Sword Selling Street
In the town of Dazhu, nestled in Sichuan Province, there was a notorious thoroughfare known as Sword Selling Street.
By daylight, it seemed like nothing more than an ordinary avenue branching out in all four directions. As darkness fell, however, the story changed entirely.
When the sun sank beneath the horizon and red lanterns flickered to life one after another, the street began to exhale a feverish, suffocating heat far fiercer than anything felt by day. It was a place where swirling dust, the stinging stench of cheap spirits, and the ragged breath of desperate men chasing overnight riches churned into a single cauldron of violence.
“Cut him down! Don’t give him room to breathe!”
“Do you have any idea how much silver I slapped on your miserable hide?! Get the hell up!”
At the center of the avenue, encircled by dense throngs of baying spectators, four martial stages loomed under the flickering glare of torches.
Clang! Crunch!
A sharp, sickening crack rang out from the third stage. The outcome was decided in a heartbeat. As a defeated wanderer crashed heavily onto the timber floor, the onlookers wasted no pity on the fallen. Instead, they roared with feral frenzy, showering the victor with a rain of copper coins.
“Now that’s what I call a show! Gahahaha!”
On the stage, nothing remained except the ragged heaving of the victor and the smothered groans of the vanquished.
High above, gazing down upon the carnage from an elevated pavilion, distinguished guests draped in lustrous silks sat before tables laden with wine and fine delicacies. They watched the brutal bloodsport with cold detachment, as if the life-and-death struggle below were nothing more than an amusing evening diversion.
“Next! Bring up the next dog!” the stage master bellowed, waving a ledger marked with tallies of victory and defeat.
Like moths drawn blindly to an open flame, men scrambling for coin and hollow renown surged toward the stairs of the stage.
Into the midst of this clamorous, pitiless spectacle of greed, a lone figure stepped forward without a sound.
He wore a faded, fraying martial robe, his features shadowed beneath the low-pulled brim of a bamboo hat. Slung across his back was a long, slender shape wrapped tightly in black cloth. To an untrained eye, he looked no different from the countless third-rate wanderers loitering in the grimy gutters of Sword Selling Street.
Yet with every stride he took, the wanderers surrounding him—men drunk on bloodlust and frenzy—flinched instinctively and drew back, parting like water before a prow. It was an eerie, suffocating presence, as though an impassive wolf had quietly slipped into a pack of snarling street curs.
‘What the hell...?’
‘Why did I step aside for this guy...?’
Frowns of shame crossed their rough faces at their own involuntary cowardice, but not a single man dared utter a word of protest to the stranger in the bamboo hat.
The man was Dokgo Jin.
Beneath the shadow of his hat, his pitch-black eyes swept across the four stages gleaming beneath the torches.
‘So this is Sword Selling Street.’
Even amid this blood-soaked, deafening bedlam, his gaze remained utterly motionless. On the surface, Sword Selling Street was a gambling den where wanderers paid an entrance fee to stake their lives for purse money, but its true purpose lay far deeper.
Dokgo Jin shifted his focus upward toward the pavilion. Releasing his sensory perception to its outer limits, he gave an imperceptible nod.
‘...Four of them.’
Over a dozen people occupied the pavilion, but only four possessed the genuine, tempered cultivation of true martial masters.
‘Their auras are starkly distinct. Two pairs, it seems.’
They, too, sat adorned in extravagant finery, seemingly enjoying the entertainment. Yet their true errand was to observe the slaughter, pick out martial artists who possessed genuine potential, and haul them into their respective folds.
‘Making a ridiculous fuss just to recruit expendable blades.’
The Northern Heaven Alliance walked the line between the orthodox and unorthodox, revering raw, disciplined martial prowess above all. While victory was prized, they primarily evaluated wanderers based on clean, unadorned skill. The Red Blood Gang, by contrast, was an unorthodox syndicate that cared only for results. To them, survival and victory by any means necessary were the supreme virtues. In that sense, plucking survivors from a brutal survival pit like this was entirely in character for them.
Of course, operating Sword Selling Street brought in astronomical revenues as well. Beside the recruiters from the two great factions, the remaining patrons were wealthy local magnates paying extravagant sums to watch men butcher each other.
‘Killing two birds with one stone.’
Right then, a rasping shout pierced the air.
“Number thirty-three! Is there a number thirty-three?!”
