Chapter 31
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 31
Chapter Title: 09. Evil Ghosts (2)
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One side of the stone pagoda's base platform slid open with a rumble, and a man emerged from below.
When Flying Tiger focused his inner energy, he could see it was a meticulously crafted mechanism. Unless you'd deliberately inspected it from the start, it was nearly impossible to notice.
And the one who appeared from within was Sanggokbi, the seventh Male Yaksha of the Eight Breasts.
Sanggokbi was a gaunt middle-aged man. He sported a neatly groomed beard that ran from under his nose, along his jawline, to his chin, and his attire was impeccably tidy—clear signs of someone who took great care in his appearance.
He was the fastidious type.
Yet his eyes betrayed his polished look, flickering restlessly with unease, as if he'd just burst out from the midst of some dizzying misdeed.
And the moment the pagoda's secret door opened, Flying Tiger had caught a whiff of a fishy stench wafting from inside.
The scent of blood.
So, his guess was that the underground passage below served as their workshop for cultivating demonic arts.
Sanggokbi exchanged a few sharp words with his subordinate who'd come looking for him, then muttered something toward the open base of the pagoda. He touched a spot on it, and the secret door closed automatically. With that, he hurried off toward the main gate where the messenger waited, his subordinate leading the way.
Once they were gone, Flying Tiger and Ma Yeop exchanged glances, their eyes gleaming.
Flying Tiger crept up to the pagoda and closely examined the spot Sanggokbi had fiddled with. It was a row of relief carvings resembling overlapping ridges on the upper slab of the base platform.
Ma Yeop, keeping watch as he followed, asked in a low voice.
"Can you do it?"
"Get ready."
Flying Tiger replied crisply, selecting two of the ridge-pattern reliefs and twisting them in sequence. With a series of clicks, the door miraculously opened.
Rumble.
The entrance was narrow and low, forcing them to crouch, but once they descended the stairs, the passage widened enough for two or three adults to walk comfortably side by side.
But Flying Tiger, leading the way down the stairs, had to halt after just a few steps. The nauseating smell made his head spin.
A thick, cloying stench of blood rose heavily from the basement. It wasn't from a day or two of work—it had built up layer upon layer, toxic in itself. But worse was the underlying reek of malice that grated on the senses.
When Flying Tiger glanced back, Ma Yeop's remaining eye was gleaming grotesquely with murderous intent, stimulated by the odor.
"If it's too much, I'll take the lead."
"No. We have a job to do. Just give me a moment."
Flying Tiger squeezed his eyes shut and muttered to himself, steeling his resolve.
It looked like chanting a spell, or perhaps praying to some unknown god. In any case, he spoke words no one could understand. Whatever it was, when he opened his eyes again, they were utterly cold and still.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, or so they say?
He seemed like a completely different person, just a hollow shell.
Ma Yeop felt a chill in his chest at the sheer otherworldliness of Flying Tiger's transformation.
Those eyes harbored profound darkness.
It was different from his own madness—not the furious glare of resentment toward the world, but the calm indifference of one accustomed to hell itself.
"Your eyes... are you alright?"
"Hmph, who's worrying about whose eyes now?"
Ma Yeop managed a wry smile at Flying Tiger's dry retort and averted his gaze.
"If you're ready, let's go."
The descending passage was deep and winding.
Ma Yeop soon realized he'd made the right call letting Flying Tiger lead.
In those forty-odd steps down, no fewer than seven were pressure traps. Flying Tiger spotted them without hesitation, warned Ma Yeop, and leaped past each one.
The underground chamber they reached was surprisingly vast, far larger than the modest three- or four-room space he'd imagined. It could easily hold a hundred people, structured like a prison for housing criminals.
Sentry posts guarded the entrance to the cells.
In short, it was a massive human slaughterhouse.
Fortunately, most cells were still empty, but seeing the handiwork of these lunatics up close sent chills down his spine.
Unlike before, though, Flying Tiger showed no tremor. The shadow in his scanning eyes merely deepened. At last, he rose with a cold smile.
"Well, at least one thing pleases me. As the leader said, what we're about to do to them will ultimately benefit the world. Let's get started—on this beneficial deed!"
Thud. Thud. Roll.
A pebble the size of a thumb joint tumbled across the chamber floor.
Aside from the flickering torches and occasional muffled sobs, the basement had been deathly silent. The sound rang out clearly.
"What was that?"
"Maybe a rat fell from the ceiling?"
The two sentries whipped their heads around, bantering as they scanned for the source.
That's when Flying Tiger burst from the shadows, seizing one from behind.
