Chapter 34: The Fist King, This Too Is Martial Arts
The Fist King, This Too Is Martial Arts
Episode 34: The Fist King, This Too Is Martial Arts
"Did I say I'd come back?"
Who was he even talking to? In the midst of the chaotic battleground, Cheol Myung-ho's words echoed into the empty air.
By now, numbness had begun creeping up his arm. But then, something strange happened. The moment the face he remembered appeared before his eyes, the pain that had been searing through his entire arm vanished as if washed away. In a way, this was the essence of the Poison Fox. When consumed by venomous thoughts, even the most excruciating pain and hardship became bearable.
Cheol Myung-ho wandered through the carnage left in Dan Woo-sung's wake, seeking out only those who had once hunted him down like prey. With his black iron umbrella, he shattered their skulls one by one.
"...Two thousand, eight hundred, ninety-eight."
Dan Woo-sung's words echoed in his ears like a phantom whisper.
A rat or the Poison Fox...?
Cheol Myung-ho, like a madman, answered himself.
"Ah, no. I'm the Poison Fox."
Because the pain only faded when he exuded malice, he had no choice but to keep muttering to himself. His goal was to reach a hundred thousand strikes—only then would he hear his friend say, "Truly, you are the Poison Fox."
Truthfully, aside from the moniker "Poison Fox," Cheol Myung-ho had nothing left.
His martial arts were mediocre. His family had long since fallen into ruin. The women in his life had left. And there was no one left around him who could be called a friend.
Well, except for one.
After all, that guy had bought him noodles when he was starving.
Cheol Myung-ho was a man with a twisted way of thinking. He didn't dwell on the fact that Dan Woo-sung had taken back all the money he had stolen. Instead, he cared more about the three bowls of noodles he'd been given when he was hungry. Even if Dan Woo-sung told him to drop dead right then, he wouldn't have had a word to say in protest.
And so, Cheol Myung-ho wandered aimlessly through the blood-soaked streets of Yukwan's entertainment district, wielding his black umbrella and wearing a grotesque human-leather mask.
Whenever he spotted one of the bastards who had chased him before, he pursued without hesitation and brought his heavy iron umbrella crashing down on the back of their skulls. Most were already injured or paralyzed with fear, making their deaths effortless.
But just how much stronger had that friend of his—the one who had ordered him to strike a hundred thousand times—become?
Whenever exhaustion weighed on him, Cheol Myung-ho would pause and blankly watch Dan Woo-sung fight.
'Ah, that bastard fights so well.'
Awe and envy tangled together in his chest.
'I want to fight like that too.'
When he turned his head, he saw the underlings of the Jangsan Faction and the Nopyobang—groups that had never gotten along—lying side by side in death.
Many others had died in bizarre poses.
The executives of the Flood Dragon Gang and the Hongnak Fortress had stabbed each other through the stomach with their own blades.
Some had died in each other's arms—though of course, their heads had been pulverized first. Many had fled, their numbers dwindling rapidly.
They were the smartest ones.
Dan Woo-sung didn't bother chasing those who ran. He only sought out those who attacked him and the strongest of the Black Path, slaughtering them without mercy.
What could this massacre even be called?
There was only one fitting term:
Purge of the Black Path.
Most of the strong fighters Cheol Myung-ho remembered were already corpses.
True to his nature as the Poison Fox, he had been scanning the battlefield for familiar faces when an unexpected sight made him freeze mid-step.
This carnage had brought joy to more than a few. He overheard merchants muttering among themselves.
"Does this mean we don't have to pay tribute anymore?"
"They're all dead or fled—who would we even pay?"
"I heard the Grand Prince of the Silver River Merchant Group might take over."
Cheol Myung-ho, passing by, scoffed at their words.
"He's not that kind of guy."
"Huh?"
The merchants flinched as the masked figure glared at them.
"I said he's not like that. He's richer than all of you combined. Stop worrying about useless things."
No one understood the struggles of small-scale merchants better than Cheol Myung-ho.
Bizarrely, some of the spectators were even cheering for the Grand Prince of the Silver River Merchant Group. These were not weak-willed masses cowed by fear.
The crowd was just as ruthless. Some merchants had grabbed fish-cleaving knives and slit the throats of those who had once extorted or harassed them.
Especially the butchers—they slaughtered the remnants of the Black Path without hesitation.
To them, this massacre was an opportunity—a chance for Yukwan's entertainment district to break free from the Black Path's grip.
They had joined the purge.
Some butchers rallied their comrades, even calling on brothers and friends to join in. Pickaxes and sickles appeared, along with crude clubs and stolen blades, as they surged forward in a mob.
Amidst it all, Cheol Myung-ho laughed inside his mask.
"Kehahahaha... This is fun. So damn fun."
His life had been dull and monotonous. But now, it felt like a festival—a liberation from oppression.
Suddenly, he was startled by the sound of his own laughter. It had been so long since he had laughed out loud.
'Ah, so this is what laughing feels like.'
In his euphoria, his thoughts tangled chaotically. Moving as if dancing through the blood-soaked celebration, he muttered to himself.
"I want to get stronger."
Desperately, insanely stronger.
Not as the masked man reveling in this carnage—but like that childhood friend of his, rampaging through the battlefield.
Just as his mad laughter reached its peak, Cheol Myung-ho suddenly glanced around and swung his iron umbrella downward.
"Two thousand, eight hundred, ninety-nine!"
When his muscles screamed in protest, he answered as if scolding them.
