Chapter 33
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Evil Ghosts (4)
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But how on earth had Jin Ga-yong managed to reduce Nima Pangjo to such a sorry state with all that effort?
Its hide was astonishingly tough, so he couldn't cut through it, but he'd scraped it with his sword energy over twenty spots by now, drawing beads of blood that welled up one by one. On top of that, he'd been careful not to push too hard and risk draining away its life force prematurely.
In other words, during their hundred-odd exchanges of blows, Jin Ga-yong had never once clashed his sword directly against Nima Pangjo's guillotine blade.
Of course, Nima Pangjo had wanted to force that clash and had tried every trick in the book to make it happen.
When it pushed, he pulled. When it pulled, he pushed back.
If it tried to close in, he'd smack the flat of its guillotine blade aside and slip away. At times, he'd even force it to abandon its attack through the art of the later strike preempting the first.
All the while steadily carving scratches across its entire body.
To a third-party onlooker, their exchange felt just like this:
He's toying with it!
Surprisingly, in terms of pure swordsmanship, Nima Pangjo didn't even reach the heels of Jin Ga-yong.
But Nima Pangjo possessed stamina and durability worthy of being called a monster.
Any ordinary person would have been chopped to pieces by now, or at least collapsed from blood loss, yet it still brimmed with murderous vigor.
Just trip up once.
Something like that?
Jin Ga-yong, apparently curious about that very point, tossed out a question.
"Holding up alright?"
"Heh heh heh, it tickles like mad. Got nothing hotter than this?"
Pride, perhaps?
Nima Pangjo bellowed it out so boldly, and Jin Ga-yong nodded before regripping his longsword. Then he said leisurely,
"Got it. Then I'll keep tickling away—laugh until you drop dead."
Flinch.
Nima Pangjo shuddered minutely, but even pretending otherwise, it seemed the strain was taking its toll.
Jin Ga-yong stared right at it, and in humiliated fury, its lid blew off as it let out a roar.
"Kraaa~ Evil! Evil! Evil!"
And Nima Pangjo probably intended to charge in with that roar, right?
Why guess? Because in reality, it took just a single step forward and halted dead.
Jin Ga-yong leaped in with a flick, whipping his sword at blinding speed.
Nima Pangjo couldn't properly react to the motion or the feint. It had grown accustomed to Jin Ga-yong's attacks, which had exceeded a hundred strikes, and instinctively assumed that was his limit.
But now, Jin Ga-yong's movements surpassed that limit.
The sword danced.
Shh—shh—shh—shh-snip.
The sound was oddly reminiscent of peeling an apple, turning the knife just enough not to break the skin.
Nima Pangjo knew in that instant it was done for. Up until now, Jin Ga-yong's onslaught had been bearable somehow, but this time, the pain surging from the very start was on another level entirely.
Thus, the roar born of shame and rage twisted into agony and ended, by which time Jin Ga-yong had already returned to his original position.
All this unfolded in the span of Nima Pangjo's single step forward.
And everything was over.
A bizarre and intense scene unfolded, one rarely seen.
Shwaaaaa—
Nima Pangjo's tough flesh peeled away like a ragged garment with bursting seams, spurting fountains of blood from every which way.
All the scratches carved into its hide split and tore open, like a cracked porcelain vase shattering along those fissures under impact.
Looking back, Jin Ga-yong had dragged out the fight deliberately—it was all to build up to this one decisive strike, layer by layer.
And so, he crushed it utterly!
Jin Ga-yong paused to admire his handiwork, the fury in his eyes gradually fading.
Soon, he spun his sword through the air to fling off the blood clinging to the blade, then sheathed it.
Click.
A Jeok-gang had long since cleared the surroundings and watched their duel. But the look in his eyes was markedly different from how he regarded his squad leader in front of the others.
And now, as Jin Ga-yong settled the fight, he let out a whistle before clapping.
"Refreshing as hell! I heard you'd set aside the sword, but in the time I haven't seen you, your skill's only sharpened. Polish it a bit more, and you'd have sword arts to command the world."
"You think so?"
"These eyes of mine still work decently enough—trust them. Hold your head high."
"……."
Jin Ga-yong smiled wryly.
If A Jeok-gang said so, then it must be true. He wasn't one for empty flattery. And as he himself claimed, he had the eye to judge the world's finest.
The problem lay with Jin Ga-yong himself.
In his younger days, like any other wanderer of the jianghu, Jin Ga-yong had dreamed of ruling the martial world with a single sword. Back then, those words would have thrilled him.
But ironically, at this point in life where he sought to empty and sort himself out, he'd achieved the breakthrough he'd once craved so badly.
How could that not be laughable?
"Young Master Jin."
A Jeok-gang spotted the bitterness on Jin Ga-yong's face and called out sympathetically. When he turned, A Jeok-gang continued,
"Why not set down your burdens and leave it all behind? By my reckoning, you've more than done your duty to the Zhao Family Manor."
"And go where?"
"Anywhere."
"……."
Jin Ga-yong gazed up at the night sky for a moment.
With his heart tethered to Ye Mountain, where could he possibly go?
But against his true feelings, he replied. A Jeok-gang had come all this way at his call, and his generosity touched him deeply.
"Wandering the world alongside Brother A doesn't sound half bad. I'll think it over. But only after I tie up the loose ends from what I've stirred up here. Now, with that in mind, let's get moving."
A Jeok-gang beamed at Jin Ga-yong's positive consideration, then promptly followed him as they departed.
