Chapter 42
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 41
Chapter Title: Silent Enemy - 1
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- I'll believe it.
The letter was short and intense. Huangfu Hu accepted it without a word. The mourning banner of the Huangfu Clan fluttered like a hawk that had lost its master.
One of the Five Great Fist Masters of the world, a peak expert. For over twenty years, he could count on one hand the foes worthy of being called rivals. His life had always been distant from feelings of inferiority, yet even he sometimes faced moments of despair.
A wall.
The same clan leader, yet the foremost of the Five Great Clans was always the Nangong Clan.
Why had his gamble with the Palm Treasure Blade failed, while Nangong Jincheon's wager on the Pine Forest Sword Debate succeeded? He had thought he could do it too—why had it gone awry?
A sentiment every warrior inevitably feels: competitive spirit. The fact that it hadn't twisted into ugly frustration was solely because his dear friend Nangong Jincheon had repeatedly demonstrated his superiority.
Just like now.
It had been merely three months since the report on the Dragon Tower Massacre. Not a single scrap of information on the mysterious organization. A bizarre group whose motives were impossible to discern, bringing far too many variables.
The "correct answer" of crushing them swiftly with overwhelming force was something anyone could spout.
But how to fill the lack of justification? Huangfu Hu hadn't found that answer.
"Not to mention, even scheming up a plausible incident would take months..."
Who could dare compare to the iron resolve of a man who unhesitatingly threw his third son into the jaws of death? The moment news of Nangong Dan's demise reached him, Huangfu Hu silently admitted defeat once more in his heart.
Losing to a worthy rival was no shame. All that remained was to set aside personal sentiments and honor his friend's request.
Nangong Dan was a child he had cherished too, so vengeance was a welcome task.
Huangfu Hu glanced at Mount Blaze's scenery one last time before turning away, the hem of his mourning robes fluttering.
"What did you just say?"
Peng Soyoung could scarcely collect his thoughts.
He had galloped here from Hebei, far away, without any leisure. He trusted Nangong Dan.
The White-Clothed Divine Hero was neither a fool nor a weakling. The Nangong Dan he knew was a clever and meticulous knight-errant.
"You must have misheard. Dan would never do such a thing."
"Y-Yeah. The White-Clothed Divine Hero isn't like that. We've fought side by side so many times."
It couldn't be true.
If he'd known, he would have spurred his horse harder, even if it meant riding through the night. But no, that couldn't be.
This had to be some kind of deception. Nangong Dan was plotting something.
"Didn't Dan leave anything for me? A letter, a code, anything...?"
"Nothing, Young Knight Peng. I'm sorry."
The early mourning banners over the clan. Clan members in white mourning garb. Condolence messages and a coffin bound for Anhui.
The coffin was pitch black. Ebony, no doubt—the Nangong Clan's tradition for blood kin. It felt like yesterday that he and Nangong Dan had joked around, playing word games with coffins as the theme.
That he lay inside? The White-Clothed Divine Hero, White Dragon Nangong Dan?
Why?
Peng Soyoung unconsciously stepped closer to the coffin. He wanted to see his face. He couldn't believe it until he confirmed it himself.
Then a hand gripped his shoulder. Large and thick, unmistakably from the Huangfu Clan.
"Uncle Huangfu..."
"Don't disturb his rest. Dan was a proud knight-errant."
Swoosh—a light gust blew. The Peng Clan's swordsmanship carried the nature of wind. Their hereditary art, the Five Tiger Broken Gate, a sword style of rampaging tigers akin to a storm—that was how it got its name.
He hadn't even drawn his blade, yet his aura rippled, quietly voicing his rage.
Peng Soyoung's eyes, fixed on the Iron Blood Fist King, bulged with veins.
"Who did this?"
"The Saintess."
The thick hand pointed beyond Mount Blaze. To the already controlled perimeter, a pile of ashes at the end of an empty road. The place where the enigmatic force that called itself the Divine Cult lurked.
Peng Soyoung barely restrained his instinct to seize his sword. He couldn't disgrace himself at Nangong Dan's funeral. That wasn't the righteousness he believed in.
The dead Nangong Dan would have wished the same.
The Peng Clan originated from military stock. Their martial tradition ran deep. For them, the sword was a last resort.
So, for now, he swallowed his fury.
"...Did she say why?"
But.
"Because he's a martial artist, she said."
An absurd answer. It was enough.
