Chapter 103
Chapter 103
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 103
Chapter Title: Twenty-First Chapter: Step by Step Slowly [One Step at a Time] (3)
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Sss! Sss! Sss!
A spider descends along its thread.
A snake slithers up from below. It glides smoothly and stealthily over the oil-slick surface.
There are nimble monkeys, too.
Leaping from tree to tree, they bound from one side to the other.
They make no sound.
Even stepping on the earthen wall with their feet, they don't let slip the slightest noise.
Four Thousand Four hears every one of those sounds.
These weren't the ears that had picked up even the scuttle of ants in the Nineteen Hells. Yet the noises they make are surprisingly loud. They might be inaudible to ordinary people, but not to him.
He glances at the sword Fox left behind.
He has a weapon. The terrain favors him. He can see his enemies clearly.
This fight is overwhelmingly in his favor. The Twenty-Fifth Squad is taking a reckless gamble to capture him, no doubt assuming he's dead or unconscious and opting for a swift, decisive strike.
Sss! Sss!
The sounds of their approach echo like raindrops falling from the sky.
Rain falls. Wind blows.
Delusions and distractions fade away, and tranquility descends.
When taking the life of a living being, one must maintain perfect tranquility. Not a shred of pity must remain. Pity makes the dying wretched. Not a shred of hatred, either. Hatred plants resentment in the one who dies.
Only in tranquility does the victim accept death serenely.
The old man had forbidden him from carrying a sword.
A sword is a tool for killing. Carrying one nurtures murderous intent without realization.
He had also forbidden talismans meant to calm the mind.
Calm is the opposite of turmoil. The very word "calm" evokes the storm lurking on the other side, much like how uttering "one" in Buddhist teachings conjures "two."
Carry nothing on your body.
The old man had emphasized tranquility above all.
Sss! Sss! Sss!
The ant-like scuttles have grown as loud as centipedes crawling.
Four Thousand Four rises to his feet.
The white ants clinging to his wounds refuse to let go. Even as he moves, they stick fast to his body.
He leans his back comfortably against the cliff face and gazes into the empty void.
In truth, it's not empty at all. Kudzu vines await his touch.
Cutting one would kill at least one of them.
He could knock the climber below off balance. Whether the foe plummets to death, grabs something, or dodges with lightness skill—who knows—but he could send them falling regardless.
Four Thousand Four doesn't touch the sword.
Without severing the kudzu, he steadies his mind and waits for them to appear.
The movements stop.
They've spotted him. More precisely, they've found the white ants covering him.
His body is blanketed in white ants.
From afar, it looks like he's draped in a white cloth.
They hesitate. Not out of fear, but to position for an effective strike.
Shh!
The first attack begins.
Precise!
Four Thousand Four chuckles softly.
The first strike is bait. If he reacts, the second—from above—will rake down tight against the cliff, targeting his head or back.
The second is the real danger.
It assumes the bait's death, a killing blade meant to slay both bait and target at once.
Four Thousand Four reads this from the bait's sword.
The bait disregards his life, abandons defense, swinging solely to scatter the white ants.
He needs One Move, Three Swords.
A single gesture to counter the upper, lower, and unpredictable blades simultaneously.
He's backed against the cliff. No room to evade. No footing for lightness skill. Only a head-on clash remains. He must meet strength with greater strength.
Still, my feet are planted on solid ground.
Theirs dangle in the air. The instant they kick off for attack, their bodies float free.
Pfyt!
Four Thousand Four kicks off the ground and soars upward.
He ignores the incoming bait. They can't alter their assault mid-air anyway. They're as bound by the void as he is.
First, seize the high ground.
Clack! Shoo! Thud!
He deflects the sweeping blade from above by a hair's breadth. Simultaneously, his hand seizes the foe's collar, and Fox's sword pierces the chest as if it had always been there.
The enemy stares in wide-eyed shock.
Four Thousand Four shoves the impaled man downward with all his might, using the momentum for another leap.
Sss! Snap!
He grabs the kudzu vine.
Just now, the stabbed man had plummeted with limbs splayed wide.
Already dead, he doesn't thrash or resist the fall.
Splat! Thump!
The bait crashes into the spot where Four Thousand Four had stood.
Another close call. His ascent and the bait's strike happen almost simultaneously.
Shooo!
He spots another sword.
It surges from below, past the bait, past the falling man, thrusting straight up.
The squad leader!
The Twenty-Fifth Squad leader's blade is viciously sharp. No sign of the man himself—just the sword.
