Chapter 118

Mok Gyeong-hae’s intent changed abruptly.

Having chosen the slaying sword, he did not hesitate.

That figure was exactly the form of the Mount Hua Sword Ghost which Yeon Mujin was well acquainted with.

Mok Gyeong-hae’s blade snaked like a serpent, aiming for Yeon Mujin’s throat.

Tsss-tsst!

Does it make sense that that sound comes from a sword?

The Mount Hua school’s sword techniques resemble the rugged contours of a jagged volcano—strange and perilous.

Strangeness, wonder, and peril.

The sword that contains those three mysteries is the very blade—the Mount Hua’s Samdal Sword.

Yeon Mujin lifted his sword and blocked Mok Gyeong-hae’s line of attack.

In Mount Hua there are broadly two types of swordplay.

There is the living-sword, practiced in the Taoist tradition for cultivation, and the slaying-sword, following the Sword Sect tradition that centers on qi, subtlety, and danger.

Although Mok Gyeong-hae’s temperament seems far from that of a cultivator and one might think he only has talent for the slaying-sword, that isn’t the case.

That fellow handles the living-sword well too.

Chitchitchitchit!

Mok Gyeong-hae’s blade brushed and passed like a dance following Yeon Mujin’s sword.

Then flowed Mount Hua’s Heavenly Flow Sword like water—that’s a living-sword technique.

The seamless shift from slaying-sword to living-sword and back again seemed to prove Mok Gyeong-hae’s mastery of sword arts.

Ugh, what an unlucky bastard.

The moment Yeon Mujin saw Mok Gyeong-hae change his grip, he widened the distance.

Because the slaying-sword focuses on killing, the farther apart the opponents are the more disadvantageous it becomes; conversely, the living-sword focuses on self-preservation, so the closer the distance the more disadvantageous it is.

A monster who could extract and use the strengths of single-weapon and pole-weapon techniques from a single sword—that was the specialty of a Mount Hua Sword Ghost.

Yeon Mujin held the blade above his head with both hands and adopted the lead posture of the setting-sun form.

This was a technique of person he had once learned from the swordsman at Dian-Cang Sect.

It wasn’t exactly the same—only an imitation to some degree.

Zzeeong!

The clash of swords cutting the air was sharp as an arrow.

Mok Gyeong-hae, eyes flashing, angled his blade and deflected Yeon Mujin’s thrust.

Yeon Mujin recovered his stance.

He made a ring with his thumb and forefinger and held the sword loosely.

He then traced the character ‘乂’ and wildly swung his sword.

This too was a move from the wanderer Thirteen Techniques he had stolen from someone in a past life.

Mok Gyeong-hae retreated a step, flustered.

The reason he was flustered wasn’t the ferocity of my offense.

He was surprised to see Yeon Mujin’s swordsmanship—ranging from black strikes to white, from thrusts to wild swings—without any foundation or flow.

Mok Gyeong-hae neutralized the wanderer Thirteen Techniques by slicing the air three times horizontally.

He changed his grip again and took a firm hold of the sword close to the blade.

An upward-running reverse-edge strike, mixed with the dominant and strong sword energies.

This is a secret, but that technique is actually a demonic sword method.

Mok Gyeong-hae, who had intended to press down with force, sensed something amiss, sheathed his sword slightly, and took three steps back.

He suddenly flew into a rage and shouted.

“You! Which sword school are you from?”

“There is none!”

“Where did you learn that sword technique?”

“I learned it from this one and that one!”

“Ik…!”

He must feel wronged and resentful.

A typical swordsman might change techniques, but there remains a foundational basis to their sword; I have none of that.

But am I third-rate without foundation or skill? No, not that either.

What I learned is third-rate, but my skill is first-rate. Therefore, I am a first-rate without roots.

“Stop kidding around and fight properly!”

“How many paces have you backed away in that joke of yours? Don’t answer—I’ll tell you. You’ve retreated five paces.”

Yeon Mujin elegantly lowered his sword and spoke to Hong Yujin-in.

“This proves that Mount Hua’s swordsmanship ranks below third-rate. Chief, take note of that when you sell Mount Hua later.”

“Shut up!”

The one insulted was the chief, but Mok Gyeong-hae took the anger.

Well, still—since his roots are from Mount Hua, he can’t stand being insulted by others, huh?

