08

#8 “The Dead Have No Words”

Night fell.

On the path from the Patriarch’s Hall to Yoo-ha Pavilion, Lady Yi Myeong-hwa replayed Cheol U-saeng’s earlier words in her mind.

─Are you truly not part of the Dark Emperor Sect?

She bit her lower lip hard, her newly assigned guards from the Golden Nine Pavilion quickening their pace as they sensed her ominous aura.

“Not much time is left…”

But there was still hope. She recalled the desperate look in Cheol U-saeng’s eyes—the lingering traces of “love.” If either Second Son Cheol Wi-gyeok or Third Son Cheol Wi-gyeok inherited the Iron-Sick Cheol Family, this battle would be a victory for “them.”

Grip—.

Her hands tightened around her robes. The foolish face of Cheol U-saeng morphed into the demonic visage of Cheol Gun-ak. They were eerily similar, like two thieves caught stealing.

“Your plans will fail.”

Lady Yi felt deeply ashamed of how she’d acted days ago at Yoo-ha Pavilion. How could she have been so terrified of mere chopsticks? Shaking off the memory, she arrived at Yoo-ha Pavilion.

Under the crimson glow of lanterns illuminating the beautiful main gate, she froze.

“Father?”

Her eyes widened. A palanquin stood before her, accompanied by none other than Jin Jung-tae, the head of the Golden Nine Pavilion. This was his first visit to the Iron-Sick Cheol Family since her marriage. Without turning around, he clasped his hands behind his back, gazing up at the blooming flowers.

“These flowers must bloom even in winter.”

“No, we switch to camellias once autumn ends.”

“What color do you use?”

“Mostly deep red.”

Jin Jung-tae gave a quick glance around the pavilion and nodded.

“Far better than using pale white camellias. Let’s go inside.”

“Yes.”

“You stay here.”

“Yes, sir!”

The guards who had followed Lady Yi obediently remained outside. Even the servants stationed at Yoo-ha Pavilion were dismissed. Once seated, Jin Jung-tae stared at her silently for a long moment.

Whoooooosh—.

A cold northern wind swept through. Only when the desolate chill assured them they were alone did Jin Jung-tae finally speak.

“The Silent King is concerned.”

“…!”

Lady Yi’s eyes widened in shock. The Silent King—one of the Black Night Four Heavenly Kings overseeing all operations in the Northern Heavens.

“He was greatly displeased to hear you mentioned the Green Flame Squad.”

Swoosh—.

Lady Yi adjusted her posture, kneeling and bowing deeply as if bracing for punishment.

“Please convey my apologies, Father. I never intended such disrespect. It was merely because the Green Flame Squad Leader—”

“Enough.”

Coldness settled over Jin Jung-tae’s gaunt face. Known as the “Golden Hound,” he was infamous for his ruthless pursuit of wealth and his ironclad methods of collecting debts. Though age had thinned him further, he appeared sharper than ever. Even Lady Yi couldn’t meet his gaze and bowed her head.

“In a few days, events will unfold simultaneously at the Extreme North and the Great Wall.”

Unrest in the Extreme North meant the Moon Legion advancing southward, triggering alerts across the Eight Great Squads. Meanwhile, trouble at the Great Wall would force the Guangming Squad Leader to stay put. With chaos erupting in both the north and south, attention on the Iron-Sick Cheol Family would naturally wane.

Jin Jung-tae’s narrow eyes gleamed with murderous intent.

“And coincidentally, the Green Flame Squad Leader will conveniently find time to visit during that period.”

“It seems urgent.”

“That’s how pressing matters concerning the Iron-Sick Cheol Family are.”

Once the digging began, no one could predict what might surface. But with chaos above and below—and the Green Flame Squad Leader shielding her—it would all end favorably for her. Lady Yi allowed herself a thin smile.

“It seems things are going smoothly now that you’re involved, Father.”

“…”

But Jin Jung-tae simply stared at her in silence. Realizing her mistake, she hastily wiped away her grin and lowered her head again. Sipping the tea she’d prepared, Jin Jung-tae murmured softly:

“The best outcome is always when nothing happens…”

Lady Yi had no response. How could she have anticipated Cheol Gun-ak’s sudden madness or his ability to identify members of the Dark Emperor Sect on sight? Yet, the situation had spiraled out of control.

“How did that brat know we’re part of the sect?”

“I don’t know. He just seemed to sense it instantly.”

“Hmm.”

Tink—.

Jin Jung-tae set down his teacup. The rippling liquid reflected his face, obscured by shadows so thick it looked like he’d emerged from pitch darkness.

“Wi-gang visited me yesterday.”

Her eyes widened again. She hadn’t known her son had gone to the Golden Nine Pavilion. Jin Jung-tae smiled faintly, pleased that Third Son Cheol Wi-gang had come without her knowledge.

“My grandson is proving more useful than my daughter.”

“…?”

“He asked me if I could lend him warriors from the Black Shadow Society.”

“…!”

No further explanation was needed. Why else would Cheol Wi-gang request the Black Shadow Society’s warriors? Clearly, it was to deal with Cheol Gun-ak. Conveniently, the Patriarch and most of the Cheol Family Guard would soon leave to greet the Green Flame Squad Leader. That would be the perfect opportunity.

“The second-best outcome is death. The dead can’t talk.”

“Given how rushed things are, killing him would ensure everything stays buried.”

As a mother and grandfather, they exchanged satisfied nods. Unlike stubborn Second Son Cheol Wi-gyeok, Third Son Cheol Wi-gang showed promise—he was well-read and clever. Jin Jung-tae scanned the room with a predatory glare and asked:

“If Wi-gang fails, what then?”

“He won’t fail.”

