Chapter 100
Chapter 100
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 100
Chapter Title: Death vs Death (5)
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“Hey! That bastard!”
“We got him!”
The squad members shouted urgently, but it was already too late. There was no way to catch someone who’d leaped off the cliff with full resolve.
Shooo!
Four Thousand Four plummeted down as if putting on a show.
“Hmph! What a tenacious one.”
“Even in death, he won’t die by our hands, huh? Captain, what now?”
“We search.”
“Pardon?”
“Our orders were to kill him. No one said to promote him. So we don’t set foot off this mountain until his death is confirmed.”
“Captain.”
“If you’ve got time to talk, get your asses down to the base right now!”
The squad members shot off without hesitation.
The captain’s word was absolute law. Stray a single step from the Heavenly Annihilation Division, and the captain himself became the law.
“That bastard... He knew about this place.”
The captain muttered, frowning.
When he’d been promoted—struck fatally—he hadn’t panicked. He’d been calm, as if he’d expected it. He hadn’t even winced. How could a wounded man pull that off?
He’d known he was done for.
Above all... they hadn’t landed a killing blow.
There was the sword through his side. Normally fatal. No one survives that. It shreds the guts to ribbons.
There was the sword through his torso.
That one was lethal too. For an ordinary man, surviving at all would be a miracle.
The blade severs the spine. Snaps the spinal nerves. Chops the organs to bits. Piercing the gut to spill them out is a fine killing stroke.
There was the sword that grazed his chest.
The chest guards the vital organs. Heart, liver, lungs... Damage any, and you’re in deep trouble.
They’d struck there.
In theory, Four Thousand Four should be dead a hundred times over.
Yet he lived.
The captain’s gut told him so. A man stabbed like that showing no reaction... No, more than that—the moment the blades hit, it felt off.
What was it? Like striking cotton?
No satisfying crunch of shattering jade. Just the mushy give of a scaffold.
They’d struck wrong.
Four Thousand Four knew how to take a sword or blade without dying.
Dead certain. He hadn’t died.
“That bastard! I’ll get him for sure!”
The captain clenched his fist, trembling with rage.
Scraaaape!
His hand clawed the wall, sweeping away dirt clods.
Blind-leaping off a cliff was suicide. Would a fighter in battle do that?
Not to kill himself, escape pain, or die easy. He’d jumped to live.
Before leaping, he’d scouted handholds.
Primary grip. Fail that, secondary. Fail again, tertiary. Final desperate move at the last second... Only then did he jump.
Miss all three, and it was over.
A falling body drops fast. Blink, and you’ve plunged a hundred jang.
Account for that speed.
Scraaaape!
Dirt crumbled, and he dropped with it.
Primary hold was wrong. The protruding rock was just a dirt mound.
Shoo!
Falling again.
Here, beware snagging on roots or ledges. They sometimes save lives... but rarely. The falling weight snaps ordinary branches. And you black out.
No salvation, just unconsciousness.
Until grabbing something deliberate, avoid collisions.
Swoosh!
Hand reached for the second hold.
Scraaaape!
More dirt clods. Earth collapsing. No—something at his fingertips.
Thud!
His body caught in midair. Fingers closed on something.
“Hoo!”
Only then did Four Thousand Four exhale in relief.
Truth be told, jumping off the cliff was a fool’s gamble with less than ten percent odds.
Without heaven’s grace, death was certain.
Yet he’d chosen it because no other path led to survival. Desperation pure and simple—something he’d never do otherwise.
Snap!
He gripped the rock protrusion tight.
Nothing above it. Not even room for a hip. Just enough for fingertips.
Luckily, it was a sheer dirt cliff.
Four Thousand Four drew his sword with his free hand and began digging into the earth.
Time was short. Two wounds pierced his body. He’d dodged vitals, but soon agony would overwhelm him into blackout.
Anchored before then.
Pok! Shhhh!
Digging earth. Carving space for his body.
“Found him?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Knew it. That bastard!”
The captain glared at the cliff face.
The white ants had crawled after Four Thousand Four to the base. And hadn’t returned.
