Chapter 123
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 123
Chapter Title: Chapter 35. The Broken Sword (2)
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The Shandong Old Man had clashed with Flying Tiger in full battle and deemed him decent enough to take on. Once the arena was cleared, he called Flying Tiger aside with an unexpected proposal.
It was all about that usefulness, of course.
"…"
"Uh… so, to sum it up, you're saying you want to personally experience the Shattering Swordplay again, right?"
"Precisely once a day, three or four times would suffice. I'll provide the swords needed for it."
"A personal favor, then?"
"If it weren't, why would I have spared a shady bastard like you? You'd just be a nuisance."
"Hmm."
Flying Tiger let out a nasal hum as he eyed the Shandong Old Man. The old codger was emphasizing the value of his life like it was some threat, but Flying Tiger saw things differently.
'Well, well?'
When Flying Tiger had unleashed the fragments of the shattered Azure Stream Sword using the Shattering Swordplay, the Shandong Old Man had swung his saber to explode each one. It couldn't have been easy to deflect or block them individually, yet he'd burst them all and collapsed.
When asked why, the old man replied that his one remaining lifelong wish was to unleash a perfect single stroke. He'd been single-mindedly pursuing it when Flying Tiger's amusing attack came along, so he'd simply used it as a test.
Infuriating, really.
"So, what exactly is this perfect single stroke?"
"A slash that remains unwavering in any situation, consistently swung, shattering anything in its path."
"Is that even possible?"
"Who knows. I've set the goal, so I press on."
"…"
If the Shandong Old Man could achieve such a slash, it would rightly be called the Supreme Blade Under Heaven.
But somehow…
Flying Tiger sensed something off in the old man's words. Despite the grand goal, he seemed oddly indifferent about it.
Like he had nothing better to do, so he was killing time with an impossible dream?
Having experienced it firsthand, Flying Tiger thought the goal wasn't entirely fanciful, though.
Anyway.
Distilling the old man's explanation, it boiled down to this:
The sixteen fragments Flying Tiger had scattered with Shattering Swordplay (he'd thought it was about a dozen, but the old man pinpointed the exact number) flew at him from all directions. Of them, he'd failed to handle three properly and desperately dodged two without even touching them with his blade.
In other words, the absolute swordsmanship he sought in that single technique was still incomplete, and those five directions were the exposed weaknesses this time.
Of course, it wasn't simply a matter of gaps in direction.
For instance, it could be an issue of linking one motion to the next, or problems arising from the intervals at which the fragments arrived.
The core idea was to inspect the flawed sections one by one, patch them up, and eventually approach perfection.
But experiencing Flying Tiger's Shattering Swordplay firsthand unleashed all sorts of sudden variables at once, making it ideal for uncovering flaws.
Flying Tiger took pride in it as his own life-saving ultimate technique, yet to someone else, it was just training material.
'Damn, it pisses me off every time I hear it. But raising a technique's completion like that? Sounds weird, but his level's different, so I can't argue… Wait, hold on?'
Flying Tiger suddenly noticed something odd and asked about it.
"Hold on. You're saying the horizontal slash that broke my sword and the swings at the fragments were all the same technique?"
"Naturally."
"Why?"
"Why? I told you earlier. This old man pursues the perfect single stroke."
"Hey, wouldn't it be more effective to use the right technique for the situation? Like not using a cattle butcher's knife to kill a chicken."
"Hmph. Change it based on the situation? How then can one speak of 'perfection'?"
"So… you won't use any other techniques? Even against a formidable foe you'd acknowledge?"
"Of course. Against inferiors worse than you or superiors better than me, there's only one slash for me. Since resolving to achieve the perfect single stroke, I've lived these past four years that way!"
"…"
Uh… what was this?
Was the old man nuts?
"Ahem! If you don't mind, could you share your sparring record since then…?"
"Eleven fights: six wins, five losses."
"You lost quite a bit, huh? And you're still alive and well."
"Truth be told, the first year after my resolve, my single stroke had many holes. I patched them desperately, and I'm still at it. And after setting such a grand goal, do you think I'd pick easy marks like you? I lost to opponents I could only beat."
"Ah, I see. Hmm…"
"Hmph, and how did I survive so many losses? I have my own tricks."
Ah, so he had some ace up his sleeve. Like a life-saving technique… No, that'd be another move, right?
"But even so, I can't deny I was lucky. I've had rotten luck my whole life, so maybe fortune finally gathered in my useless later years? Heh heh heh."
