Chapter 293
Chapter 293
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 293
Chapter Title: Pot-Top Drunken Brawl
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After the man's lips parted, a bone-chilling silence descended upon the spot for a moment.
In the ensuing quiet from both Hyeok Mulin and Cheon Sumyeong, the man added impatiently, unable to bear it.
"Hey? Why'd you suddenly go quiet..."
"Is that the truth?"
Hyeok Mulin's voice pierced through the man's words from amid the hush.
The man nodded cautiously in response.
"I would never lie. So please, keep your earlier promise."
Hyeok Mulin stared straight into the man's eyes.
And just as he moved to hand over the bronze plaque soon after.
"Take it."
Cheon Sumyeong, who had been watching, handed over his own plaque instead.
The man brightened immediately, a wide smile spreading across his face.
His goal had been to obtain a plaque anyway—who gave it didn't matter.
"Thank you. Then I'll be off."
His eyes gleaming like he'd acquired a ruby jewel, the man clutched the plaque tightly and departed.
Now alone again, Hyeok Mulin spoke up.
"I was about to give you mine."
"Tsk tsk. Don't you need one too? It means nothing to me anyway, so no matter."
He was right.
It was Hyeok Mulin who had wanted to test his martial arts against the Drunk Badge Maniac, so Cheon Sumyeong had no real purpose beyond spectating.
Thus, he had handed his over without hesitation for that encounter.
"More importantly, didn't we hear something far more crucial? For Gu Mujon of the Four Black Unions to join the Alliance Leader at the final day's banquet... Do you think that's true?"
Recalling the man's gaze at those words, Hyeok Mulin replied.
"At the very least, he wasn't lying."
In that brief moment, Hyeok Mulin had scrutinized his eyes, gaze, voice, even the tremors—everything.
And confirmed he spoke no falsehoods.
That left two possibilities: what he said was fact, or the truth he knew was distorted.
"Gu Mujon of the Four Black Unions..."
Cheon Sumyeong let out a low hum before continuing.
"That means the Four Black Union Leader might come here."
There were only two Gu Mujons in the Four Black Unions.
One was the Union Leader himself, so if the man spoke true, they might face him as early as tomorrow.
Cheon Sumyeong looked up at Hyeok Mulin.
A figure like the Four Black Union Leader had come up, yet his expression remained utterly impassive.
"......"
Cheon Sumyeong stared at the silent man.
The situation had completely changed from when they'd first sought the Manchu Great Banquet.
What was meant to be a relaxed spot to test skills via the Drunk Badge Maniac now carried the risk of facing an unorthodox overlord.
The Four Black Union Leader, or at least one of their Gu Mujons.
Contact between the Demonic Cult and the Four Black Unions.
No one in the world could predict how such a meeting might unfold.
Thus.
"What will you do?"
Cheon Sumyeong left the decision to him.
He had followed Hyeok Mulin from the start, so he'd go along with whatever—stay or leave.
He'd accept departing now.
Or staying to engage the Four Black Unions, even if blood was shed in the process.
Slurp—
Hyeok Mulin slowly wet his lips with the cup.
And delivered his conclusion.
"Nothing changes. We'll proceed with the original plan."
In truth, Hyeok Mulin had never wavered from start to finish.
Alone, he might have reconsidered, but the Sword Sovereign stood by his side now.
'Who knew this man could feel so reliably solid.'
On this journey following Hyeok Mulin's lead, Cheon Sumyeong was an ally without peer in his steadfastness.
Not a shred of worry had stirred upon hearing of the Four Black Unions' Gu Mujon from that man earlier.
"Tsk tsk tsk. Knew you'd say that."
Cheon Sumyeong let out a satisfied chuckle at Hyeok Mulin's declaration.
He wasn't one to back down from anyone either.
"Still, we can't rule out the chance he got faulty info, so let's drop the Four Black Unions talk here."
Whether true or false.
They had two days left to confirm it.
The second day of the Manchu Great Banquet dawned.
The changes that arose there were easy to spot.
No great difference by day, but as the sun dipped and sunset faded, the liquor’s taste and hue began to shift.
Cheon Sumyeong brought a cup close, sniffing the lingering aroma, and remarked.
"Twice as potent as yesterday."
A piercing, intense scent assaulted his nose from the cup.
Hot and acrid, like flames roaring.
He touched it lightly to his lips and frowned.
A sharp tingle hit his tongue.
Dry taste, vicious aroma.
Liquor spiked for maximum stimulation.
"Not to your taste, I see."
"Yesterday was drinkable enough, but this... can't even touch it."
To Cheon Sumyeong's sensitive palate, this was more off-putting than crude spirits.
His desire to drink vanished, so he set the cup down fully and said.
"No idea why they'd make swill like this."
"You'll know soon enough naturally."
Not long after Hyeok Mulin spoke, Cheon Sumyeong indeed grasped the reason.
As sunset lost its color and night deepened, a table splintered with a crack somewhere.
"What're you glaring at?"
