The crowd thundered with anticipation. The final two matches of the quarterfinals were about to begin. Two members of Silent Edge stood ready to test themselves against Murim's finest.
Quarterfinal 3: Jinhu vs. Monk Hanjo The platform rumbled under two immovable forces. Monk Hanjo, bald and massive, bowed his head. "Amitabha," he intoned peacefully.
Jinhu blinked. "Yeah, yeah i get it, you're obsessed. Let's just get to it."
The referee gave the signal. Both warriors charged. Their palms met in a brutal clash fingers entwined, wrists locked, forearms trembled under the strain. Neither gave an inch. Stone cracked beneath their feet, a seismic pressure radiating from their standoff.
From the stands, Mu Jang grinned wide. "Now that's how men fight!" "Silence or starve," Wu Jin snapped, raising the Rod™ with ominous weight.
On the platform, Hanjo pushed Jinhu back inch by inch. The brute strength was undeniable—Jinhu's foot dug into stone, cracking it beneath him. His pride took a hit. I thought I was strong. But this guy… he's a mountain. They broke apart then came the storm. Fists collided. Elbows cracked. Bone against bone, neither guarding, neither flinching. They weren't exchanging techniques. They were exchanging wills.
Hanjo's palm shot forward, striking Jinhu clean in the gut. The air left his lungs in a gasp. He dropped to one knee. Hanjo loomed above. "Amitabha… are you finished already?" Blood trickled from Jinhu's lip.
He stood slowly, spine straightening. "Not yet," he said, cracking his knuckles. "But you are." He stepped in suddenly, an explosive uppercut crashing into Hanjo's jaw.
SNAP.
Beads scattered, clattering like falling stones, each one leaving a crater where it landed. Jinhu didn't notice. But Hanjo did.
Hanjo touched his neck lightly no pain, only the absence of weight he'd carried for years. He looked at Jinhu, breathing hard, fists still raised.
"Good," Hanjo muttered, almost to himself. "You're growing."
The Shaolin Master in the stands folded his arms, watching with a hint of a smile. "Looks like Hanjo found someone he deems worthy to be a friend."
Then Hanjo stepped forward again. Faster. Heavier. Each strike like a hammer from heaven. Jinhu met him in kind. They didn't talk. They didn't breathe. They fought. Elbow to rib. Fist to jaw. Palm to chest. Both bleeding. Both grinning. The crowd rose to its feet as the fight blurred into pure instinct. Then Hanjo stepped in close, his palm hovering over Jinhu's heart.
His voice dropped low, just for Jinhu to hear. "Amitabha... let's finish this. One final move. Me first." Jinhu gave a nod, jaw clenched. "Do it."
They separated, each taking ten steps back. The arena stilled. Hanjo drew in a breath so deep it echoed across the stone.
Qi surged down his spine, flooding his arm. Buddha's Mercy – Falling Mountain Palm.
He shot forward. Jinhu braced crossed his arms just in time. BOOM. The strike sent shockwaves through the air. Jinhu's feet dragged backward, boots carving deep gouges in the stone. His arms trembled. Blood dripped down his brow. He dropped to one knee.
Jinhu wiped blood from his mouth and spat. "Alright," he grunted. "My turn." He sank low stance perfect, qi beginning to whirl. Mountain Fist – Heaven-Splitting Form.
The arena shook with pressure. Stone cracked beneath his feet. Jinhu roared and launched. Hanjo barely had time to brace.
CRACK.
The impact was deafening. A shockwave erupted outward. The barrier flared, struggling to hold. Dust swallowed the platform again. When it cleared Hanjo sat on his ass at the far end of the arena. Behind him, a crater spiderwebbed into the coliseum wall.
Silence.
Then... The referee stepped forward. "Match over! Jinhu of Silent Edge advances!"
Jinhu limped forward, extending a hand. Grinning ear to ear. "Amitabha," he said, voice hoarse but bright. "I'm Jinhu. Let's be friends."
Hanjo blinked. Then smiled back and took the hand. Jinhu helped him up, then slung the monk's arm over his shoulder and carried him off the field. The crowd erupted in cheers.
If Jinhu's battle with Hanjo was a thunderous clash of mountains, Ilho's bout with Namgung Yul was a shadow's waltz across the moon.
From the opening bell, it was clear. Yul struck first, sharp, crisp, and fast. His technique was clean, textbook perfect.
The Sword Saint himself sat high above and nodded once. "He's improved. Much." But beside him, Wu Cheng narrowed his eyes. "Too bad it's the worst matchup possible," he muttered.
Ilho never answered Yul's challenges. Never postured. Never so much as blinked under the pressure. He simply disappeared. Yul's sword hissed through air and missed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
In this moment Yul thought of his uncle Gyeom's words. "Dont be too cocky my nephew, you are just a frog in a well." In this moment he knew exactly what his uncle meant. He was always outdone by his cousin Ryu, but noone else could hold a candle to him.
Until now.
Until Ilho stepped on stage Yul had never known fear, or loss. Ilho flowed from shadow to shadow, dancing around every strike, his feet barely touching the ground. Not Phantom Veil yet—just the ghost of it.
A suggestion.
The crowd leaned in, tension mounting. Was Ilho running? Then came the first cut. A shallow line across Yul's side. Then another. And another. Yul backed off, eyes wide, spinning, parrying...but Ilho was already gone. He circled like a predator that didn't roar. His twin swords never clashed. They whispered.
Halfway through the match, Ilho ducked behind a rising strike, twirled low, and tapped the inside of Yul's calf. A mockery of an opening. Ilho thought: I should stop toying with him. He can't keep up.
From that point on, the tone changed. Ilho began cutting not to maim, but to teach. Every slice was precise, shallow, and accumulative. Yul's uniform darkened with red. The crowd gasped. Even those who knew Ilho best had never seen him move like this.
High above, the Sword Saint's jaw tensed. Wu Cheng smirked. "He's not holding back anymore."
Yul panted, chest heaving. He swung one last time desperate. Ilho was already behind him. Both swords hovered at Yul's back, one at the nape of his neck, the other above his kidneys. Yul froze. A pause.
Then slowly… he dropped his sword. "I yield," he said, voice hoarse.
The crowd was silent, then erupted. Ilho stepped back, expression unreadable. No celebration. No arrogance. Only precision. Only silence.
---
Above, Jaegal Soryun adjusted his spectacles. "…Ilho. He's the quiet one, isn't he?" Wu Cheng chuckled softly. "He was." --- The semifinal bracket flickered to life in the sky.
Blue vs. Ryul.
Jinhu vs. Ilho.
The stage was set. And Murim would never be the same again.