I Will Make Sure That Name Is Engraved (2)

Seeing the scene spread out before him, Gwi Yang’s face went deathly pale.

He was certainly a man accustomed to blood. Since the day he first took a sword in hand, the days he had seen blood outnumbered those he hadn’t.

Even he felt strange at the sight now before him.

The white cliffs rising on both sides of the gorge were stained red as if purposely painted, and the owners of that blood were none other than the members he had painstakingly raised.

Looking at the gruesome corpses left behind, Gwi Yang involuntarily swallowed hard.

Of the hundred or so Blood Sword Squad members, more than half had vanished here as wandering spirits. In fact, among those who survived, nearly half were barely clinging to life—merely waiting for the death that approached.

There is a simple word for this situation.

Destruction.

A unit of the Ten Thousand People Clan, the Blood Sword Troops, had collapsed here. Only about thirty remained. It was almost laughable to still call it a unit.

He didn’t have warm feelings of cherishing those he had raised, but looking at his subordinates’ mangled bodies stirred an indescribable feeling.

He stared absentmindedly at the figure blocking the gorge’s exit, preventing them from escaping to the wide plains.

This was the one who, alone, held back not only the Blood Sword Squad but the Ten Thousand People Clan’s thousand-strong force.

It was Mount Hua’s Sword Saint.

Perhaps, this scene would one day become legend, even a myth retold in the Jianghu for a long time.

When later generations discussed Mount Hua’s Sword Saint, this might be the first anecdote they brought up.

Even if Mount Hua’s Sword Saint buried his bones here and turned to a wisp of spirit, his heroic stature would not fade.

No, he might even gain a fame greater than if he returned alive.

Sometimes a hero is completed by his death.

Gwi Yang could not deny it. Though an enemy, Chung Myung’s deeds and path were undeniably great.

He had rushed all the way here to rescue the Southern Island Sect trapped behind enemy lines, and even stood alone against the Ten Thousand People Clan’s force which was pursuing Southern Island Sect.

That plain, unembellished fact alone forced acknowledgment of heroic conduct. Perhaps Gwi Yang was witnessing the birth of a legend to be passed down in the Jianghu.

But in the actual appearance of the one before him now, it was hard to find heroic majesty or the bearing of a mythic protagonist.

The once-highly tied hair was disheveled; the youthful face stained dark crimson with his own blood and that of the Four Sects Alliance.

His left thigh was split open to the bone, and a clear mark where a sword had pierced just left of his sternum remained.

A temporarily bound flank had split open again, gushing dark blood, and a long cut ran from his left neck to his armpit.

The wound on his right leg from when he entered here, the sword scar crossing his back almost invisible to the eye, and countless other small injuries were too many to count.

How could anyone find heroic stature in the figure barely supporting himself on the sword he had thrust into the ground, looking as if his breath could leave him at any moment?

Did that unbearably pitiful sight possess the grandeur to adorn a myth?

That’s not a hero.

That’s just a human.

A human flailing, raging, and screaming.

There was no hero here who split mountains with one stroke and made the heavens tremble with his roar. Only a man paying a brutal price for what he had done existed.

Drip.

Blood trickled and fell drop by drop from Chung Myung’s chin. From his slightly parted lips, a faint breath escaped as if it might break at any moment.

To anyone watching, he had already passed his limit.

He looked like a wounded beast, incapable of resistance. Even a common Ten Thousand People Clan warrior, not a Blood Sword Squad member, could likely end his life now without much trouble.

But the Blood Sword Troops members, who took more joy than anything in ending their prey, dared not approach the wounded beast now.

Yet Gwi Yang did not want to blame them. In fact, he couldn’t blame them.

It was at that moment.

Screech.

When Chung Myung clenched the sword hard, a sound of friction leaked out. Gripping the sword planted in the ground, he slowly straightened his bent body, moving like an old cart creaking.

Gwi Yang could not speak; he simply watched the scene.

Blood continued to flow from Chung Myung as he finally straightened. His lips, visible between matted hair, slowly opened.

He was saying something, but it was hard to hear.

It seemed the voice would not come easily even with effort. Chung Myung finally pressed his lips shut. When they met and separated, the parched lips split and bled.

“…on…”

The violet lips, split, were soaked red with blood. Moments later, a hoarse, cracked voice leaked out as if it might break at any second.

“Keep… going?”

The corner of his mouth barely tilted into a crooked smile.

Seeing that smile, Gwi Yang could not smile back. He clenched his fist without realizing it.

At that moment, as if those were not mere bluster, Chung Myung’s sword began to move.

Silence.

The sword planted in the ground was pulled free.

With trembling hands Chung Myung somehow lifted the sword; he wavered briefly but ultimately gripped it with both hands.

