Chapter 2
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Three Lives Blade Gwak Won-bae
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Today's mission was to assassinate a notorious bastard around these parts called Three Lives Blade Gwak Won-bae.
About a year ago, he'd shown up leading twenty ronin, eyeing the gambling dens and the Gold Flower Gambling House that our Demonic Cult secretly ran. He was a bold idiot.
If he'd known the Demonic Cult was lurking behind it all, he never would've come anywhere near those places within a hundred li. But our Shadow Squad had done such a stellar job that no one knew the gambling dens and Gold Flower Gambling House were Demonic Cult fronts.
I unfolded the mission orders.
Name: Gwak Won-bae.
Alias: Three Lives Blade
Martial Arts: True Severing Blade.
Internal Energy: Estimated at half a jia.
Notes: Commands about twenty ronin.
Ronin martial skill levels: three second-rate, rest third-rate.
No family.
Loves booze and women.
Took in a courtesan named Mae Wol as a concubine.
Seems to hail from Donghyang.
Handle within a fortnight.
The orders included a rough sketch of the target's appearance.
The info was brief, but more than enough.
Assassination missions were usually solo ops. Moving stealthily was easier alone.
Scouting or surveillance needed more manpower.
You only had two eyes, after all.
Besides, even against barely first-rate fighters, I could handle them solo without issue.
I might be low-tier in the Demonic Cult, but by murim standards, I was first-rate.
And with ambush tactics, I could take down even superiors.
Sure, beating them head-on one-on-one would be tough, but stabbing a careless foe? Not hard at all.
Plus, killing didn't weigh on my conscience.
Not because I was born a killer. Memories of dozens of prior hits lingered from before this body.
'Here, if you don't kill them, you die. Guilt's a luxury.'
I headed for the target.
It was a dark night, but my covert ops training made shadows no hindrance.
At his hideout, ronin huddled in groups by campfires, boozing.
Female moans drifted from a building behind.
Assuming the target was among them, I approached the house.
Shadow Squad were masters of silent steps—mine quieter than a cat's.
Clad in black night gear, I melted into the dark, hugging the wall to peer through a window crack.
A bald, burly brute was banging a woman.
Not the target, so I checked other rooms.
Second room.
The face from the sketch was mid-fuck.
Against a civilian, a poison needle would've ended it. But she was murim folk, rotten or not.
First-rate, even.
Failing might just alert him.
Better to hit him outside. I scouted the nearest outhouse.
Men often hit the john post-sex before bed.
Found a rickety plank shack out back, took position on the blind side, and slowly drew my blade.
Shing—
The oiled-black blade didn't gleam in moonlight.
I aimed through the slats where he'd stand and waited.
Soon, a guy shuffled up, dropped trou, and did his business.
Not the target.
Splat! Splatter! Pfffrrt~
'Ha... fucking hell. What the shit did he eat?'
For a moment, doubt crept into my plan. But I held my patience.
Next day.
That bastard was definitely constipated.
Overnight, exactly fifteen dudes took shits there. No target.
I just breathed pure ass.
The dried rice ball breakfast stuck in my throat.
I scrapped the quiet plan for a bold knife jab.
Late lunch, he led his goons into the streets.
I slipped a five-inch stiletto from my bosom and tailed silently.
It bore a lethal dose of poison.
Our cult's rare Tang Clan brew: viper venom plus five toxic herbs.
Easy to pin on them too.
In the bustling market, the ronin started roughing up merchants.
"If you're doing business here, you pay us protection! How many times I gotta say it!"
Crashing dishes, screams.
Gwak Won-bae watched from a step back, like appraising art.
I waited quietly.
"Next time, have it ready! Always gotta see the coffin before you cry!"
They moved to the next mark.
That day, they extorted twelve shops.
"Protection money's fat today—let's grease our throats at dinner!"
"Yes, boss!"
They headed to a packed hot spot.
I glided beside him.
No presence, no sound. Ghostly.
As I brushed past, the dagger flashed unseen from my bosom and back.
He jerked like bee-stung.
"Kuh! Wh-what?!"
Checking the sting, his palm was blood-soaked.
"B-blood!? Ambush!"
"Enemy!"
Too late for swords and vigilance.
I'd finished and melted into the crowd. Poison spreading.
"Guh, ack, guhuk! P-poi...son...?"