“If you tell me to shut up, I won’t. If you ask me something, I won’t answer straight. That’s my conviction. No one can break a man’s conviction.”

“You crazy bastard…”

This time it wasn’t Mok Gyeong-hae who spoke, but another fellow.

He wanted to turn his gaze to see who it was, but there was no time—Mok Gyeong-hae charged again.

Yang-o Sword, Samdal Sword, Heavenly Flowing Sword, Swift Wind Quicksword, Golden Dragon Sword… every Mount Hua technique unfurled from Mok Gyeong-hae’s blade.

The Mount Hua adepts watching the fight were astonished.

The Mount Hua techniques Mok Gyeong-hae displayed were of much higher caliber than theirs.

Each time Mok Gyeong-hae wielded his sword, they imagined themselves as Yeon Mujin.

‘Could I have stopped him?’

‘He would follow there with such a move?’

‘He switches between living-sword and slaying-sword that freely?’

Although Mok Gyeong-hae was exiled from the faction, judging by his sword alone he could truly be called Mount Hua’s future.

From the third-generation disciples to the elders, none of them had completed Mount Hua’s sword as Mok Gyeong-hae had, nor had any seen such a sword.

Mok Gyeong-hae was truly Mount Hua’s Sword Ghost.

Those who watched Mok Gyeong-hae fiercely battling Yeon Mujin eventually arrived at this thought.

‘If Hyun Geom had intended to annihilate Mount Hua, which of us could have stopped him?’

“….”

No one—there was no one.

Thinking that, all eyes turned even more to Yeon Mujin, who stood alone against Mok Gyeong-hae.

That intruder demanding Mount Hua be sold—what on earth was he fighting Mok Gyeong-hae for, in Mount Hua’s name?

One second, two seconds, three seconds….

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine….

Forty-eight, forty-nine, … fifty.

The number of sword exchanges between Mok Gyeong-hae and Yeon Mujin.

When Yeon Mujin secluded himself and practiced matches with Mok Gyeong-hae in his mind, his target win rate was eighty percent.

But he had only reached seventy percent so far.

From Yeon Mujin’s experience, after a hundred seconds the disadvantage becomes clear, and in fights longer than two hundred seconds he had never once beaten Mok Gyeong-hae.

The turning point of the fight lies between fifty and a hundred seconds. He had to catch Mok Gyeong-hae within that window.

Cha-cheng!

At the fifty-second mark, the two separated as if by agreement and caught their breath.

Yeon Mujin knew, and now Mok Gyeong-hae knew too.

At this rate they would only waste time; a decisive outcome would not come easily.

This situation itself was unfavorable for Mok Gyeong-hae. Even if he killed Yeon Mujin, the Mount Hua warriors stood behind him.

Catching his breath, Mok Gyeong-hae glared at Hong Yujin-in.

If only he had the Purple Cloud Divine Sword in his hand, things wouldn’t have gotten so tangled.

“…I detest it.”

He hated Mount Hua, hated his master, hated his sworn brothers, hated Yeon Mujin, hated the magistrate who flubbed his lines at the crucial moment and exposed everything—no, he hated the woman who wore the magistrate’s skin.

The world was full of things hateful and detestable.

As it had been throughout his life.

“What did the Mangeum Lord promise you? Money? Power? You’re already affiliated with the Bukgung Family—were you that greedy for the Ten Thousand Gold Lord’s money?”

Mok Gyeong-hae asked Yeon Mujin.

“Why not join me? Join me and we’ll sweep away the vermin of Mount Hua. We’ll split the money promised by the Ten Thousand Gold Lord between the two of us. You felt it too, right? If we fight to the end, I will never lose to you. Even if you try to ruin my plan, I will surely kill you. When you weigh your life against half the money, isn’t the choice obvious?”

Yeon Mujin lowered his sword and answered.

“That’s quite an appealing offer.”

Mok Gyeong-hae brightened.

“Right? Come on, you can play the role of the brother to beat to death. If you accept my offer I’ll take you as my elder brother. You like women, don’t you? Not just a few—you could embrace so many women you’d be crushed by them. I’ll take on the shame of having annihilated Mount Hua. In return give me only the Purple Cloud Divine Sword. Even receiving half of the money promised to me by the Ten Thousand Gold Lord would let me live in leisure for the rest of my life. How about it?”

