Chapter 292: The End of the Night
Chapter 292: The End of the Night
the end of the duel was approaching—a brief clash, yet one the participants felt was longer than any night they had ever known.
Even with his body breaking down, the Old Man drew upon every secret art that had been swallowed by his memories.
Though every technique he unleashed cost him a piece of himself, shattering his frame, the Old Man did not cease burning away the final embers of his life.
At the cost of striking Liger’s jaw, his hand was ruined.
At the cost of dodging Liger’s attack, his knee was crushed.
At the cost of blocking an unavoidable strike, his weapon snapped.
A dozen exchanges passed between Liger and the Old Man.
With that, the battle reached its conclusion.
Victory for the Old Man was, in itself, an impossibility.
In no version of the world did a scenario exist where the Old Man won.
The disparity in their power was simply that vast.
The Gaze of the Transcended merely nudges the probability of what is possible.
It does not turn a wish into an absolute fact.
By removing or altering variables that the Sentient Beings within its sight cannot perceive, it allows them to reach a vanishingly thin possibility.
The probability of that first counter succeeding was one in ten thousand. Perhaps even lower.
This was not a matter of the techniques the Old Man held within his body.
The Old Man’s physical state, this location—everything was stacked against him.
But because the Gaze had fallen upon this place, turning it into a field of pure skill and power, the world where the Old Man succeeded in his counter became one in a hundred.
Even in a world where he remained at an overwhelming disadvantage, the Old Man mobilized everything he had to delay his defeat—a defeat that would have been decided in a single exchange.
But what meaning was there in that action?
For the Old Man, the only thing that increased was the number of gazes upon him.
The Gaze of the Transcended holds no meaning for those it watches.
Even if those gazes gather, their lives do not improve, nor does a happy future await them.
In their lives, the Gaze belongs to an unperceivable realm; the interest of such entities only makes their destinies more tragic.
Thus, it held no meaning for the Old Man now.
The Old Man would draw his last breath before this night ended.
And since Liger was not a being intent on destroying the world, there would be no praise for the Old Man as a Hero.
Even the god-like techniques the Old Man displayed at the end of his life were seen by no one but Liger.
The time the Old Man bought by holding Liger back was, at most, a minute.
A duration that could not possibly hinder Liger from achieving his plans.
The Old Man would gain nothing in exchange for his pain and blood.
And the Old Man knew this.
The thoughts flowing through his mind at this very moment proved it.
‘I should have just let it be.’
It was pure chance that the Old Man had discovered Liger.
He simply couldn't calm his restless heart that day.
So, he had gone to the rooftop of the Old Archives—a secluded, out-of-the-way place where he could drink alone and watch the moon.
Liger had not noticed the Old Man.
And the Old Man, too, had not noticed Liger, who was suppressing his presence.
Until Liger was reflected in the metal flask the Old Man tilted back for another sip of alcohol.
The Old Man could have pretended not to see.
He had long since turned his back on the world.
His disciples, the books he had written, his friends—all were gone.
He was a man sustaining his life through past devotion to humanity, using old memories as his only support.
An Old Man living only because he could not die.
Even when countless incidents occurred after his retirement, he had done nothing.
He used his lack of strength and his ignorance of the situations as excuses.
Yet, the Old Man had leaped from the roof.
It was because he knew his end was near.
He couldn't know the exact hour, but he knew the end was coming soon.
That was why, the moment he found a battlefield where he could fight, he had leaped instinctively, before his thoughts could even reach out.
And as time passed...
The Old Man regretted it.
He regretted jumping down then.
His hands, his knees.
And the wooden staff he had carved in his hometown decades ago—a partner that had once fought by his side and had become his hands and feet after he lost his strength. It was nothing special, yet it had snapped, its life finally spent.
In the process of this fight, he had lost everything he had left.
That was why the Old Man regretted jumping.
And yet.
The Old Man was satisfied.
Both the regret and the satisfaction were true.
Because he jumped, he lost everything, but he knew he had reclaimed what belonged to the past.
The heat of the battlefield where his now-dead comrades once ran.
His secret arts, which he thought he had lost.
The flow of power he was finally able to recall.
Because he had lost everything, he was able to reclaim them.
Thus, feeling both satisfaction and regret, the Old Man let go of his broken weapon and spoke.
"I have lost, it seems."
As the Old Man said, the outcome of the battle was clear to any observer.
The Old Man’s knee had been shattered just by the graze of Liger’s arm.
In a single direct confrontation, his weapon had been reduced to splinters.
In contrast, Liger’s body, struck half a dozen times by the wooden staff, bore no wounds.
This was the fundamental difference in power.
It wasn't that skill couldn't overcome power. However, there were limits to what could be surpassed.
The gap between Liger and the Old Man was a wall that could not be breached, even though the Old Man had performed god-like feats multiple times—feats that would have caused even In to show a flicker of emotion.
Thus, the Old Man was defeated.
A defeat that everyone had to acknowledge.
Except for one being.
"I cannot accept this!"
A roar shook the silent night.
Liger, the Martial Artist, had even forgotten that he was on a stealth mission and should not make a sound.
"I did not land a single clean hit on you, Elder! How can you expect me to accept this defeat!"
Thump. Thump.
Liger approached the Old Man, his footsteps shaking the earth as he shouted.
For Liger, it wasn't even his loudest voice.
His true voice carried physical force and destroyed its surroundings.
This was proof that somewhere in his mind, the fact that this was a stealth mission still lingered.
However, that voice was more than enough to break the silence of the night.
Someone heard him.
And they began to search the area, looking for the source of the voice.
Liger knew this as well.
His heightened senses were keenly picking up the surrounding situation.
Yet, Liger did not head for the entrance of the Old Archives.
