Chapter 61
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 61
Chapter Title: Winds and Clouds in the Western Frontier
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Thousands of li southwest of the vast grasslands where Seonwoyong and his group were traveling lay the Tibetan Plateau.
The southern highland region of the endlessly towering Kunlun Mountains was Tibet itself.
And now, winds of change were stirring in Tibet.
Ever since Buddhism had spread there from India in the south, Tibet had been a Buddhist paradise ruled by lamas for over a millennium.
But paradise by their standards alone—it was an object of hatred and fear for the common folk of the Central Plains.
During the Yuan Dynasty under Mongol rule, the lamas from Tibet had enjoyed the imperial family's worship and protection, wielding all manner of power and tyranny.
In particular, the masters from the Potala Palace had earned infamy for their formidable martial prowess and savage deeds, making them figures of dread even to this day.
Yet the situation in Tibet had changed greatly from the past.
After the fall of the Yuan and the rise of the Ming drove them from the Central Plains, they had endured a period of decline and were now biding their time, steeling themselves for a return.
At the center of it all stood the master of the Potala Palace, the current Dharma King Dongcheon Lama.
The snow-capped peaks of the Kunlun Mountains cast their final shadows over a lake as clear and cold as if it might freeze at any moment.
Night had fallen, and a pale moon rose coldly into the sky.
The place was Namtso Lake, about five hundred li north of Lhasa, the capital of Tibet where the Potala Palace stood.
Of course, it was still Tibetan soil, ruled by the lamas.
A white moon hung in the deep blue night sky. Dozens of tents dotted the lakeshore.
That day marked the vernal equinox, one of the two days when night and day were of equal length.
Dong-dong, chang-chang…… piririri~.
In the open space at the center of the lakeside tents, a bizarre ritual was underway.
Amid a cacophony of strange instruments, warriors wearing demon masks and iron helmets danced wildly.
Hundreds of lamas in red robes and yellow hats sat encircling them, chanting mantras.
The problem was that the warriors' blades were already soaked in crimson blood. And at their feet lay the corpses of various animals.
Yet their blades now pointed toward three young virgins, just budding into womanhood, bound and helpless.
Dong-dong-dong…… piiiri…….
The drumbeats quickened, the conch horns shriller. Two demon-masked warriors seized one of the virgins.
She seemed to have already accepted her fate, not even screaming as they dragged her to the center and bound her atop a massive wooden block.
Preparations were complete for forging new ritual implements to mark the equinox.
Tibetan Lamaism, with its strong Tantric leanings, was infamous for its peculiar and gruesome ritual tools.
They planned to extract the left thigh bone of this pure virgin to craft a flute called a kangling, and from her skull and scalp, fashion a drum known as a damaru.
To ensure these tools held true power, the bones had to come from one who met a pure death—hence the custom of vivisection.
The lamas' chants, now reaching a fever pitch, were meant to guide the victim's soul to rebirth in paradise while empowering the new implements.
The chants hit their crescendo.
Even the virgin lying on the block seemed entranced, eyes closed as she prepared for her journey to the afterlife.
One demon-masked warrior approached, gripping a dagger shaped like an eagle's talon.
It was the perfect tool for flaying flesh and severing tendons.
He tore away the cloth covering her lower body. Just as the blade pierced the white skin above her thigh—
Ping!
The warrior holding the dagger collapsed in a heap.
The surroundings were so noisy and chaotic that no one immediately noticed.
But as his demon mask split in two, revealing a hole drilled clean through his forehead, it became obvious.
The drums and flutes fell silent.
The lamas' chants ceased.
In the sudden hush, an old man leaning on a staff descended from the hill beside the clearing.
It was U Gyeongcheon.
A white crescent moon hung above his head.
“What madness is this? How barbaric.”
U Gyeongcheon arrived in the midst of it all and grasped the situation with a single sweeping glance.
The Tibetan warriors, their important ritual interrupted, surrounded him without a word.
Their faces were hidden beneath the masks, but they surely matched the demons depicted.
They drew curved greatswords in the shape of half-moons and lunged at U Gyeongcheon from all sides, footwork unfolding in perfect sync.
No warning, no words—just blades swinging.
“Fools.”
U Gyeongcheon swung the wooden staff in his left hand, unleashing a burst of inner force.
Puk. Pubuk.
From within the masks of the encircling warriors came the sound of pumpkins bursting.
The warriors, swords raised mid-strike, froze and toppled as one.
Their demon masks rolled in pools of blood. Inside, scarcely a trace of their heads remained.
The area grew even quieter.
Soon, dozens of lamas armed with ritual implements and instruments closed in on U Gyeongcheon.
