The Painting Immortal and the Soul-Chasing Death Ghost
Painter (Hwa-seon) and Killing Ghost (Sal-gwi) — Sighting report: Wonderful Beauty Painting Immortal (Miyeo Hwa-seon), Yang Yeon-hwi, entered Hangzhou accompanied by her husband, the Soul-Chasing Death Ghost (Chu-hon Sal-gwi). Further confirmation needed.
Bang So-un's eyes grew serious as he read the intelligence. The nickname alone set her apart from the small fry—a true heavyweight. And the words that jumped out most: Painter (Hwa-seon). It meant a painter who had reached an immortal-like realm. He didn't know much about the world of artists, but in any field, the character "xian" (仙) wasn't handed out lightly. It was extravagant praise, a title no one could claim without the skill to back it up—or bear its weight.
"Such a figure has come to Hangzhou?" Bang So-un thought, pausing his thrusting and pulling his cock from her pussy. Hwang Bo-seol's teary eyes filled with disappointment.
"Why... why stop, my lord?"
"Do you know someone called the Wonderful Beauty Painting Immortal?"
"Wonderful Beauty Painting Immortal... ah." Hwang Bo-seol murmured the nickname, then realization dawned. "You mean Yang Yeon-hwi, one of the Three Great Painters?"
"If there's only one with that moniker, then yes." Bang So-un pressed on. "Seems like quite the famous person. Right?"
"In the art world, everyone knows her. Especially as one of the Three Great Painters."
"What's that?"
"They call the Painting Sage, the Painting Immortal, and the Painting Ghost the Three Great Painters together. The supreme artists hailed as the finest painters in the Central Plains."
"Ho." Bang So-un's face lit up with interest. Even outside the martial world, there were fascinating hierarchies of their own. Poetry, calligraphy, and painting were virtues of the scholar, after all—not exactly a world apart. To reach the pinnacle there meant she was undoubtedly remarkable.
"Why the 'Wonderful Beauty' before Painting Immortal?"
"I heard it's because she masters color like no one else. No one can match her vibrant hues. Though some criticize it for lacking elegance..."
"I see." Bang So-un chuckled knowingly. He'd dabbled in ink himself and knew scholars favored the austere, heavy brushstrokes of ink over flashy colors. Vibrant palettes were dismissed as woman's fancy. So for the Wonderful Beauty Painting Immortal to claim the top spot with such style made her exceptionally bold—and brilliant. The moniker "Miyeo," meaning exquisite and gorgeous, fit perfectly.
Wait. Bang So-un double-checked the report with a sudden thought.
……accompanied by her husband, the Soul-Chasing Death Ghost……
Indeed, it was written there. Which meant...
"...the Painter is a woman."
"Yes, my lord."
"I see." A thrill coursed through Bang So-un's body. His eyes gleamed. A supreme painter wielding rare, vivid colors—the kind scholars despised? Perfect for the slave ledger. She could immortalize the slaves' obscenely lewd bodies in beautiful, vibrant strokes forever. The thought sent shivers of anticipation through him. He'd found the ideal artist for his slave portraits.
'Perfect. You're next on the hunt, Wonderful Beauty Painting Immortal.' He declared inwardly.
One snag, though: her husband, the Soul-Chasing Death Ghost. A ghost that chased souls to kill. A brutal moniker. No one with such a title could be weak—nicknames weren't self-bestowed; people gave them for a reason. Real deal. Vaguely familiar, too...
"Soul-Chasing Death Ghost." Bang So-un muttered, tilting his head.
"Ah, the Soul-Chasing Death Ghost?"
"You know him?"
"Yes, my lord. A legendary ronin. Said to have completed a thousand pursuit assassinations without a single failure..."
Shit. A total monster? Not a hundred kills—a thousand? Pursuit hits weren't easy marks, yet zero failures? Must've racked up endless grudges, yet here he was, alive. Pure maniac.
"...What's his martial level?"
"Known as super peak..."
"Fuck!" Bang So-un swore aloud.
The Dragon Roar Inn on Heavenly Fragrance Road was sizable, with good rooms, skilled cooks, and spotless management—among the most famous in the area.
A man and woman entered. The man was tall and gaunt, skeletal, with pallid skin—like a sickbed patient. His wife, by contrast, had rosy, flushed flesh that seemed even more vibrant next to him. Her voluptuous figure, with its massive breasts, made him look even bonier.
"Bit chaotic in here," the woman remarked oddly.
At once, the waiter approached. "Aigoo, guests. Terribly sorry, but you should head back today."
"Not open?" the man asked. His grating, metallic voice grated.
"We are, but yesterday's mess soured the mood."
"What happened?"
