The setting for the second trial resembled an underground dungeon.
The air was thick with a foul moldy stench and dampness, and faint lanterns hung on the stone walls.
“To master the sword technique created by our assembly, one must not only have pure inner energy but also the tenacity of a camel and a terrifying level of endurance,” Woo Hak said.
This time, Woo Hak was overseeing the trial, not Seok Song.
Looking at the twenty or so masked participants, he spoke in a low voice. “When the gong sounds, assume the horse stance with arms spread and hold it for one hour. If your stance breaks or you fail to endure, you’re eliminated.”
With a faint smile, Woo Hak added, “If you can’t hold out, you may disrupt others’ stances. Of course, you must maintain your own horse stance while doing so.”
At his words, the stone chamber filled with murmurs.
Though their identities were concealed, those invited were all young prodigies who had already made names for themselves in the martial world. To ask them to hold a horse stance—a basic exercise for novices—for an entire hour?
“This is a matter of pride,” sighed a man in a dog mask, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don’t desperately need the Thousand Swords Society’s techniques.”
Most of the participants nodded in agreement. Coming from prestigious backgrounds, few were desperate to learn new martial arts. They had come only because the renowned Thousand Swords Society was offering to teach without restrictions.
“I’m out,” the dog-masked man declared to Woo Hak. “I’d rather master my sect’s techniques than go through this.”
Judging by his use of “sect,” he might be a master from one of the Eight Great Families.
Three others nodded in agreement. “I’m leaving too. I came out of curiosity because they said there’d be no conditions, but I don’t need to do this.”
“I agree. There’s no need to go this far.” Martial artists have strong pride, especially descendants of great sects or noble families who can access supreme techniques without humbling themselves.
Woo Hak nodded calmly. “A wise choice, perhaps. Those who wish to leave may head to the exit.”
The dog-masked man and three others promptly left the chamber.
What a pity, Bu Eunseol thought. I expected at least a sparring match.
Those who left were likely descendants of noble families or disciples of great sects. He had anticipated a fierce sparring match with them, but instead, the trial was to hold a horse stance.
What a peaceful way to pass down martial arts.
In the demonic sects, prodigies were often pitted against each other to the death to select the best. But the Thousand Swords Society’s trials were remarkably peaceful, testing only the desired qualities through fair challenges.
“Let’s begin,” Woo Hak announced.
Bu Eunseol and the remaining eleven masked participants assumed the horse stance. Everyone present had at least sixty years’ worth of inner energy, making the task as effortless as standing still for their level.
“What’s that smell?” someone muttered, sniffing the air.
The chamber was damp and dark, but an indescribable stench began to seep in.
“Urgh!” Someone gagged.
Each breath brought tears and a runny nose. Even using breath-holding techniques was useless—it wasn’t poison. Yet every inhale felt like having decades-old rotten meat and entrails shoved into one’s nose and mouth.
“Ugh!” Soon, the chamber echoed with pained groans.
No amount of inner energy could block the agony caused by the stench.
What’s all the fuss about? Bu Eunseol, holding his horse stance, frowned at the suffering around him. Surely martial artists aren’t encountering the stench of death for the first time.
The odor filling the chamber was none other than the smell of decaying corpses. But this wasn’t an ordinary stench—it was the Ten Thousand Year Unburied Corpse Scent, so foul that even masters of the Jang Sangmun sect, who specialized in handling corpses, would flee covering their noses.
But Bu Eunseol had spent years dealing with corpses reported to the authorities. He had eaten noodles while cleaning rotting bodies and fallen asleep stitching up burst entrails.
It reminds me of my time as an undertaker, he thought. To him, the stench evoked nostalgia and a faint sense of longing.
“I can’t take it!” Unlike Bu Eunseol, several men struggling to maintain their horse stances gave up and bolted for the door.
Shudder.
Those who remained wobbled, barely holding their stances. The masks they wore were a small mercy—without them, their pitiful states would have been exposed to all.
“Ughhh.” The chamber continued to echo with groans.
The participants now understood why the second trial required not only inner energy and stamina but also extraordinary endurance. Even without breathing, the vile odor seeped into their skin. Few could endure such torment for an hour.
“I can’t do this!” Another man, holding his stance in a corner, kicked open the door and fled.
Three or four others followed, bursting out of the chamber.
“Hmm,” Bu Eunseol noted. After about half an hour, the groans had subsided, as no one had the strength left to vocalize.
The remaining participants realized two stark truths.
Even an immortal couldn’t endure an hour here.
The Ten Thousand Year Unburied Corpse Scent had numbed not only their noses but their entire bodies. Even holding their breath, the stench permeated their skin, causing a sensation as if their organs were rotting from within. While this toxic odor wasn’t usually potent, in an enclosed space like this, it rivaled the three deadliest poisons in the martial world.
“If you can’t hold out, you may disrupt others’ stances. Of course, you must maintain your own horse stance.”
Now they understood why Woo Hak had said this.
As if by unspoken agreement—
Whoosh! Crack!
A man in an amber mask, maintaining his arms-spread stance, attacked the knees of a man in a tiger mask.
“Ugh!” Caught off guard, the tiger-masked man’s knees buckled inward.
