A few minutes later, Merin leaves his room and walks toward the officer's quarters. The path is quiet, the air thick with lingering tension from the day's battle. His mind drifts back to yesterday—only hours after returning from the training ground, he and Asuna had been summoned.
The officer, sharp-eyed and clad in a black and silver uniform, had questioned their identities and backgrounds. Then, as a gesture of thanks for escorting and protecting Xialing, he offered them a reward. But before even stating what the reward was, the officer asked if they'd be interested in something else—military merit.
He had explained its value: military merit could be exchanged for high-level resources, rare cultivation techniques, and powerful fighting methods. But there was a cost. To gain merit, at least one of them had to take part in a military mission. They wouldn't need to join the army fully—missions could be completed as external members. It was flexible but still dangerous.
One military mission could earn fifty merit points. A high-level cultivation technique required three hundred.
Later that evening, Merin and Asuna discussed the offer in private. Asuna, calm and firm, showed no interest in military involvement. She had other goals. Merin understood and agreed. For now, they would decline.
But now, as he walks down the hallway again, he wonders—why has the officer called for him this time?
His steps are steady, but his thoughts stir. *Could it be a mission?*
He exits the building and starts walking toward the familiar structure where he met the officer yesterday. The streets are unusually noisy. Shouts and quick footsteps echo off the walls. He spots people rushing past, eyes bright with excitement.
Overhearing a few voices, he picks up the reason—
"A martial competition! It's starting at the second training ground!"
Merin raises an eyebrow and whispers to himself, "Second ground? Isn't that right next to the officer's building?"
The cheers grow louder as he approaches. A surge of curiosity wells up in him. But he doesn't stop. He turns and steps toward the building instead. Two guards stand watch at the entrance, both in standard military uniform. Merin stops before them.
"Kanoru," he says.
Recognition flashes in one guard's eyes. The other steps back and opens the door.
"Come in. You're expected."
Inside, another guard silently gestures for him to follow. They walk through a stone corridor and up a flight of stairs. Soon, the space opens to a balcony overlooking the second training ground. From here, Merin sees it all clearly—rows of spectators, military officers in black and red robes, and below them, two cultivators locked in fierce combat.
The atmosphere hums with energy.
The officer he met yesterday stands among the others. Noticing Merin, he nods, then gestures at the field below.
"This martial competition is to select external team members," the officer explains without turning his gaze. "Anyone can take on external missions, but some have higher requirements. Tomorrow's mission is one of them. Strength is the only measure for this one."
Merin watches another duel end with a sharp cry and the sound of wood cracking.
"We need twelve Middle-Rank Samurai. Ten will be selected from this competition," the officer continues. "An army captain will lead the group… and you will be one of them."
Merin nods. "So I don't need to compete."
"There's no need," the officer says. "Your strength is already known. You're practically untouchable among Middle-Rank Samurai. The moment you accepted military merit, your position in the team was decided."
Merin says nothing, eyes drifting to the battlefield as another fight begins.
After the martial competition ends and the crowd disperses, the noise fades into silence. Merin, the officer, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in black and red military armour—Captain Bai Zhi—leap from the balcony. Their figures descend swiftly and land on the training ground with ease, dust curling around their feet.
The top ten competitors stand in formation, waiting with eager but tense expressions.
The officer steps forward. "This is Captain Bai Zhi. He will lead tomorrow's mission."
Bai Zhi gives them a nod, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
The officer gestures to Merin. "And this is Matsuda Kanoru. He'll serve as your deputy captain for the mission."
The group's expressions flicker. Whispers move between them like wind through leaves. Still, when the officer commands, "Introduce yourselves," they comply, giving their names one by one—voices steady, though many eyes flick toward Merin with questions.
When the last finishes, one of the men, a tall cultivator with a spear on his back, frowns. "Sir… is Kanoru part of the military? He's not wearing robes or armour."
Merin replies simply, "No. I'm an external member, just like you."
Faces shift. Some blink. Others scowl.
"Then why's he allowed to skip the competition?" another asks. "If we're all external members, shouldn't we compete under the same rules?"
A few others murmur similar remarks. The air turns sour with unspoken resentment.
Before it brews further, the officer's voice cuts sharply through the tension. "Quiet."
They all fall silent.
"You don't need to know why Kanoru was selected," the officer says coldly. "If you have a problem, you're free to leave right now."
No one moves. No one speaks.
"Good," the officer says. "You have until nightfall to prepare. We depart after dark. Dismissed."
Then, turning to Merin, his tone softens, "You may go."
Merin looks at the group, still bristling with unspoken challenge. "If you want, I can show my strength now. That might calm their doubts."
The officer's expression hardens slightly. "No. We suspect there may be spies among the external ranks. Until the mission begins, your strength must remain hidden. What happens tomorrow is too important."
