Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: 8. People Who Have Been Weeded Out (1)
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Whoosh—
A chilly wind blew.
In the biting cold gusts, a man with a thick, unkempt beard stared blankly ahead with vacant eyes.
Huff.
Huff, huff—
Steady intervals.
Steady breaths.
With each repetition of the motion—whose duration no one could know—his body, covered in scars, rippled dynamically. The old man who called himself the Blood Demon watched the man intently, then furrowed his brow and clicked his tongue.
"Tsk tsk. With killing intent that intense."
Creeeak.
He took a step forward.
Ordinary people wouldn't sense any killing intent from the man.
Instead, his soulless, inhuman aura stirred an uncanny unease. But the world the Blood Demon saw was different. Those unfocused, hazy eyes hid a bottomless abyss where a colossal killing intent—a level no human should possess—boiled like a volcano.
"The Blood Demon Art stems from killing intent, but if you rampage without distinguishing friend from foe like that, you'll lose yourself to madness and drive a blade into your own heart. You think I'll let the fruit of my hard labor meet such a pathetic end? Follow me."
Swish.
He walked ahead first.
The man, who seemed incapable of conversation, sheathed his sword and reacted instantly to the Blood Demon's command.
They walked for a long time.
Opening the door to a rundown shack blanketed in snow carried by the wind revealed a surprisingly neat workshop inside. It was an unfamiliar sight to the man. There was a furnace for lighting fires and various tools for smelting. The Blood Demon picked up a hammer from among them and tossed it to the floor.
"Pick it up."
"...What the hell is this for?"
His voice was hoarse.
As if he hadn't drunk a sip of water, his cracked throat grated like nails on a chalkboard.
"I told you not to question my orders. It's simple. From now on, you're going to forge a sword in here. A demon sword that contains your killing intent without letting it leak out. Until you make it, no outings, no training—nothing. Got it?"
"Understood."
The Blood Demon's command
was like the heavens.
The man calmly picked up the hammer and looked at the Blood Demon.
"So, what do I start with?"
Chirp chirp—
The snow melted away.
Even as birds heralding spring perched on branches, the man still faced the blistering heat in the workshop.
Whoosh.
Roooar.
The flames roared to life.
The man swallowed the throat-searing heat and hammered away like a madman, over and over.
Clang—!
Clang, clang—!
He couldn't comprehend what he was doing.
If he had any knowledge of martial arts, he might have questioned the Blood Demon's methods with common sense. But he lacked that capacity. To grow stronger despite knowing nothing, he had to swallow whatever the Blood Demon fed him—poison or medicine. He couldn't grasp suppressing his valuable killing intent, but his exploding muscles kept slamming the blade.
Clang—!
Clang, clang!
One hammer strike.
One fragment of memory.
Clang—!
Clang, clang—!
With each repetition, his mind filled with people he yearned to kill.
Each time, the blade sharpened menacingly.
It oozed killing intent so vile that even grazing skin would cleave to the bone, captivating the eye like a true demon sword. The Blood Demon inspected each one with dissatisfaction and discarded it. The man had to melt it down and start anew.
The sun grew fiercer.
The workshop filled with unbearable heat. After countless failures, snowflakes danced outside again. Seasons cycled many times. He hacked off his shaggy beard with the blade and devoted himself to the forge like a savage, spending no small amount of time.
Then one day.
Creeeak.
The workshop door opened.
Just like that first day.
Winter chilled the outside, but his bare torso steamed with pent-up heat.
Sizzle.
Swish.
He raised the sword.
His eyes, now clear as a still mirror, no longer revealed the abyss.
"That's a fine sword."
That day,
the Blood Demon declared
he had reached a new stage of the Blood Demon Art, one that restrained killing intent.
"For killing people."
Flash—
"Urk."
The memory flooded his mind violently.
Kang San clutched his head with both hands, shoved his face between his knees, and gritted his teeth.
It made him want to vomit.
He desperately swallowed the nausea, body trembling. He couldn't comprehend the Blood Demon or his past life. Why teach arts for killing when they were both human? Why learn from such a monster?
The Blood Tribulation was inevitable.
A future where people were toys existed in the memories of his past life that Kang San had experienced.
