The End Is Another Beginning (4)
Jong Ri-gok glared at the sparring platform with a terrifying look in his eyes. The sight of his disciples carrying the fallen Jong Seo-han away stabbed painfully into him.
Goddamn it.
The faint sound of teeth grinding rang out.
He knew perfectly well that, if he valued face, he should never let his emotions show—but Jong Ri-gok could not begin to contain the boiling rage surging inside him.
What a humiliation!
He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, and his whole body trembled.
The crowd’s cheers went on and on.
This was truly disastrous.
The fact that Jongnam had been defeated by Mount Hua at the last Hwajong Jihoe was already fairly well known. There were simply too many people who took pleasure in Jongnam’s disgrace rather than Mount Hua’s rise.
Even so, that time only a few retainers had witnessed it. Since not many had seen it with their own eyes, far more people had failed to grasp just how real it was.
But this contest was being watched by far too many eyes. If each of them so much as opened their mouths once, the whole world would know of Jongnam’s defeat.
And there was one more fact that made Jong Ri-gok even angrier.
How?
That sword art.
The sword art that had just defeated Jong Seo-han looked far too familiar.
Was it not strikingly similar to Snow Flower Twelve Sword, the technique Jongnam had poured its blood and sweat into creating?
How did they restore it?! Mount Hua shouldn’t have had anything left of it!
That sword art, the very symbol of Mount Hua!
Then, at that moment—
“Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art…”
A voice like a groan escaped Beop Jeong’s mouth.
At once, every gaze on the raised platform turned toward him.
“Amitabha. Sect Leader of Mount Hua, has Mount Hua recovered the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art?”
“That is correct.”
“Oh…”
Beop Jeong, uncharacteristically, widened his eyes and looked at Hyun Jong. His expression trembled with visible shock.
“My heart ached when I heard that Mount Hua had lost the essence of its sword art, so to learn that you have restored it at last is truly something to be celebrated.”
“You are too kind. By fortune, we were able to recover the manual left behind by our ancestors.”
“Indeed, indeed. I had thought Mount Hua’s rise to be inexplicable, but it seems there was such a hidden story. If you have recovered the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art, who in the world could dare look down on Mount Hua?”
At Beop Jeong’s words, Hyun Jong wore a faint smile.
Strictly speaking, those words did not match reality.
Mount Hua’s resurgence had begun far earlier, and the recovery of the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art had merely served to put the finishing touch on that rise.
But there was no need to point that out to them.
“We are content simply to have recovered the swords of our ancestors. And…”
Hyun Jong slightly turned his head and looked toward the sparring platform. As his gaze shifted, he clearly saw Jong Ri-gok’s face hardening like stone.
“If that sword art allows us to achieve favorable results, there would be nothing more to wish for.”
Jong Ri-gok’s fist shook.
Dammit.
The Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art.
The symbol of Mount Hua, and the sword art that had caused Jongnam to be cursed for centuries with the disgraceful judgment of being beneath Mount Hua.
And now, to make matters worse, Mount Hua had reclaimed that sword. Worse still, Jongnam’s Snow Flower Twelve Sword had just been broken by it.
The Snow Flower Twelve Sword goes beyond the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art. If it’s properly mastered, there’s no way it can lose to that sword art. No way!
But the result before his eyes was the opposite.
There was no reason Jong Seo-han’s understanding of the Snow Flower Twelve Sword should have lagged behind Baek Cheon’s understanding of the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art.
And yet Jong Seo-han had been utterly crushed without even having a chance to properly exert himself.
Grinding his teeth, Jong Ri-gok turned toward the side where Jin Geum-ryong stood.
You cannot lose.
Jong Seo-han could lose.
But if Jin Geum-ryong lost, the meaning would be entirely different. The moment he fell, Jongnam would have no choice but to admit that the younger generation of this era could not measure up to Mount Hua.
That humiliation was something he could not bear.
And beyond that…
Baek Cheon was not the whole of it, was he?
Jong Ri-gok’s gaze shifted to Chung Myung.
The Mount Hua Divine Dragon.
And then there were the others of Mount Hua, each of whom was said to be comparable to Baek Cheon.
A cold chill slid through Jong Ri-gok’s chest.
Maybe…
Maybe he was watching the exact moment Mount Hua surpassed Jongnam.
It was the one thing he absolutely refused to acknowledge.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Fighting spirit sliced past Jo Gul’s face like a blade.
Whoosh!
As the pole cut through the air, it split Jo Gul’s cheek open as well. Heat flared over his skin, but his eyes did not waver in the slightest.
Faster. Stronger!
So this was the main bracket, after all—his opponent’s staff was sharp indeed. He was clearly on a different level from the men Jo Gul had faced in the preliminaries.