Merin narrows his eyes. "What kind of mission is it?"
"That's classified," the officer says. "Bai Zhi will brief you at the mission site."
Merin sighs, not satisfied but understanding. "Alright."
He turns and walks back toward the building where his room awaits. The sun dips low, casting long shadows through the streets.
When he finally pushes the door open, the room is quiet. Asuna isn't there.
He doesn't think much of it.
Removing his clothes, he steps into the bathroom, the wear of the day clinging to him like dust. Cool water runs over his skin, washing away the dirt, but not the thoughts. Tomorrow would be serious. He could feel it.
A few hours past noon, the door to the room creaked open. Asuna steps inside.
Merin sits cross-legged on the balcony and is circulating his inner energy. To break down the natural energy in his veins and impact the door on his energy vein at his right foot.
He doesn't ask where she went. There's no need to. The story of them being husband and wife is a lie—a cover to conceal their identities.
"I'm leaving tonight for the mission," he says calmly.
Asuna studies him for a moment. "You're really participating in a military mission?"
Merin nods. "This is my chance to obtain high-level techniques. I don't know when an opportunity like this will come again."
Asuna steps closer, frowning slightly. "I already told you—if you join my sect, with your strength and talent, once you reach the High-Rank Samurai realm, you'll be given a high-level cultivation technique without needing to risk your life."
"I already told you," Merin replies, eyes steady. "I don't want to join your sect or any other sect."
She huffs, "Hmph," and turns toward the bathroom.
As the sound of water flows behind the door, Merin sits cross-legged, closes his eyes, and returns to practice. His breathing slows. Natural energy flows into his meridians, the calm before the storm of battle.
He opens his eyes again only when a knock comes, and a soldier steps in. "Time to prepare, sir. This is for the mission." The man hands over a set of fur-lined armour, military-issued bracers and boots included.
Merin accepts it wordlessly, puts it on, and fastens each piece with quiet precision. The armour fits well—light yet sturdy, suitable for swift movement.
Standing by the door, he looks at Asuna, who has stepped out of the bathroom and dried her hair. "I'm going now."
She gives a faint nod. "Return safely."
With nothing more to say, Merin turns and steps into the fading light of the late afternoon. He follows the soldier down the street, through the alleys, until they reach the town gates.
There, twelve snow-white horses wait, their breath misting in the cold air. The Snow Wind breed—fast, enduring, and obedient in battle.
Merin mounts his horse, the cold metal of his bracers catching the last rays of the sun.
One by one, the rest of the team gathers. Some glance at him with curiosity, others with lingering doubt. Merin remains silent, eyes ahead.
Bai Zhi appears atop his steed, posture straight, voice firm. "Follow me."
With that, he rides out through the gate.
Merin and the others follow, hooves thundering against the earth as they gallop into the twilight, toward the mission.
Sometime before dawn, the group brings their horses to a quiet halt on a narrow forest path, shaded by dense trees and morning mist. The silence is heavy, broken only by the soft snorts of the Snow Wind horses and the occasional clink of armor.
Bai Zhi raises a hand, signalling everyone to gather. "The mission," he begins in a low voice, "is to ambush a rebel supply convoy. Intelligence says it will pass through this path shortly after sunrise. Food, weapons, medicine—they're bringing it to a forward camp. We intercept it here."
He points to positions along the path. "You, there. You, behind the rocks. Merin, the high ground—cover us with ranged attacks."
Everyone moves into position without question. Merin climbs a sloping rise and settles behind a thick tree, crouched, his bow resting across his knees. As the others blend into the forest, Bai Zhi whispers the final order, "Don't reveal yourselves until I give the signal."
The darkness lightens slowly. Birds begin to stir in the canopy. The air sharpens with dew, and the earth is cold beneath Merin's boots.
He opens his artistic conception.
Suddenly, the world sharpens.
He senses the pulse of life—far off but drawing closer. The beat of hooves. The soft rumble of wooden wheels grinding against the dirt. Dozens of shallow, controlled breaths. People. He doesn't know if they are rebels, but someone is definitely approaching.
Merin raises his bow and nocks an arrow, muscles still, breath calm.
The first horses come into view—grey-coated, pulling supply carriages. Men walk beside them in dark leather and loose armour, bows slung over their shoulders and blades strapped to their sides. Merin turns slightly and sees Bai Zhi through the leaves, hiding behind a thick bush.
Bai Zhi raises a hand.
A signal.
Merin exhales. *They're the rebels.*
He lowers his heartbeat, sharpening his awareness. Then, when the convoy enters the heart of the ambush zone—
Bai Zhi and several others burst from hiding.
"For the Kingdom!" Bai Zhi shouts, leading the charge.
Swords clash as startled rebels shout, scramble for weapons. Horses neigh, rearing in panic.