The burly official presiding over the second stage raised his voice, scanning the crowd.
‘That would be me.’
Checking his wooden token, Dokgo Jin took off his bamboo hat and climbed the wooden stairs onto the platform. A massive, bald stage master glared down at him.
“You thirty-three?”
“I am.”
The bald man’s brow twitched into a harsh scowl.
“Listen to this little bastard... You show up late and dare speak down to me?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Cheeky runt! Do you need me to break a few teeth before you fight?”
Before Dokgo Jin could even bother to answer, the bald man waved a thick hand in irritation.
“Tch, forget it. Putting hands on the merchandise only cuts into my cut.”
Dokgo Jin had already taken the measure of the stage masters. While they fell short of the four figures lounging in the pavilion, they were still seasoned, capable fighters.
“See that mountain over there?” The bald man jabbed a thumb toward the far corner of the ring.
Waiting there was a hulking brute gripping a battle axe nearly as wide as his own torso.
“That’s your opponent. Looks like it’s your first time here, but running into Heuk-ung on your debut? Rotten luck, kid.” The stage master ran a dismissive eye over Dokgo Jin’s lean frame and sneered. “...Judging by the look of you, this won’t take long.”
Dokgo Jin glanced briefly at the brute known as the Black Bear, measuring his caliber in a single breath.
‘Adequate enough, I suppose.’
Dokgo Jin gave a composed nod.
“You're not mistaken.”
“Heh, try to crawl away in one piece. Begin!”
Having barked the signal, the bald man turned away, muttering under his breath.
‘Hope the Bear takes that insolent tongue off first.’
Across the planks, Heuk-ung hoisted the massive axe and whirled it overhead, letting out a thunderous roar.
“Gahahaha! Where did they dig up this sickly twig? I’ll grind you until there isn't enough bone left to scrape into a pot!”
Every time the heavy iron cleaver cleaved the air, a deep, resonant whistling battered the eardrums of the spectators. But to Dokgo Jin’s eyes, it was nothing more than the clumsy flailing of a scarecrow loaded with wasted, undisciplined muscle.
‘A loud one.’
“Tear him apart, Heuk-ung!”
“Look at the kid, he's frozen stiff! He's probably pissing himself!”
“Bwahahaha!”
As mocking taunts rained down from the mob, Heuk-ung kicked off the stage floor and charged.
“Die!”
With momentum fierce enough to split a boulder in two, the colossal axe blade plunged vertically toward the crown of Dokgo Jin’s skull.
Whoosh!
To the onlookers, it looked like an inescapable, devastating strike. To Dokgo Jin, it was an eternity.
‘Tsk.’
He clicked his tongue in quiet boredom.
The path of the descending blade was painfully obvious, plodding through the air as though dragging through deep water.
Boom!
The axe struck nothing but the bare timber, shivering the thick planks where Dokgo Jin had stood a fraction of an instant prior. Dokgo Jin had vanished from the spot, leaving behind not even an afterimage.
“...Huh?”
In that suspended heartbeat while the axe remained wedged in the floorboards, Heuk-ung’s pupils dilated in raw shock.
He found himself staring directly into a pair of chilling, dark eyes. Without a whisper of wind, Dokgo Jin had slipped clean into his guard, standing inches from his chest.
‘Riddled with openings.’
Dokgo Jin’s shoulder snapped forward.
Thwack!
A dull, heavy impact echoed across the stage, like an iron mallet splitting open a watermelon.
“Guh!”
Heuk-ung’s massive, two-hundred-pound frame was lifted clean off the ground.
Crash!
His eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Unable to muster so much as a dying shriek, the giant tipped backward and slammed heavily onto the splintered wood. The battle axe slipped from his limp fingers, clattering onto the stage where it lay still.
“...!”
The crowd could not even comprehend what kind of strike had sent the Black Bear flying. The deafening clamor of Sword Selling Street went utterly dead, as though doused with a bucket of freezing well water.
Surrounded by hundreds of stunned, disbelieving stares, Dokgo Jin’s expression remained as calm as a mountain spring.
‘If a blow like this leaves them gaping, they're in for a long night.’
The bald stage master stood frozen where he stood, his mouth agape.
‘Was that... a shoulder check?’
Even he had caught only a faint blur; he couldn't be entirely sure. Involuntarily, the stage master cast an anxious glance toward the high pavilion.