He collapsed, convulsing.
"Boss!"
"Ph-physician... hurry!"
He begged his men futilely.
Then croaked.
I watched from afar at a eatery, confirming death.
No dramatic recovery post-report, or I'd be screwed.
Murim Alliance and magistrate investigators cordoned off, collecting evidence.
Probed the wound with silver rod for poison.
No discoloration, as expected.
'Pointless fuss.'
Target confirmed dead, I returned to the sub-branch.
Back at base, I reported completion to the Squad Leader.
"Hm, faster than expected."
He scanned the report slowly.
Mild reprimand followed.
"Why kill him in public? Plenty of subtler ways."
Couldn't say ass fumes, so I bullshitted.
"To instill fear in the remaining ronin. If I erred, punish me as you see fit."
"Not really your fault. Just riskier than needed. Aim safer next time."
Safety-first guy, no argument.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Well done. Rest up."
"Understood!"
At quarters, brief rest, then training.
Mixed demonic arts into MMA basics.
Linked with two new arts—motions tangled.
Limbs mismatched, balance broke, defense weak.
Tough work.
Infusing qi into modern MMA, overlaying forms—complex.
But my knowledge base let me trial-and-error forward.
Seniors eyed me like a walking bomb, so no training hall.
Cramped room, limited moves to drill poses.
The more I trained, the more qi amazed—versatile.
Pre-transmigration, dismissed as fantasy.
Now? Game-changer.
Qi-boosted punch? Massive power. Shreds sandbags.
Running? Multiplies speed. Called qinggong here.
'Back like this, Bolt's toast.'
Obsessed, holed up training sans missions.
No missions lately.
Cleared all threats to the secret sub-branch. Trained basics in the hall, pumping iron.
"Hoo~ hoo~."
Started weight training recently.
Modern style—alien to murim folk.
Cultmates watched curiously.
Insight: muscles as key as qi.
Qi wasn't infinite.
Deplete it? External arts till meditation refills.
Stronger muscles amplify low qi output. Efficiency.
But demonic masters and righteous disciples prioritized qi cultivation.
Muscle training underdeveloped.
Gear? Sandbags piled in corner, leg pouches, rocks.
'Not the stone age...'
Primitive.
So I splurged on custom gear.
1204 doing handstands with leg weights, 2033 horse stance with sandbag—stared.
Gear makes the man. Recalled ordering.
A week ago.
Sought cult smithy in Luoyang for gear.
Sub-branch weapon hub—remote spot.
Old smith pegged me instantly.
"108, long time. What brings you? Blade dull?"
"Nah, sharp as ever."
"Course. What then? Sword? Got a white lotus steel beauty! Wait—"
Stopped his sword-peddling zeal.
"Not sword. Can you forge this?"
Handed sketch of barbell, dumbbells.
Studied it.
"What's this? Simple shape, easy. But use? Mace?"
"Nah, hobby weights."
"Wha? Fancy iron for weights? Rocks everywhere! Pricey hobby."
Unhappy—not weapons.
Like ordering ramen at Michelin star.
Bowed politely.
"Please."
"Fine. But size means lotsa iron—30 guan easy. Let's calc..."
Pulled ledger, computed.
"Labor included, min 10 silver nyang."
A peasant family's month.
Hefty.
"Strength irrelevant. Just heavy."
"Ah? Scrap iron then—5 nyang."
"2 upfront. Thanks."
"Prepay? Deal! Best work!"
Grinned at scrap profit.
Hit sundries for jump ropes—thin and thick.
For floor drags.
"Boss, got this thick?"
Startled.
"Sir, what for? Ship?"
"Nope."
"Wall siege or anchor only. Check storage."
Brought thick coil with clerk—sweaty, cursing inwardly.
Python-thick.
5-6 cm?
'Decent.'
"This."
Boss beamed—dead stock.
Good customer.
Checked chicken breasts too.
Needed protein for mass.
'Booze hiatus.'
Sole past-life taste. Shame.
High cal, dehydrates, tanks gains. Liver toxins kill hormones.
Live birds—no bulk buy. No fridges.
'Daily market run. Cardio bonus.'
"Boss, sell breast separate?"
"You messing?"
"Haha, kidding. Two birds."
"Boring guy."
Loaded chickens, ropes on borrowed cart. Back to sub-branch.