"I am the Poison Fox, Cheol Myung-ho."
The man wielding the black umbrella disappeared into the crowd.
People recognized the madman and quickly stepped aside.
This venomous bastard endlessly recited his count. His lifelong obsession had shifted—from money to strength, and nothing else.
From the beginning, Dan Woo-sung had seen the potential in the Poison Fox. He had merely given him a chance. But seizing that chance was something few could do.
Dan Woo-sung had glimpsed potential in Sa Ma-geuk as well—even in The Youngest, he held a sliver of expectation. Each of them carried an ember in their chest.
All that mattered was whether that ember would ignite into an inferno.
Even as he crushed the remnants of Jeokye's forces, Dan Woo-sung spotted the madman with the umbrella—the so-called "Umbrella Ghost"—but pretended not to recognize him.
Even from a distance, he was unmistakable.
The Poison Fox was swinging his iron umbrella exactly as taught.
But one thing was certain: whether it was Cheol Myung-ho, Sa Ma-geuk, or even Lee Ja-eon, none could come close to Dan Woo-sung's mindset.
In this life, he would become an undefeated martial artist.
However, the martial world Dan Woo-sung envisioned was not one where the strong preyed upon the weak. After all, whose blood were the powerful truly squeezing dry?
This massacre wasn't about money.
He had merely unleashed half of his true strength—and now, aside from him, barely anyone remained standing.
The Jeokye Union had been dismantled in the truest sense.
And it wasn't just Dan Woo-sung's doing.
Ordinary merchants, laborers, boatmen who drowned their exhaustion in alcohol, and even the abused courtesans—all of them had joined in, hunting down the fleeing remnants of the Black Path.
Dan Woo-sung had lit the spark—
But it was the common folk who had set the world ablaze.
Before anyone realized it, the entire working populace of Yukwan's entertainment district had flooded the streets, reclaiming their territory.
Even Dan Woo-sung hadn't anticipated this.
People swarmed toward him. Were they offering drinks? Trying to stammer out awkward words of gratitude?
Dan Woo-sung wasn't interested.
He sent them away with a dismissive wave and wordlessly headed toward Yanghwa Street.
Truly, this had been one hell of an outing.
What would become of the wealth Jeokye had hoarded?
Suddenly, Dan Woo-sung turned back.
The ordinary people of Yukwan's entertainment district were all watching him.
That fortune belonged to them.
After all, it had been built on their extorted tribute.
Later, he would send Chief Administrator Lee Hwa-eon to appoint a representative for Yukwan's district—someone to join the Merchant Alliance. Since he had started this, he intended to see it through.
That was the purpose of the Merchant Alliance, after all.
After the chaotic outing, Dan Woo-sung only realized how parched he was once he reached Yanghwa Street.
His feet naturally led him to the tavern where he had once smashed chairs and tables to extort extra money.
A courtesan wiping down a table recognized him and greeted him familiarly.
"Grand Prince, where have you been?"
Dan Woo-sung replied.
"Out for a stroll."
The courtesan smirked and joked,
"You didn't go cause another ruckus somewhere, did you?"
Dan Woo-sung stared at her as if amazed, and only then did she flinch, hastily apologizing.
"Ah, just a joke, Grand Prince! If I offended you, I apologize."
Dan Woo-sung answered curtly.
"No. You're right. The stroll was a bit... lively."
"I see."
His gaze drifted to the chairs and tables. They weren't new—someone had just replaced the legs and nails. The courtesan quickly explained,
"Ah, we... repurposed them. It seemed wasteful to throw them away."
She had likely pocketed the money, but Dan Woo-sung didn't care.
"Bring me some Maotai. No side dishes."
"Understood."
Maotai was a fragrant, mellow liquor. He only intended to quench his thirst before leaving, so he sat outside the tavern. Though he was curious about the sharp-witted courtesan's name, he didn't ask.
If any stragglers tried to flee this way, he'd deal with them between sips. After all, Yanghwa Street was his territory now—he wouldn't allow the Black Path to set foot here.
Just as he finished his second cup, Cheol Myung-ho appeared, breathing heavily. Still wearing his mask, he tucked his iron umbrella under his arm and demanded,
"Give me one."
Dan Woo-sung poured liquor into two cups. Cheol Myung-ho picked his up and stared at it.
Neither had anything to say.
After a brief silence, they drank at the same time.
Cheol Myung-ho set his cup down and spoke.
"A hundred thousand isn't that many. Wait for me. I'll come back. Once I finish, you'll teach me what comes next."
With only those words, he gripped his umbrella and strode off.
A man with no time to waste.
The courtesan, without being asked, brought out a plate of dried snacks and set it down. Staring at the departing figure, she muttered,
"What the hell was that beggar saying?"
"He's an utterly insane bastard. Don't mind him."
"Hmm, I see."
Dan Woo-sung watched Cheol Myung-ho disappear with an indifferent expression.
The downward strike. What comes next?
Truthfully, it wasn't anything special.
Just a matter of whether it was three hundred thousand or five hundred thousand strikes.
Unlike Sa Ma-geuk—who had been forced to master the Dokgo Nine Swords—or The Youngest, Cheol Myung-ho was fundamentally different. He needed a sword style that suited him. Once he completed the task, Dan Woo-sung planned to teach him the horizontal slash. That, too, would require hundreds of thousands of repetitions.
Next would be thrusting.
If he could endure all of this, things would become simple.
Dan Woo-sung wasn't teaching him a sword style—he was forcing him to create his own.
This, too, was martial arts.