Peng Soyoung's gaze lingered on the coffin one last time. The black ebony coffin symbolized righteousness and sacrifice.
"Entrust me with the vanguard."
"Of course."
Peng Soyoung refined his boiling rage. Resolve settled into his subdued voice.
Nangong Dan's funeral would wait until vengeance was complete.
Scratch.
In the dim thatched hut, the sound of ink grinding was quiet. Zhang Ping stared at the crude map of the world he had sketched himself. He dipped the brush deep into the ground ink and marked a dot.
The first dot fell on Guangdong, Jiangming. A pitch-black mark at the world's southern tip. Next was Mount Blaze. A thick dot near Jiangming.
Then the next, and the next. Dots speckled the cities where swift, sharp-eyed agents had planted the demonic manuals. Starting near Mount Blaze, the dots soon spread far and wide.
Carried in the hands of slash-and-burn farmers. Sold by Black City merchants. Tucked into the bosoms of clueless bandits. Cherished by the destitute.
Thud. Zhang Ping set down the brush, marking no more. The seemingly chaotic lines and smeared ink spanned Anhui, Guangdong, and Shaanxi. The black lines converged and scattered, only to gather at one point.
Back here.
He had left a code at the end of each demonic manual. Nothing complex. A puzzle anyone with a bit of wit could solve quickly. Its message was singular.
'Come to Mount Blaze.'
Use the demonic arts to achieve your desires, then come. The effect was phenomenal—how much had the cult grown? Mouths to feed increased, and the Dragon Star Clan's stockpiled wealth dwindled rapidly.
One might call it an ill omen. If he planned to stop here, it certainly would be.
However.
Splat. Zhang Ping slammed the brush down hard. The ink soaked deeply into Mount Blaze.
"Always the same."
How far to imagine? That was crucial for schemers. Without limits on assumptions, they spun endless delusions and self-destructed.
Thus, they always tried to minimize events. Treated lives as numbers. Graded damages and forces, tallied inventories.
But cold logic changed nothing.
Small numbers defeating large ones could never be calculated. If he meant to stop here, he wouldn't have tracked the Saintess from the start.
When martial artists eyed inner energy and strategists eyed numbers...
The common folk yearned for symbols.
"Lanterns."
The ink spread from Mount Blaze like flames. On the paper, it resembled fire—not lines, but area. The darkening sheet merged existing lines and dots, steadily growing its force.
Mount Blaze's paupers, inspired by the Saintess, were kindling; those who mastered the demonic arts and came on their own were oil atop it.
With roaring flames, it would burn all.
Sizzle—lines slashed across. Thick strokes from Mount Blaze, drawn with vigor. The target was obviously not the Huangfu Clan. They had come too far for that.
Zhang Ping's mind raced to the next step. The world situation he had anticipated before leaving the Hanlin Academy. The Nangong Clan's actions inferred from rumors among the poor.
In this chaotic world, those with ambitions always wanted to gather power in one place. A king of murim would naturally seek to unite murim.
The coming future was clear.
The Saintess who slew Flying Heaven Golden Blade Yong Heisha alone—and now Nangong Clan's third son, no Sword King, had challenged her to a deathmatch solo. They weren't fools. They would want to pin down the variable themselves.
So how should the Divine Cult act?
Strike one step faster. Move before they could prepare. That was why they hadn't bothered covering up Nangong Dan's death.
Provoke the enemy into moving first. Lure the uncoordinated foe into rash action.
They were the strong, we the weak—best to rely on their complacency.
Zhang Ping believed in the Saintess. Not trust, but worship.
Victory was certain. Defeat wasn't even considered. As a strategist, he pondered the picture after triumph.
The spreading ink blackened the paper. Dots merged alone, converging on Mount Blaze, to Mount Blaze.
Famine. Hardship. Corruption. Paupers and grudges overflowed, so once the Huangfu Clan fell, the Divine Cult would etch its name across the world. People would flock like clouds, and it would truly become a cult worthy of the name.
That was the picture Zhang Ping painted. Solely to shatter one thing.
"Murim Alliance..."
The group uniting the world's murim. How much wealth and blood poured into forging that one entity?
The crystallization of the murim king's ambitions—it was surely mighty.
Yet.
The brush's black trail blackened all it passed. The world on paper turned to ashes.
The pitch-black flames in Zhang Ping's eyes targeted one place without fail.
Anhui. The Nangong Clan.