Grind.
"...Fuck."
His face flushed red.
As he finally caught his breath and lifted his head, Kang San beheld a truly bewildering sight.
The Blood Demon Art is an atrocious martial art that turns you into a demon of the present world the moment you lose control of your inner demon.
📍 Objective: Master controlling your killing intent to avoid repeating your past life's mistakes. Produce a demon sword worthy of the name within one week, or be deemed unable to control the Blood Demon Art and face judgment.
🎁 Reward: Mental Strength stat created +10, Crafting Skill
So that's why it had been quiet.
A mission unmentioned even during his devoted Ranger duties popped up out of nowhere.
It was a novel approach.
Previous ordeals and trials involved enemies or situations to overcome with his and his allies' abilities. But this was different. For Kang San, who had zero interest in crafting swords, it was absurd. Yet he couldn't ignore the mission message.
As if gaining a new power.
He now accepted Azmun's omniscience—able to steal anything at any time.
Just then,
the blacksmith he'd been watching turned toward Kang San at the sound.
"Something wrong?"
"Well..."
He swallowed his agitation.
At the end of his gaze
lay his untouched sword.
"Could I work on my sword personally? Watching you, I kinda want to give it a try."
Kang San's question was unusual.
The blacksmith stared with a sour expression before tossing the sword over and pointing to the side.
"Head right all the way—there's a private workshop. Pay the fee, and use it as much as you want."
"Ah, thanks."
He moved immediately.
Soon,
he reached the private workshop.
Everything was unfamiliar from start to finish.
Kang San knew nothing about smithing, and typical hunters like him dismissed it. Naturally so. All smiths could do was restore durability—what value did simple labor hold in a world ruled by strength? Smiths and such craftsmen were widely seen as people weeded out by the new era.
Even regular office jobs
belonged to those unfit for hunter work.
They scraped by at the bottom, trading time for wages like F-rank arrow sponges.
'Me, forging a demon sword myself.'
No ideas came readily.
He considered asking the blacksmith, but doubted the man had the skill.
Items
were beyond human realm.
If Azmun demanded a demon sword rivaling items, no ordinary smith held the key. Only one path remained: revisiting past life memories. Shown longer this time, it seemed meant to provide clues there.
Whoosh.
Roooar.
He lit the furnace.
Recalling memories, he melted mana stones and poured them over the sword.
And then.
Clang—!
Clang, clang—!
Like in his past life.
He hammered with vigor.
His arm numbed from the recoil, but with no alternatives, Kang San kept at it.
Clang!
Clang, clang!
At first, clumsy.
But soon, Kang San grew accustomed.
Absorbing past life memories like a sponge, he projected and applied them to himself. How the man swung the hammer. How to heat the blade. No certainty it was right, but no other choice.
Clang—!
A crisp ring.
His heart raced.
Immersed, Kang San pondered.
'Blood Demon. What kind of man was he?'
A lingering question.
The man wandered the world aimlessly for some reason.
Meeting his master, the Blood Demon, was fated, not chance—and it unleashed a storm of blood on the martial world. The killing intent surging during forging. Fleeting memory shards suggested the man had his own reasons too. A motive like revenge, demanding kills.
Even so.
'Murder isn't right.'
Memory fragments.
The man killed innocents.
He cut down heroic swordsmen trying to protect people, turning one man into a sea of corpses. Mangled bodies—fathers, husbands, children—granted no justification to his broken form.
He was a murderer.
No other word fit.
No normal person becomes such a monster.
'I've never made excuses for my life. Endless misfortunes came, but I endured fiercely, not cursing them or giving up. I'm different from you. Even if your collapsed, dignity-lost self is my past life, it doesn't define me now.'
Clang—!
Strength surged into his body.
It felt right.
Hammering like his past self would yield something new.
Failure meant losing everything.
Kang San poured his desperation.
Each strike churned mana violently, seeping into the blade.
An unnatural phenomenon.
Unaware to this world's people, Kang San hammered on.
But then.
Clang—!
Crack.
Crumbleshatter.
The sword shattered outright.
Despair washed over Kang San's face.
Shards flying everywhere signaled his method—and the 'demon sword' mission—had failed.