But not so strong that he could not be beaten. If it came down to sharpness, Senior Brother Yoon Jong’s sword was far sharper, and if it came down to subtlety, it could not even begin to compare to Yu I-seol.
As for overall level, Baek Cheon was far higher—and in terms of sheer presence?
He doesn’t even reach the tips of Chung Myung’s toes.
Only now did Jo Gul truly understand the sort of people he had been sparring with all this time.
If he had trained alone, he would never have reached this level.
It was because there were senior brothers and sisters training alongside him, struggling alongside him, and because there was someone who reached out from some impossibly distant place and dragged him forward, that he had been able to come this far.
Jo Gul ground his teeth.
Cold in the heart. Even colder in the head!
“Haah!”
His sword traced a razor-sharp arc.
Jo Gul’s plum blossoms.
Different from Chung Myung’s, different from Baek Cheon’s.
Plum blossoms bloomed on every peak of Mount Hua, and no two flowers were exactly alike—so how could the Plum Blossom Sword Art itself ever be the same?
A plum blossom that cannot contain itself and only searches for some ideal form is a dead plum blossom. That was a lesson hammered into his bones and heart countless times.
His blossoms swiftly gathered around the staff that came flying in as though it meant to pierce the sun.
Clang-clang-clang!
The moment the plum blossoms formed of sword qi collided with the staff, a metallic ringing rang out as if iron had struck iron.
Then the incoming staff was knocked back cleanly.
Jo Gul did not let the opening slip away.
Flash!
As though a beam of sunlight pierced through clouds of blooming plum petals, sword qi flashed bright and sharp. Plum Blossom Illuminating Light.
“Ugh!”
The beggar from Beggar’s Union dropped to his knees then and there, the brilliant sword qi driving into his chest.
“Enough!”
A thunderous voice boomed out.
“This match goes to Mount Hua’s Jo Gul!”
Jo Gul took back his sword, sheathed it, and quietly clasped his hands in salute.
“I learned a lot.”
Then, with disciplined steps, he turned and descended from the platform.
By then, even the crowd could no longer cheer so freely.
Someone swallowed dryly and muttered, “A-are they seriously going to win this whole thing?”
“No way.”
“No, listen—I’m serious. How many are even left now? A hundred at most? By the end of today, there’ll only be sixty-four left. Mount Hua already has the most disciples remaining, and if they keep winning like this, what do you think happens?”
“……Now that you mention it.”
“If Mount Hua wins, that’ll be a huge upset. Something completely absurd will happen.”
The crowd fell silent and looked toward the area where Mount Hua’s disciples were gathered.
Win?
Mount Hua?
It had been the kind of thing people said as a joke—but now it was no longer something that could be called a joke.
If Mount Hua won this Heavenly Alliance Martial Tournament, it would surely become the single biggest event in nearly a hundred years.
Isn’t this a problem?
Mount Hua had been expelled from the Gupailbang decades ago. And now those very same people were competing in the tournament, crushing every outstanding disciple of the Gupailbang and the Odaesega on their way to victory?
If that happened, it would amount to proof that the people who had driven Mount Hua out of the Gupailbang had been wrong all along.
From the Gupailbang’s perspective, there could be no greater disgrace.
“Hasn’t some of it already been proven? If Mount Hua’s been climbing back up like this, who could deny that they deserve a place among the orthodox sects?”
“Isn’t that going too far? They’re still just the younger generation.”
“And what, do the old generation live forever? If the younger generation is this strong now, who can say Mount Hua won’t become the greatest sect in the world someday?”
“……No one, I suppose.”
“Then the Gupailbang will become nothing more than a bunch of idiots who expelled the future strongest sect from their ranks. Am I wrong?”
“……”
No one could answer easily.
It was far too disrespectful a thing to say out loud. And they were worried, too, that if they let such words loose, they might somehow reach the ears of the Gupailbang themselves.
But even if they could not say it, everyone thought the same thing in their hearts.
The Gupailbang is getting utterly humiliated.
This is going to be a sight worth seeing.
Most of the people here knew this tournament had, in truth, been created as a stage for the so-called great sects to gather and display their power.
Internally, it was meant to foster camaraderie among those sects; externally, it was meant to flaunt their strength. In doing so, it would only tighten the grip of the great sects that led the world.
And yet Mount Hua had stepped into that structure and changed everything.
If Mount Hua won like this…
It would look as if Mount Hua had gobbled up the feast laid out by the great sects and slipped away with it.
The spectators’ eyes began to gleam strangely.
They wanted to see it.
It might be something they would never witness again in their lifetimes—or even in the whole of history. A desire to see that moment with their own eyes began spreading through the crowd.
