Chapter 1
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: 108
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On the way to the airport, bored out of my mind, I started scrolling through YouTube.
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Lured by some inscrutable algorithm, I tapped out of curiosity, and the reality of Chinese martial arts was a sight to behold.
Some guy who looks like the neighbor next door swings his hands wildly, and dozens of burly men go flying.
Hell, there's this grandma—Ang Fang or Yan Fang or whatever—who goes on CC&TV, China's national broadcaster, and shoots palm winds at the air.
Does that even make sense?
"Heh heh heh."
"What's so funny?"
"This is way better than any variety show."
"That? I saw it too. Totally ridiculous. Who even believes in palm winds these days?"
"Right?"
To me, a pro MMA fighter at the pinnacle of real combat sports, Chinese martial arts was nothing short of laughable.
Chinese martial arts was just pathetic and outdated.
It was like stagnant water gone rotten.
The whole world mocks it as gymnastics.
I'm one of them.
Truth be told, this Xi Xiaodong guy smashing Chinese martial artists' faces in is just an amateur MMA trainer.
If I, an active pro, faced him in the cage, I'd win 100 out of 100 times, no doubt.
If even he beats them that easily, there's nothing worth watching.
To my eyes, they're blatant scammers.
No masters like in wuxia novels.
It's all fabricated fantasy.
God of War's Epic Tale
Chapter 1
1. 108
My name is 108.
No family name, no given name—just 108.
I'm a second-class assassin in the Demonic Cult's Shadow Squad, stationed at the Luoyang Branch Secret Sub-branch, handling intelligence gathering and assassinations in the murim world.
This might sound like nonsense, but I'm not originally from this world.
My real name is Hwang Tae-seong.
I was an undefeated UFC fighter with a 20-0 record.
Just moments ago, I was en route to Shanghai for a middleweight title match in the UFC World Tournament.
Then, a freak accident—my plane crashed into the ocean.
The instant it hit the water, I thought I was done for.
But when I opened my eyes, the world before me wasn't the one I knew.
And my body wasn't mine—it was someone else's entirely.
At first, I thought it was a dream.
The plane crash, this situation—all of it.
I figured my phone alarm would blare any second, I'd roll out of bed like always, brew a capsule coffee, and head to the shower.
But no matter how long I waited, no matter how hard I pinched my thighs and cheeks, this was no dream.
And get this—the kicker: I vaguely remembered this body's past.
'Why am I here... in someone else's body and memories...'
It made no sense.
I was too confused; I needed time to sort my thoughts.
Me, a Demonic Cultist straight out of a wuxia novel? Come on.
I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, trying to collect myself, when someone tapped my shoulder.
"Hey, 108. Target's on the move."
'T-Target?'
"W-What's that?"
"What's that? What's with you all of a sudden? 108, still half-asleep?"
It clicked in my head—the situation snapped into place.
I even remembered who this wide-eyed guy staring at me was.
"Oh, r-right... 102. Yeah, we're on a mission right now."
102 looked at me with concern.
"Tsk tsk tsk. Mind's somewhere else, huh? Don't tell me—it's not Aeng-jeong, is it?"
'Who the fuck is Aeng-jeong? Damn it.'
And so, in full 'Where am I? Who am I?' mode, I had to follow 102 and continue the mission.
We were surveilling a guy named Deung-ja-cheong.
Recently on the Demonic Cult's watchlist—a merchant distributing massive amounts of salt in Henan Province.
The reason? Intel that he's planning a huge gambling house in Luoyang.
Luoyang's crawling with gambling dens.
But the spot he's eyeing is right next to the Gold Flower Gambling House, which the Demonic Cult runs.
We've been tailing him discreetly for three days, logging every meeting, every move, and reporting up the chain.
Whether to kill him or recruit him? That's for the higher-ups.
Mission done, my body felt like lead, and my head was a mess.
The place was swarming with Demonic Cultists in black uniforms, faces masked in black cloth.
Their eyes were fierce and sinister—it reminded me of my rough school days.
'Dead and still in the boys' locker room? Shit.'
I shook my head unconsciously when 102 slapped my shoulder.
"Good work. Let's go bathe."
Three days roughing it—my body stank to high heaven.
"Yeah, bath sounds good."
First bath, food, then think.
Back at the dorm after bathing, I finally had time alone.
First time seeing my face.
The mirror showed a surprisingly delicate face.
My old one oozed masculinity; this pretty-boy look felt off.
But the body? Far from delicate.
Muscled build, covered in scars—no unmarred skin.
'What the hell... what kind of life was this?'
Past events flashed by like a montage.
A curse slipped out.
"Fuck, what the hell—these crazy bastards?"
A life stripped of humanity, dried up and hollow—beyond comprehension.
Like a hardcore version of Silmido, or animal farming.
Comrades dead from Demonic Cult cultivation.
Daily hellish training: one fell climbing a cliff, skull smashed.
Horrors flooded my mind.
Life ahead won't be easy.
A month since arriving here.
This is the Demonic Cult's secret sub-branch.
Looks like a normal estate from outside, but inner courtyard has double walls, fully isolated.
Getting used to life here.
People adapt to anything in three weeks, right? Feeling it now.
I played the part of 108 perfectly—no suspicions—stuck to missions.
Main job: VIP surveillance and assassination.
If spotted, flee full throttle; if caught, suicide pill.
Shadow Squad's simple code.
