The Fate of the Heavenly Killer

A long time ago, the game’s creator had posted a detailed breakdown of each Fate Star’s effects on the Steam community. Since most Korean players wouldn’t understand the original English, I translated it all for you.

The reason people recommend the Heavenly Killer star is exactly this. By the mid-game, you’re using protective qi anyway, so your internal energy gets drained before your actual health does. The massive increase in received physical damage basically doesn’t matter. And the “cannot flee” penalty? Once you’re on the verge of death, the berserk state cancels itself, so you can still run away at the last second.

The only real downside is having to fight every single mob, but if you want to stack up that kill count, you’re doing a massacre run anyway…

Cheong broke into a wide, beaming smile for the first time in a long while. It was a bright, innocent grin without a single shadow. Anyone who saw it would unconsciously smile back—it was that pure and honest. Since Cheong’s emotions always showed clearly on her face, it meant she was genuinely overjoyed.

Alright, what kind of sweet-and-sour is this? Whatever, it’s some kind of fried dish. The appearance alone far exceeded what Cheong had imagined. The golden-brown crispy shell was a delight just to look at, and the sound of oil still crackling, the rich, savory aroma wafting up—it felt like it was drilling straight into her nose and piercing her heart.

Gourmet food is an art for all five senses. You look, you listen, you smell, you taste with the tongue. Wait, why only four? One was missing, but the important thing was that it was finally time to enjoy it with her tongue.

Cheong grabbed the chicken leg and took a huge bite. Unlike the crunchy skin, the thoroughly cooked, tender flesh released a flood of juicy meat broth. The drumstick practically melted off the bone. Truly exquisite! If the Cooking King took one bite of this, he’d slam the ground in despair, rip off his sleeves, and declare himself a failure—demoting his own restaurant from special grade to trash tier.

Ah, this is it. Life is hard and painful, but people can keep going if they have delicious food to comfort them.

Just as Cheong was comforting herself—

The ceiling collapsed with a thunderous crash.

Something fell straight down, smashing the table to pieces.

Crash! Bang!

In the chaos, a sudden wave of heat washed over her. Her face was instantly covered in something hot and sticky. Blood—bright red and dripping—ran down her bangs and splattered onto the floor. A rich, metallic scent pierced her nose so sharply it stung.

Is this… really happening?

Cheong doubted her own eyes. The table, the food, even the aroma she hadn’t gotten to savor—everything was gone. All that remained was the chicken leg she had been clutching tightly in her hand out of sheer shock.

At least I still have the chicken leg!

Cheong hurriedly checked on her precious drumstick. It was bright red. Fresh, vivid blood dripped from it. The dish had been perfectly cooked to a golden-brown, so it was impossible for raw chicken blood to be oozing out like this. She wiped her face with a complicated expression, using her left hand since she refused to let go of the leg.

This must be how a singer feels, still singing even as they’re caught in a torrential downpour. The bright red blood flowed down her palm and dripped steadily onto the floor.

Of course, it wasn’t her blood.

The owner of the blood was currently rolling on the floor among the shattered remains of the table and the poor, uneaten dish. He was gurgling, spewing blood in rhythm with the air leaking from his punctured lungs, his body twitching violently.

Hmm. Just another ordinary day in Murim.

It’s exactly the same shitty Murim as always.

Why can’t I ever be happy? Why is it always me?

Cheong’s gaze swept across the entire inn. Some people were frozen in terror. Others continued eating as if nothing had happened. Some were shouting for a doctor in a panic. Others were screaming. Still others watched with curious eyes. Every single reaction was different.

And the numbers floating above their heads were different too.

Those numbers represented the karma each person ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠carried. Good deeds raised the number, evil deeds lowered it. Thanks to that, Cheong could judge people with nothing but a glance.

Of course, she was the only person in the entire Central Plains who could see karma.

She was the only one in the world.

On top of that, her method of training martial arts was completely different from everyone else’s.

Cheong accumulated training points by using martial arts. Once she gathered enough points, she advanced to the next stage. At the same time, she also gained free training points, which she could freely invest to raise her proficiency in any art without needing to practice it manually.

It was an entirely different growth system from the martial artists of Murim, who advanced through endless practice and study.

And the way she learned new techniques was even stranger. As long as an undamaged, complete manual touched her body, the skill would be registered in her martial arts window as “pre-learned.” She could then invest free training points at any time to master it.

Was this even a normal training method?

This was how game characters grew. It wasn’t the way of a martial artist—or even a human being.

Then what am I? Am I even human? Or am I just a game character?

Are my actions and decisions truly my own?

Maybe I’m being controlled by someone clicking a mouse and typing on a keyboard somewhere, sending electrical signals to move me around.

If that’s the case, then these emotions I feel… what are they?

Where the hell am I?

Is this a real, existing world? Or is it nothing more than a game?

“Ha……”

It was a terrible feeling. So terrible that the word itself couldn’t even begin to describe it.

Cheong ground her teeth. She felt as if she had been left completely alone in the world.

This damn status window. The most horrible thing in existence.

With a wet, gurgling sound like phlegm rattling in the throat, the middle-aged man at her feet finally stopped moving. It was the moment a corpse (temporary) officially upgraded to a true corpse. As the dead man’s sphincter relaxed, a horrific stench rose from his soiled pants, stabbing her nose.

At the same time, the translucent window in the corner of her vision flickered and changed its text.

