Chapter 479 ·Fanatics (2)

The ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍following morning, Il-mok paid another visit to the estate where the representative council was being held.

"Allow ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍our soldiers entry into Bukhara."

The ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍room instantly erupted into a chorus of anxious muttering after hearing Il-mok’s demand.

Letting a ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍massive foreign army into the location where all their leaders were sitting was always a tough pill to swallow.

As ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍a tense atmosphere permeated the room, Il-mok spoke again.

"If ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍they continue to camp in the open desert like this, there won't be any soldiers left to actually fight by the time we sign this alliance. Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of this meeting?"

After the lords debated Il-mok's words for a while, Ma’mun stepped up to deliver their verdict on their behalf.

"I am sorry, but bringing an army that size into the city is simply not possible. A thousand men. At most, we can only permit up to exactly one thousand men. As for the remaining soldiers, please have them stand by in a small town near Bukhara. We will provide guides to lead them there."

Il-mok put on a good show of mulling it over before finally giving a curt nod. "Fine. We'll do it your way."

Realistically, bringing an army of forty thousand into a place where every lord of the coalition had gathered was an unreasonable proposition.

With the negotiations wrapped up, Il-mok stepped out of the estate and headed for the city gates to pick out his thousand warriors and hand down orders to the rest.

"Ohalak, James. I want the two of you to gather intelligence within Bukhara. Specifically, information on the Brotherhood of Purity and the western empire."

In truth, Il-mok never had any expectation of succeeding in bringing all of his forty thousand men into Bukhara.

From the very beginning, his objective had been to bring in the personnel needed to collect intelligence.

While Il-mok was in the midst of dividing his forces and issuing directives, the council room was descending into chaos.

"Are we seriously just going to let them run amok as they please?"

"There is absolutely no reason to join hands with infidels!"

"Are you out of your mind?! So what do you propose? Gift our lands up to that crazy Sultan? Easy for you to say when your precious estate is sitting safely in the rear!"

"And your bright idea is to invite infidels into our ranks? Look, it's only a matter of time before the heretics out west start putting pressure on that crazy Sultan. We just need to stall until then."

"Idiots! If the Empire slaughters us and takes everything before those westerners even lift a finger, what's the point of doing all of this?! You might as well gift your head right now to me!"

As the atmosphere grew increasingly heated, Ma’mun finally stepped in.

"Everyone, please calm yourselves. I have no intention of blindly taking their side. However, it is undeniable that the war situation is currently turning against us. So wouldn't we be better off having them fighting on our side?"

Following Ma’mun's words, the middle-aged man seated to his right spoke.

He was the leader of the great city of Herat (هرات), and given his proximity to the seat of honor, he was a lord with considerable political power.

"But what if these so-called reinforcements turn out to be empty husks that look intimidating on the outside? That crazy Sultan is not only armed with those accursed hounds, but he also possesses countless terrifying warriors of his own."

Prompted by the concern, Ma’mun turned his gaze to look over his shoulder.

Specifically, toward the bodyguard standing at attention behind him.

"Abdallah. What was your assessment? Of that Grand Preceptor and his entourage."

The moment Ma’mun finished speaking, every gaze in the conference hall converged on Abdallah as one.

And for good reason.

Out of all the elite bodyguards standing watch in the room, Abdallah was leagues above the rest.

He had even attained the rank of Muharib Azim (محارب عظيم, Great Warrior) and was the second-most powerful fighter in Nishapur.

Naturally, Nishapur's greatest warrior was currently leading soldiers at the front lines.

With all eyes fixed upon him, Abdallah spoke in a composed voice.

"In the case of the man who served as interpreter, he has the potential to one day become a Muharib Azim."

Several lords and warriors let out faint exclamations of admiration, while a handful of individuals nodded as if they expected as much.

These were men who had attained a level roughly comparable to Jong-ri Chu's.

"As for the woman by his side, I'd say she appeared to possess skills on par with my own. However, as we have not clashed directly, I cannot say for certain."