And as he watched that scene unfold, Chung Myung’s lips curled into a grin.
The stage is set beautifully.
This was why he had kicked up such a fuss over getting the gold slips, demanding that even one more person be allowed into the tournament.
Chung Myung’s own victory?
Sure, that would be nice too.
But on such a perfectly prepared stage, wouldn’t it be disappointing if all he took home was the result that “the strongest younger disciple in the world came from Mount Hua”?
What he needed to show the people gathered here was not Chung Myung’s strength, but Mount Hua’s strength.
He needed to leave no doubt that Mount Hua, the sect of the Plum Blossom Sword, had finally risen again in splendor after long years of grinding determination and hardship.
Only then would he be able to—
Chung Myung lifted his eyes slightly.
Really shove it up those Gupailbang bastards’ asses.
By now, they would probably never again be able to watch a match in peace.
“You’ve all been way too cozy up to now.”
Just wait. He’d make them feel as if their blood was drying up day by day.
“Chung Myung Dojang! Here’s your payout…”
“Ah, right!”
Chung Myung grinned from ear to ear and ran over to the betting stall. He pulled out a fresh sack from his robes and began sweeping the winnings into it.
“Nice and heavy. Good!”
He laughed delightedly, tucked the sack away, and grabbed another bundle of slips.
“The next match is Jongnam’s Jin Geum-ryong against Qingcheng’s—”
“Ten thousand nyang on Jin Geum-ryong!”
“The next match is Namgung’s Namgung Do-wi against—”
“Ten thousand nyang on Namgung Do-wi!”
“Mount Hua’s Yoon Jong against—”
“Fifty thousand nyang on Mount Hua’s Yoon Jong!”
“Fifty thousand nyang on Yu I-seol!”
“……”
“A hundred thousand nyang on Hye Yeon!”
“Thirty thousand nyang on Baek Cheon!”
Rattle-rattle-rattle!
Behind Chung Myung, the stuffed sacks piled up like a mountain.
And everyone watching that scene was stunned speechless.
He got them all right?
Is he some kind of fortune-teller?
At this point, it has to be fixed, doesn’t it?
Some even cast suspicious looks as though they could not believe their eyes.
Predicting the outcome of a match?
That was not particularly difficult.
Anyone here could probably claim about an eighty percent chance of getting it right if they were asked to wager everything they owned.
The problem was the remaining twenty percent.
To say you can get eighty percent right is to say you will be wrong twenty percent of the time.
And that was perfectly natural. If the outcome of a fight could be known with certainty before the fight even began, what need would there be for a sparring tournament at all?
People always lose money because of that twenty percent. But this Chung Myung had already gotten dozens of matches right in a row.
The sacks of money piled behind him were proof enough.
As he glanced at the growing mountain of wealth, an undisguised look of satisfaction bloomed on his face.
“Heeheehee!”
Th-that guy!
That Taoist bastard!
Ugh, he’s infuriating!
They had no choice but to watch the money leave their own pockets and pile up in someone else’s hands. The gamblers’ eyes gradually turned vicious.
“Next is Mount Hua’s Dang Soso against Jongnam’s—”
Before Wi Lip-san could even finish, the gamblers, now poisoned with frustration, shouted over him.
“Four hundred nyang on Dang Soso!”
“I’ll take Dang Soso for a thousand!”
“Two thousand on Dang Soso!”
“Huh? Two thousand?”
“Don’t you know anything? Mount Hua has won every single one so far! Besides, that dojang there is one of Mount Hua’s people, isn’t he? Up until now, every time one of Mount Hua’s disciples came up, he’s bet on them! Screw the odds—we just need to win first!”
Realizing they would be ruined if they chased the wrong odds, the gamblers began pouring every last coin they had onto Dang Soso.
Their plan was to follow Chung Myung and win steadily rather than try to gorge themselves on some clumsy giant payout.
In an instant, the betting table for Dang Soso was buried beneath a mountain of money.
“Hmmmm.”
Chung Myung grinned as he looked at the scene.
“Seems like you folks are learning to read the room a bit.”
Hearing that, the people around him all let out sighs of relief.
“But the money’s looking a little lopsided.”
Chung Myung began rummaging through the slips stuffed into the sacks behind him.
And then…
Thud!
The slip he tossed landed squarely on the opposite side of the pile of money.
“Fifteen thousand nyang on Jongnam’s Yi Song-baek.”
“……”
The gamblers stared at Chung Myung with trembling eyes.
Chung Myung shrugged.
“What?”
“……”
You don’t bet on that side!
You damn malko!
Moisture welled up in the eyes of the crowd.