Seeking the Blue Cloud Dragon

I stopped by the market of a nearby village.

"What do you think?"

I had no intention of buying anything, but I still poked through the fence's jewelry all the same.

[I think it has a certain credibility. As you know yourself, Host.]

Mumyeong agreed.

[If we get hit even once more, the damage will be severe. We ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠need to prepare.]

"…So you think the same, then."

At the very least, his agreement meant that what I was thinking and intending to do wasn't completely off the mark.

Before I acted on anything, I needed at least one person to talk it over with.

If I thought alone and moved alone, I would sink into the mire without even realizing it.

In this world, the idea that a man could simply think by himself and have everything fall neatly into place existed only in the hero tales and delusions of idle storytellers.

What had to be admitted had to be admitted.

That was how you stayed alive.

They were smarter than me.

Even for a single action, there would be several people deciding it.

So it was always better to act under the assumption that the other side held the advantage, that they had already read my paltry schemes and moved accordingly.

That way, even if I took a few wasted steps, I wouldn't get hit in the back of the head.

I turned the contents of this third punitive trial over in my mind once more.

The Oho-samhwa.

They were the eight most celebrated latent dragons and rising talents of the jianghu.

Where the Nine Sects and One Gang each possessed a Guardian—the strongest spear and living disaster representing their sect—the people of the martial world gave that name to the rising stars counted among the finest across the entire jianghu.

And every last one of them is a graduate of Dong-mu-gwan.

Once the six years at Cheonsubaekryeonsa ended and they graduated together, the hall they had belonged to followed a person for life like a place of origin.

Of course they all received better treatment than those who had never been disciples of Cheonsubaekryeonsa, but the level people truly acknowledged began at Chu-mu-gwan—at the very least Dong-mu-gwan.

In truth, every martial artist who had carved their name into the jianghu had broken through to at least Dong-mu-gwan.

[Honestly, that part is ridiculous too. I'm from the Demonic Cult, so I don't know the details well. But one thing I know for certain: no disciple has ever passed the trials of Cheonsubaekryeonsa at the absurd difficulty Host has faced, and none ever will. From the start, Host has been breaking through trials that were never meant for growth or passage.]

Mumyeong's voice carried a cold sneer.

There was a critical danger in the trial's condition of obtaining brands from the Oho-samhwa.

From the hidden note inside the dagger taken from the dead scribe, I already knew that Taeuljin of the Disciplinary Committee had, at the very least, joined hands with the Demonic Cult and Moyong Jinryong to bind me.

The problem was that it was hard to gauge just how much external influence the man actually possessed.

Every one of the Oho-samhwa was a graduate of Dong-mu-gwan at Cheonsubaekryeonsa.

It had been a long time ago, but they had all passed through Cheonsubaekryeonsa.

It might be a stretch to say all of them, but at least one or two might still be connected to Taeuljin.

If that connection still held, Taeuljin could already have given them advance word on how to act and what measures to take the moment I approached seeking a brand.

I still did not know what level of martial force the Oho-samhwa currently possessed.

Of course they were still latent dragons, still growing, and they could not yet match the Guardians—the strongest living disasters of the jianghu—but I decided ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to be extremely careful all the same.

If even a few among the Oho-samhwa seized on some flimsy pretext and tried to kill me, it would be hard going.

In the worst of the worst cases, two or more of them might even join forces against me.

In the end, after reaching that conclusion, I abandoned the idea of receiving the brands as a member of Cheonsubaekryeonsa.

Instead, the method I chose was this.

"This should do."

—Rustle.

What I picked up was a black face mask.

I had not planned it, but I already possessed another identity I had used in the jianghu.

During the days I had been active at the Emei Sect, I had pulled a red mask over the lower half of my face and operated under the name Biryu.

I even had a few past traces that could be verified through third parties.

Moreover, the master standing behind this identity was one of the very few people in whom I could place absolute trust—solid guarantee.