This time, the shock that rippled through the room was even greater than before.

Seeing their reaction, Abdallah felt a tiny twinge of guilt.

In truth, his ego had made him bend the truth just a little bit.

He actually had sensed clearly that the beautiful woman was a step or two above him in skill.

‘Whatever, I'll catch up to her in no time.’

He had only recently attained the rank of Muharib Azim, and so he dismissed the slight disparity as something unavoidable.

Amid the turbulent atmosphere, Ma’mun subtly raised a hand to quiet the assembly.

"And what of the man called the Grand Preceptor?"

"I could sense nothing whatsoever from him. He appears to be an ordinary civil official with no martial training."

Just as Ma’mun was nodding in apparent satisfaction, Ahmed Molk interjected from his left.

"There seems to be a grave misunderstanding on that point. The Grand Preceptor has been a Muharib Azim for several years already. There was an incident in which Zafir—once the greatest warrior of our Merv—led soldiers to ambush him. Every last one of them was annihilated. At the time, Zafir was a formidable warrior widely believed to be capable of becoming a Muharib Azim the moment God's grace descended upon him."

Hearing that, the Lord of Herat scowled across the table. "Then you mean to say that this Grand Preceptor is a warrior far superior to Lord Abdallah? So much so that Lord Abdallah could not even read his aura?"

Abdallah's fists shook at the blatant insult, but he couldn't bite back with a defense.

It was not because he was mindful of Herat's power being second only to Nishapur’s.

It was because Abdallah, too, knew the name Zafir.

Since their cities were practically next door, Abdallah had frequently heard rumors about the man.

In particular, Zafir had been four years his senior, and his level of attainment had been one or two stages above Abdallah's own.

That small gap was precisely why Abdallah had always approached his training with the determination to surpass Zafir one day.

They had barely ever met face-to-face, but Abdallah considered him his ultimate rival.

Even Abdallah’s own master—the greatest warrior of Nishapur—had made a point of mentioning Zafir openly from time to time to stoke his disciple's competitive spirit.

But one day, Abdallah received absurd news that his lifelong rival was dead at the hands of a formidable master from the East.

Never in a million years had he imagined that the Grand Preceptor was the man who put Zafir in the ground.

While Abdallah was practically short-circuiting from the shock, Ahmed and the Lord of Herat were getting into a shouting match across the table.

"I mean no disrespect to Lord Abdallah, but the fact that the Grand Preceptor is a warrior who has already attained a formidable level is undeniable."

"Oh, please! Listen to yourself. The guy barely looks thirty. You expect me to believe he's a master of that caliber?"

Catching the Lord of Herat’s mockery, another lord sitting a bit further down the table raised a hesitant hand.

“Is it possible that he was someone who reconstructed his body through his martial arts? Hence why he appeared so young?”

Just as everyone was nodding at this plausible suggestion, Ahmed dropped another bomb.

"That is not the case. When the Grand Preceptor killed Zafir, I vaguely recall hearing that he was only twenty years old at the time."

"!?"

To have reached the phenomenal realm of Muharib Azim at a mere twenty years of age.

It meant he was a genius of incomparable magnitude, one who had never appeared in the entire history of the Islamic world.

At that moment, one of those struck speechless could no longer contain himself and posed a question.

"Wh-when exactly did he kill this warrior called Zafir? How many years ago?"

Ahmed scratched his chin. "Hmm. Roughly six to seven years ago, I believe."

Hearing that, one of the lords accidentally muttered his inner thoughts out loud.

"...If a freak of nature like that kept training for another six years, there's no telling what kind of disastrous level he's at now."

He politely left out the second half of that sentence.

So much so that Abdallah could not even read his aura.

Now that they realized the Grand Preceptor was a master who had attained a tremendous level of martial prowess, the lords began clamoring noisily once more.

"If we can actually get them on our side, we might actually win this war!"

"A genius of that magnitude might even be able to contend with the empire's Grand General!"

