Chapter 41
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: Night - 2
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Swords clash.
Two blades rush toward each other's flesh. In the late predawn hours, the trajectories of the blades catch the moonlight here and there, gleaming faintly.
Dizzying, flashy lines rampaged like feral dogs.
Curving arcs, straight thrusts. They collide and part without respite. With every flash of sword light, a life hangs on the blade's edge. A dangerous tightrope walk—who was falling behind?
It was obvious.
"Haa. Haa."
His breathing came in ragged gasps.
This was inner power honed through a prestigious family's cultivation method. Wasn't the orthodox faction's unparalleled superiority over the unorthodox rooted in the depth of that inner power? Yet in this moment, Nangong Dan's reserves were scraping bottom.
The fierce battle with the Saintess, followed by back-to-back clashes with Bai Hui. And this time, not even his branch leaders to aid him.
An unfavorable situation. Inadequate martial prowess.
He had never been pushed this far in his life—he was certain of it. Nangong Dan's sword tip trembled faintly.
'Where did these monsters come from...!'
It was absurd.
The White-Clothed Sword Hero was one of the Four Dragons of the White Path, deemed the most promising among White Path's elite. Superior martial arts, spirit elixirs, relentless training. His talent was by no means lacking.
And battle experience? Surely not inferior to the pair before him, who didn't even have nicknames.
Yet he couldn't reach them.
Bai Hui's sword was faster and fiercer than his own Black Thunder Sword. The Lightning Thirteen Thunderbolts that severed an iron chain in a single stroke could do no more than scratch the Saintess's skin against a world-spanning master. It fell woefully short.
Inner power on par with Shaolin elders who had refined themselves lifelong through the Muscle Rewriting Scripture. An appearance no older than mid-twenties. Some half-ancient prodigy out of children's folktales?
Mysterious masters. Ruthless butchers, no less.
The Divine Cult had quite literally "appeared." No prior records. Not a single one. And they were growing stronger. In just three months, Bai Hui's sword momentum pressed in even faster.
Nangong Dan had no words for them. Who—or what—was he even fighting?
Ghost stories, phantoms, specters, nightmares.
"Heh heh heh..."
His chest heaved. Nangong Dan let out an empty laugh as he hurled aside the scabbard at his waist. Clang, rattle... The ornate scabbard rolled pitifully across the ground.
Did he even grasp the meaning of that act? What it signified for a swordsman to discard his scabbard.
Bai Hui, who had been watching silently, sheathed his blade. Shing. The sword locked into its scabbard. But he hadn't abandoned his will to fight. If anything, his inner power surged even denser.
Suddenly, Nangong Dan's laughter cut off.
"Azure Heaven Thunderclap!"
His voice cracked like lightning. His foot shot forward, inner power pouring like a torrent. Sword force wrung to the limit from his dantian roared, trapped within the Black Thunder Sword.
The blade embracing death no longer uttered stifled cries. Rumble—! The sword vibrated with overflowing power, summoning a thunderous roar. It perfectly replicated the sound of thunder.
Ching. He raised the sword high. The heavy sword's true essence unfolded, ceaselessly summoning waves of qi that wrapped Bai Hui tight. Instant death for any ordinary man; even a seasoned swordsman would be pinned, unable to twitch a limb.
Nangong's sword was the sword of the heavens. The "thunder" in its name symbolized heavenly judgment. A death sentence dealt after subduing the foe. Nangong was confident. The finest technique he had ever unleashed in his life.
But.
Shaaak—
The qi waves shredded like a rug torn apart. In an instant.
No clamor, no rampaging aura, no explosive sword force.
The bare blade claimed yet another life.
"Kuh."
Blood gushed from his mouth.
The sword had pierced his heart. Survival was impossible.
"It's over... Heh heh. With this, my mission's complete. My final mission..."
A needle in a pocket. Sharp things always pierce through. The Divine Cult was no different.
Unproven ideology. Power too perilously unchecked. Just now proven. An unknown master who broke him so easily—such a thing...
Should not exist.
Clans always controlled for variables. To oversee and master all was the path to security. To shoulder the weight of ten thousand souls and guide them to the optimal future.
To harbor no doubts—that was Nangong Dan's duty.
White-Clothed Sword Hero Nangong Dan. The truth lurking behind the shadow sword.
White Path Dragon. Third son of the Nangong Clan. Longtime friend of Peng Soyoung. Famous righteous hero.
Why must he die in secret?