Four Thousand Four doesn't dodge. Hanging from the kudzu, he quietly closes his eyes. Even as the attack comes, he shuts them. All focus pours into his ears.
Shiii!
The sword flows in. The leader can't twist his body. Can't shift trajectory. But Four Thousand Four clings to the vine. He can swing at any moment. At least he's got a slight edge.
He listens to the sound. Listens.
Shii! Shiii! Shiiii!
He tracks the rush from below. Not the sword's hum, but the wind. The blade's whisper through air, the body's motion— he distinguishes them.
The leader can flick his wrist.
Change strokes to some degree. Accounting for arm and blade length, the range is broader than imagined.
To narrow that range, he must stay still.
Deny the need for changes. Make them impossible.
The Nineteen Hells are serene. Nothing visible, just darkness. In pitch black, eyes are useless even if lit aflame. Only ears remain.
Darkness. The Nineteen Hells.
Shoooo!
The sword rises. No need to identify it. No need to gauge speed. Hear the sound, trace its path, measure its pace.
The blade surges up.
As it climbs, he twists his body. Then, with a familiar motion, wrenches the head.
Sss! Crack!
Bone snaps.
The pain won't have been great. Instant death means no realization of dying.
The finest gift for the dead.
Death in sleep, unaware... He guides them there.
The moment life extinguishes, Four Thousand Four releases the kudzu without hesitation.
Flap!
His clothes billow in the wind.
He plummets straight down—to the bait's spot, where he'd lingered.
Mid-fall, his right foot lashes out in a stomping kick.
From the void, he hammers the cliff with earth-shattering force.
Thud!
A dull echo resounds.
The stomping kick crushes the bait-man's skull, burying his head in the earthen wall.
From his resting spot, he'd leaped up, then descended again.
Three men lay dead in that time.
They had unleashed martial arts, but Four Thousand Four used none. No forms, no sword techniques worth naming. No fists or kicks by rote.
Only improvisation.
Shooo!
His body falls. But not as oppressively as before. Fox's kudzu net remains.
He falls while eyeing the vines.
"Ah! That bastard!"
Hanbi lets out a groan.
He wants neither Four Thousand Four's death nor the Twenty-Fifth Squad's demise. But the clash is underway. It ends only when one side is wiped out.
The victor is Four Thousand Four.
The Twenty-Fifth Squad is annihilated. Victory seemed at hand, yet they fell to the final stroke.
Four Thousand Four looks unscathed. Not a scratch. So vital and robust he seems stuffed with spirit pills, astonishing the onlookers.
Even with kudzu within reach, he falls without grabbing it.
Of course, he'll seize it eventually. He'll calculate precisely—fall speed, friction on grasp, vine's limits—like measuring with a ruler.
Otherwise, he'd plummet to death.
No victor courts death post-battle. He'll strive harder to survive now. Yet he skips the lifeline...
To evade pursuit.
Descending the cliff at an unpredictable time. Putting distance before they can gasp in shock.
Four Thousand Four doesn't savor victory. No thought of winning this fight. Just that triumph here means another awaits.
"Can we even catch that guy?"
Vanguard mutters.
"Objectively? More than enough. No, we'll definitely get him. But in the heat of battle... Who knows."
Jaja replies.
After the Twenty-Second Squad, now the Twenty-Fifth... Twelve assassins dead in a blink.
The slain assassins must have rated their odds at least seventy percent.
They had white ants to track Four Thousand Four, ample analysis.
The main text likely gave strategies to capture him.
Yet they lost. The Twenty-Second to assassin-killing arts, the Twenty-Fifth to ambush.
Caught by the very methods they knew best, their most familiar tactics.
They knew Four Thousand Four inside out, had ants guiding the way—and still fell.
Hanbi and Jaja are top Martial Camp elites. Yet even they wouldn't bet on outmatching each squad leader. Leaders might not be elite, but their experience surpasses. Most are elite anyway.
And Four Thousand Four dispatched two elites in seconds.
Though... hadn't the Merchant Traveler fallen to him too? With poison, sure...
They recall the Merchant Traveler's fall.
They hadn't seen the death throes. But he'd crumpled powerlessly, like them. Dropped to oblivion unaware.
"I'll block his path."
Hanbi steps forward.
"No, not yet... Wait. It's not our turn."
Vanguard shakes his head.
Below, in the ravine they overlook, others remain. They're targeting Four Thousand Four, and objectively, capable of killing him.
"Without our help, they'll struggle."
Jaja says.
Vanguard chuckles wryly.
"You think our involvement changes anything?"