Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Inhuman (1)
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There exists something that is not human, yet resembles humanity.
Born unlike humans, it takes on a human form and lives like one.
They are fearsome and mysterious, ugly and beautiful.
Yokai and strange creatures, ghosts and evil spirits—these non-human entities are vague at first glance, hard to distinguish clearly. And in this chaotic era, the boundary blurs even between humans and them. It is fading.
There are people like yokai.
There are people like ghosts.
There are people as harmful as strange creatures.
There are people as terrifying as evil spirits.
Thus.
There are yokai more human than humans.
There are ghosts as human as people.
There are strange creatures as beneficial as humans.
There are evil spirits as gentle as people.
Then.
What makes a human truly human?
A human is something that seeks to save others.
A human is something that seeks to kill others.
In the beginning.
There were those who walked by day and those who walked by night.
Now.
We walk alongside them all.
*Han Baek Martial Records, Characters Volume*
*Final Chapter, Unclassified: Inhuman*
“I wonder what kind of existence I am.”
This is a tale of chasing vanished memories to find myself and illuminate the darkness.
Many have tried to answer that question in my stead.
The Scholar was one of them.
“It’s probably been over a thousand years.”
The Scholar spoke endlessly without being asked. That was one good thing about him.
“Three share one essence, manifesting as the sole entity. Everyone’s started to believe that. At first, it felt a bit strange. The Trinity as one? It didn’t sit right. Before, the idea of uniqueness was even odder. There used to be far more gods back then.”
The Scholar’s Middle Plains tongue was flawless.
No matter that he came from another continent; after a century here, any foreign language could become one’s own.
“In the end, reaching Dam involves six stages. Ah! Don’t know what Dam is? Listen well, you ignorant fool. Dam is also the name of a very, very ancient god. A rather important one to us. Some even call it the first of our kind.”
Like that, his tales lacked order, each fragment detached like shards. The Scholar, having pinned him to an iron stake and bound him with iron chains, taught him many seemingly unrelated things.
“You seem to be at the second stage. Or maybe you’ve reached the third? Testing it is simple, really. Just smash your head with this.”
In truth, he could see nothing now.
Both eyes had been gouged out entirely.
Yet he could feel it.
He knew the Scholar’s expression, his posture.
The Scholar called himself the Scholar.
In the Scholar’s hand was an iron hammer handle utterly unfit for the name. The handle alone was over two chi long, wieldable like a mace. It was the tool that had shattered his ankle when they first met.
The Scholar.
Was as intellectual as he was violent.
“Don’t worry. I’m a being of intellect. It’d be a shame if you didn’t survive. I won’t smash that empty head of yours today.”
Not today meant perhaps another day.
He had no desire to test it.
It wasn’t fear. There was a clear difference between dislike and terror.
If his head flew off and he still lived, he might even clash with the man.
The man was truly invincible.
His martial arts held no flaws at all.
The man.
Possessed a perfect blade art.
He had achieved the impossible perfection without blemish.
Thus, martial arts alone wouldn’t suffice.
The key was to create a flaw where none existed.
To craft a situation no martial art could foresee.
Perhaps. Just perhaps.
It might be possible.
It had to be.
“What is the fifth stage?”
He asked.
The Scholar always demanded courteous respect, though he wasn’t from here.
“The fifth? Not the fourth?”
“The first is recovery, the second regeneration, the third immortality. That’s how I understood it.”
“Then ask about the fourth.”
Ripples spread.
His blood, spilled on the stone floor, began to move.
“I already know the fourth.”
The face of the Scholar, who had feigned omniscience, lost its composure for the first time.
“What?”
“Hand me the brush. This must be recorded too.”
He had been bound here for so long, spilling vast amounts of blood.
The Scholar possessed techniques to induce endless bleeding even from a body like his.
His will rode the darkness to touch the ground.
The parched life force spread vividly in crimson light.
“No way!”
The Scholar’s voice, always so composed, shook for the first time.
“You always told me.”
The Scholar gripped the iron hammer handle tightly.
His voice continued.
“You are the Recorder.”
“……!”
The fourth.
He had finally reached it.
The blood soaked into the floor began surging upward.
“I am.”
The rising blood filled the hollows of his gouged eyes.
His eyelids descended, sealing the blood-filled sockets.
“The Remembrancer.”
One of many answers was thus.
With eyes briefly closed.
In an instant, he dreamed of primordial times.
He.
The Thousand Nobles.
Finally opened his eyes.
* * *
The carriage tore through the biting wind.
The northern winter was cold.