Meant he’d snagged midway down.
But from below, the cliff face was invisible. Cliff top visible, but no sign of him.
One way: climb it.
“You, head over there. Scout it.”
The captain pointed to the opposite ridge.
Prime vantage—full view of the cliff, top to bottom.
“Got it.”
The subordinate answered and launched off.
“He’s there. Stay sharp!”
No need to say it. No one slacked on Four Thousand Four.
He applied golden wound salve.
Infection was the real killer here. Stop that, and recovery was feasible. Fail, and no guarantees.
Best he could do: salve it.
“Bleeding stopped, salve on...”
White ants flickered in view.
These relentless bastards had tailed him to the cliff. Keeping three cheok distance, just watching.
Thank the heavens for that.
Rumor had killer ants too. If those had pursued, he’d be dead meat.
Fever surged.
Wounds always brought fever. Without it, no blackout risk.
Four Thousand Four shifted to recline comfortably.
Back eased, legs stretched... Blackout imminent, so maximum comfort.
“Heh heh heh! Watching over me? Or guarding me? Hope it’s the latter.”
He eyed the white ants. Then his head drooped.
Out cold.
“That bastard, really...”
Vanguard was speechless.
They’d preempted where Four Thousand Four might climb up.
The fight with the twenty-five-man squad had unfolded right under their noses.
They’d watched his every move. Even his expressions mid-swordplay.
As Fox said, he’d deliberately chosen this deathtrap to climb into.
Killed a squad member, took the blades, then leaped without hesitation.
All planned.
But the odd part came after the jump.
He hadn’t fallen all the way.
Why? How?
No one cared if heaven’s luck or a giant heron’s feathers saved him. That wouldn’t shock.
The shock was not falling at all.
In other words, surviving two crossed blades through the torso from the squad’s assassins, plus the captain’s chest thrust.
How does one survive that?
Jaja murmured.
“Seeing Four Thousand Four reminds me of one guy. Dead Ghost.”
“Hmph!”
Vanguard grunted.
No one argued. All minds on Dead Ghost.
Dead Ghost had many monikers.
Ten Thousand Loser—one who’d fought endlessly without a single win.
Undying Body.
He took wounds that’d kill normals ten times over. Foes swung to slay. Yet next day, good as new.
Sword-and-Blade Tattoo—body etched with scars.
Monikers numbered in thousands.
But most called him Dead Ghost.
Ghost of death? Dead spirit? Meaning murky, but “undying ghost” fit best.
Dead Ghost could survive those wounds.
Hanbi spoke.
“Four Thousand Four can’t be Dead Ghost...”
“Ridiculous. Dead Ghost was fifty years ago.”
Jaja shook her head at once.
“Right? If he were, he’d be over eighty. Unless his disciple?”
“That doesn’t track either.”
“Why not? Disciples happen.”
“Who’d learn from Dead Ghost? Search the world—no takers. Forgot the Ten Thousand Loser part?”
“Fair... Four Thousand Four’s no loser.”
He’d racked up wins. Killed plenty. This time alone: twenty-five squad took him down? Lost three in the process.
Their defeat.
And no confirmation he was even dead.
Suddenly, Vanguard spoke.
“Fox, no way down the cliff?”
“None.”
Fox answered instantly, like he’d rehearsed.
Vanguard eyed Fox.
Fox avoided his gaze—blatant dodge.
“Find one.”
“Can’t. You try, Vanguard. If you do, I’ve failed as scout—want these hands as forfeit?”
Fox resented the kill order.
“Four Thousand Four... might need aid. We must kill him, but some may think otherwise. Can’t fault a rogue mover, eh? Hmph! Lucky us—no way down.”
Vanguard retreated, flopping onto grass.
Hanbi patted Fox’s shoulder, then withdrew too.
Leaned on a rock, head down. Napping.
“Can do it?”
Jaja whispered low.
Fox grinned, nodding faintly.
Vanguard’s intent clear, now he’d climb down eagerly. Solo, behind his back... but confident in evasion.