Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: The Old Man in the Mountains
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He screamed inwardly. He was so shocked that no sound even escaped his throat.
He lay sprawled in a sea of blood.
His head, face, and clothes were all caked in dark red gore.
Trembling in terror, Han Ibi cautiously lifted his head while remaining prone.
But an even more gruesome sight unfolded before him...
Over ten people lay rolling in pools of their own blood. Not a single corpse was intact.
Some had their heads or limbs severed and scattered... Others had their guts burst open, clutching them in death...
Some bled from every orifice on their bodies...
And some were reduced to unrecognizable chunks of meat...!
All of them had been butchered mercilessly!
Han Ibi felt nausea rising, like he might vomit at any moment.
That was when it happened.
A voice echoed in his mind. It was that woman from before.
Whoa, man. This is insane. Have I finally lost my mind?!
At that instant, a ding-ding-ding rang out, followed by the voice again.
W-what the hell is this?
The Evil Spirit Lord... That couldn't be...?
"Aaaagh-!"
A gut-wrenching scream, like something straight out of hell, pierced his ears.
People.
People were gathering.
His instincts screamed at him to stay hidden.
Han Ibi cracked his eyes open and watched them.
A group of masked figures had surrounded a middle-aged man.
His arms were gripped tightly by the masked assailants. His entire body was drenched in blood.
But... his clothing was strange.
No, not just his—the masked men's outfits were odd too.
Not traditional hanbok...
Clothes that looked familiar from somewhere...
Then it hit him.
'N-no way... Have I entered a wuxia novel?'
Yes.
This was a classic trope in fantasy novels.
The kind lazy authors used instead of reincarnation or regression. A time-honored plot.
'Am I... Am I dreaming right now?'
One of the masked men leaned in close to the middle-aged captive and spoke. His stance suggested he was the leader.
"You might as well give up and hand it over. You lot couldn't even master it properly anyway, right? So, where's the Zhongli Formless Art?"
Han Ibi's mind snapped to attention.
He understood those words perfectly.
The Zhongli Formless Art was the legendary manual sought by countless martial artists, righteous and unorthodox alike, in the novel Dream of the Ant Snake.
The signature martial art of the Zhongli Clan, left behind by Zhongli Sanghyeon, the Supreme Under Heaven who dominated the martial world two hundred years ago.
But the incompetent descendants of the Zhongli Clan lost it and fell into decline—or so the story went.
And crucially... the Zhongli Clan was the family of the protagonist, Jong Ri-hyeok...!
'Does that mean I'm the protagonist of this novel?'
The middle-aged man glared at the masked leader with a stubborn scowl, then spat out a glob of blood-mixed saliva.
"Ptoo!"
The filthy liquid sailed through the air.
The masked man flinched and turned his face, but it still splattered under his chin.
Repulsed, he wiped it off with his glove and snarled.
"Stubborn bastard who won't listen to reason. Cut him to pieces."
"Yes!"
One of the masked men holding the captive replied, and a sickening slash echoed.
Followed by a horrific scream.
Something flew toward Han Ibi's face.
Splat.
It hit his cheek and tumbled to the ground.
It was...
"Aaaagh!"
Han Ibi cried out involuntarily.
It was a human hand, severed cleanly above the wrist.
The masked men whipped around toward Han Ibi's prone position in surprise.
'Damn! I'm screwed.'
Then a ding chimed in his head.
The familiar woman's voice rang out.
(Difficulty ☆) Evade enemy attacks 3 times.
🎁 Reward: Synchronization with character initiated.
Han Ibi had no time to process what any of it meant. He sprang up and bolted.
The masked leader shouted.
"He's playing dead! Grab that bastard!"
One masked man launched himself at Han Ibi the moment the order was given.
In that instant, Han Ibi ran with every ounce of strength he could muster.
It was a firsthand lesson in what "running with every last bit of strength, even the milk from infancy" truly meant.
'Running, at least...'
He had no talent for much else, but running? He was confident.
No relay race at a sports day would proceed without him.
He'd seriously considered athletic college, though money issues killed it.
Thinking he'd put enough distance, Han Ibi glanced back. He froze in shock.