Gwi Yang’s eyes shook.

No one would fail to understand what it meant for a swordsman not even to bear the weight of his own sword; at least here, there wasn’t a single person who wouldn’t understand.

Yet he intended to fight. Now Gwi Yang knew as well: this was neither bravado nor a tantrum.

If he could lift the sword, he’d fight. If his life still clung on, he’d resist.

That mode, incomprehensible to some, was perfectly natural to him.

A sharp pain.

Gwi Yang gripped his lower abdomen with his hands as pain surged. The place where Mount Hua’s Sword Saint had stabbed and left a grotesque hole throbbed anew. Other wounds likewise; Gwi Yang had been grievously cut by Chung Myung’s sword.

But Gwi Yang, choosing not to retreat, gripped his sword tighter and stepped forward.

He would cut off Mount Hua’s Sword Saint’s lifeline.

He could not yield this to anyone. It was his right and the recompense for what he had lost.

“…Mount Hua’s Sword Saint.”

Gwi Yang spoke slowly.

“You… you were truly remarkable.”

There was not a hint of sarcasm—only pure admiration.

Even if their paths diverged and aims differed, Gwi Yang was still a swordsman who had taken up the blade. He could not help but show reverence.

“But… you have far too many needless things.”

If that Mount Hua’s Sword Saint had been alone—able to retreat when he wished and fight when he wished—

Could the Blood Sword Troops have captured Mount Hua’s Sword Saint then?

No. If Mount Hua’s Sword Saint had been alone, the Blood Sword Squad would have been thoroughly hunted by him.

They would have cried out in desperation and died miserably, unable to bridge the crushing gap.

This meant that what drove Mount Hua’s Sword Saint to death were the things he sought to protect—trifles that, even combined, didn’t match his worth pushed him toward death.

“It’s a pity. Perhaps… you too could have become an Alliance lord.”

Chung Myung did not answer.

Perhaps he could not answer; his body was like ashes after burning once.

Only a still-burning spirit supported him.

Gwi Yang stepped forward slightly and signaled with his chin. Two Blood Sword Troops members, faces tense, took positions behind him.

He knew Mount Hua’s Sword Saint had not a finger’s worth of strength left. But he’d seen too much to let that alone breed complacency.

Vrrrrrr.

Gwi Yang poured all his remaining inner strength into his sword.

“At least I’ll kill you without pain.”

Fshhhhh!

At that moment, a sharp cracking sound came from behind Chung Myung. Gwi Yang narrowed his eyes and scanned ahead.

A female swordswoman of Mount Hua who had exited the gorge was desperately running back toward it. Her pleading was so clear it could be felt even at this distance.

But Gwi Yang had no intention of yielding to that plea.

He had painfully learned that not even a small unpredictable factor could be allowed.

“Strike!”

Kwang!

Gwi Yang and the Blood Sword Troops members surged toward Chung Myung at lightning speed. Yu Yiseol squeezed out all her remaining internal qi and stomped the ground, but the enemies reached Chung Myung much faster.

“Ah, no…”

Despair filled her eyes. Following that came hope.

Or perhaps a vague expectation—a baseless certainty that Chung Myung would not be taken like this.

As if not to betray that hope, Chung Myung swung his sword.

But it was neither fierce nor explosive as usual. For Mount Hua’s Sword Saint, it was shockingly weak—the sword faltered in the air and collided with Gwi Yang’s attack.

Kaang!

With a short, high metallic clang, the Dark Fragrant Plum Blossom Sword was pushed back and flicked away from Gwi Yang’s blade.

Then Gwi Yang’s sword thrust precisely toward Chung Myung’s heart.

“Ah…”

All his senses dulled as if drifting in cloudy water.

Yu Yiseol instinctively reached out her hand.

But that hand touched neither Chung Myung nor the thin sword flying toward him; it only clawed at empty air.

In a helpless world where nothing could be done, all she could see was Chung Myung’s unusually bent back and Gwi Yang charging at him.

Chung Myung’s left shoulder flinched at that moment. His slack left hand thrust forward.

Yu Yiseol knew: that hand contained the squeezed-out power of the bamboo-leaf tree.

That even in this desperate moment Chung Myung had not given up.

Puuuu!

But then something hot splattered on Yu Yiseol’s face.

Her vision turned red for a moment. In it she saw something that should never have been on Chung Myung’s weakened back.

It was the thin sword that Gwi Yang had thrust in.

It looked like the tip of the thin sword jutted out from behind Chung Myung’s back.

The smell of blood stung her nostrils; she felt sticky fluid running on her skin and a hot warmth.

With all that combined, Yu Yiseol fully realized the reality.

A tearing scream burst out.

“Chung Myung!!!”