of an eyelid betray his focus. Jinmu only lifted his gaze when he ca to stand opposite the Palace Master, exactly ten steps away.
She was already looking at him. Calm. Direct. Her presence was firm but not hostile.
"So," she began softly, but her voice cut through the air like a drawn blade, "you are the one who brought this to our doorstep."
He bowed, fists pressed to his sides.
"I didn’t intend to, Palace Master," he said evenly, "but the circumstances wouldn’t wait."
Her brow raised slightly, just enough to show she had heard more than what was said. "You asked for this sparring test?"
"No," he said, standing straight, "You did."
That earned the slightest of smirks from her, barely a flicker.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Haria watching—seated at the edge, eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed. There was no hostility in her gaze now, but neither was there relief. She was watching intently, quietly.
Yeoryeong took a step forward.
"You brought information of a conspiracy, a potential war, and you expect to believe it out of good will?"
"No," Jinmu replied. "I expect you to confirm it with your own hands."
He reached over his shoulder and drew the wooden practice sword, unadorned and smooth. He rested it lightly against his shoulder.
The courtyard grew quieter.
The palace master regarded the wooden blade with a glance, then tilted her head slightly.
"You intend to use that?"
"I don’t need steel to prove myself."
There was a pause. One heartbeat, two.
Then she raised her hand, palm open.
"I will give you a single breath to prepare," she said.
Jinmu lowered his stance slowly, wooden blade slipping down to his side, edge tilted slightly. His knees bent, feet sliding into alignnt, and his breath dropped to the base of his stomach.
She uses palm techniques. That much is clear. No sword. No weapon. Which ans...
His mind wasn’t racing. It was sharpening. Every breath she took, every movent of her robes, the way she stood with weight slightly shifted to the left—he took it all in.
Yeoryeong didn’t move.
But sothing shifted.
An invisible ripple passed through the courtyard like silk caught in a breeze. The disciples around them straightened. Even Haria’s shoulders tensed. The Palace Master didn’t need to shout or declare the beginning of a duel. Her intent did it for her.
She’s a Grandmaster. But I can’t afford to be overwheld.
Jinmu gripped the sword with both hands, not tight, but grounded. Calm. He didn’t flare his ki. He didn’t draw attention. But his body was beginning to flow.
Yeoryeong moved.
And the next mont, the spar began.
The mont Daohye Yeoryeong took her stance, the world around her seed to hush.
Her body moved like a falling petal, loose and languid, almost mockingly off-balance—Form One: Drifting Petal Stance.
Jinmu didn’t respond imdiately. He tightened his grip on the wooden sword and let out a breath, calm but focused. There were dozens watching now, many of them whispering. Most had never seen a male martial artist inside the Lotus Palace, much less one standing on the training ground about to spar with their Palace Master.
Her stance is misleading. She’s already baiting ... Jinmu’s gaze narrowed. But I’ve studied this... This is the technique i’ve used before.
Daohye gave him a small smile, one that seed amused rather than threatening. "Don’t worry. I won’t break your bones too quickly."
Jinmu stepped forward.
Their first exchange was quick. Daohye floated in with a swaying motion, her palm shooting out deceptively, only to twist into a hard feint aid at his ribs. Jinmu shifted just in ti, blade parrying her wrist, his feet flowing around her advance.
She followed with Form Two: Vein-Pulse Bloom, her palm glowing briefly. The mont it connected with Jinmu’s guard, a pulse of ki raced through his arm. For a brief second, he couldn’t feel his hand.
But he didn’t panic. Instead, he pivoted back and redirected the montum with a half-spin.
So that’s the disruption technique... If I didn’t reinforce the nerve paths in my arm, I would’ve been wide open.
Daohye’s brow lifted.
"You recover quickly."
Jinmu didn’t answer. He stepped in with a flowing cut—not quite a sword technique, not quite a palm form. It was a hybrid. His movents mimicked the elegance of Yeonhwa techniques, but each form bled into the next like a weaving river—evasive, unpredictable, relentless.
Daohye used Form Three: Twin Lotus Coils to catch his blade, spinning into him. Her arms looped around his in a whirling trap.
Except Jinmu was already shifting with her.
He planted his foot into the ground and mimicked her motion, twisting with her technique instead of against it. The red wood of his blade scraped the hem of her robe.
She leapt back, unreadable for a mont. "You’ve never been taught our forms. And yet..."
I copy her technique. Not directly. But watching her fight... I’m beginning to understand its true rhythm.
GHOST BLOOM STEP.
Jinmu vanished. A flicker. His footwork spun, and like a bloom fading from one spot to another, he appeared behind her shoulder. His blade wasn’t ant to land—but it brushed against her sleeve, testing her boundary.
Daohye spun, palm flashing in a perfect arc—Form Four: Misting Blade Fingers.
A dozen pinpoint strikes flickered toward Jinmu’s chest.
He ducked low, sweeping his wooden sword in a flaming crescent—COILED VEIN RAIN.
Wood t palm in a furious flurry. Jinmu’s blade was faster than expected. The dancing petals of her attack lost their rhythm for a beat.
They stepped apart.
The disciples around them had fallen silent. Even Haria, standing near the edge of the circle, looked stunned.
Daohye exhaled. Her face was calm, but her eyes glead with sothing close to respect.
"You copied our forms... yet you’ve made them your own. That sword of yours—it’s not just fla. It carries pulse. Flow. You even adjusted mid-fight to bypass my internal disruption."
Jinmu didn’t smile. He simply nodded once. "I ca to earn trust. Not to impress."
Daohye raised her hand. A signal. The spar would end.
"Then you’ve earned it. From , at least."