"Martial world dog bas—er, heroes had a brawl here. Atmosphere's still..."
"Territorial spat, huh." The man spat flatly.
"Y-yes."
Protection money, basically extortion under "protection." Major income for sects. Merchants had no choice—pay up or deal with street thugs instead. Better the sects; they had face. But sometimes shit like this: rival sects clashing over turf when powers balanced. Merchants caught in the crossfire.
That was Dragon Roar Inn now. Iron Blood Sect and White Sword Faction fighting over it. Still just posturing, but escalation loomed.
"Whatever. None of our business. Get us a room."
"Sir, if something happens..." The waiter fretted, but the man was firm.
"Room. Now."
The woman chimed in. "My lord, shouldn't we avoid trouble?"
"Fine. No need to move for trash like this."
"Still, your comfort..." She wouldn't yield easily.
As the waiter grimaced, five martial-looking men entered—Iron Blood (鐵血) emblazoned on their robes' backs. Iron Blood Sect warriors, a solid mid-tier faction in Hangzhou.
"Oi! Get the owner out here!" one bellowed.
The waiter rushed. "O-owner's out..."
"What, punk?" Slap! The Iron Blood man backhanded him.
"Eek!" Not full force, but martial—it swelled instantly.
"Insolent shit! Fetch the owner! He's here, right? Owner! Protection money—now!"
Reason for their rage: the owner, hedging bets, hadn't paid yet. Planned to after the turf war. Already pissed at rivals encroaching, now the protected turned defiant.
"Noisy." A voice cut in.
The Iron Blood men's fierce glares turned. The skeletal tall man.
"Ha, not even White Sword punks—some crazy bastard now? No water here?"
"Scram."
"..." Outrage mixed with sheer absurdity silenced them.
The lead drew his sword menacingly. "Fuck, you lost it!"
"Please, just go," the woman pleaded.
To them, it sounded like mockery. Fury boiled.
"Kill the man, spare the bitch."
Everyone knew what that meant.
"Nah, don't kill the man quick. That psycho's henpecked—gangbang her in front of him..."
Splat! Words cut short. Severed head rocketed to the ceiling.
Blood gushed wildly from the neck, soaking everything. Thud! Headless body collapsed. Plop! The head landed upright on his crotch, eyes bulging in horror at nothing.
"H-huh-huh-heuk?!"
"Wh-what the f-f-fuck!"
Iron Blood men recoiled in shock. Second-rate, but martial artists—they sensed his overwhelming power instinctively.
One play: name-drop the sect. Weak alone, strong together—especially mid-tier like Iron Blood.
"H-how dare you! This is Great Iron Blood Sect turf!"
"The head sect won't stand for this!" Pathetic tremor, but intimidating enough.
No.
"Spare one. Tell Iron Mok-gun exactly that."
No pressure on him. Worse: he'd kill all but one. Casually naming the Iron Blood Sect leader showed zero fear.
Thud! Thud! Splat! Three heads flew before they blinked. Thump! Thump! Splash! Headless corpses flopped. Heads precisely on cocks again. Grotesque.
"H-h-h-haaaaaah!" The survivor collapsed, screaming madly. Terror-struck, insane. Piss soaked his crotch.
The man approached.
"Hiiiiiik!" High-pitched wail, body convulsing.
Grabbing his collar coldly: "Three days. We stay here three days. No disturbances. Tell Iron Mok-gun Ak Bul-beom said so."
Ak Bul-beom. Soul-Chasing Death Ghost. Anyone knowing it would've preferred clean death. Unlucky—he didn't.
Survivor nodded frantically, faint relief in his eyes.
But...
"Mouth's enough."
Splat! Splat! Arms off.
Splat! Splat! Legs gone.
Squish! Squish! Eyes burst.
Slice! Cock severed.
"Kaaaaaaaah!"
"Move him." Ak Bul-beom ordered.
Men in white (White) robes emerged trembling—the White Sword Faction, rivals. Martial artists, but mouse-like before the cat. Legs quaking.
"Tell Baek Yeo-song the same."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Casual use of their leader's name—they dared not protest. He was from another realm entirely.
"Get out."
They hauled the cripple and fled.
The dogfight ended. By one tiger.
……Four dead. One severe: limbs severed, blinded, cock cut off. Mood worse than usual. Extreme caution advised.
"Whoa... totally insane. Went full spectacle on day one. Scary stuff." Bang So-un shook his head at Eun Hwa-yeong's report. No joke—this guy. A killer from the real depths. Even Iron Blood Sect and White Sword Faction folded instantly. No answer.
But he wouldn't quit. He'd find a way. Like always.
Body much changed. Gaunt as a skeleton, skin deathly pale.
"That's nagging at me." Bang So-un pondered.