Chapter 5
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Prologue - 4
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She clenched her fist tight. Tight enough for blood to seep out.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her legs refused to support her. Her feet felt like lead. She hadn't slept a wink since yesterday. She'd run the entire morning, and in the afternoon, she'd screamed until blood welled in her throat. The girl was completely exhausted. Even a mighty hero of the world couldn't have endured it.
Crunch. A pebble snagged her ankle. In that instant, balance lost, she toppled over like someone racked with fever.
The scent of earth washed over her. The ground's texture mingled with the fragrance of wild grasses, easing her pain. Sharp thorns pierced her clothes, stabbing relentlessly, leaving angry red welts everywhere. Dizzy. Painful. Agonizing. Bile rose in her throat. From running too long, her qi and blood rioted through her body. A demonic pain howling in torment. But sometimes, there are days when rest is impossible.
Not from lack of time, but because stopping here might mean she'd never rise again. Because she'd never forgive herself for halting when she should have kept running. So she clenched her fist once more. Rustle. The stone in her grasp dug painfully into her fingers. She checked the herbs clutched to her chest. None were damaged.
Just a little longer. Coaxing her weary body, the girl rose. Her head felt damp with blood, perhaps. Her eyes blinked, vision blurring then clearing. She walked slowly. One step. Another. As she went, unconsciously circulating the qi within her.
To soothe the pain, to preserve her flesh—in a form of perfect dynamic meditation she didn't even realize. Just as she always did when fatigue set in.
Yet that level was anything but low. Her brother called it internal cultivation, but it was more accurately a supreme external art. The rolling mass of qi didn't layer up but tempered her internals solid as forged iron. Any martial artist witnessing it would gasp in awe at her talent. Her steps quickened. She glanced at the sky. The sun crept slowly toward noon.
It couldn't be too late yet. Crest the hill, and the village would appear. Her heavy stomps gradually lightened. Tap, tap. At the end of her slow jog, finally atop the summit, what greeted the girl was,
Flames unfurling along the horizon.
It burned. Flickering fire devoured all. The girl swiftly recalled how cold the past few days had been.
Dry, brittle branches catch easily, Charcoal Maker Choi had mentioned offhand. Struck by lightning, maybe, or one of those sporadic wildfires. Her fingers slackened, nearly dropping the herbs. She screamed and charged ahead.
The closer to home, the thicker the dread grew. No one around. No youths scrambling to fight the blaze, no farmers diverting field ditches. Just a faint metallic blood-scent lingering in her nostrils.
And something like charred meat. Clutching her thundering heart, she rounded the corner. Thankfully, her house stood untouched. At the hillside's base—a small mercy. The fire looked born in the fields. It smoldered lazily through the village, poised to leap to the paddies. Whatever the cause, she had to flee now. That was when.
"Girl, run away! Hurry!"
"Village Chief!"
An old man caked in black ash and embers burst from the hillside. Waving his arms, he yelled.
"This isn't the time! Go now!"
"What about Gangil?"
"No time to fetch him. You at least must live! Before it's too late—run to the mountains! The Mountain Immortal will protect you!"
"Ah..."
Whoosh. Both gazes snapped toward the house.
A frail voice drifted from within. Pitifully faint, on the verge of breaking.
"Gangil!"
Gangil arduously pushed open the door. Overnight, he'd withered, sitting there gazing at the girl. Recovered? No good sign. Gangil hadn't taken special medicine in his dire state, nor shown self-healing.
Few reasons for sudden brightness in a dying man. Thump. The embracing body was light. Far too light. Burning hot, with a faint rotten-meat stench seeping from beneath his skin. The girl didn't wince. Sobs burst instead.
Too hard. Too much crashing down at once. Like being hurled into frigid river depths. Sudden, without omen. Like sky-split lightning, calamity struck.
Gangil made no reply to her cries. A feeble palm patted her back. Tap, tap...
"Sorry. Didn't work out. Tried to dodge it."
"Don't... talk..."
"Village in danger. Chief said. So, please..."
Reality splintered and crumbled. Shards of the girl's world shattered, cast into flames. Acrid burning-village smoke. Death-reek closing on Gangil. Chief's pained face, tension he couldn't hide. Terror-scent howling to flee now. Tap. Gangil's palm touched again.
Cold.
Body scorching, yet that palm like winter ice. A faint tug drew the girl to his lips. She didn't resist. Sucked into his embrace. Throat-clearing? A shallow cough.
Abrupt. Unforeseen.
Not like this. She'd prepared no farewell like this. Never even considered it. Believed misfortune, if it came, wouldn't be this sort.
"You live."
Plop. The stroking hand fell from her back. Pupils dilated. Then, more plainly.
Qi ceased. Gangil's gentle red flow blackened, dispersed. Fled to the heavens? Merged with village-choking smoke? His body chilled fast, long-prepared. The girl's motions halted. Even tiny sobs.
Dazed.
Outside, the chief paced frantic. Fire not yet raging wide. But he knew its origin—remembered what happened that day she went to Jiangming.
Flee now, or die.
A martial artist's blade sees no eyes. Truly blind. No targets spared, no halts midway. No mercy. To the old chief, the village was just that.
Mad. All insane. Greed-maddened.
"Kid, time to go."
Not even a gong's span. Sitting, standing, peering anxiously at village paths, the chief prodded.
"Girl. Must go. Or we'll get caught too..."
"Let go!"
No answer, anxious chief entered the hut, seized her arm. Icy retort. Chief recoiled, shuddered. Primal terror raced his spine.
Girl's eyes, blood-red.
Her eyes were special. Mountain Immortal's gift, divine power within. They glared dead at the chief. Old memory surged. Ages ago, tiger on mountain path. Body stiffening toe-to-crown, ill omen. Every hair rebelling his will.
"Uh... uhh..."
Little wench, where'd you learn to glare like that! The bark died unspoken. Thud. Feet froze, head fled—dissonance. Butt-plant broke paralysis; he bolted, no backward glance.
"F... fine. Stay if you want."
Close call.
Old ears caught rustling steps. In this hell alive, one sort strolls unharmed. Sword-fiends neared. Chief vanished deep mountainside. Girl clung to Gangil's corpse. Then, two long-robe men appeared.
"Life signs inside. Approach with care."
"Senior brother, too hung up on villagers?"
"Can't rule out Dragon Star Clan hounds."
Step step. They split wide, black robes. This mission, no clan banners. Officially, no bloodbath here.
Unmissable: golden sword-tassels.
They smashed the flimsy reed door. It splintered, baring the scene. Dead man, girl clutching him.
"Village herbalist, looks like. The one unaccounted yesterday..."
"Unorthodox fools miss escapees, can't snag returners. Lucky us. Retrieve."
Shing. Menacing ring, sword from sheath. Feet shoulder-wide, center firm. Textbook mid-stance, blade canted a hair off—variable hedge.
Novice eyes blind. Wide ears might puzzle days for a clue.
Bedrock solidity hiding sly orthodox twists. Family style.
Five Great Clans—Guangdong Huangfu, don't their famed fist arts shine so?