The entire forest gleamed in subtle white. This snow-blanketed woodland resembled an ancient moonlit sanctuary.
The white breath from the horses left faint longing on the blue-veiled canopy of night.
The passing snowflakes bore the hue of loyal white steeds. Black winds hung tree shadows like saddles, mercilessly devouring the harsh winter’s sighs as they passed.
Like the wails of a falling bloodline, the frigid air clawed at window frames with sharpened nails.
The fur curtain over the carriage window was drawn aside.
Whoosh, creak.
The window opened.
A pale hand emerged from the carriage.
Darkness carried the chill wind up her sleeve.
The rising cold caressed her cheek, envious of the swirling snowflakes. The warmth of someone long gone mocked her memories. No, even back then, she and he hadn’t been so warm.
But.
She was not alone.
“Mom…….”
A small voice tugged at her sleeve. The solitude embedded in her heart shrank back silently.
They had been cold in body and soul.
In their place, the little one remained by her side.
“You are a gift.”
The voice in her dream carried emotions she could never claim—beautiful ones.
As if in reply, a small, cold hand gripped her thumb tightly. Each time, her frozen heart thawed and beat anew, like one just revived.
She leaned her head toward the child.
The child’s head didn’t even reach her shoulder.
His round head bore a finely fitted sable fur hat that brushed her cheek. The child leaned into his mother’s cold-as-heart arm, sitting still as if asleep.
The child was pure, knowing all that made one a child.
When she drowned in sorrow, lost in a century of memories, he would toddle over—barely past his first steps—and offer the first bite of apple his uncles had given him.
Not from cleverness.
It was the child’s nature. Whether human nature is good or evil, this child had been so from birth.
Thus, she could not hate him.
She brought her chapped lips to her son’s ear. A voice not her own emerged from her mouth.
“Don’t worry, my son.”
The son said nothing.
She bowed her head further, embracing him. From her snowy nape, a silver ten-cross necklace slipped down with a soft rustle.
The child’s hand rose to the darkness-infused, gleaming ten-cross necklace. Her face and gaze shifted for a moment. Then they softened warmly, like a dream.
“Yes, son. Let’s go meet Daddy.”
The son’s eyes darkened.
She repeated.
“We must. We absolutely must.”
Her voice, sinking into the depths of her consciousness, resembled an ancient song that had to be sung sadly.
The carriage pressed endlessly along the winding snowy night path.
The rustling of branches faded. The swirling snow piled silently in mourning veils.
They emerged from the forest onto flat ground. Now it would be smooth going. So she thought.
Jolt, jolt.
The carriage shook violently, then halted tilted to one side.
The child perked his ears like a startled kitten.
“What is it?”
She murmured, pulling aside the fur liner inside the carriage window.
Swoosh! Thwip!
A sound rent the air sharply.
Her face hardened coldly.
“Miss!”
A desperate shout came from outside—the voice of the guard on the coachman’s seat.
“Enemy attack!”
Boom! Crack!
A sound like a hammer striking the carriage wall echoed.
Swoosh!
A sharp whistle sliced the wind again.
“Don’t come out!!”
The urgent voice ended there.
Thud!
A dull rupture startled mother and son.
Different from before.
The child’s faint brows furrowed slightly. A new scent flooded his nostrils thickly.
The mother identified it first.
‘Blood smell!’
The child read her thoughts simultaneously.
Thump thump.
His heart raced wildly.
Blood, life, death.
Young as he was, he instinctively knew what they meant.
The child reached for his mother’s sleeve. Too late. She had already kicked open the carriage door and leaped out.
Flutter!
Her movements were swift.
Her slender jade hand brushed her waist. A black sword hilt filled her delicate grip.
Swoosh!
A silver beam sliced through the wind toward her.
Clang!
The sword sheath wrapped around the blade was golden. A thin chain linked from her belt to the sheath rang with crisp metal as it followed her drawn sword.
Ring!
The blade emerged. Black patterns etched the golden blade.
The clan’s secret sword art struck the incoming silver beam.
Clang!
The erupting clash of metal was no ordinary sound.
A silver arrow.
The pure white gleam’s true form.
And another.
Sudden water droplets disordered her vision.
Not melted snow.
Shattered moonlight glittered like broken glass. She jerked her head back hastily but couldn’t fully evade. A few droplets splashed her face.
‘Poison?’
Even sensing danger, her body didn’t stop. Twisting midair, she kicked the open carriage door shut.
Boom! Jolt!
The door closed. Her son’s safety first. Checking her condition came after.