Chapter 55
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 55
Chapter Title: Chapter 17. Eighteen Ghostly Imprisonment Dreams
-----------------------------------------------------------------
After the interrogation wrapped up, Gwak Nan-hoe made a proposal to Flying Tiger.
"You've been through enough. You're free to go now, Flying Tiger. That said, those guys might come after you again, so how about sticking around here for meals and lodging in the meantime?"
"Free food and a bed? Sounds good to me. But..."
"Go ahead."
"Is this some kind of house arrest?"
"Not at all. We'll run some additional checks, of course, and keep a close eye on you for a while, but think of it as standard procedure to tie up loose ends."
"Ah, so I can go out?"
"I'd advise caution, but if you need to, sure. Though... go out?"
Flying Tiger gave a bashful grin and mimed grabbing a wine cup and swirling it.
"Folks like me who don't know what tomorrow brings? We gotta play hard when we get the chance to keep working hard."
"But what if something goes wrong?"
"Bad luck, that's all. Worst case, I die—what else is there?"
Gwak Nan-hoe shot him a look that said, What the hell is this lunatic on about after I went out of my way to worry? Wang Baek-gun, who'd been watching, chuckled and stepped in to mediate.
"Overlook it, Division Leader. They're rough mercenaries, aren't they? They'll take responsibility for their own hides. But we can't just let them run wild, so we'll assign a tail for outings. Hey, Warrior Flying Tiger. Bear with it for a few days, even if it's a hassle?"
"No skin off my nose as long as they don't cramp my style."
"He says it's fine, Division Leader."
"Sigh. From what we've seen of his skills, one guard won't stop squat. Can't stick Squad Leader Jin Ga-yong on that thunder baldhead either."
"I'll do it. It's my squad mate, after all."
Jin Ga-yong calmly accepted Gwak Nan-hoe's grumbled remark. Wang Baek-gun quickly waved it off.
"Can't have the field commander pulled away when he's got his hands full. Luckily, we've got someone sharp-eyed and free."
Wang Baek-gun nodded toward his aide, Na Mok, who hesitated for a split second before steeling himself and saluting.
"Understood. My skills may be lacking, but I'll protect Warrior Flying Tiger to the best of my ability."
"No. Don't push yourself with those lacking skills. That's not why I'm assigning you."
"Pardon? Then...?"
"If those guys show up, run back to HQ solo and report it. And like Flying Tiger asked, don't interfere no matter what he does."
"Ah, got it."
And with that, the interrogation ended.
Flying Tiger and Na Mok left the interrogation room and stepped out of the headquarters building. The sun blazed bright. A cool breeze swept down the valley, brushing over them.
Huuu—
Flying Tiger exhaled long and deep, as if emptying his guts, then drew in slow breaths, repeating a few times. He shook off his regrets.
If I'd gotten to spend time with Squad Leader Jin, it could've been more... meaningful(?). Tch, no helping it. Can't treat a master like him lightly. Next time, then.
Flying Tiger stretched grandly, twisting and turning to loosen up. He pondered his next move. The investigation direction was set anyway—just tackle the next lead.
Meanwhile, Na Mok stood off to the side, staring blankly at Flying Tiger's antics before asking.
"What's that?"
"All tensed up, body's stiff. Gimme a sec—almost done."
"Ho, so the thunder baldhead knows the word 'nerves'?"
"Wouldn't you be, in front of the big shots? It's all tied to the rice bowl. Hey, what's this thunder baldhead crap?"
"Didn't hear the Division Leader? Thunder baldhead. How do you mouth off so freely without a care?"
"Heh heh heh, unlike you tied down for life, gotta savor the flavor. Means you've got evening plans now, right, Mok bro?"
"Gonna head out and drag me along? Some treat. So, where to?"
"Bountiful Year Pavilion."
"Aha!"
"Let's polish it off tonight."
His next move would be with Na Mok.
Flying Tiger promised to meet Na Mok that evening, parted ways, scarfed a hearty lunch, and slept until sunset.
That night, Flying Tiger reunited with them in his dreams after a long while. They appeared out of nowhere, as always—no warning. Roughly eight months since last time.
No need for words.
Flying Tiger fought them like a madman.
One by one, freaks stepped up, wielding every weapon imaginable, and he battled on and on.
Sabers, swords, spears, axes, staffs, shields, whips, bows, and more.