Flying Tiger's charge at Seotakjin, as if to cleave him with a single stroke, was a feint. What he wanted from it was this:
First, draw out the hidden foe and pin down any potential ambush to this very moment.
Sure enough, no sooner had Flying Tiger lunged than the enemy burst from the shadows about seven paces behind Ma Yeop's back. So the one he'd baited was...
Flying Tiger twisted his form mid-motion and shouted,
"Ma Yeop!"
Second, turn the enemies' ambush against them. Make their target miss, or something along those lines.
Ma Yeop took Flying Tiger's shout as his cue and erupted with the inner energy he'd quietly gathered, thrusting at Seotakjin.
Whether someone smashed his occiput or the foe blocked it didn't matter—this one strike would end it all.
Whoosh.
The sword tip quivered subtly, emitting a bluish, pea-sized glow from its sharp point.
It was a sword bead forged from inner energy.
At that moment, unlike with others, Seotakjin was distracted by Flying Tiger, his focus on Ma Yeop scattered.
Flying Tiger's swift blade from moments ago still flickered in his vision, and besides, he'd expected his subordinate to handle Ma Yeop with a backstab.
In his already beleaguered state, that lapse sealed his doom.
Seotakjin realized too late and desperately crossed the pair of mandarin duck hooks in his hands, trying to wrap around the thrust. Breaking the sword would be ideal, but even deflecting its tip to slow it would do.
Graaang-grang.
Ma Yeop's sword writhed like an enraged serpent, thrashing wildly, while the mandarin duck hooks strained with every trick to bind it—but it wasn't enough.
The male hook's green horn snapped clean off.
Then the female hook's breastplate bent.
Next, even the male hook's hilt sheared away.
The sword thrashed free of its bonds and plunged two finger-widths into the enemy's heart as intended.
Shallow, but sufficient.
Shudder-shudder-shake~
Seotakjin convulsed violently, eyes rolled back as if struck fatally.
The bluish qi crystal at the sword tip, the sword bead, had fired inside her, ricocheting off the tough hide without breaking out, rampaging through her innards.
The sixth of the Eight Fiends of Sichuan collapsed, her organs pulped within.
And right after...
Pop-pop-pop—BOOM!
Dozens of popping sounds like roasting beans rang out behind Ma Yeop, followed by a roar that shook the underground chamber as if it would collapse.
The subordinate aiming for his back had clashed with Flying Tiger in hot pursuit.
The shockwave hurled Ma Yeop staggering without a breath to spare. When he whipped around in haste, the chamber was badly damaged, thick dust choking the air.
Like a shell had detonated.
The floor was cracked deep, a pillar splintered, part of the ceiling caved in with heavy stone chunks tumbling down.
And through the swirling dust, the gaunt silhouette of a disheveled-haired man dimly appeared. He stood there, eyes glaring bloodshot red like dye stirred into water.
The subordinate who'd targeted Ma Yeop's back!
'Where's Flying Tiger?'
From the circumstances, he'd likely been repelled in their head-on clash.
Ma Yeop worried, but couldn't search now. The one who'd repelled Flying Tiger stood right before him.
"You kept your promise to watch my back. Leave the rest to me. I'll finish quick and carry him out."
Ma Yeop muttered as much, gripped his sword firm, and strode toward the disheveled man.
"Who are you?"
"Black Face."
"……!"
Black Face Deng An-gil.
The fifth of the Eight Fiends of Sichuan. He'd mastered the demonic art Black Rock Scripture to the former sage realm, said to be the strongest alongside top fiend Geum Si-rang.
A must-kill target.
And one reported dead.
Even within the Qingcheng Sect, swordmaster Byeok Pung-ja—one of their top three—had said as much. They hadn't claimed his head like Geum Si-rang's, but no one doubted his demise.
But if this man truly was Deng An-gil as claimed, then this place spelled more peril than fortune. His fame and skill were acknowledged beyond Sichuan, across the Central Plains jianghu.
But how...
"How are you still alive?"
"Beats me. Heh heh heh, how the hell did I survive?"
To Ma Yeop's ears, the man's tone felt oddly nuanced.
Indignation? Self-loathing?
Something like that laced his words.
Revived from near-death, yet dissatisfied?
What reason could there be?
Ma Yeop muttered as if to himself.
"I see. The demonic art prolonged your life, but you weren't truly alive. Must've been pathetic all along. Just like me."
"……!"
As the dust cleared, the self-proclaimed Deng An-gil's figure sharpened.
Ma Yeop had seen him once with his own eyes before, but this bore no resemblance to that Deng An-gil.
No, was he even human?
Gaunt to the point of starvation, discolored skin, reeking of the rot unique to a decaying corpse.
And those blood-red eyes.
Not even a beast would look like that—who'd mistake him for human?
Paradoxically, that's why Ma Yeop believed this man was indeed Deng An-gil.
Not dead, but not alive either!
That made sense, at least minimally.
His sect elder Byeok Pung-ja hadn't lied for some reason—the cursed power of the Black Rock Scripture had revived him as this evil spirit, impossible for anyone to imagine as survival.
That sufficed.
Whatever twists got him here, Ma Yeop didn't care. To him, the man was solely a target for elimination.
Not easy, but...
Hoo—
Ma Yeop's remaining eye gleamed with madness. He glared at Deng An-gil with it, then grinned fiercely.
And Ma Yeop said delightedly,
"Puh huh huh, I was loath to end my revenge like this, but perfect timing. Let's get sticky with it, you and me—fellow wrecks who won't stay dead."