Merin does not move from his perch. He loses the first arrow.
It whistles through the trees and buries itself in a rebel's chest just as he raises a blade toward a teammate. Another arrow follows, piercing a rebel archer before he can notch his own.
He scans the battlefield. One member nearly falls, overwhelmed by two enemies. Merin's next arrow drops one of them instantly.
He fires again and again—calm, precise, covering his allies, eliminating threats.
He watches the battle unfold from above, never missing his mark, until the forest itself feels like it breathes with tension.
Merin steps down from his perch the moment he senses the shift in balance. The number of rebels exceeds what the mission intel promised, and now the front lines demand more blades. He sheathes his bow, draws his sword, and charges into the chaos.
In a flash of motion, he slashes through the neck of a distracted rebel, a low-ranking Samurai. Another rushes at him with a war cry—Merin spins, parries, and drives his blade through the man's chest. The third tries to flank him, but Merin sidesteps, slashes across the gut, and lets the rebel collapse in agony. The ground drinks blood.
A middle-rank Samurai lunges at him with an axe, the blade flashing in the light. Merin meets it with steel and pushes back. Their blades clash twice more before Merin sidesteps and strikes, slicing through the rebel's side. The man screams and stumbles, wounded.
Two more middle-rank rebels rush over, eyes locking on Merin.
He narrows his gaze.
*I could finish them easily with my artistic conception... but there's no need yet.* His mind remains calm. Using it now would drain him too quickly. Besides, their side is pushing forward. The battle leans in their favour.
Then, a sudden cry pierces the air.
Merin's head snaps toward the sound. He watches as the man who placed first in the martial competition—broad-shouldered, confident, skilled—flies backwards like a broken puppet, crashing into a thick tree with a thud. His body slumps, blood splattering on bark.
At that very moment, soft white flakes begin to fall from the sky.
Snow?
Merin's perception sharpens. His artistic conception opens, stretching like threads through the battlefield.
He sees it.
A rebel steps forward now. His skin is reddened, veins bulging. Each breath steams in the cold air, and a vicious, manic energy coils around him.
Merin's eyes narrow.
He's no ordinary middle-ranking.
The pressure tells the truth. The man's aura burns hotter, denser, and more unstable. A forbidden technique—burning life force to leap realms temporarily. From middle-rank to high-rank.
The rebel growls like a beast and slams his palm into another member's shoulder. Bones shatter on impact.
The tide of the battle begins to shudder.
Merin exhales, and the world stills. Wind and cloud spiral around him, flowing in quiet harmony with his breath. His eyes narrowed, and the storm within awakened.
"Looks like I have to take care of him."
Natural energy rushes to his blade. The sword hums in his hand, coated with a faint sheen of pale blue light. In one fluid slash, Merin cleaves through the shoulder of the injured rebel before him, then twists and thrusts, ending the last one's life in a single breath.
His eyes shift. Across the chaotic battlefield, Bai Zhi exchanges fierce blows with the rebel whose skin glows a deep, angry red. Merin recognises the pressure—burning life force, unstable and deadly.
"Captain," he calls, voice like steel, "leave him to me."
Bai Zhi doesn't argue. He grits his teeth, leaps back, and shouts, "Be careful."
Merin steps forward.
The red-skinned rebel turns, eyes widening. He senses the danger now. Their blades meet—Merin's swift, precise stroke crashing into brute force. Sparks fly. The rebel snarls and counters with a downward strike, but Merin flows to the side like drifting mist, avoiding the blow and pressing again.
Steel clashes again and again.
Merin frowns slightly.
*His strength's a little higher… but I'm sharper.*
The rebel's power is wild and overwhelming, but uncontrolled. Merin, anchored by his artistic conception, weaves between strikes like wind curling through forest leaves. He trades precision for power, never wasting a movement.
Yet with every clash, Merin feels the drain. His mental energy fuels his movements, and his inner energy fuels his strikes. On the other side, the rebel burns his life force. The air around them grows tense, charged by their depleting energy.
"This will be decided by endurance," Merin mutters.
He steps forward again, slashing low—blocked. Spins, another slash—deflected. The rebel's movements grow frantic, his roars louder, but his strikes begin to falter. The glow of his skin flickers, dimming.
Merin can feel it.
*He's nearing the edge.*
And then—suddenly—the rebel's sword drops. His knees buckle. His eyes widen as though he sees something in the distance, and then his body topples backwards, crashing into the white snow.
Merin halts mid-step, sword trembling faintly in his hand.
He extends his perception—heartbeat, breath, life… all gone.
The forbidden technique had reached its limit.
The rebel is dead.
Merin slowly lowers his sword and exhales. The wind around him fades. He drops to one knee, pressing his palm against the snow. The chill seeps through his glove into his skin, grounding him.
A long breath escapes his lips.
It's over.