[Why isn't it red this time?]

Mumyeong asked.

"Call it my last scrap of pride."

I gave a bitter smile and slowly pressed the mask into place.

I covered my lower face and tugged the edge up to the bridge of my nose, completely hiding everything below my eyes.

It was easy to breathe through as well.

The cloth had decent ventilation; I figured I could even drink water without taking it off.

[So what is Host's name this time?]

Mumyeong said.

It felt a little stuffy, but I decided I would get used to this face from now on.

I answered slowly.

"Biryu. Biryu of the Blood Death Sect."

I did not know where the Oho-samhwa were.

Their trails were faint.

But there was one exception whose whereabouts were certain.

His movements alone were making a stir throughout the jianghu.

The Kunlun Sect!

Cheongunryong of the Kunlun Sect, which stood on Mount Kunlun in Qinghai Province, was the first of the Oho-samhwa I had set as my target.

—Pa-ba-ba-bat!

I left the village behind.

As the wasteland opened up, I began pushing the Hyeol-yeong-mu-hwan-sin-sul to its absolute limit.

"H-Hiiik! A ghost!"

A farmer carrying a hoe on his shoulder startled and landed hard on his backside.

Unless my life was hanging by a thread, I tried to use the Hyeol-yeong-mu-hwan-sin-sul whenever I had even a moment to spare.

The more familiar it became, the more it melted into my body, the more its irregular movements clung to me and grew faster.

Originally, when I accelerated sharply from a standstill, only a single red afterimage would form. Lately, however, another faint afterimage had begun to appear behind the first.

Back then Baekho definitely had three or more.

I remembered the first time I had seen Baekho use the Hyeol-yeong-mu-hwan-sin-sul.

Baekho had gripped a single dagger and smashed straight through the Zhongnan Sect's encirclement.

What he had shown me then was a red ghost itself.

I did not know why he had learned the Blood Sect's martial arts, but that was not important to me.

While at Cheonsubaekryeonsa I had seen far too many martial artists nitpick one another's backgrounds, belittle them, and refuse to acknowledge them at all.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stronger the pride of the orthodox Nine Sects and One Gang, the more they clung to the sky-high pride of their own sect's martial arts and rejected everything else.

They never made even the slightest effort to understand the strengths and weaknesses of their own arts through those of other schools, to improve and develop. Instead they simply went around shouting that their own martial arts were the strongest in the jianghu.

If it's to grow stronger—no, if it's to survive! What does the origin of a martial art matter!

When I left my frozen mother's corpse and wandered the bottom of the capital looking for any chance to learn, I could not even properly master a single piece of trash third-rate swordsmanship.

When I spent a year's wages from odd jobs to buy a manual circulating on the black market, only the first half looked genuine; the rest was a crude patchwork forgery.

Through those days I had learned in my bones just how precious pure, verified martial arts truly were.

To someone like me, the way the orthodox martial artists stuck their noses in the air and acted high and mighty even about learning was simply incomprehensible.

—Jeong! Jeo-jeo-jeong!

As I raced across the empty, desert-like wasteland, I abandoned every attempt at concealment and poured everything into pure speed.

Wherever my feet landed, the earth caved in.

Rocks shattered.

Grass roots were torn up and overturned.

Winter was deepening.

The fierce winter wind sliced past my ears like a blade.

Through the mask covering my face I felt the white winter air.

Frost began to form in a pale crust around the mouth of the mask where my breath condensed.

Three gapja of internal energy let me run day and night without rest.

—Kwa-kwa-kwa-kwa-kwa!

Leaving two long trails of residual force across the ground, I brought my body to a rough halt.

I confirmed that houses were beginning to appear and that the number of people coming and going was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠increasing.

From here on, again.

I stopped the wild-horse frenzy of the Hyeol-yeong-mu-hwan-sin-sul and instead applied the thoroughly trained, body-honed Hwan-yeong-dae-sin-bo, gliding soft and silent.

