Arrival of the Evil Ghost [2]
“The eldest son of the Wiji Clan isn’t dead, is he? Cha Ryu-ja.”
“No. Of course not, Brother Dokgo Cheon.”
In Cha Ryu-ja’s grip dangled Wi Ryong-ha, the eldest son of the Wiji Clan, every one of his front teeth shattered. Dokgo Cheon stretched out a hand and pressed it to the young man’s throat. After confirming a pulse still beat there, he spoke.
“Never thought that sharp-eyed bastard of a Wiji Clan head would send his own son in his place… Or maybe the intel was right after all—he really did go off touring with those whore-sons.”
Cha Ryu-ja answered in his deep, even voice.
“Either way, it’s still an empty house waiting to be robbed.”
“True enough. We’ve got the son as hostage. The head of the house will have no choice but to crawl out eventually.”
Dokgo Cheon strode forward. A chair, caked in blood and scraps of flesh, had been jammed into the inn’s doorway. All around it, bloody handprints smeared the walls and floor—desperate prints left by people who had clawed and thrashed to get out, only to die where they stood. It looked exactly like the frantic scrapes of people trapped in a fire, fighting for the single exit until their strength failed. Blood pooled ankle-deep. Not a single intact corpse remained. Man or woman, old or young—no one had been spared. Nothing living drew breath in that place. In the empty kitchen a masterless cauldron still bubbled away as if nothing had changed. Beyond the windows, warm sunlight continued to pour in, quiet and indifferent.
—Creeeak.
Cha Ryu-ja quietly opened the door and blew a whistle. Countless martial artists melted out of the shadows like ghosts. Dokgo Cheon asked,
“Any trouble securing the perimeter?”
Forty martial artists flicked blood from their blades as they answered.
“The guards protecting the valuables were pathetic. No problems at all. However…”
“However?”
They held out a letter.
“There was a rather strange missive. We seized it just before they could seal it and send it by carrier pigeon.”
“Give it here.”
Dokgo Cheon unfolded the letter and read.
…I see there has been a misunderstanding. We have not the slightest intention of interfering with the visit of the Butcher of Liaoning. We will gladly assist with the audience at the North Sea Ice Palace. Your renown since the Dark Martial Tournament…
Dokgo Cheon’s face twisted.
“Butcher of Liaoning? What the hell kind of dogshit nonsense is this?”
One of his men shrugged it off.
“Some third-rate martial artist probably slapped a fancy nickname on himself.”
Cha Ryu-ja added,
“No need to waste thought on the prattle of fat country bumpkins like the Wiji Clan.”
“Fine. Forget this garbage. The word ‘Liaoning’—our territory—rubbed me the wrong way for a second, but… who cares.”
Dokgo Cheon crumpled the letter and turned to the group.
“Start the cleanup right now.”
At those words every martial artist surrounding him went cold-eyed as one.
“Kill every last Wiji martial artist before they can prepare. If word spreads, we’re finished. Yi Yun is dead, the one who should be clan head is off on some pleasure trip, and the son is right here. They’re a disorganized rabble.”
Cha Ryu-ja spoke up.
“The Wiji martial artists themselves are no concern, but during the purge operation… the Murim Alliance won’t try to stop us, will they?”
“The Murim Alliance?”
“Even so, a house like the Wiji Clan holds forty-four separate businesses. If we slaughter every related civilian, a little noise will be unavoidable.”
Dokgo Cheon let out a low chuckle.
“All the way out here on the frontier, not even the heart of the Central Plains? And for a backwater clan that doesn’t even belong to the Nine Sects and One Gang, that hasn’t sworn the Covenant of the Sacred Mountain with a single Guardian? Don’t make me laugh. No one is coming to help them. And even if someone did…”
He formed a circle with his fingers.
“The matter’s already settled under the First Young Master’s orders.”
Cha Ryu-ja answered with complete trust.
“As expected of the First Young Master.”
“The true master of the Moyong Family. He told me this: power, in the end…”
Dokgo Cheon pulled his mask up to the bridge of his nose. Cha Ryu-ja pressed a black iron mask over his own face. The rest of the martial artists followed suit, masks rising as one.
“…is nothing more than a relationship of mutual interest.”
One of the subordinates asked,
“Before we move—if some wandering swordsman or another faction tries to stop us, what then? Anything we should watch for?”
“You need to ask that?”
Dokgo Cheon’s voice was lazy.
“Kill them. Dissolve every corpse in Bone-Melting Powder and erase the evidence.”
“Understood.”
Dokgo Cheon tightened his grip on the axe in his hand.
“Even if someone happens to glimpse the truth, there is no one in this world who can stop our Moyong Family.”
“Aaaagh!”
“Run! Now!”
Everyone died.
“Mama! Mama!”
Under a clear autumn sky, masked martial artists stormed every branch of the Wiji Clan. A Wiji martial artist still holding a bowl of noodles with a vacant expression lost his head where he sat. The masked men simply swung their blades without a word. People screamed and fled in every direction.
“No! Please, no!”
They flailed arms and legs, trying desperately to live against the steel raining down in front of their eyes. It meant nothing. Everyone died. Man or woman, old or young—no exceptions. On the frontier of the Central Plains, blood began to flow like a river.
—BOOM!
“They’re killing us!”
“Who are they?! Who?!”
“Protect the people! Form the array—! Aaaagh!”