“Oh.”

Yeon Mujin nodded.

“Money’s good. Who in the world hates money?”

“Right? A reasonable proposal, isn’t it?”

Yeon Mujin lowered his sword, turned his head, and looked at the people.

“But you know.”

“What?”

“Then what about the dependents?”

Yeon Mujin pointed the tip of his sword at Mount Hua’s warriors.

“Of course the dependents will be buried here today along with Mount Hua’s name. What, is that bothersome too? Then leave them be. I’ll clean them out. You just stand with your hands behind your back and watch.”

“Is that so? That’s not a bad offer either.”

“See?”

“But you know.”

“You damned—what now!”

“Then what about those kids?”

What Yeon Mujin pointed at with his blade were Mount Hua’s third-generation disciples who were only just regaining their strength.

The fallen third-generation disciples, and the second-generation disciples and Yeok Yong-ma caring for them, were all at the point of his sword.

“They’re Mount Hua adepts as well, so of course…”

“Of course?”

Mok Gyeong-hae’s eyes narrowed as he was about to continue.

“Do you mean to play at a clumsy hero? Children are off-limits? Is that what you want? What, do you think you’re some righteous sect’s knight-errant? You’re just a dog of the Golden Family!”

Yeon Mujin let out a snigger at Mok Gyeong-hae’s question.

“As for the kids—whether they starve, are poisoned, or cut down, it’s none of my concern.”

“Then what the hell is the problem!”

“It’s Gyeong-hae. I’ll say it just once. Listen well.”

Yeon Mujin glanced at Yeok Yong-ma, still darting frantically among the children, then shifted his gaze.

“A woman who has lost her husband is called a widow. A child who has lost parents is called an orphan. Whether widow, orphan, beggar, or vagrant, the world’s many misfortunes each have names. But among them there is one misfortune that cannot even be named. Do you know what that is?”

“…?”

“There is no word in the world for parents who have lost a child. The sorrow is so brutal that one person cannot bear it, so there is no name for parents who’ve lost a child. Gyeong-hae, do you understand? There are women who have endured that grief three times over.”

Whether Yeok Yong-ma would hear these words.

“No matter how great you think your misfortune and hatred are, they aren’t the greatest. Why? Because there was a woman who endured the sorrow I mentioned for six lifetimes. She couldn’t bear it in life and abandoned her name; as a mother her heart was torn and she could not live as herself. The world’s sorrow can produce lunatics like that. She lived like that for six lifetimes. Gyeong-hae, do you understand?”

Whether it would have been better not to hear.

“If she lived like that six times, shouldn’t the seventh be different? I just want to see that woman live differently once. The children, Mount Hua, your twisted hatred—none of it matters. Consider it a grand gesture for my drinking companion.”

At least Mok Gyeong-hae would not understand.

“…What kind of dogshit is that?”

“Woof woof! Dogs sometimes bark nonsense. Have you ever seen someone talk with a dog? What are you doing? Draw your sword. If a man draws his blade, he must cut someone down. That’s the martial world’s law by which dogs live.”

“Hoo…”

Although it made no sense, the answer was clear.

In the end it meant: let’s fight to the finish.

“Alright. Let’s fight like dogs.”

Mok Gyeong-hae’s sword began to hum and cry out.

Red and purple battle-qi began to rise along his blade.

Yeon Mujin finally knew the time had come.

Until now he had been Mount Hua’s Mok Gyeong-hae; from now on he would be Mok Gyeong-hae the Sword Calamity.

“This is my secret, unique martial art, never revealed to anyone. Mount Hua’s swords are thin and flimsy, so I devised and created this art myself. I named it Purple Cloud Divine Arts. Be grateful—you will be the first warrior to die by the Purple Cloud Divine Swords.”

“Oh. That’s pretty impressive.”

So Yeon Mujin decided to show a little trick himself.

Woong—.

Yeon Mujin’s blade vibrated in fine tremors and spat out its own sword light.

Against the crimson-purple Purple Cloud Divine Sword, Yeon Mujin’s blade began to exhale a murky mist.

“Mine is called the Yin-Fire Sword. It’s a bit embarrassing to call it a divine art. It’s a sword style I picked up from some old codger.”