Chapter 57
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 56
Chapter Title: Punishment - 2
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Thud. The sword fell.
The hand that had lost its grip on the hilt trembled uncontrollably.
Red stains spread along the lavish silk sleeve. Gush. Blood poured from his throat, dripping onto the floor in heavy drops. Thick crimson pools formed on the fine wooden planks.
"Guh... guhk..."
His nerves shredded to tatters. Agony that chilled the soul.
The middle-aged man worked his lips. His eyes bulged wide. He desperately tried to speak, but a throat pierced through could produce no sound.
What had torn through his greasy neck was a single blade.
The silver sword blade bore patterns of decayed bloodstains. Its once sharply honed edge was now chipped in places.
The irregular, jagged surface of the damaged blade had turned saw-like, relentlessly tearing into flesh. Every time it pierced a human body, it left deep gouges. The marks left by the sword were chaotic yet uniform.
In the depths of excruciating pain, the middle-aged man—Gu Hwa-un—rolled his eyes back.
Squelch! At last, the battered sword was pulled free.
A single swing shook off the blood, and red blossoms bloomed in the once-pristine room. Amid the metallic stench of scattered droplets, Bai Hui stood motionless.
Sword dangling at his side.
"Ah..."
It was a precious moment of silence.
The ceaseless whispers had faded. The headache that had crushed his skull had lifted.
And the searing pain that had come upon Bai Hui from some point onward.
Was it when he withdrew his hand from Peng Soyoung's arm? For the first time, Bai Hui had crossed the line dictated by the Thousand Kills Star. He had no choice if he wanted to win.
From that moment, viscous true qi raced backward through his meridians, ceaselessly scraping at them. His heightened senses could even detect the movement of each individual strand.
Sticky, dense inner force clawed at the pathways like thorny brambles. Words the girl had once spoken came to mind.
- The embers won't go out.
A low mutter escaped from beneath his lips.
"Finally..."
He felt he understood that girl now. The spark etched into his heart burned without respite.
How long had she endured this sensation?
Bai Hui sighed and gazed outside. The flames raged there too.
"It's burning great!"
"Burn it more! More!"
The farmers' relieved shouts echoed in the night air.
The Gu Clan had been particularly vicious. Every year, they exacted brutal rents, unflinching even when people died. And what had they done with the wealth they amassed?
Endlessly buying jade and porcelain. Expensive teas and fine silks.
All of it now turned to ash and gone.
"Feels damn good! Those bastards!"
"Quit cheering and come here! They're handing out rice!"
Farmers lined up in the spacious courtyard. Cult followers who had stormed the Gu estate, along with the Dharma Protectors, were efficiently distributing grain with practiced hands.
Famine had struck repeatedly, leaving everyone short on rice. People streamed endlessly into the shattered granaries. Anyone who wished could take a full measure.
All they had to do was smear soot on their clothes to blacken them and recite praises to the Divine Maiden.
"The Divine Maiden brings fortune!"
"Trust in the Divine Maiden, and no blade shall pierce your flesh!"
"Heh, miraculous."
The common folk shouted excitedly in their own ways. Some danced with joy, while others lined up separately to pledge themselves to the cult.
At the front, of course, stood the pickpocket and the boy.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Lee Il."
"Seo Jin-ryang!"
"Good. I'll teach you a song, so listen well and sing along."
The elderly cult elder smiled brightly. The melody was no different from a folk tune, but the lyrics were worlds apart. It was the demonic art Zhang Ping had personally taught to eleven apostles.
A meticulous incantation explained so simply that even the illiterate could learn it—anyone could memorize it by singing along and join the cult at any time.
Lee Il and Seo Jin-ryang sang along eagerly. Reverse Heaven true qi blossomed in people's hearts. Blazing flames lit up the dark sky.
The same scenes were unfolding across all of Guangdong.
After offering an altar to the Divine Maiden, Zhang Ping had dispatched one apostle each with hordes of followers throughout Guangdong. The promised deadline was one month.
If the Nangong Clan moved within that time, they would reconvene at Mt. Bul—that was the only promise left behind as they departed.
Countless clans burned to the ground. New piles of ash birthed more cultists with each one.
While the Murim Alliance gathered experts, the cult could not do the same.
The cult had no experts. Zhang Ping knew this all too well.
Heaven-sent geniuses are rare. Bai Hui and the Divine Maiden were the only ones who had reached the pinnacle through self-realization without formal training.