He approached the Old Man and lifted his collapsed body.
A bitter smile played on the Old Man’s lips.
"Quickly, stand up and once more... once..."
Liger’s voice began to trail off as he realized the truth.
Through the Old Man’s body in his hands, he felt his condition.
He realized the Old Man was dying—that his body was in a state where it wouldn't be strange if he were already dead.
He grasped this more clearly than even the Old Man himself.
Liger’s face hardened into an expressionless mask.
The Old Man’s gaze caught it.
"I suppose you can tell all that just by grabbing me once?"
The Old Man threw out a sarcastic remark.
But Liger, who had to receive it, radiated an atmosphere so heavy that he couldn't even process a small jab.
The Old Man was also drawn into that atmosphere, his expression turning grim.
Soon, he spoke.
"How much time is left?"
It was a question filled with resignation, accepting everything.
"An hour... at most."
It was a phrase chosen to avoid saying 'You will die soon' as much as possible.
"I see. So it's a corpse that should have stopped moving already."
The Old Man realized the Mutant’s consideration and sat down on the spot.
Liger, who had been holding the Old Man’s clothes, did not stop him.
"Then, do what you must. Mutant... No, do you have a name as well?"
The transcendent Old Man asked.
"...I am called Liger."
"I see. Liger, do what you must. That is the right of the victor."
The right of the victor.
Those words tormented Liger.
Liger did not consider himself the victor.
But those words brought back the plan given to him, which had been pushed to a corner of his mind.
A conflict began within Liger’s heart.
Himself as a Martial Artist, or himself as a member of The Society.
The conflict was endless, but the decision was swift.
"I have one thing to ask."
"What is it?"
"Do you have a final wish, or perhaps words you wish to leave behind?"
The Old Man’s life was fading.
He no longer even had the strength to open his mouth.
Everyone knew this.
"A wish... I suppose I do have one."
To the Old Man until recently, the future didn't matter.
But during his struggle with Liger, a single wish had surfaced within him.
"A book... Yes, I want to write a Martial Arts Manual. I finally understand why those fellows were so desperate to finish a single volume."
Since they weren't born with the talent for writing that all martial artists try to teach, the results were mostly a mess.
Most martial arts manuals failed to capture even a glimpse of the author's techniques, and some wrote manuals that produced results entirely different from their own skills due to errors in their writing.
Even though they knew this as they wrote, they still left their words behind.
Even in situations where they were swallowed by despair and could not dream of a future.
They wrote their techniques down on yellowed, faded paper.
With one thought in their hearts.
"To become the foundation... for someone else... Yes... To leave that behind, that is enough..."
It didn't matter if the result differed from the pinnacle he had built.
It didn't matter if the result never saw the light of day.
Even if the effort went unrewarded.
They wrote their books.
And someone else found their path through the books left by those of the past.
That was how techniques, and humanity, progressed.
Leaving behind a single small stone.
Even if it was a stone no one would ever care for.
Knowing that they would occupy a place at the very bottom of a golden monument to be built in the distant future.
A place no one would ever look at.
"...But I have no time."
‘A week, no, if only we had met just a little sooner.’
The Old Man thought.
If he were to crudely write down only what he possessed.
A week. No, a single day would be enough.
But because that realization had come so late, the Old Man would now simply vanish.
Unless there was some external intervention.
"...I will ask one more thing," Liger said.
"..."
The Old Man said nothing.
He no longer had the energy for it.
"Even if it is amidst pain that makes you wish you were dead, if you could live just a little longer, would you be satisfied with that?"
Liger knew this was not the time. He could already hear footsteps running toward them.
Yet, Liger chose to abandon the plan.
Even if he were reprimanded by The Society for this choice.
Even if the plan given by Chairman Ha-ram failed.
But the Old Man did not answer.
Liger did not move.
Even as the footsteps drew closer.
Even as the Old Man’s heart slowed.
And at the moment the Old Man was about to draw his last breath.
The Old Man nodded.
It was not a slump toward death.
It was a nod filled with will.
Liger accepted it.
He thrust five fingers into the Old Man.
A strike that pierced the area around the heart and the solar plexus.
As a result of countless hours of training, his fingers, harder than steel, pierced the Old Man’s parched, moistureless skin.
And instead of blood spraying from the holes.
He planted power within.
Black power.
A power that twists logic and devours the world.
That kind of power.
Since this was power Liger had given, it wasn't that contaminated.
But even so, power is power.
Power that Liger had forced in while twisting the pressure points and ignoring the Old Man’s will.
Since this was not malice intended to twist one's essence, it would not lead to corruption.
But even so.
The violence inherent in the power did not simply disappear.
The power, having found a new home, began to revive the body because its home was approaching death.
Using flesh, blood, and organs as a sacrifice.
Converting the meat beneath the skin into energy.
Devouring itself, it extended the life of its new master.
Even if it caused the master immense pain.
Even if it was an act of consuming the future for the sake of the present.
The power carried it out.
As a result, the Old Man would be able to stay alive for now.
But for one whose organs were vanishing, whose muscles were necrotizing, and who had no blood left...
How long could he live?
Three days at most.
At shortest, he would face the end within a day.
The Old Man realized all of this through Liger’s thoughts, conveyed through the power.
He realized that though he had gained a lifespan at the cost of pain, even that was not long.
Realizing this, the Old Man gritted his teeth against the unspeakable agony and forced himself up.
Holding a talisman in his hand, he left one final word for the vanishing Liger.
"...Thank you."
With those words, the Old Man sprinted down the hallway.
Blood flowing from his body stained the corridor.
His ruined knees and shattered hands screamed in pain.
But he ignored it all.
Simply to obtain a stack of paper.
He ran down the hallway.
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