We hide origins even in death, carry decoys for confusion.
Me: Hainan Sect token. 102: Whispering Shadow Sect plaque.
Plunder from kills.
Only untraceable ones.
Hardest adjustment? Food.
'How is it the same crap every day...'
Modern palate spoiled by seasonings—this bland slop didn't cut it.
Mountain delicacies? Sure, tasty—but not for second-class assassins like me.
My meals: simple as hell.
What can you do? Eat to live.
No suicide? Adapt.
So today, at the sub-branch mess hall: blanched greens in salt water, tofu stir-fry with fermented beans.
365-day fixed menu, but free—silver lining.
Chased it with baijiu.
102 shows up, slaps my shoulder, sits.
"108! Boozing from breakfast again?"
I just smiled faintly.
Only thing evoking future nostalgia: booze.
Cheap baijiu like from Chinese takeout—sole comfort.
"Want a shot?"
"Booze breath at noon? Squad Leader catches you..."
Says that, but holds out his cup anyway.
"You rascal."
Training buddies—no families.
War orphans 15 years back, wandered Central Plains, ended up in Demonic Cult.
40 mates then; deaths in training, missions, transfers—now just us.
Thicker than blood brothers, battle comrades.
He helped me adjust fast when I arrived.
But he noticed my changes first.
Didn't judge.
Job breaks people—personality shifts, madness—not rare.
Didn't call me crazy outright.
"Forgot Aeng-jeong already?"
Scratch that.
This punk thinks I'm girl-crazy.
"That courtesan..."
Keeps bringing up Aeng-jeong I don't remember—bet he's the one hung up on her.
"Eat some snacks with it, or you'll ruin your gut."
"Tastes like shit."
"Yeah, no flavor. We need a real chef..."
Words died.
Cook glaring murderously, caressing cleaver.
"Grown-ass man whining about side dishes? Act your age!"
"..."
I downed the last shot, stood.
"Hey! Where to?"
"Training hall."
"Again? Not bored?"
"Come with."
"Hey! Order here!"
I smirked, left him scrambling, headed out.
Lately, obsessed with martial arts.
Bored here, needed goals—checked local fighting styles.
Irony: In Demonic Cult, but can't learn their arts.
Shadow Squad: stealth and kills—no need for fancy stuff.
Can't use even if known—reveals Demonic Cult ties.
They teach: killing tech, inner arts, lightness skill, poisons, stealth, disguise—plus common righteous sects' swordplay, fists.
So training hall library: full of righteous sects' third-rate manuals, not demonic arts.
Picked ones overlapping modern MMA.
Striking/grappling focus—fists/legs over swords/blades.
'North Star Blood Fist, Asura Blood Response Claw, North Wind Langlang Fist... Huh? Leg Fist? What's this?'
No standout strikers.
Fussy moves, knockoffs of famous styles—same core.
Era lacks joint locks/throws like judo.
My knowledge limited, but library ones were.
Exist as improv backups.
Different goals—not weird.
Local arts: kill via vitals/acupoints.
Modern: sports, subdue sans death.
Chinese arts mocked today: guts ripped out, flashy shells left.
Ancient arts evolved through wars—not to scoff at.
Though these? Laughable.
Good stuff? Not here anyway.
Open to low-ranks like me.
'All crude junk.'
Rifled through piles.
Not hunting—just browsing.
Bloodstains everywhere—original owners'.
Post-assassination looting for bandit disguise—manuals turn up.
Homebrew solos, sect arts.
Useless ones pile here.
Deep in study, someone approached.
"You practically live in the training hall now?"
Squad Leader.
Guilty twinge.
'Damn... booze that recent.'
No mission—standby—but work hours.
Like office worker shotgunning soju at lunch, bumping boss.
No defense if chewed out.
But he said nothing.
Subtle booze whiff from him too?
Stroked bushy beard.
"Heard you're devouring manuals lately—looks true."
"Just killing time, flipping through."
Glanced at messy stacks.
"Hm, checks out."
"Orders for me?"
Grinned amiably.
"Nah, no mission... just..."
Trailed off.
"Then why'd you come?"
"Worried about you."
'Noticed changes?'
Startled, but cool: "Me?"
"Knew you had martial talent. But... I know how it goes for types like you."
"How?"
"Know the legend 'Stinky' senior?"
"Yeah, of course."
Lie.
"He was unreal. Never failed a hit. But... know how he died?"
"No."
"Just like you."
"Me?"
"One day, holes up like you, stacks manuals, brews solo art. Blew my mind—couldn't imagine. Back then, post-mission: women, booze."
I listened quietly.
"But their flaw?"
"What?"
"Wanting real combat test for their creation."
"..."
"He itched to try his sword style live. Target: Great Sword Sect disciple—uses demonic art instead. Guess the result?"
"Yeah..."
"Get the urge, but that flop? Huge damage to sect. Heads rolled up top."
Raised hands like seeking agreement.
"Ah, got it."
"Us outcasts gotta look out. Saying this with good intent—no offense."
"None taken."
"Moth eats mulberry—don't forget."
"Got it."
"Good, back to it."
"Yes, sir!"
Gone, I eyed the mess.
Stay? He'd think I'm ignoring him.
Nice words, but warning: 'Don't! No showing off!'
'Stay in your lane?'
Like a nail sticking out.
Already picked two decent ones.
No attachment left.
'Done hunting—time to train?'
Time to merge my MMA with these arts.