Tentacles Are Orthodox Martial Arts
While the cultists were still lost in joy and celebration—
“We’re being followed.”
The words came from the highest-ranked martial artist among them, their sword specialist.
The cultists, who had been swept up in festival fervor, froze.
“…How strong are they?”
the leader asked carefully.
“If they come for us, we’ll have to stake our lives just to avoid losing.”
“…Do they mean us harm?”
“They look like people from the Orthodox faction.”
“…To be honest, our order isn’t exactly beloved by society.”
“What should we do, Leader?”
“Assume the worst.”
“Prepare for battle.”
In an instant the mood flipped.
Each cultist checked their weapon. A heavy silence settled over them.
The leader looked up at the sky.
The air seemed unusually clear today.
“Conch Manager.”
“Yes, Leader! Do you need assistance? Shall I prepare for mutual destruction?”
“…I have a request.”
“Anything at all!”
“Get the driver to safety.”
“Understood!”
The Conch Manager seized Gong Ryun by the wrist and pulled him along.
“Driver! This way!”
She headed for the car. Gong Ryun followed without protest. Not questioning what these people said had long since become second nature.
“Driver! Take this!”
“What is it?”
“A baby conch!”
What she pressed into his hands was a miniature version of the great conch shell. She slipped it straight into his inner pocket.
“Wow! It’s adorable!”
“From now on, you can use this for your after-meal prayers!”
“I see!”
“The more you pray, the more it grows!”
“I’ve always wanted a pet someday!”
“Really? That’s wonderful!”
The Conch Manager would have liked to talk longer, but she knew the moment had to end. She settled Gong Ryun into the car.
“Driver. Where is your home? Enter the address there.”
“That’s the autonomous-drive panel, isn’t it? You said auto-drive leaves a trail and would cause trouble.”
“We’ve already been found out, so it doesn’t matter now. Just enter it.”
Gong Ryun typed in the address of the tteokbokki shop building he had just moved into.
“Driver. It was a short time, or perhaps a long one. All this while, you have done exceptionally well. You are a member we can be proud of.”
“Heh. It’s nothing.”
“You will grow into something truly great. You will be of enormous help to the true Sect.”
“You mean the Hernesh Cult?”
“No. The Hernesh Cult is great as well, but I speak of another ‘Sect.’ We have always been a subordinate branch of that other ‘Sect.’”
“Huh??? I didn’t know anything about that. What sect? The Tentacle Sect? The Violet Sect?”
“You still don’t know? As expected, your common knowledge is sorely lacking. In this universe there can only be one sect so vast. Think of the most famous organization whose name ends in ‘Sect.’”
“An organization ending in ‘Sect’…
…
……?”
“Huh?”
The word rose in Gong Ryun’s mind.
No, wait.
What? He must have misthought it.
He was so stunned that even the brainwashing laid over him wavered for an instant.
The name that always appeared on the news.
The one that had once plunged the Central Plains into hell…
“The Space Heavenly Demon Sect.”
“………What…?”
“Heavenly Demon Reborn, All Demons Submit. Yeokcheon shall arrive.”
“……………What? No. Why? Since when?”
“Ah—!! Lord Hernesh of Zami Star!! As the rightful candidate for Young Cult Leader of the Heavenly Demon Divine Sect!!! He shall open the age of Yeokcheon!”
“???????”
“Well then. Regrettably, our conversation ends here. We have no time.”
“Wait a second—”
The Conch Manager struck a pressure point on Gong Ryun’s neck—the kind meant to knock a person out cold.
“Ow!”
“Ah. Sturdier than I expected.”
His protective qi was unexpectedly dense; the strike failed. She considered applying more force, then chose the simpler method.
—Pshhk!
She drove a conch tentacle into his ear and flooded him with drowsiness. Sleep crashed over him. As his eyelids sagged, the Conch Manager offered a farewell.
“Farewell, Driver. May we meet again someday…!”
Vroom. The engine turned over.
The car set off toward AE City, carrying the unconscious Gong Ryun.
The Conch Manager waved with lingering regret.
A shame I couldn’t teach him Absorbing Palm. Still, it’s fine. You are already a proud human of the Sect. That conch will serve as your mark and prove who you are. Then, without doubt, others of the Sect will be able to teach you.
