Tempestuous Storm (1)
Slosh, slosh.
Jin Yeo-rip, having left the noodle shop, had already arrived near the Ya-jang district before he knew it. Just one more alley to go…
Click.
Suddenly, he slowed his pace and came to a halt in the pouring rain.
Whoosh!
The downpour crashed down. Amid the raindrops drenching his hair and dripping from his face, Jin Yeo-rip stared into the alley, ears perked.
What is this? This uneasy feeling?
As he narrowed his eyes and peered intently, a deep, guttural laugh echoed out.
“Hah hah, that guy's got some sharp instincts.”
Emerging from the alley was a gang of masked men. Their intentions looked far from friendly. The way they seemed to have been lying in wait for him, the gleaming swords gripped in their hands—it all screamed trouble. And above all, the masks. What the hell?
This was absurd. Sure, it was the Outer Market, but this was still Cheongeumbang territory, wasn't it? And they planned to ambush the young master right here?
“Hey, you guys seem to be under some misunderstanding. Do you even know who I am before pulling this…?”
“Young Master Jin Yeo-rip.”
“Huh?”
…They knew him?
“Are you insane?”
The sheer ridiculousness made the thought slip right out of his mouth.
“The little punk's spooked, huh.”
“……”
Yeah. He was spooked. By their sheer balls. Or were they just swollen with arrogance?
Sure, he could see why they'd target him. In Cheongeumbang, plenty resented him, and even more secretly wished he'd vanish. But this? This was too brazen. Right out in the open like this.
“No, seriously, look. I'm the real Young Master Jin Yeo-rip. You're trying to kill the son of Cheongeumbang's leader right now!”
“Heh heh, no need to panic. You think we'd come without knowing? At this hour?”
“…Ah!”
Right. Of course. He'd been an idiot. On a rainy night, right on time for his sprint through the Outer Market—it had to be a planned hit. But the absurdity had thrown him off.
Jin Yeo-rip steadied his nerves and spoke calmly. “Let's talk first. Why are you doing this…?”
Shing!
The moment he tried to de-escalate, the lead masked man drew his sword and swung.
“Hup!”
As the blade whistled toward his neck, Jin Yeo-rip leaned back instinctively. Thanks to his daily spars with Im Pilsaeng, evasion had become second nature.
Swoosh!
“Kuh!”
The sword tip grazed past his tilted jaw. A chill raced down his spine, goosebumps erupting as his heart pounded wildly.
Was this a real assassination attempt, straight out of the stories?
Thud, thud-thud!
He scrambled to regain his footing, but the muddy ground betrayed him, sending him slipping.
Splat!
He landed hard on his ass, but there was no time to breathe.
Crack!
A sword plunged straight down like it meant to split his skull. Jin Yeo-rip rolled desperately across the mud, his clothes and body instantly caked in filth.
“Heh heh, not bad moves, kid. Admirable effort, but you ain't escaping here.”
The masked man smacked his lips with a sneer.
At his words, Jin Yeo-rip pushed himself up and glanced back. More masked figures blocked the rear. No way out.
Was it the crisis that triggered it? The Twelve Flows heart method activated on its own, inner energy surging as his eyes sharpened.
“…Who are you?”
“What if we told you? You know us?”
The masked man sneered mockingly, but Jin Yeo-rip's face hardened. “Not your identities.”
“Huh?”
“Who sent you here?”
“What?”
The masked man's head tilted at Jin Yeo-rip's piercing glare.
“Heh, as expected of the young master. Even rolling in the mud, scared shitless, your pride doesn't break easy?”
Ignoring the taunt, Jin Yeo-rip sized them up. Five in front, six behind. Eleven total. Local thugs from the Outer Market alleys? No way—they'd know better, fearing the backlash. These had to be outsiders.
Who, then? Someone had sicced them on him. Lady Yang? The elders? Nah, too sloppy for heavyweights in Cheongeumbang. They'd get traced the second these guys were caught.
“Damn it, don't know who, but what a generous morning gift,” Jin Yeo-rip muttered, biting his lip and grimacing.
Who was behind it mattered, but survival came first. Figure it out later—once he lived.
Scream for help? The alley was deserted, rain pounding, but maybe someone would come. Or bolt for a gap?
As options raced through his mind, a surge of defiance hit. And curiosity. Something he'd never dream of in his past life—he wanted to test it now.
The Baji he'd honed fiercely for two months. The energy in his dantian, and the Twelve Flows to wield it.
Through slitted eyes in the stinging rain, he scanned the eleven masked men. Muddy ground. Maybe…
Yeah, when else would he get a shot like this? Run or yell if it got dicey.
“Hoo.”
He steadied his breath, reciting calmly. The primal ring is…
With slowed breaths, dantian energy swirled violently, surging through his limbs in a unified cycle.