The Wiji Clan’s martial artists fought back. They died before they could swing their swords three times. Behind the fallen, helpless Wiji fighters, trembling women and children huddled. Old people. Ordinary folk. The shadow of a blade fell across their faces. The massacre began in earnest.
“Grandma… I’m scared.”
A grandmother hastily clamped a hand over her grandson’s mouth. They were gathered at the village’s guardian shrine tree—the sacred tree said to protect the village—standing in the center of town. Villagers who had nowhere left to run, driven like rabbits into a net, had flocked here. Smoke rose from the village in the distance. Faint screams drifted from every direction.
The sacred tree, an ancient spirit tree that had long listened to the villagers’ troubles, swayed its branches in the autumn wind. Beneath it the survivors clung to one another and trembled helplessly. The autumn wind blew. A red dusk began to stain the autumn sky. Far down the alley, countless wavering shadows appeared.
“Hah… hah…”
Masked martial artists, breathing hard, gripped blades still clotted with blood and flesh. They looked around, spotted the people huddled beneath the shrine tree, and started walking without hesitation.
“Ah… ahhh!”
The grandmother covered the child’s eyes and hugged him with all her strength.
Through a half-open door, red blood slowly seeped out onto the roadside. It was a crimson dusk. A late-autumn crimson dusk.
—Hss… hss…
The inn was full of the dead. In one corner a woman lay dying, her breath failing. Her belly was swollen with child.
“My baby…”
No one remained to answer her.
“Help me… please help me… I… I can’t die here like this…”
The husband who had sworn he would protect her lay beside her with eyes wide open in death. Clear tears slid from the corners of the woman’s eyes.
“God… Heaven… Anyone… even an evil ghost would do. If someone can hear me…”
Before her lay the young waiter who had called for his mother until he stiffened and died.
“Please…”
The woman whispered.
“…Please help us.”
—Roarrr…
A waterfall thundered down. Even in the North Sea the water was cold, born of a river locked in ice.
The areas cleaned up so far are about fifty percent… no, sixty percent, I suppose.
A black dog stood before the waterfall, looking up at the sky.
The Wiji Clan’s martial artists are resisting desperately, but it’s not enough.
The voice was dry, emotionless—calm and refined, as if rising from deep underground, stripped of all feeling.
They’re leaving not even a seed behind. Even civilians with internal energy too weak to be called martial artists are being wiped out at an exponential rate. This is a true massacre.
The water cascading down was frigid glacial melt—milky white, utterly lifeless. No fish, no living thing of any kind. At the base of the falls a small lake had formed. Along its shore countless objects lay arranged in neat rows. Weapons.
Moyong Jinryong means business. Neither the Murim Alliance nor the government troops have moved at all. Everyone is simply watching.
Swords stood planted in the ground. Iron spikes shaped like awls. A small jet-black axe. A waist sash.
—Roarrr…
Closest of all to the falling spray, steel gauntlets beaded with water droplets rested on the rock—
—Thud.
A human figure surged up out of the waterfall as if rising from the depths.
“Location.”
The figure snatched up the gauntlets. The black dog’s eyes glowed crimson as it spoke.
I will expand the sensory domain to maximum. Using foresight. Total time required…
The hands that closed around the gauntlets were no longer ordinary human hands—they were forged, callused weapons in their own right.
Three. Commencing location lock.
—Click-clack.
Metal locked against metal as the gauntlets slid onto the left hand.
—Clang!
He flicked his wrist downward. With a sharp metallic ring, Myeolseom sprang free into his grip.
—Krrrk-krrrk!!
Sparks flew as the counter-rotating double serrated blades spun. Another flick of the wrist and Myeolseom vanished back into the forearm housing.
Two.
He slotted a pair of awl-shaped iron spikes into the greaves on either shin. Tightened the leather straps of the wrist guards. Cinched the sash at his waist. The jade-green scatter-pills nestled in the sash clinked softly; countless steel beads inside them rasped against one another.
One.
He took up a sword that was closer to a dao, slinging it across his back. With a soft whir a steel staff folded into a three-section staff and was thrust crosswise through the sash at his waist.
—Flutter.
A black martial robe in the style of a long coat billowed and settled over his body, concealing every weapon.
They are largely divided into two groups. Extremely large numbers. These two appear to be the centers of each group, and both are estimated at Transcendent Peak or higher.
“Transcendent Peak? Two of them?”
The black dog blinked its crimson eyes.
You could simply ignore this and walk past if you wished. After all, Host’s original goal in coming here was that martial art of the North Sea Ice Palace, was it not?
Across the back that had taken the full force of the waterfall, black lightning writhed like a living thing with every breath in and out. The black martial robe whipped around and clung to the still-wet muscles. Water droplets were absorbed into the fabric. The soaked cloth molded itself to every ridge of muscle. The powerful trapezius muscles stood out in sharp relief.
When you actually get close, their skill may well surpass Host’s. I would prefer to discourage this. As you know, survival is my highest priority.
The robe had iron plates sewn into the lining; every movement produced a heavy metallic whisper.
Before I give the locations… I will confirm one more time.
The black dog spoke.
Even so, will you go?
“Mumyeong.”
The man seized the fluttering outer ties of the martial robe, pulled them tight from both sides, and knotted them. He lifted his head.
—Hnnnn…!
Moyong Bi’s raised black eyes flooded with vivid crimson.
“Tell me about the closest bastards first.”