Oh. Now it’s three heroes? Because one died?

Cheong let out a small, dry laugh. Blood from her drenched face seeped between her parted lips. That fishy, salty, thick metallic smell of blood filled her senses, and an intoxicating euphoria began to rise within her.

Yeah. Fine. Then I’ll just have to kill him.

I need to stack up righteous karma anyway.

Whether this was ancient primitive China, some other world pretending to be Murim, or just a damn game—she still didn’t know. But there was one thing about this world that she genuinely liked.

In this world, she didn’t have to swallow her boiling rage and let it rot inside her.

Because this was the age of the sword. A world where she could resolve her inner fury in the most primal way possible.

Cheong picked up her sword, which had been leaning against the table and was now lying on the floor. From upstairs came the continuous sounds of crashing, banging, and clashing steel. She was about to add one more layer of chaos to the mess.

With a smile as vivid and red as blood, Cheong headed for the stairs, dragging her sword behind her by the tassel.

When explaining the realms of martial arts, the standard benchmark everyone used was the sword. It was unfair to blade masters and fist fighters, but since nearly half of all martial artists in Murim used swords, everyone agreed that the sword was the most universal weapon.

And the side with the most numbers always had the loudest voice.

The technique of infusing internal energy into a sword and controlling its strength was called Qi-Conducted Sword. Those capable of using it were called first-class martial artists. Once they could wield it as naturally as breathing, they were roughly classified as late-stage first-class.

Once one surpassed the Qi-Conducted Sword stage, they could project their energy outside the weapon and shape it into visible forms. This was called Sword Qi Manifestation, but since four characters were too long, people simply called it Sword Qi.

Those who could use Sword Qi were known as Peak realm masters.

The difference between late-stage first-class and early-stage Peak was only a single step, yet while first-class practitioners were still called martial artists, those who reached Peak were called masters. That was because it was the first major wall a martial artist had to overcome. It was also why reaching the Peak realm was described as “crossing the wall.”

Of course, that had been in the past. In the current era of Murim, where martial learning had continued to develop, Peak realm masters were far more common than people thought.

Ever since the previous generation’s greatest under heaven, the Mucheon-daeje, had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠turned the imperial palace upside down, the government’s power had weakened significantly. This led to a golden age of Murim. Without interference or suppression from the authorities, martial arts had flourished and advanced.

Unlike in the past, the common wisdom now was that any talented individual who diligently trained proper martial arts could reach the Peak realm before they died.

Because of that, there was a growing tendency to look down on Peak realm martial artists compared to the old days. Especially among those at late-stage first-class.

“If we all attack together, even an early-stage Peak master shouldn’t be that hard. Four of us ambushing him—there’s no way we can lose, right?”

However, underestimating one’s enemy was a taboo that every strategist since ancient times had unanimously warned against.

The Blue River Heroes were now paying the price for forgetting that taboo.

The Blue River Heroes had become the Blue River Three Heroes. And soon, they might be reduced even further to the Blue River Twin Heroes—or perhaps simply the Blue River Hero.

Jo Gaksan, the Blue River Gale Hero, swallowed a bitter sigh.

Damn it, was the gap really this big? Don’t tell me that bastard was hiding the fact that he had already entered mid-stage Peak! What a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sneaky, despicable bastard!

If the Blood-Drinking Demon Ghost, An Seong-il, had heard that, he would have felt deeply wronged. Because An Seong-il really was only at early-stage Peak.

How had he dealt with one of them so quickly?

He had simply noticed the ambush in advance.

Demonic practitioners always lived with the threat of death hanging over them. After all, they were people who “deserved to die,” so even if they were stabbed to death on the street, it was treated as a natural death. Therefore, the ones who lived long tended to be extremely sensitive.

That was why, when the noisy group at the other table—who had been loudly talking about brotherhood, the peace of Murim, the one-day-one-hero nonsense—suddenly fell silent, An Seong-il had immediately grown suspicious. From that moment on, he had been on high alert, and his vigilance had paid off.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

He had deflected the incoming sword with his left hand, drawn his own blade, and slit the man’s throat. Then, avoiding the three others charging from the sides, he had stomped the floor with all his strength and used lightness skill to retreat. Unfortunately, the weak floorboards had collapsed beneath him, causing him to lose balance. In the end, he had chosen to use the “Falling Swallow Technique.”

In plain terms, the Falling Swallow Technique meant rolling pathetically across the floor.

Martial artists who valued face would swear they would rather die than use it, yet not a single one actually refused to do so when their life was on the line. In other words, half of what Murim people said was usually nothing but bluff and lies.

At any rate, he had traded his dignity for his life.

An Seong-il roared furiously.

“Who dares to aim for the back of this Blood-Drinking Swordsman?! Are you not afraid of the consequences from the Blood-Drinking Martial Hall?!”

Roughly translated: Can you lot even handle the fallout?

“Shut your mouth, you villain! Is there anyone who doesn’t know you are the hideous demonic monster called the Blood-Drinking Demon Ghost?! Today we will cut off your head and restore justice to the world!”

Roughly translated: In case you didn’t know, here’s my justification for killing you.

For martial artists, fighting was part of social interaction. Therefore, it was necessary to accurately understand the implications behind their words.

Once things reached this point, further verbal sparring was unnecessary. There was no reason to keep flapping their lips when they had perfectly good weapons right there.

This was simply the way of Murim.