The orthodox never moved without cause. Thus, Nangong Dan had handed them that cause.
He sacrificed his life for the good of the world.
"Ha ha, hahaha."
"Having fun?"
"That final strike that felled me. What was its name?"
His last mission as a shadow sword was flawlessly fulfilled. Now, as a swordsman of a lifetime, could he meet his end properly? Nangong Dan asked with earnest longing.
He wanted acknowledgment—that the blade piercing Nangong's Azure Heaven Thunderclap was a superb technique.
"None."
"I see? Cough. Then let me name it..."
Nangong Dan forced a pained smile. Or tried to.
Until Bai Hui twisted the blade.
Fresh blood erupted. His pulverized heart spat gore. Nangong Dan's eyes stared at Bai Hui in utter disbelief.
Tormenting and oppressing humans. Martial artists slapped the label "righteousness" on it. Dressed it up with "martial" flair. Watching that spectacle conjured the World Dragon.
That revolting, grotesque visage.
Nangong Dan's eyes bulged wide. A flat voice rang out.
"I wield the sword to kill."
Stab. The blade sank deeper. The light faded from Nangong Dan's eyes.
"A cut that fells a man needs no fancy name."
Bai Hui turned his back. And headed for the Girl.
He had no pity to spare for the man before him.
The Girl stood there blankly for a moment.
The dagger embedded near her throat was bothersome. Stiff, painful, strange—like a branch sprouting from her body. It wouldn't come free easily. For some reason, her arm lacked strength, and a subtle malaise poured endlessly from the deeply lodged blade.
Something circulating her meridians, leaving traces behind.
It sealed her open channels, spread gray turbidity, suppressed her surging inner power. Unfamiliar. She'd never felt such a sensation.
"You alright?"
Bai Hui stood before her before she knew it. He'd slain her attacker, it seemed. The Girl nodded and reached for the dagger... then staggered.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
She waved off Bai Hui's offered support. Her head felt numb. She couldn't quite control her body. The poison's effects weren't severe. Lacking virulence, the Girl merely observed.
She could have easily gathered her scattered qi and subdued it. But she didn't want to.
Because it didn't hurt.
The searing agony that had gnawed at her nerves all day was gone. A world without pain—the sensation long vanished—had returned. As Bai Hui drew near again with a worried look, the Girl extended a hand to halt him.
"I'm fine. I can stand in a moment."
Her hand settled on the dagger's hilt. A new sensation joined the rest. The chill metallic bite at her throat—even that, she welcomed.
Compared to her body perpetually ablaze... it was nothing.
Just a little longer like this. Just a bit more.
But.
"Saintess! Saintess, where are you?!"
Dawn was breaking.
The sky had turned blue before she realized. The black night retreated, and in the remnants, people scurried about. They knew she'd vanished through the night.
"Saintess! Dharma Protector!"
"Hui. I have a favor."
"What is it?"
"Stand in front of me for a moment."
At the Girl's words, Bai Hui silently obliged. His wide robe concealed her seated form. From behind it, she gripped the dagger once more.
Pain surged. The blade resisted stubbornly as she yanked with all her might. The Girl closed her eyes. And exhaled softly.
People stood before her. Snapping to her senses, she saw so many gazing solely at her.
Those who had fled amid the Saha world's torment, racing desperately to her side.
Behind closed lids, the Girl envisioned the sealed gates of the Tian Clan.
Gangil's dying breaths amid sword cuts, all those who ignored her questions, the blades and grasping hands that pursued her.
That day, the burning fields seen from the cliff.
Whoosh. Flames kindled. The hatred blazing in her heart revived. The faint ember swelled to inferno, spreading like wildfire through her veins.
The Girl's demonic arts differed from others'. She couldn't bestow such power on Bai Hui or Zhang Ping.
But her own—fueled purely by roiling emotions—was another matter entirely.
Far less refined. Twice as savage. Hatred birthed pain; pain endlessly scorched her to forge new hatred. A linked cycle, an infinite torrent of frenzied qi.
The Girl opened her eyes. Plop. The dagger slid free with ease. She straightened her back and stared ahead with her lightless black pupils. Tap. A slender finger drummed Bai Hui's back.
"Good work."
"No."
Rustle. Her skirt brushed through the ashes. The cultists' faces lit up upon spotting the Girl.
"The Saintess is right here! What a fuss—total overreaction!"
"Overreaction? Who're you calling that—you went white as a ghost first!"
As always, the Girl returned to the front of her tent and took her seat.