Ah. The sorrow of parting.
And the moment Gong Ryun was gone—
“Heretical cult. Cooperate quietly.”
An Orthodox squad appeared behind the cultists.
Three of them.
Hyukryeon Wiseol, Karina Rothschild, and Tang Bernoulli.
Namgung Hyeong was not among them.
He was handling other business in the city. More importantly, with his particular “condition,” no one could predict what might happen. Too many variables.
Namgung Hyeong was their strongest fighter, yet the remaining three were elite enough that a cult like this would not overwhelm them.
Hyukryeon Wiseol spoke first.
“Associates of the Hernesh Cult. We have come to stop you.”
The leader answered.
“Stop us? Stop what, exactly? Seeking an unclaimed opportunity is long-standing orthodox martial tradition. Surely the Orthodox themselves would not deny that.”
“How that opportunity is used gives us more than enough cause to intervene.”
“Is an opportunity not naturally used for the benefit of its discoverer? The young clan head who found a lost secret manual and restored his family. The boy who found a legendary weapon and avenged his father. The martial artist who cured a severed meridian with a world-class elixir. What is the problem? That the finder keeps the opportunity is an iron rule.”
“Because this is not an opportunity that can be ‘kept,’ is it not? It is the kind that cannot be owned.”
“…!!!”
The leader reeled.
For them to say that meant these people…
“You… know what the opportunity is…!?”
“We learned only recently.”
“So you too… saw that research…”
“At first we weren’t certain. We never imagined something of this scale. But now we know. A treasure worth rewriting the history books. An unownable treasure of astronomical value.”
“Have you come here as the Orthodox? As the Orthodox, to claim that treasure for yourselves?”
“No. We came as the Committee.”
“Damn. Better if you had been ordinary Orthodox.”
“The Committee is a public-interest body under the Galactic Government. Our purpose is the peace and preservation of the galaxy. That alone.”
“…”
“Your goal is not to possess the opportunity. It is to use it to ignite conflict. Conflict in which Zami Star will run wild… Therefore your plan must be stopped. Here.”
“…”
“We will absolutely not allow this treasure to become the spark of war.”
Hyukryeon Wiseol’s intelligence network was thorough.
They already knew what the opportunity was.
They already knew the cultists’ purpose.
All that remained was to restrain them.
Everything for the peace of the galaxy.
Silence stretched.
In that stillness the leader’s mind spun at full speed, weighing countless possibilities, searching for the best action in this single moment.
Then he reached his conclusion.
—Srrrng.
The leader drew his sword.
At once the other cultists drew as well.
Answering them, Hyukryeon Wiseol drew his own blade.
The Orthodox scions at his sides produced their weapons—Karina a rapier, Bernoulli a short dagger.
Martial artists did what they did best.
In this moment, negotiation and strategy meant nothing.
There was only the sword, and only the sword would decide it.
There was nowhere to run, and no will to run.
Even if they broke, they had to clash.
That alone could lead to a result.
And so the battle began.
The stage: the heart of a deep canyon.
The hour: high noon. The hour of the duel.
Five on the cultists’ side. Three on the Committee’s.
A silence thick as the calm before a storm hung between them.
And then…
—KWA-AAAANG!!!!!!!!!
Battle erupted.
The first to step forward were the highest-ranked martial artists of each side.
From the cultists: the sword specialist.
From the Committee: Karina.
Both drove in with lightning footwork and unleashed a single strike—as swift as a draw-cut meant to end it in the first blow.
The result was a draw.
Karina’s rapier, moving with the principles of a heavy sword that belied its slender form, bored in—only to be stopped at the tip of the specialist’s blade.
Tip against tip.
The art of catching a sword-point with a sword-point.
The shockwave of the clash tore the specialist’s robe free and shredded a sleeve.
And with that, the reason such a technique was possible became clear.
The sword specialist was an elderly woman.
And she was missing one arm.
More precisely, one of her arms was a tentacle in its entirety.
She had transplanted a tentacle.
She lengthened that tentacle long and sharp, flooded it with inner force, and used it as a sword.