Even Zhang Ping, who had studied martial arts his entire life, couldn't find a way to defeat a pinnacle expert with just half a year of demonic arts.
Experts must be met with experts. That was the way of the murim.
Yet how could an organization bent on hunting murim warriors produce its own experts? They had overflowing inner force but no means to master forms and counters in short order.
There was only one solution.
One sacrifices their life to seize the weapon. Another blocks the foe's movements while dying. Even as guts spill, they cling with hands and feet—then the final cultist steps in to claim the life.
An excessively simple structure. A strategy too crude to even call a formation.
No different from a brawl. Beating an expert this way should have been impossible.
Legend held that the Plum Blossom Sword Saint of Huashan could draw five petals with a single stroke. The Peng Clan's saber arts were said to be swift as the wind.
No matter how many farmers stood before them, numbers should mean nothing.
But if they learned demonic arts.
If it was the Divine Maiden's grace, where anyone could bloom the seed just by singing.
- It was possible.
It had already been proven. At Mt. Bul, when luring young swordsmen, three nameless cultists had dragged out the true name strike of the Peng Clan heir as the price of their lives.
Zhang Ping watched the burning manor with mad eyes, taking in the majestic sight of people's grudges turning to flames.
The soaring blaze grew ever larger. Flames bearing the hearts of the common folk rippled beyond the darkness.
It was faith.
People prostrated before the dancing fire, worshiping. Beliefs gathered from across Guangdong flew toward the Divine Maiden in the sky.
What those small faiths could achieve when united, even he could not know.
But one thing was certain: that faith was growing in his own heart too. The pain from circulating the demonic arts felt almost welcome now.
There could be no flaw in the power bestowed directly by the Divine Maiden. This was surely a good thing.
Zhang Ping murmured at the flames, reciting the incantation of the demonic art he had created himself.
Infinite faith in the Divine Maiden accompanied him.
Meanwhile.
When all were asleep, the grounds of Shaolin Temple on Mt. Song were naturally silent. No one dared break the sacred hush of venerable Mt. Song.
But now, someone shattered that stillness. Late at night, a monk hurried along. If his identity were known, anyone would be stunned.
Advancing Vajra Xu Lü.
The sole Arhat of Shaolin in his generation, a living legend who had awakened his martial prowess through wall-gazing meditation.
A man who wouldn't flinch if heavenly armies charged him was rushing along. Just moments ago, his senior brother, Shaolin's abbot Xu Guang, had sent a novice to summon him.
Creak. He opened the door to find Xu Guang dressed and turning his prayer beads. His aged face was deeply sorrowful.
"Even with age and enlightenment, delusions cling to me. My sins are profound. Amitabha."
"What is it?"
"The Buddha granted me a dream."
Xu Lü asked, but he gave no direct answer.
Instead.
"The future the Wudang Sword Venerable foresaw now appears in my Heavenly Eye. Forgive me."
"Senior Brother."
"I'm sorry. Just... sorry..."
Wrinkled hands ceaselessly rolled the beads. Xu Lü silently gazed at Xu Guang.
Xu Guang's brows furrowed faintly, his breath briefly shallow.
After a moment of meditation to dispel his delusions, Xu Guang continued.
"The Nangong lad ultimately cast off his ambitions, they say."
"So I've heard. He sent letters to the Alliance's guest hall, calling to unite the murim."
Fighting when unavoidable was one thing, but Shaolin's ultimate arts were meant solely for tempering body and mind.
Joining the Murim Alliance with the vessel for cultivating the Dharma was absurd. Shaolin had rejected the request outright.
Yet.
Xu Guang looked at his junior. Eyes purer than any in the world, closest to enlightenment, fixed steadily on Xu Lü.
"You... go."
"To the Murim Alliance? It'll be too late if I go now."
"Yes..."
Murim battles were swift. By the time Xu Lü arrived, it might all be over. Even so.
"Please do. Amitabha."
The chant sounded like a sigh. Xu Lü nodded silently.
"I will go."
"I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
Xu Guang repeated his apologies but never said for what. Xu Lü paid it no mind.
Shaolin's martial arts embodied the Buddha's Dharma. A Vajra warrior who had attained indestructibility had no turmoil in his heart.
If duty as a Buddhist demanded it, he would simply act.
That very morning, Xu Lü packed lightly and left the temple gates. His destination: Anhui. The Nangong Clan.