They said Cheongunryong was staying in Luoyang in Henan.

The reason only his whereabouts among the otherwise elusive Oho-samhwa were exposed was nothing special.

Once I entered the town I headed straight for an inn without hesitation.

Blue tiles. A five-story pavilion with blue tiles.

A pavilion stacked five stories high was extremely rare.

Given the vast lands of the jianghu, when people built they tended to spread outward rather than upward, and that was more economical as well.

Only in a developed great city like Luoyang in Henan would anyone pay the high cost of stacking floors that high, and even there such buildings were uncommon.

Even amid the massive crowds and countless buildings, I found it at once.

Second floor, they said.

I opened the door and went in.

A waiter came flying over.

"Welco—!"

"I'm here to look at the wanted posters."

The waiter's smiling face stiffened on the spot.

Of course. The friendly smile plastered across his features peeled away and was replaced by a sour expression.

"Wanted posters? We haven't put the new ones up yet. And even if you're here for the posters, you still have to buy at least one dish for the seat. You think we dig this place out of the ground and sell it?"

I pressed a few coins into his hand and took a bottle of Bamboo Leaf Green I had no intention of drinking.

In one corner of the second-floor dining room hung a large notice board made of wooden planks.

There was no one around.

I set the Bamboo Leaf Green on a table, poured some into an empty cup out of awkward habit, and waited in silence.

A short while later an official who looked to be on temporary assignment came up, followed the usual routine, and pasted eight bounty posters in a row on the board before leaving.

The moment I confirmed he had gone downstairs I collected every last poster.

On the way here I had bought a bamboo hat.

I pulled it down low to hide the fact that I was wearing a mask.

Then I sat quietly in the corner and waited.

[You look exactly like one of those cheap assassins waiting in an inn to ambush the protagonist in the market gossips' stories.]

That was Mumyeong's appraisal.

[To be more precise, the shady unorthodox thug who tries to hit on the beautiful young lady next to the protagonist and gets smashed to pieces, only raising the hero's fame.]

"Hey…"

For a moment I flared up and tried to argue back.

But it was far too accurate, so I could not even manage a proper retort.

I fidgeted with the wine cup and jiggled my leg in impatience.

"Why is this bastard so late? Did the information go wrong?"

[Host…. You haven't even waited a full shichen yet.]

"No. That can't be. From everything I heard, this Kunlun man is supposed to be as straight as bamboo when it comes to time and promises. They emphasized it over and over—"

A commotion rose from the floor below.

To be precise, it was the sound of women's screams.

At the high pitch I almost shot to my feet without thinking.

"…"

A beat later I guessed the reason for those high notes, sighed, and sat back down.

"The rumors were right. Damn it."

The women's high voices climbed steadily toward this floor.

To be exact—

"Young master! You're so handsome!"

"Kyaaak! You're out hunting wanted criminals again today without fail!"

"Are you free tonight after work? I have plenty of free time!"

Surrounded by cheering women, a cold, ice-like beautiful young master was coming up to the second floor.

Around him flower-like women wore the kind of bright smiles I had never once received in my life as they spoke to him.

Those were smiles I could state with absolute certainty I had never been given.

"…Forget the trial. Should I just kill this bastard?"

I crouched in the corner and muttered quietly.

Mumyeong spoke softly.

[Don't. You'll end up as the third-rate scoundrel who picks a fight with the protagonist's lovely ladies, gets beaten senseless, and only elevates the hero's reputation.]

"…I understand the feelings of the scoundrels in those stories far too well."

The beautiful young master strode in a straight line toward the notice board, his spotless white martial robes fluttering, without sparing a single glance for the people around him.

He flinched when he saw that every last wanted poster that should have been there had been torn down.

"Looking for these?"

I reined in the urge to act flippant and dangled the posters in front of his eyes.

"Oho-samhwa. Bounty hunter of the Kunlun Sect, Cheongunryong. Let's talk."