To them, those tools were already lethal weapons.
First came the eerie, sinister wail of a conch horn called a dungchen.
Then the kangling flute, fashioned from human bone, unleashed a terrifying melody.
As the damaru drum—made from a skull and scalp—thrummed dong-dong, an unidentified black mist billowed upward.
Even alone, it was fearsome sorcery capable of overwhelming the mind of any ordinary foe.
At last, the lamas began to advance.
In their hands gleamed phurba daggers.
The blades outside the tines shimmered like razors even in the darkness.
Ignoring them, U Gyeongcheon gazed at the night sky and murmured,
“The night sky is so clear, the moon so bright—yet here you are, up to such demonic deeds.”
In that instant, seven lamas hurled the phurbas from both hands.
At the same time, U Gyeongcheon raised his staff and swung.
Teng, turung!
The fourteen golden phurbas streaking toward him like beams of light ricocheted as if striking an iron wall.
“Kek! Evil!”
“Ugh!”
The blades flew straight back to their owners, slashing throats, arms, and torsos indiscriminately.
More lamas stepped forward over the fallen corpses.
The mutilated bodies writhed at their feet.
The eerie music had stopped. Instead, the gruesome moans of the dying filled the air.
“Urk! Who in the world are you…….”
An elderly lama, seemingly their leader, stepped forward wearing a hat adorned with red tassels.
His command of Han Chinese was fluent.
“I am U Gyeongcheon. I have come to Tibet on behalf of the Vast and Boundless, Bright and Righteous Lord Ming.”
Shock spread across the old lama's face.
“So you are the leader of the Ming Cult. But why have you come all the way to distant Tibet to disrupt our ceremony?”
“Does the radiant light of the Lord Ming not shine even upon Tibet? I seek an audience with Dongcheon Lama. Take me to him.”
At the mention of Dongcheon Lama's name, the old lama's expression shifted.
“This Tibet is the land presided over by Dongcheon Lama, incarnation of the Buddha. If envoys of your Ming Cult dare seek his presence, you must first prostrate yourselves nine times in full ritual obeisance.”
“Hahaha. How delightfully amusing you all are.”
U Gyeongcheon let out a mocking laugh at the old lama's reply. The old lama rolled up his sleeves.
“I may be old and lowly, but I shall test the might of your divine arts myself.”
As the old lama raised his arms and circulated his inner energy, his forearms swelled to an astonishing thickness.
Soon, they were as thick as a grown man's thigh, golden aura rising from them.
His palms, too, had grown, enveloped in the same golden glow.
“Heh heh heh. Peak Mahamudra force. No mere nameless lama, then—state your name.”
As U Gyeongcheon eyed the old lama's golden hands, the lama replied.
“I am Garam Para, abbot of Galoksa Temple, northern branch of the Potala.”
Galoksa Temple's notoriety had even reached the Central Plains.
It was the source of the Tibetan Tantric warrior-monks who, under Yuan court protection, had oppressed the Han people.
“Heh heh heh. So you're the dogs of Galoksa. No wonder you seemed formidable.”
He laughed, but U Gyeongcheon's eyes had turned icy.
From the Ming Cult's perspective—pivotal in toppling the Mongol-founded Yuan—the Galoksa faction epitomized an irreconcilable enemy.
As Garam Para's form gradually took on a golden sheen, the encircling lamas gripped their phurbas and ritual daggers, readying for battle.
Nearly a hundred lamas in all.
Garam Para bellowed something in Tibetan.
Their auras surged with murderous intent.
U Gyeongcheon, too, wore a faint smile as he murmured,
“Excellent. I cannot extend the Lord Ming's mercy even to the likes of you Galoksa scum.”
At that moment, Garam Para's palm cleaved the air toward U Gyeongcheon.
The Mahamudra force at its zenith held peerless destructive power.
This Tantric art, known as the Great Hand Seal or Mahamudra Divine Art, was originally a martial recreation of the might of Indra, India's supreme deity of war and destruction.
Incredibly, a massive golden qi blade erupted from Garam Para's palm, engulfing U Gyeongcheon's form.
“Impressive ferocity indeed. Sharp as a razor, heavy as a boulder.”
Murmuring thus, U Gyeongcheon clenched one fist and thrust it forth.
The world's supreme fist art met the assault head-on.
From U Gyeongcheon's fist erupted a dazzling white qi.
Ku-kung……!
Golden and white flashes collided in an explosion, birthing a massive vacuum.
It sucked in all around it, only to vanish an instant later amid a thunderous roar.
Kwa-gwang!
U Gyeongcheon's white hair flew skyward, then slowly settled.