Chapter 12
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Strongest Squad (2)
Clop! Clop! Clop!
The sound of horse hooves echoed loudly.
Three rode outside on horseback, while the other three were crammed into a narrow carriage, all folded up like crumpled paper.
Where was the carriage racing toward?
Dust billowed up like a desert storm. Small pebbles flew from the wheels.
In an instant, the Nineteenth Hell had been buried away.
Inside lay thirty-four corpses.
That was just today's death toll—who knew how many had died before that?
"Whew! Stinks like sweat!"
The Fox of Bireung Mountain pinched his nose shut.
Fatty the Prison Guard was so massive he took up an entire side of the bench opposite. Four Thousand Four had no choice but to sit pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the other seat, and a rotting stench wafted from Four Thousand Four.
Fatty didn't smell. The guards doused themselves with cold water three or four times a day. Otherwise, they couldn't endure the scorching heat. Not that they had to try very hard.
Prisoners locked in their cells, on the other hand, never even glimpsed water.
Baths? What luxury was that? They barely scraped by with enough to drink.
It was only natural that Four Thousand Four reeked terribly.
Fatty was used to it.
The Thunder Prison had its own unique stench—one only it could produce.
The stink of piss and shit, sweat, rotting flesh, mold... All these mixed together into a smell you could only find there.
Every prisoner was soaked in it.
The guards even joked about it among themselves.
"How many days out here before that smell fades?"
"Fades? My bet's on never. That stench is so potent it'll seep into your bones. No way it comes out."
"Maybe if you slather on some perfume oil?"
"Ugh! Imagine mixing that smell with perfume. Just thinking about it makes me wanna puke. Blech!"
The Thunder Prison's odor was vicious.
It drowned out all other scents. Nothing else got through—just that prison reek.
And yet... strangely, you grew accustomed to the foulness over time.
You inhaled it without a second thought. Your face didn't even wrinkle anymore. And sometimes, breathing fresh air made you miss the stink.
Prisoners and guards alike were tamed by the Thunder Prison.
That's why Fatty could sit there unfazed, like he smelled nothing at all.
But the Fox of Bireung Mountain, another prisoner, was struggling.
"I know it's weird to say in here, but could you scoot over just a bit...? Ah! Even I know that's impossible."
The Fox trailed off mid-sentence. He grabbed his nose and turned away. The stench must have been brutal.
Neigh!
The horses whinnied. They halted, panting heavily.
"Looks like we're here."
The Fox hadn't even said it, but everyone sensed they'd reached their destination.
Neigh! Whoosh! Flutter!
The horses that had been running alongside the carriage stopped too.
Vanguard, the tall man, and the woman... They all dismounted almost in unison.
Creak!
At last, the tightly shut carriage door swung open, letting in a rush of fresh air.
"Name's Vanguard. Call me that until our fates part ways."
The middle-aged man introduced himself.
The tall man and the woman didn't give their names. They just stared coldly at the prisoners and Fatty climbing out—clearly not accepting them as comrades yet.
Vanguard spoke.
"I've got business to attend to, so get yourselves sorted in the meantime. Eat well, rest up, treat your wounds. You've got a month. Pull it together by then. If you're still a mess after that, we leave you behind. Got it?"
"Leave us... behind?"
The Fox echoed in disbelief.
These three martial artists had dragged them out. The prisoners hadn't chosen to leave; they'd been hauled free. And now? They were going to abandon them?
The Prison Guard couldn't stand in a month.
Everything else might heal fine, but the leg shattered by Four Thousand Four? With splints on, it'd take at least three or four months to function.
No way he was walking in a month.
What about Four Thousand Four? Not a chance.
Truth be told, he was the worst off. The beating had left his whole body wrecked. Textbook "beat to a pulp." He'd been thoroughly thrashed.
Four Thousand Four had been unconscious the entire ride, limbs limp, head lolling. The carriage jolts sent him swaying this way and that... Sometimes it seemed like he might already be dead.
The woman had pummeled him mercilessly.
In a month, the external wounds might heal.
The swelling that had bloated his eyes, nose, and mouth beyond recognition would subside.
But Four Thousand Four's internal injuries ran deep.
Ribs cracked, guts twisted. Liver, lungs, heart, stomach... Nothing untouched.
No way he'd be up in a month.
Vanguard's order to recover in a month was basically a promise to ditch them.
They'd survived the Life-Death Trial, clawed their way out... And now this? Ditch them? Kill them? Why not just finish them off back in the Nineteenth Hell?
"Keep a close eye on these bastards. Kill 'em if they try to run."
"Got it."
"Don't worry."
Vanguard was firm; the woman and tall man were icy.
Freedom was granted—to a rundown house and its modest front yard, maybe twenty paces wide. But just seeing the bright sun was a blessing.
The rundown house looked like a clinic.