‘Did the masters see it?’
A breath later, the dam broke, and the crowd erupted in a frenzy.
“Waaah!”
“What in the hell was that?!”
“What hit him?! Did you see it?!”
“H-How should I know?!”
Dokgo Jin turned toward the stunned stage master.
“That wasn't even enough for a warm-up. Bring me someone worthwhile next.”
“...!”
The stage master could not muster a single word of retort.
Dokgo Jin fought three more times that evening.
The result was four bouts, four clean victories.
All four matches combined had taken less than a single quarter of an hour. Each battle played out precisely like the first with Heuk-ung. Not one opponent managed to endure a single strike from Dokgo Jin before collapsing into unconsciousness.
“Boring.”
“...”
The bald stage master swallowed hard. There was no denying it now.
‘This kid... he’s a monster!’
In truth, he doubted whether he could withstand this youth himself.
‘Where in the world did such a dangerous blade crawl out from...?’
He looked up toward the pavilion once more. Up there, two figures were leaning against the railing, gazing down at the stage with unmistakable intrigue.
“...”
Dokgo Jin felt their appraisal pierce the night air.
‘I have their attention.’
The faintest smirk touched the corner of his lips.
Standing on the pavilion terrace, observing Dokgo Jin with predatory focus, were two experts dispatched by the Red Blood Gang.
The pale, gaunt man was known as Blood Flying Woo Gwang, commander of the Talent Acquisition Unit within the syndicate. Fitted over the tips of his unnaturally elongated fingers were sleek claws forged from blackened iron.
Beside him stood a handsome young man draped in colorful, flowing silks, gently waving an ornate feather fan—Flower Asura Do Gyeol. He, too, was an elite martial artist of the Talent Acquisition Unit.
Do Gyeol leaned his slender frame against the carved wooden banister and murmured in a honeyed, sing-song tone,
“You saw that, didn't you?”
“I did.”
“First was the shoulder, second the elbow, third a knife-hand, and fourth a straight fist.”
Do Gyeol’s eyes shimmered with morbid fascination.
“Different striking surfaces, but the exact same impact point every single time. He struck the temporomandibular joint with absolute precision, shaking the brain stem. The most ruthless, energy-efficient way to drop a human being.”
Woo Gwang gave a stiff nod of affirmation.
“Hardly the crude brawling of a wandering vagabond.”
At Woo Gwang’s dry assessment, Do Gyeol broke into a chillingly radiant smile. Reaching into his robes, he produced a bright red candied treat, crunching down on it and smacking his lips with perverse pleasure.
“So clean. Not a shred of wasted movement. Smooth as fine silk, just like my robes.”
“Taken a liking to him?”
At Woo Gwang’s question, a flicker of genuine madness danced in Do Gyeol’s gaze.
“Very much so. Unit Leader Woo, couldn't you just give him to me as a toy? I'd love to play with him properly. A boy like that is bound to have such a clear, beautiful scream.”
Woo Gwang’s brow furrowed in distaste.
“Do Gyeol, do not forget why we came here. Indulge your twisted hobbies on your own time.”
“Hmph. You’re always so cold to me, Unit Leader.”
“Hmm.”
Staring unblinkingly at Dokgo Jin below, Woo Gwang tapped his black iron claws against the wooden railing. With each tap, deep gouges were carved effortlessly into the lacquered wood.
“I like his eyes. Those are the eyes of a man who has stared into the maw of death dozens of times and walked away. What he showed just now is nowhere near his limit.”
“You think so?”
“Common fodder won't be enough to drag his true depth into the light.”
“Then what do you intend to do?”
After a brief pause, Woo Gwang’s thin lips parted.
“...Pit him against the Ghost-Faced Wolf.”
Do Gyeol’s eyes rounded in surprise.
“Wait, didn't we already agree to take that one back to headquarters?”
“Tell him it is his final test. If he survives this, he'll be rewarded with far greater standing.”
“Ah, wonderful! This is going to be magnificent!”
Do Gyeol clapped his hands with childlike glee.
“Your wish is my command.”
With a flutter of colorful silk, Do Gyeol’s figure tipped forward over the railing and plummeted soundlessly into the dark below.
Dark Sky Martial Emperor
Author | Jeong Cheon
Publisher | Samyang C&C Co., Ltd.
Managing Editor | Editorial Department
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