“This shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

“…”

“To reiterate: the dead have no words.”

With those final words, Jin Jung-tae departed.

Whoooooosh—.

A chilling wind rushed into the empty space he left behind. Though the flower trees were beautiful, their scentless blooms only filled the room with the aroma of tea. Amidst this, Lady Yi clenched her fists tightly.

“When you say ‘the dead,’ whom exactly are you referring to…?”

Jin Jung-tae was the kind of man who wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate even his own grandson, Cheol Wi-gang, if necessary. Determined to prevent such an outcome, Lady Yi gritted her teeth.

“Cheol Gun-ak, this is all your fault.”

That wretched maid Song-ok—what was she compared to everything else? Cheol Gun-ak, the source of all these problems, infuriated her. While others’ sons could die, her own flesh and blood—the son she bore in agony—would never meet such a fate.

—

### At the Forge

Klang—.

The sound of Cheol Gun-ak’s hammer echoed sharply. The other blacksmiths instinctively glanced over.

Klang—!

Sweat poured down his face like rain. His skin, scorched by the heat, was flushed red, and veins bulged in his bloodshot eyes.

“We should stop the Young Master.”

The gray-haired blacksmith, Sung-gok, spoke worriedly to Da-no-ya. Scratching his head with his pipe, Da-no-ya shrugged uncertainly.

“He’s been hammering nonstop for two days…”

But stopping him was impossible. Cheol Gun-ak hadn’t eaten, drinking only water as he worked tirelessly. What he was forging remained unclear. All they knew was that he radiated madness, channeling his anguish into every strike.

“For now, let’s watch. He must have some plan.”

“…Yes.”

To the blacksmiths, Cheol Gun-ak seemed like a flame consuming itself to produce light. His intensity mesmerized them, drawing them in like moths to fire.

—

### ‘Just a little more.’

Whoosh—.

Zhu Rong Devil Arts surged within him. Cheol Gun-ak fueled his divine flames by merging the heat inside his body with the forge’s inferno. Such cultivation would be impossible with ordinary martial arts.

“If you try to gather lightning energy by getting struck by lightning, you’ll die.”

Internal energy’s nature resembled its user’s traits but didn’t replicate natural phenomena directly. However, Zhu Rong Devil Arts were different—they consumed fire. Weak flames were useless; only scorching heat capable of melting steel would suffice. Pushing himself to the brink allowed him to leap forward.

Klang—.

The forge was the perfect place to cultivate Zhu Rong Devil Arts.

Klang—!

Cheol Gun-ak burned away impurities within his body using the divine flames and the kiln’s heat. Drinking only clear water, he wasn’t undergoing rebirth per se, but he was purifying himself, inching closer to a state of clarity.

‘I must survive.’

His enemies were strong.

‘I must live.’

He was weak. With no guarantees about Grandma’s acquaintance, whether the Guangming Squad would arrive on time, or how Lady Yi and the Dark Emperor Sect would act, his only ally was himself. His muscles screamed for relief, his bones warned of breaking, and his joints cried out in agony. Yet amidst this torment…

Klaaaang—.

Cheol Gun-ak picked up the hammer again to protect Grandma.

‘I will kill the Dark Emperor.’

He thought of his mother’s portrait—once so elegant, her face now forgotten except in memories. Returning to the Iron-Sick Cheol Family had one advantage: seeing her portrait hanging in his room. Recalling her image brought him solace.

‘I know you didn’t seek revenge.’

Klang—!

He swung the hammer again. Sparks flew, landing on his skin and sizzling out almost instantly. Zhu Rong Devil Arts grew slightly stronger.

‘But I seek vengeance.’

His mother hadn’t been sane before her death. Perhaps Grandma’s fierce dedication to protecting his meals stemmed from witnessing her final days. Meanwhile, Patriarch Cheol U-saeng had been too busy courting Lady Yi, and Third Son Cheol Wi-gang mocked her origins. Others whispered cruel jokes behind her back.

‘Watch over me.’

Klang—.

After making this blood oath, Cheol Gun-ak realized his arm guard was nearly complete.

Swish—.

He looked up at Da-no-ya, who immediately rose and brought over a vat of oil. Without tongs, Cheol Gun-ak grabbed the glowing-hot arm guard with his bare hands and plunged it into the oil.

Hiss—ssssss—!

Even though the oil was intentionally used, dense smoke billowed instantly.

“What?! He’s doing it barehanded!?”

“How is there so much smoke?”

The temperature of heated metal was consistent, so the amount of smoke should’ve been similar. Yet, twice as much smoke rose from Cheol Gun-ak’s work—a testament to the mysterious workings of Zhu Rong Devil Arts. As everyone watched in shock…

“Master!”

Cheol Gun-ak’s bloodshot eyes glimmered with rage, like a ghost ready to explode. Da-no-ya, unfazed by the familiar address, rolled up his sleeves.

“Let’s finish this piece together. I’m curious to see what comes of it.”

And so…

Klang—!

Sweat poured down his face like rain. His skin, scorched by the heat, was flushed red, and veins bulged in his bloodshot eyes.

“We should stop the Young Master.”

The gray-haired blacksmith, Sung-gok, spoke worriedly to Da-no-ya. Scratching his head with his pipe, Da-no-ya shrugged uncertainly.

“He’s been hammering nonstop for two days…”

But stopping him was impossible. Cheol Gun-ak hadn’t eaten, drinking only water as he worked tirelessly. What he was forging remained unclear. All they knew was that he radiated madness, channeling his anguish into every strike.

“For now, let’s watch. He must have some plan.”

“…Yes.”

To the blacksmiths, Cheol Gun-ak seemed like a flame consuming itself to produce light. His intensity mesmerized them, drawing them in like moths to fire.