He locked the man's head with his left arm and slashed his throat with a reverse-gripped dagger.
It was fluid, and the victim only realized he'd been done in after it was over.
His comrade caught on a half-beat late, startling and turning—by then, Flying Tiger had already flung his dagger.
Thunk.
The blade buried deep into the sentry's face.
As he opened his mouth to scream, Flying Tiger lunged and struck his throat with a hand chop.
"Gurk."
The sentry choked out a strangled groan and crumpled. Flying Tiger drove his thumb into the Sun Acupoint at the temple, ensuring the kill before releasing him.
Thump.
Flying Tiger drew his sword from his belt and vanished quietly into the depths.
Left behind were a corpse with a dagger in its face and a man dying from a slit throat. The survivor spewed blood from his mouth and neck, thrashing weakly on the floor as his movements slowed rapidly.
...
In less time than half the span it takes to leisurely sip a cup of tea—barely three or four minutes—the air throughout the underground workshop had grown heavy, suffocating.
A powder keg on the verge of ignition?
Suspicion that intruders had breached ran rampant, though unconfirmed—it could still be a false alarm, teetering on that ambiguous edge.
Shudder.
A blade flashed like lightning from the dark, cleaving a man's heart. The split man convulsed as if electrocuted.
In his shock, he couldn't even scream properly or swing his weapon with any force.
He simply stared at his killer as death claimed him.
Those eyes in his final gaze were profoundly indifferent—more so than if one had crushed a wriggling earthworm underfoot... Damn it all.
The killer was Flying Tiger.
Indeed, Flying Tiger felt no thoughts or emotional drain toward those he dispatched. He was merely intrigued by the feel of the kill.
He murmured softly to himself.
"They must have lured these fools in with promises of teaching them demonic arts?"
Flying Tiger dragged the fresh corpse back into the shadows.
That made five.
And unless the enemy were fools, they'd catch on soon. Stealth attacks had reached their limit.
By heightening his hearing and spreading his senses, Flying Tiger had judged about two dozen living beings inside the basement.
Of them, he'd pegged ten as enemies, including the two sentries he'd already slain. The rest were captives.
What puzzled him were the other eight besides Seotakjin, the sixth of the Eight Breasts.
Helping a demon-marked criminal could bring disaster upon oneself—not to mention the bounty for reporting, and participating in inhuman atrocities.
Given that, betrayal would be all too easy. How could anyone trust outsiders—let alone a group—to handle such matters?
His conclusion, as he'd just muttered, was this:
'Lure the subordinates into demonic arts too, putting them in the same boat. Who'd dream of betrayal then?'
He'd confirmed it during two more ambushes after the sentries, slaying three more.
They all had unnaturally tough hides for humans, and though faint, they shared an alien, sinister strain of inner energy.
It was the hallmark of Black Rock Scripture cultivation, especially the last one's feel sealing his certainty.
In any case.
These minnows couldn't halt Flying Tiger's relentless advance, demonic arts or not.
He fought with stealth and ambush but prioritized speed over perfect concealment.
Getting spotted was inevitable, but he'd cull as many as possible before then.
The Face Pursuit Unit's goal was the Eight Breasts survivors—giving them time helped no one. Striking while scattered was ideal!
'Five of ten down, half remaining. If Ma Yeop handles Seotakjin, that leaves four. Now, what will they do?'
Flying Tiger crouched in the shadows, watching the remaining three approach. Tense, swords drawn, they called out to silent comrades while searching around.
Meanwhile, Seotakjin's presence had vanished earlier. Once she committed to hiding, even he struggled to pinpoint her. Skilled with projectiles, she was likely in position, waiting for intruders to reveal themselves first.
Thus, those three prowling fools were bait.
In that case...
Flying Tiger stroked his sword's flat once, then began counting down. To advance another step, he had to trust himself and charge.
At three, he exploded into the midst of Seotakjin's bait.
"Wha—?!"
The three hadn't expected him at such close range. But their response was sharp: one fell back to face him while the other two flanked left and right, forming a triangular formation.
As if they'd rehearsed it from the start.
Thus, Flying Tiger's charge met blades incoming from front, left, and right.
But he pivoted on his left toes, accelerating his stance, and unleashed eight slashes in three directions in an instant.
Four blades clashed wildly, sparks flying.
Clang-clang-clang-clang-crash!
Seizing the gap in the fierce exchange, a lurking shadow drew five throwing stars.
As Flying Tiger predicted, she was Seotakjin, sixth of the Eight Breasts' Male Yakshas.
At that, Ma Yeop—who'd been slinking through shadows unseen—flashed his eyes.