"What? Wanna go?!"
Bang! Boom!
Drunker faster and deeper than yesterday, the patrons picked fights over trifles.
Eye contact, spittle from talk, an ugly grin—absurd excuses for brawls.
Most attendees being martial artists, they wouldn't swallow insults meekly.
Fights erupted everywhere, turning the Manchu Great Banquet into a violent chaos.
"Tsk tsk. Quite the spectacle."
Hyeok Mulin and Cheon Sumyeong merely watched from afar, detached.
Then.
"Enough—!"
Gaebul's shout from the platform halted their frenzy momentarily.
Seeing them pummeling each other bloodied, he grinned in satisfaction.
"All nicely plastered, I see. Can't keep your vigorous bodies idle, eh?"
Gaebul shook his head at them and continued.
"But no need to waste energy on randos. I've prepared the stage to vent that rage."
Swish—
As Gaebul raised a hand, Manchu Assembly warriors swiftly hauled in barrels.
They stacked them neatly below the platform, forming a vast stage of liquor casks.
Once ready, Gaebul announced.
"Now, we begin the third event of the Manchu Great Banquet: the Pot-Top Drunken Brawl!"
"Wooooah!"
Roaring cheers erupted.
Even recent brawlers forgot their grudges, shouting as one.
The rules were simple.
Dozens of barrels fused into one mass; contestants climbed atop.
Last one standing alone atop claims victory.
A small battlefield banning weapons, in short.
Hearing this, Hyeok Mulin rose.
"Hold on."
Cheon Sumyeong stopped him, standing himself.
"I'll handle it."
His reason was straightforward.
Setting aside fetching the plaque.
His body felt stiff, and most atop were the rowdy, grating drunks who'd irked him.
So as Cheon Sumyeong stepped up, Hyeok Mulin sat back and said.
"Go easy."
"Tsk tsk. No worries. I'd never go all out on these. Just a light jaunt."
That "light" might crush others like a mountain.
Hyeok Mulin mused inwardly, watching Cheon Sumyeong's retreating figure.
"No more entrants? Then that's—"
Dozens now atop the barrels.
As Gaebul moved to close entries.
Step step.
An elder strolled up and climbed on.
Gaebul approached, puzzled.
"Elder, you really entering the Pot-Top Drunken Brawl?"
"That's right. Problem?"
"......No problem."
Gaebul glanced at the others, frowning.
This was tossing dozens of warriors into a brawl.
Sturdy young fighters brimmed with confidence, yet this upright elder was... old.
He knew the elder had won yesterday's tasting with sharp senses.
But taste and martial prowess? Unrelated.
No detectable internal energy from the elder either—Gaebul couldn't fathom it.
But whatever.
"Fine. You're responsible for the outcome, keep that in mind."
Gaebul wouldn't stop or force him down.
The elder had climbed up himself; whatever happened was on him.
Thus, Cheon Sumyeong stood unscathed atop, hands behind back, surveying.
"Tsk tsk, those eyes are vicious."
True to unorthodox lands, his age drew no issue.
Contestants eyed him like predators sizing prey.
An elder with no whiff of qi.
Prime elimination bait.
In that tense air around Cheon Sumyeong, Gaebul spoke.
Only one would stand last atop these many barrels to win.
Whoosh.
Ascending the platform, he looked down.
"Pot-Top Drunken Brawl begins now!"
"Raaah!"
At his signal, drunks swung at neighbors.
Chaos erupted; Cheon Sumyeong's spot was no different.
Some eyed warily, others charged.
A nearby man barreled at Cheon Sumyeong, shouting.
"Elder! Better yield quick before the others get you!"
Towering frame, massive build—visually thrice Cheon Sumyeong's girth.
First to lunge at him: the Monstrous Strength Wringer.
One widely known in the Manchu Assembly—not for prowess alone, but vile deeds.
He massacred not just foes but innocents and weaklings.
Beyond subduing, he shattered bones and tore limbs with brute force—gruesome killer.
Unapproached even by fellow unorthodox for his cruelty, he took initiative.
Targeting the perceived weakling: Cheon Sumyeong.
The hulking Monstrous Strength Wringer leaped skyward.
Arms spread wide to smother Cheon Sumyeong.
Intending to grab arms and rip sideways.
But then.
Tap.
Cheon Sumyeong stepped forward once, flicking one finger.
"......Huh?"
The Wringer's feet hit ground; his head tilted slowly down.
His eyes fixed on the elder's index finger at his collarbone.
Pierce.
It sank into flesh.
Deeper.
Piercing muscle.
And.
Thrust—
A finger-sized hole bloomed in his torso.
Through chest to back—one clean puncture.
Moments later.
Thud!
His knees slammed down amid the boom. He toppled sideways.
Brawlers froze; spectators held breath.
Cheon Sumyeong, at the center, merely wiped blood from his finger on his robe impassively.
Soon, he turned to the quieted surroundings and spoke leisurely.
"Who's next?"