And the courtyard remained hushed, as if no one could quite grasp what they had just witnessed—
A male martial artist, standing amidst the petals, dancing a style not his own, yet utterly unmistakable.
Jinmu Yeon had passed the test.
And the storm that followed would demand far more than petals and blade.
The silence that followed the match lingered like morning mist.
Even after Jinmu had stepped away from the center of the training grounds, the weight of what had just occurred still clung to the air, thick and restless. Palace disciples stood in clusters—so silent, others murmuring behind sleeves. There was no formal announcent, no declaration of victory or approval. But the reactions were beginning to bloom like petals under sun.
"...He really withstood the Palace Master’s rhythm."
"Did you see how he moved during the Forth Form? He didn’t break."
"I thought n only relied on brute force, but he... that wasn’t brute force."
Their whispers were not loud, but they were honest. And for a place as tightly knit and tradition-bound as the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace, honesty rarely arrived without resistance.
Jinmu remained still beneath the peach blossom tree at the edge of the grounds, rolling his shoulders slowly. Sweat still clung to the back of his neck, and his hands—though calm—had that slight tremble that always ca after fighting soone above his level. Not due to fear, but the sheer strain it put on the nerves, like having to balance on a thin line over a deep gorge with a storm raging above.
She didn’t go all out, he thought, adjusting his grip on the wooden sword, now strapped to his back once more. But she tested . Tested whether I’d fall to the rhythm...
A quiet shuffle of footsteps approached.
Eun Haria. Her arms crossed loosely in front of her, brows relaxed, but her eyes locked directly on him.
"That was... sothing," she said.
Jinmu tilted his head. "That a complint?"
Her lips twitched, almost into a smile. "A reluctant one."
They stood like that for a mont. Not quite adversaries, not allies yet either. Just two people trying to piece together the parts of each other they didn’t understand.
Then the tension cracked from another direction.
"I don’t buy it."
The voice was sharp. Crisp, even. Like a fresh crack across ice.
From the left side of the gathering, a woman stepped forward. Not young—perhaps late twenties—but her posture scread formality. Her robes bore the embroidered mark of a senior instructor. She was lean, with narrow eyes that swept Jinmu from head to toe as if reading a report.
"I saw what you did," she continued. "It was impressive. But let’s not pretend you matched the Palace Master. That wasn’t a real fight."
Another woman beside her nodded, frowning slightly. "The Palace Master held back. Anyone with eyes could see that."
A few murmurs of agreent trickled in. Subtle, hesitant. But real.
Jinmu didn’t flinch.
He looked at the first woman, then at the few behind her.
"I never claid I matched her," he said simply. "But if she had gone all out, I wouldn’t be standing here."
That made a few brows twitch. The honesty, the calmness—it threw off the rhythm of their criticism.
"You’re admitting she was superior, then?" the instructor pressed.
He nodded. "Of course. She’s a Grandmaster."
"And you’re...?"
"Peak Master," he replied, not blinking.
That seed to catch them off guard. They’d expected evasion. Arrogance. A claim. Instead, they were given clarity.
"She could’ve ended it whenever she wanted," Jinmu added. "But the point of that spar wasn’t to win or lose. It was to show sothing."
"And what exactly did you show?" the instructor asked, folding her arms.
Jinmu looked around at the other disciples. Their curiosity. Their judgnt. Their veiled excitent.
"Adaptation," he said. "That even a sword user could keep up in a palace of palm techniques. That your rhythm isn’t untouchable. That so of us on the outside... can learn too."
That last line seed to hit differently.
A younger disciple in the back exhaled softly. Another tilted her head, thoughtful. Soone even muttered, "He’s not wrong..."
But the instructor wasn’t moved.
"Words are easy," she said. "Imitation is easier. But experience, foundation, and loyalty—those aren’t so easily earned."
Jinmu let the silence settle again before answering.
"I didn’t co here to prove I belonged," he said. "I ca because your successor almost died. And if you still think this is about , you’re missing the point."
The sharpness of his tone was quiet but surgical.
That, more than anything, silenced the room.
Haria looked at him, expression unreadable. But her arms had uncrossed.
Then, a voice cut through from the main hall steps.
"That’s enough, Instructor Danri."
It was the Palace Master—Daohye Yeoryeong—stepping down the stairs in her outer robe, calm and graceful as ever. Her presence smoothed the tension like a warm brush of incense smoke.
"If this were a contest of pride, he would’ve lost the mont he stepped into our halls. But it’s not. He faced not with arrogance, but with precision. With control. That is more than enough to earn my attention."
Instructor Danri lowered her gaze, bowing stiffly. "Yes, Palace Master."
Yeoryeong turned her eyes to Jinmu, now with a touch more warmth.
"We are not a sect easily swayed by external forces," she said, "but we are also not blind. Your technique... it reflected mine, yet bent it. As if the petals had changed color mid-bloom."
Jinmu bowed respectfully.
"I’ve only seen it once," he said.
Haria blinked. So that’s how...
Daohye Yeoryeong raised a hand. "Let those who wish to question him continue to watch. He will not hide. And if he proves unworthy, I will know. Until then..."
She looked at Haria.
"He is a guest of the Lotus Palace. And guests... are not mistreated."
With that, she turned and began to walk away.
The crowd began to shift, half dispersing, half staying in clumps of conversation. Jinmu exhaled, slow and controlled. The tension left his shoulders, if only slightly.
Haria remained beside him, then glanced at the few disciples still looking his way with skeptical eyes.
"You know," she said lightly, "you could’ve at least tried to smile back there."
"I was too busy not dying."
"...Fair."
A pause, then Haria glanced at him again. "But I think they’re starting to see it. Just a little."
Jinmu didn’t look at her. Just let his eyes wander toward the fading sun behind the peach trees.
That’s enough for now.
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