As it flowed, fear vanished, battle spirit surged, and his glaring eyes shimmered blue.
The Twelve Flows' ferocity made him itch to rip their soaked limbs apart. Kill? Nah, mercy wasn't the plan. They'd come to kill him, after all.
“Eleven. Tough barehanded.”
After a moment's thought, Jin Yeo-rip stripped off his top.
“Ha, look at this punk? What the hell you doing?”
The masked man chuckled incredulously at his bare torso.
What did it look like? Fight sword-wielders empty-handed? He needed a weapon too.
His training robes were premium silk—tough, multi-layered. Now soaked heavy with rain.
Twist it tight?
Whip-crack!
Jin Yeo-rip wrung his top into a makeshift club, channeling inner energy to hold its shape.
“Ho? Clever trick. Gonna play hero, rich boy?”
“Nah.”
“What?”
“Gonna beat your asses.”
“The fuck?”
His dead-serious tone, bordering on arrogance, drew laughs from the masked men.
“This guy's a riot. Fight us sword pros with a twisted rag? All eleven of us, solo?”
“……”
“You cracked or something?”
Jin Yeo-rip smirked, steadying his breath as inner energy heated his body.
Would it work? No choice. These guys weren't sparing him on plea.
Ditch distractions. Focus on the fight. He didn't fancy dying to a rainy blade. Survival was the new life's goal.
“You talk too much. Shut it before rain fills your mouth.”
“What?”
“Not coming? Fine, I'll go first.”
“Huh?”
Bam!
Words barely out, Jin Yeo-rip kicked off lightly.
Splash!
Mud sprayed as his form pierced the sheeting rain like a spear.
Stunned by the unexpected speed, the lead masked man swung instinctively.
Clang!
A thunderous clash—not sword-on-cloth—scattered water droplets.
“Gah!?”
Shock on his face. No way he'd expected the sword to bounce off fabric.
The soaked, twisted cloth club lacked edge but blocked a honed blade fine. And the jolt in his hands? Doable.
Retreating then surging, Jin Yeo-rip grinned and stomped hard.
Thud!
His foot sank deep into wet earth. Unleashing full power, fierce light burst from his eyes.
Baji said mastery of striking split mountains. Still novice, but Twelve Flows strength could shatter rocks.
Baji, Mountain Collapsing Strike!
The whirling cloth smashed the wide-eyed masked man's gut.
Splaaat!
“Gaaack!”
“Damn it! Get him!”
As their comrade folded and flew back, masked men charged from front and rear.
Hard style prized power. Explode inner energy at impact to crush foes or create openings. But overcommitment left gaps.
“Die!”
Swoosh!
Swords slashed viciously. Even rolling, his shoulder stung—skin split.
But he pressed on. Rolling momentum fueled the cloth club's downward smash on a masked man's instep.
Boom!
“Arrrgh!”
The man crumpled howling. Jin Yeo-rip sprang up, kneeing his jaw skyward. Down he went.
“Hoo.”
Two down. Paths still blocked. But spars with Im Pilsaeng paid off. Hurt, outmatched, yet his strikes landed.
One-on-one was different from mobs. Hard strikes were reckless—predictable arcs, wasteful motion. First two underestimated him.
Now, feints to blind them first.
“Hoo, hoo.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Pausing to breathe, rain washed mud from his skin. Inner heat boiled hotter, steaming white.
Confidence swelled. His gaze on the masked men sharpened.
“You fucking bastard!”
Two down, they cursed, but Jin Yeo-rip tuned them out, eyes gleaming focused.
Crack!
Wiping eye-water, he lunged.
Swords flew. Baji's soft was yielding. Block, and you'd freeze for the next hit. Flow, redirect, chain.
Clack! Clack!
He parried, twisting paths constantly. Softer, softer.
Slice!
Back gashed. Pain bloomed, but joy—not agony—curved his lips. It worked. Bit by bit.
Thwack, smack!
“Kuh!”
“Guhk!”
Thrusts and slashes staggered two more.
Swing, stab, pull, disarm, flow, strike. Wounds mounted, but in the melee tangle, he carved his space.
There, Baji unfolded with inner energy. Smile spread as time passed. Pure thrill.
He'd learned, drilled. Now unleashing as desired.
Spars with Im Pilsaeng never revealed this. They halted at limits. These attacks? Murderous, relentless, life-ending probes.
Guidance vs. real combat. Tension sharpened senses exponentially.
In one-vs-many extremity, Baji's parts fused seamless. Swing to slash, slash to flip. No sequence. Chaotic fusion.
Flip first sometimes, swing last. Absorbing in battle. Owning it.
His face twisted like a wounded beast's, scarred but fierce.