The masked man was closing in with effortless strides, barely breaking a sweat.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
'Is that qinggong from the wuxia novels?'
Han Ibi widened his strides and pushed harder, but the gap shrank faster.
He glanced back again.
'Eek!'
The masked man's sword reflected the sunlight as it thrust toward him from point-blank range.
Just as he thought this was a pathetic way to die—
Thud.
His body launched into the air.
His toe had snagged on a rock.
A sharp whoosh followed as the sword sliced empty space. Han Ibi's airborne clothes tore with a slash.
Bam!
Han Ibi crashed into a pine tree with a crash and plummeted.
Pain exploded through him, like every bone had shattered.
Still better than getting stabbed.
As he shook his head to clear it, the masked man's sword came back into view.
The man sneered.
"You rat!"
The sword rained down relentlessly.
No escape behind the tree. His waist was about to be skewered—
Thud!
The masked man's blade sank into the thick pine trunk.
Han Ibi had swung onto a thick branch like a gymnast on a bar.
He scrambled up onto it hastily.
The masked man wasn't dazed for long.
He flipped through the air and landed on a branch opposite.
Han Ibi thought.
'Lightness skill... That's the lightness technique from the books.'
No time for calm reflection.
The masked man was already swinging his sword again.
His head was about to roll.
In that instant, Han Ibi spotted the pool of blood below on the branch.
All from his own body.
Not his blood originally, but seeing it sparked an idea.
He shook his arms and torso violently.
Gobs of clotted blood sprayed toward the advancing masked man.
A filthy assault.
The man recoiled in disgust, his sword path disrupted.
Slash.
The branch Han Ibi stood on sheared off like rotten wood.
Thud!
'Ow ow ow!'
Han Ibi tumbled with it, rubbing his sore buttock inwardly.
That was when it happened.
Crazy...
Counting so meticulously even in this chaos.
He wasn't the mad one—this system was.
Thud.
Of course, he couldn't check.
The masked man was descending gracefully, charging to finish him off.
'What the hell! It was just three evasions!'
That was when it happened.
As Han Ibi squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch the oncoming blade, a voice reached his ears.
"What do you think you're doing?"
It was a man.
Middle-aged, with patches of white in his hair.
He carried a shoulder pole with buckets of water dangling from each end.
Skinny and gaunt, in ragged gray clothes torn and frayed everywhere—a perfect picture of a beggar.
The masked man's eyes shook wildly at the sight. He seemed greatly flustered.
The man spoke again.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"N-none of your business. Who the hell are you?"
Regaining his composure, the masked man growled viciously. But the stranger showed no fear.
"You rude pup! Mind your elders when they speak."
Han Ibi thought.
'Elder? This guy's not that old.'
Then the masked leader yelled from afar.
"You idiot! What are you doing? Take him out together!"
"Yes!"
The masked man bowed curtly, raised his sword, and prepared to strike the stranger.
Han Ibi shouted desperately.
"Mister! Run!"
But the man didn't budge.
The sword whistled through the air.
The blade was about to embed in the man's face, dooming him to a screaming death!
Han Ibi shuddered at the impending horror.
That was when it happened.
Thwack!
The masked man toppled backward. The stranger had kicked him square in the head—buckets still on his shoulders.
Not a drop spilled despite the violent motion.
Han Ibi thought.
'No law says he has to die. Must be a master!'
As the masked man leaped up sword-first—
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
It sounded like beating a wet blanket.
The man had set down his buckets, grabbed his pole, and was savagely clubbing the masked man's head.
Blood poured from under the fallen mask.
Good thing it hid the mess. It must be pulverized. Brutal handiwork.
The man muttered.
"Hmph. Vermin yapping like that."
Silence blanketed the woods in an instant.
The other masked men swarmed, encircling him.
The leader spoke first.
"We didn't realize a master was here. Might we ask who you are...?"
But the man ignored them completely, frowning at the hellish pile of corpses.
He clicked his tongue and said.
"You? The one who dirtied up my front yard like this."
The leader stammered, flustered.
"Your home...?"
The man pointed impatiently.
"That hut over there. My house."
Now that he mentioned it, a small shack stood there.
The leader said.
"So this has been your residence all along, senior. But might we ask who you—"