He'd never been picky about weapons. Depth was limited, but enough to end a life. A skilled carpenter doesn't blame his tools.
For the record, Flying Tiger favored sabers in the Central Plains martial world because they were the most common and easy to find. He used the rope dart as backup precisely because it was rare.
That day, the weapons felt like extensions of his hands, handling easier than usual. And it wasn't just a feeling—the sparring results proved it.
So he knew.
His skills had advanced!
He was at that age, and recent triggers helped.
Ma Yeop's swordsmanship lecture had broadened his horizons, and training the lightness skill "High Posture Golden Path" honed his body control.
Amid that, he'd faced two Superficial Realm masters: Tam Deok-hwa and Ho Ye-hwa. Their feats would've daunted him before, but up close, they were manageable.
Still, something felt lacking—a persistent thirst.
And now.
Dream or not, Flying Tiger fought freely and confirmed it. Maybe the dream made it possible. No matter the wounds, victory healed them clean.
"Number Ninety-Four, ready to die?"
The faceless man with a crescent tattoo on his forehead asked. Fifteen-year-old Number Ninety-Four eyed his suddenly bulked-up body.
Liked it.
Normally, he'd stall at five or six tries, eight on a good day. Today, he was at the tenth trial.
Nine downed already, and his fighting spirit surged.
Could he make it this time?
But Number Ninety-Four frowned.
His weapons: a pair of mandarin duck axes. Opponent's: a four-ridged mace.
Mandarin duck axes extended empty-hand combat. Flashy moves hooked and yanked foes close for the "four spikes, nine blades" finisher.
The four-ridged mace was short as a hand sword, square cross-section—like an advanced club. Specialized in smashing weapons with weight and solidity. Pointed tip for thrusting too. Poke and pulverize.
Matchup: disastrous.
Even fine swords snapped in one hit from the mace. Tiny metal bits like mandarin duck axes? No chance.
Yanking it away? Like grabbing an elephant's hind leg.
And he drew the freak who wielded this odd weapon.
The faceless man twirled the mace, air whistling eerily through its grooves: Whirrr~ whirrr~ Sinister.
But blaming tools here? Whatever.
Number Ninety-Four smirked and cleared his mind.
Focused.
Just fight!
Survive, then think.
Tadak.
Number Ninety-Four charged.
Third step, his form flickered low, bridging five steps in a blink to appear before the man.
Entry-level Phantom Step.
Short distance, but usage mattered.
Like now.
Shaaak—
He slid low across the floor, past the man, slashing at the right ankle with his right-hand axe.
Perfect strike.
But the faceless man dodged lightly.
Lifted his right leg high, mace overhead—Golden Rooster Stands Alone. Naturally evading the ankle slash.
And not done.
He twisted, slamming the raised mace down on Number Ninety-Four's head as he passed.
Thwack.
Like tapping in a loose ball.
My intent read completely! How?
Desperate, Number Ninety-Four parried with his left axe, but it shattered his left hand and snapped his arm.
Crack.
Losing one arm saved instant death. Clutching his dangling left shoulder, he rolled away. As he sprang up—
The man hurled the mace at that exact moment.
It buried into Number Ninety-Four's left thigh.
Thud.
Reeling from impact, the faceless man closed in and unleashed a straight punch.
Kwach!
Number Ninety-Four heard his face explode amid the horror as the world bleached white.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!
Flying Tiger jolted awake, trembling, muttering as convulsions faded.
Nearly seven years now. Hit once or twice a year.
Yet the vividness never dulled. No adaptation.
Hell, it worsened—death's shadow loomed heavier with each brush.
Truly, "ignorance is bliss, knowledge the curse."
This dream was...
The assassin squad "Assassin" branded on Number Ninety-Four: Eighteen Ghostly Imprisonment Dreams.
The pain from quitting their drugs he endured, the price for freedom gained.
That night deepened thick and ripe.
Especially the drinking party with four: Flying Tiger and Na Mok, plus two courtesans. The vibe hung heavy.
Result: Na Mok, hollering "This is heaven!" in frenzy, got blackout drunk, babbling nonsense, then led off by a busty woman.
Left: Flying Tiger and the cute one glued to him.
Awkward air. A couple more drinks passed. She asked in a husky purr.
"Warrior, shall we retire?"
Flying Tiger smiled awkwardly, gently prying her from his side.
And said,
"No, ma'am. Time to chat."