But he, too, was a master with solid inner energy. He immediately shifted his knees to counterattack.
Crack! Thud!
The two, maintaining their horse stances, exchanged rapid kicks.
As if on cue, the others began targeting their competitors, aiming to eliminate them.
Crack!
A man in a wolf mask attacked Bu Eunseol’s knees with a sonic boom.
Whoosh! Thud!
With a sharp rustle of his robes, the wolf-masked man unleashed a flurry of kicks, creating dozens of shadowy afterimages. The technique resembled the Buddhist Shadowless Kick but was laced with killing intent.
He’s aiming to shatter my ankles, Bu Eunseol thought.
Normally, Bu Eunseol, untrained in kicking techniques, wouldn’t have been able to respond effectively. But he effortlessly dodged, anticipating the wolf-masked man’s moves.
As the sole inheritor of the legendary Swift Beyond Shadow from the Nangyang Pavilion, he had mastered the Absolute Divine Movement Technique, which combined extreme footwork and movement, allowing him to change directions hundreds of times in a single breath. Dodging such kicks was as easy as yawning.
“Agh!” A piercing scream erupted from the wolf-masked man.
After twenty exchanges, Bu Eunseol’s ghostly knee strike precisely hit the man’s weak point.
“You bastard!” Eyes blazing with venom, the wolf-masked man, his stance broken, lunged to stab Bu Eunseol’s eyes with two fingers.
Crack!
But Bu Eunseol’s kick was faster. With the sound of breaking bones, the wolf-masked man let out a scream—his ankle was shattered.
“I’ll kill you!” he roared, limping as he drew a sword from his waist.
A solemn voice echoed from the chamber’s ceiling. “This is not a place for killing. Leave the chamber immediately.”
The wolf-masked man hesitated, recalling Seok Song’s lightning-fast sword from earlier. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled out of the chamber.
“You’re dead!” he shouted.
Whoosh! Thud.
Whether the wolf-masked man left or not, the chamber had become a battleground of combatants maintaining their horse stances.
Crack!
With a single strike from the fox-masked Tang Gon, a man in a pig mask collapsed, his knees buckling.
“You damned fool!” Losing his composure, the pig-masked man drew a dagger from his robes.
But it was like writing poetry before a scholar.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Three poisoned needles were already embedded in the pig-masked man’s chest.
“Ughhh,” he staggered.
“Go outside and take the antidote quickly,” Tang Gon said in a low voice. “Otherwise, you’ll suffer from fire poison for life.”
“You… you’re…” The pig-masked man, realizing Tang Gon’s identity through the use of fire poison and needles—hallmarks of the Tang Clan—trembled and fled the chamber.
By now, only five remained holding their horse stances.
“The second trial is over,” Woo Hak announced.
The foul mist in the chamber dissipated, replaced by clear air.
“Phew.” As if by agreement, the five survivors released their horse stances and took deep breaths, having barely breathed during the ordeal.
This isn’t learning martial arts for free, they thought.
Unlike the first trial, the second had inflicted unprecedented suffering. The five remaining masters exchanged glances. Judging by their auras, none were weak.
The final trial will probably be a sparring match.
As the five tensed, eyeing each other, Seok Song and Woo Hak entered the chamber side by side.
“Return to the clearing where the first trial was held,” Seok Song said.
When none of the five moved, he gave a wry smile. “No need to be nervous. We won’t make you fight each other to the death.”
The five followed, gathering in the clearing of the first trial.
“You are all exceptional prodigies with innate instincts and killing intent,” Seok Song said. “It’s a joy to pass down our sword technique to such talents.”
After a deep breath, he continued, “But this technique is a killing sword, created to take lives. It is no ordinary swordsmanship.”
Bu Eunseol and the others had expected as much. A technique requiring innate killing intent could only be a killing sword.
Pausing briefly, Seok Song said, “Now, we begin the third trial.”
The five tensed, lowering their stances. If the second trial was this grueling, the third would surely be unimaginable.
“The third trial is simple,” Seok Song said unexpectedly. “Make one promise, and you pass.”
The group looked puzzled. Passing the third trial with just a promise?
“What promise?” asked Tang Gon, the fox-masked man.
Seok Song spoke gravely. “Swear that, in exchange for learning the sword technique, you will kill one person.”
“That’s it? Just a vow to kill someone, and you’ll teach us?” Tang Gon pressed.
“Prodigies like you don’t fall from the sky,” Seok Song said with a faint smile. “You are disciples of great sects or heirs of noble families. I trust you’ll honor your vows.”
For those from great sects or noble families, a vow is heavier than gold. Breaking it would not only disgrace the individual but tarnish their sect or family’s honor.
“That’s all well and good, but isn’t promising to kill someone a bit much?” said a man in a yellow dragon mask. “What if it’s an absurd target or someone close to us? If it’s a key figure in the Martial Alliance or the Demonic Sect, it’s practically impossible.”
“A fair point,” Seok Song acknowledged, shaking his head. “The situation is complex, and I can’t explain it fully. But let me put it this way.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued, “That person is the sworn enemy of our assembly.”
Closing his eyes with a sorrowful expression, Seok Song gritted his teeth. “He massacred our assembly’s swordsmen, including our leader!”
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