"If this Grand Preceptor can just take off the head of the Old Man of the Mountain, we can easily hold the line until those western Jesus-freaks finally join the war!"

They were practically foaming at the mouth, excitedly comparing him to the most terrifying powerhouses the Empire had to offer.

Abdallah, who had been silently listening to the conversation, finally could not restrain himself and spoke.

"Even if the Grand Preceptor is truly the genius Lord Ahmed describes, there is no need to place such excessive expectations upon him. The higher one climbs in martial arts, the more one tends to stagnate. Just because he reached Muharib Azim at a young age does not guarantee he has continued to grow at that same rapid pace."

He had not wished to dampen the mood, but his wounded pride would not permit silence.

Both the empire's Grand General and the Old Man of the Mountain of the Brotherhood of Purity were men only slightly more skilled than his own master, the greatest warrior of the coalition.

To compare them with the Grand Preceptor was tantamount to saying his master was inferior to the man.

He could endure disregard of himself, but how could he tolerate words that belittled his master?

When Abdallah's agitation became visible, his liege Ma’mun restrained him and spoke with a smile.

"As Abdallah says, there is no need to expect that man to be capable of facing those two monsters. That being said, I think it's safe to say he's definitely going to be useful in the war to come."

***

After organizing his soldiers near Bukhara's walls and completing his directives, Il-mok returned to the conference hall and was struck by a peculiar feeling.

"Hmm?"

For whatever reason, almost every single lord in the room was looking at him with shimmering eyes. A couple of them were staring at him with so much goodwill that he started seriously questioning what kind of weird kinks they were into.

‘What the hell?’

And to top it all off, that one bodyguard standing behind Mamon was glaring daggers at him like he wanted to murder him.

Il-mok had only been gone for a few hours, so he didn't have the faintest clue what kind of madness had possessed this room while he was away.

Just then, the lord seated to Ma’mun's right slyly opened his mouth.

The Lord of Herat, was it?

His gaze was not as hostile as that of Ma’mun's bodyguard, but neither did it convey goodwill.

"Since we may well end up forging an alliance, wouldn't it be nice to take a break from all this heavy war talk and build a little camaraderie?"

"Camaraderie? What sort of camaraderie do you mean?"

When Il-mok asked in return, the Lord of Herat replied.

"I have heard it rumored that the Hong Dynasty places great importance on martial arts. Might the Grand Preceptor perhaps be willing to demonstrate the Hong Dynasty's outstanding martial prowess for us?"

The corner of Il-mok's mouth curled up faintly.

He could more or less guess what sort of conversation had taken place in his absence.

But what had risen was merely the corner of his mouth.

"Do I look like a circus clown to you?"

His eyes were entirely devoid of warmth.

At Il-mok's response, the Lord of Herat attempted to work his mouth again.

At least, that's what his brain was telling him to do.

"…"

Yet his jaw was clamped shut.

No, it was not only his jaw.

He couldn't move a single muscle in his entire body.

Before he even realized what was happening, buckets of cold sweat were pouring down his face.

He felt like he was a rabbit trapped in the gaze of a starving lion.

On the other hand, those present in the hall looked back and forth between Il-mok and the Lord of Herat with puzzled expressions.

They could not sense any force whatsoever.

Wounding by Intent.

It might be pale in comparison to what his late Master had shown him, but as long as his opponent wasn’t a martial artist of the same caliber, Il-mok could subdue anyone through sheer will alone.

Meanwhile, those who had been watching the silent standoff between Il-mok and the Lord of Herat with bewildered expressions finally grasped the situation.

The Lord of Herat's face had gone beyond white and was beginning to turn distinctly blue.

Realizing the Hong Dynasty’s Grand Preceptor was doing something to their lord, the Herat City’s warriors rushed to draw their weapons.

Well, they tried to.

But for some reason, the arms gripping the hilts of their blades would move no further.

Slowly, the Grand Preceptor shifted his gaze away from their suffocating lord and stared at the two guards.

"If you pull those blades, you die.”