Flying Tiger took a fresh look at the old man's wrinkled, ugly face. Listening to his grumbling, he seemed like a twisted geezer with no real zest for life.
Soon, Flying Tiger shook his head.
'But I can't judge by appearances. That slash he unleashed was the real deal. And while he seems detached from his own life, he's even more indifferent to others' lives.'
That was the conversation they'd had up front.
'(Well, well?) He's stiff-necked even begging a benefactor who can help fulfill his dream? Thinks I'll do it for free? Sees me as a sucker.'
Flying Tiger reconfirmed what the old man wanted and sorted his thoughts.
Then he dug at his ear with his pinky, blew out the wax, and flicked it away. It was like he was pretending not to hear, as if wondering, 'Where's that dog barking from? Why's it so noisy?'
The Shandong Old Man frowned and called him out.
"What, you hate it?"
"Of course I do."
"Wanna die?"
"I wanna live. Obviously."
"Then do it nicely while I'm asking."
"That's not how it works."
"No. You just wanna die. No doubt!"
The old man spoke chillingly, radiating killing intent. But Flying Tiger ignored it and started hawking his wares.
"Heh! Old timer, be honest."
"What? Old timer? You little shit!"
"You don't care if I live or die, right?"
"I didn't. But now I'm very interested."
He looked ready to smack him, but Flying Tiger cleared his throat and lectured with feigned magnanimity. Truth be told, it was the only tool he had to handle the old man.
"Come on, let's not. Bluntly, we're just ships passing in the night, right? Meanwhile, my Shattering Swordplay could be the experience that brings you closer to your life's greatest goal. Isn't it?"
"Hm."
"That's what they call a fated opportunity. And you're gonna blow it because you can't stand my attitude? Is your grand ambition so petty it'll overturn a perfectly served meal over one hothead?"
"…So?"
"So, old timer."
Flying Tiger spoke slyly, his tone shifting again.
The Shandong Old Man felt irritation bubbling up, but he stayed quiet this time, figuring he'd hear the pitch first and cool his anger.
But he hadn't considered how hard it is to back out once you've let someone start talking. And often, the dynamics of that talk reshape your relationship.
At least to outsiders watching.
For example, people itching to mess with Flying Tiger—like Ilgwang or Jeong-geum—would now have to check the old man's mood first.
In that sense, Flying Tiger inwardly cheered as he continued.
"I'll give you a sweetheart deal. What've you got?"
"…!"
After that, Flying Tiger and the old man had a bit of a tussle.
It never got to fists. Just raised voices and flushed faces—a farce born of failing to bridge their differences.
But in such haggling, doesn't the one with more resources or muscle usually win?
So the old man got his way nine times out of ten (no to this, no to that, everything no). He tossed Flying Tiger crumbs or scraps, conceding just one in ten.
And each time, Flying Tiger's face fell, a delight the old man savored.
One. Starting tomorrow, Flying Tiger would demonstrate Shattering Swordplay once a day for three days total.
The old man generously cut his initial four-to-five daily requests down to three.
Flying Tiger had whined it strained his body too much for even once, so after coaxing, soothing, and threats, this was the compromise.
One. For each demonstration, the old man would provide a bottle of medicine to heal Flying Tiger's internal injuries or boost his inner energy.
Flying Tiger had griped endlessly about his poor condition and risk of energy drain death, prompting the big concession.
He'd originally wanted century-old something-or-other grade. But the old man planned to pick a random daily carry med, dilute it with water into three bottles, and hand those over. Less stinginess, more spite.
Thus, they compromised.
And that's why they looked chummier to others.
Flying Tiger, having endured the power play(?), acted buddy-buddy in public since it was done anyway. The old man, with a shred of conscience, grumbled but went along.
The drinking party was heating up.
Flying Tiger had joined the faction on his terms after twists and turns, earning an unignorable position as payoff for the chaos. Sure, there'd be checks and watches, but his breathing room allowed schemes.
So, was he satisfied and in high spirits now?
Not at all.
He hid it, but he was downing strong liquor nonstop to soothe his aching gut.
Because…
Across the table, Jeong-geum—face flushed from drink—eyed Flying Tiger intently. Her gaze was sharp, her question pointed.
"By the way, Warrior Flying Tiger, Jeong-geum here has a question."
"Speak freely."
"To these eyes, you seem awfully attached to that broken sword. Your main weapon is clearly a blade, after all. Is there some untold story behind it?"