From outside, it seemed abandoned, but push open the door and it was surprisingly tidy. The storeroom brimmed with rice, meat, dried veggies... and especially, every herb imaginable.
Perfect for the wounded to recuperate.
They had full rights to use everything here as they pleased.
Eat whatever you want. Use up all the herbs if needed.
"We've got meds, but... honestly, if you don't know herbs, you can't use 'em, right?"
The Fox sniffed what looked like fleeceflower root.
"Check the medical texts."
Fatty grumbled gruffly.
He seemed familiar with the place. Casually grabbed some wound salve and slathered it thick on his injuries.
No doctors here. Heal yourself.
Ointments available, decoctions to brew, even acupuncture or moxibustion gear—but you handled it all solo, referencing the books on the shelf.
Fatty removed his splints, meticulously applied some mystery black ointment like he was painting, then rebound fresh splints with care.
He even brewed a decoction.
But it was odd. He swept dark—maybe brownish—mineral powder into the pot and set it to simmer.
"That native copper, by any chance?"
The Fox poked at the powder curiously.
"For a bandit, you know your stuff."
"Ha! Bandits gotta know this crap to survive."
The Fox brushed off the jab like nothing.
Bandit, con artist, fox cub... He'd heard worse, far more degrading.
"Pretty well-stocked for a safehouse."
The Fox glanced around.
Native copper—commonly called mountain gall—was rare. Good for draining pus, clearing bruises, mending bones. Hard to come by.
Not just that. The place was loaded with trauma meds.
Slashes from blades, spear thrusts, arrow punctures... Stumble on a spot like this, and you'd struck gold.
This wasn't some ordinary house. It was a special hideout.
"Aren't you treating Four Thousand Four?"
The Fox glanced at him.
Four Thousand Four lay limp, no thought of treatment or salve.
Fatty stoked the fire, indifferent.
"Not Four Thousand Four. He's Thousand-as-in-Heaven. Heaven means beyond this world. In short, the kind of monster who shouldn't set foot in society. You saw it yourself—how he kills."
"Ah."
"Vanguard brought in a demon that belongs outside the world."
Fatty had zero intention of helping Four Thousand Four.
'Leave him like this, he'll die for sure.'
The woman hadn't held back at all.
How do you beat a man so viciously with no grudge? Colloquially, right to death's doorstep.
Was this normal? Taming a killer? Showing him his place after breezing through the Life-Death Trial? You're nothing?
Four Thousand Four was incredibly dangerous.
Even now, if he wanted, he could kill in this state.
The guard said he didn't belong in the world.
Locked in the Killing Cells, he was a murderer— a terrifying one. The way he killed without mercy... Ugh! Chills just thinking about it.
But... but... strangely... The Fox felt pity for Four Thousand Four.
No denying he was a vicious villain. Yet pity welled up anyway.
Four Thousand Four's face was swollen beyond recognition. Features lost in the puffiness. But those glinting eyes amid the bloat poured out despair. Loss.
"Sigh! My soft heart's my downfall."
The Fox grumbled as he grabbed some salve-looking ointment.
"I'm putting this on, so no hitting! Raise a hand to strike, and I stop!"
The Fox yelled, then began examining Four Thousand Four.
He wasn't slumping from choice. His body couldn't do otherwise. A martial artist had targeted his pressure points relentlessly—no finger could twitch.
Left alone, he'd have died for sure.
The Fox slathered the medicine generously. Wasn't his anyway, and it was stocked for this.
He even brewed a decoction.
"You know what that is before boiling it?"
Fatty looked pitying.
"This? Double harmony tonic."
"What? You're feeding that to him?"
"Yup. Cures all ills, you know? Headache? Double harmony. Cold? Double harmony. Toothache? Double harmony."
"Quack."
"Won't kill him, at least. Heh heh!"
No time to study texts properly. Four Thousand Four couldn't speak, so no clue on pains. Just grabbed whatever handy, went by feel.
Won't die, hopefully.
After seven days and nights, external wounds had mostly healed.
By half a month, he could rise and move.
Worried the woman or tall man would show and beat them again? Nah. They'd dumped the three here and vanished without a word.
The hideout held just the trio now, strictly.
But they hadn't gone far. Eyes watched from somewhere. Try running without surveillance, and it'd be instant death.
Four Thousand Four's slow recovery showed how brutally the woman had hit.
Her punches must've rattled his bones to the marrow.
After twenty days, Four Thousand Four grew quiet. Serene. He went out alone to bathe, cut his long tangled hair, shaved his beard.
"Ha! Looking all divine now!"
The Fox gawked, eyes wide at the transformed Four Thousand Four.
He didn't have a villain's face. Strikingly handsome, manly. Without those sharp eyes, you'd mistake him for some delicately raised flower from a greenhouse.
Four Thousand Four said flatly,
"I owe you."