Chapter 87
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: It Was Real? (1)
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"It seems the Beggars' Sect has caught a whiff of something."
"Who is it?"
"Hong Mugae. Shall I take him out?"
"Just keep an eye on him for now."
He had anticipated the Beggars' Sect getting involved after the failures with So Ho and the Nangong Family. Once trouble hit one of the Five Great Families like the Nangong, it was only natural for the Beggars' Sect to step in.
Even if they had sniffed something out, as long as he didn't hand them any solid leads to chase, that was that. The Nangong Family had no interest in letting word of this incident spread either, so the information the Beggars' Sect could dig up was inherently limited.
Still, complacency was dangerous. Even the Demonic Cult regarded the Beggars' Sect's intelligence network as a thorn in their side.
The two failures wouldn't derail the grand undertaking, but they were proof of incompetence in their own right.
"You're taking this awfully hard."
"Still sneaking in like a rat, I see."
Even in a room sealed on all sides, Mukam didn't flinch. The wall warped strangely, shifting into the shape of a man. It could only be stealth arts at their pinnacle.
"You're deeply troubled, my lord."
"It won't affect the grand undertaking."
"Failing even at small tasks twice over and then invoking the grand undertaking? You've grown shameless."
"Watch your mouth."
A sharp killing intent emanated from Mukam, who looked like a scholar. It was pressure even those with ironclad resolve would struggle to withstand.
"Oh dear, oh dear! I'm not here to fight. My apologies. I just meant your worries run deep."
"Get to the point."
"You're fretting over the supply of goods not being smooth. And the costs are piling up, too."
"No need to worry about that. We'll have the merchant groups in Anhui and Jiangsu under our thumb soon enough."
"That's your business to handle. I just hope there are no more failures this time. That's the truth."
"Shut it. You handle the North Sea Ice Palace yourself."
"Will do."
The man, who had held his form until then, melted into the wall like mist and vanished in an instant. He was someone who could shift into any shape, fluid as fog itself.
'Insolent bastard! I'll make you regret that.'
As one of the Shadow forces, he too needed this mission to succeed without fail. He might even have to play his hidden ace for the sake of rivalry.
Graceful and swift, like a hawk eyeing its prey!
The Beggars' Sect's signature technique, the Heavenly Flight Shadowless Art, was in full display. For him, this counted as a solid step forward. The stagnant progress that had dragged on indefinitely had suddenly unlocked, setting sights on the next stage.
Light as a feather, he leaped from the ground and landed with elegant poise.
Bam-bam-bam-bam!
Yeah, right!
He soared purely to survive, without a second thought. Glancing back was too terrifying. No need to look—he was still alive, so the outcome was clear. Traces of destruction littered the area, boasting its power.
Huff!
Dodge.
To live.
Too late, and he'd be mush. No mercy existed here. Fail to reach the desired breakthrough, and his body would be cleaved in two.
Screeeeech!
A single strand of sword gang hurtled toward him.
It shredded through blocking rocks and trees without mercy, holes punched clean through, aiming to sever his lifeline. The eerie whoosh was accompanied by a massive pillar of earth erupting skyward, scattering in the wind—a spectacular sight.
'Those scum deserve to rot in hell!'
He survived this time too. But the urge to curse welled up uncontrollably. He absolutely couldn't let slip any profanity toward the monster possibly chasing from behind. Even a slip-up, laced with resentment, would invite retaliation. And its ears were unnaturally sharp.
"I'm not that petty. If I receive, I must repay."
Better nothing at all—I don't want it!
He'd complained pointlessly.
Should've just shut up and followed quietly.
After selling the carriage, hell itself awaited.
He could somewhat understand why those guys charging ahead were stronger than expected. Here, weakness meant no tomorrow.
And so.
His will to live burned fiercely. To survive, they had no qualms using those around them.
As he turned to flee again, recalling their dirty tricks made his blood boil.
One threw dirt in his eyes, another tripped his legs.
Some days, they even spiked his food.
Never in his life had he seen scum more underhanded than beggars. Yet this was the brutal reality that forced it.
Understanding the situation only frustrated him more.
'Why... push me off the cliff?!'
Yukchil was learning the terror of mountaineering down to his bones. The thrill of reaching the mid-tier of the Heavenly Flight Shadowless Art in mere days had evaporated.
"No slacking off."
The devil's decree.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine, flowing like a stream to soak his rear. His guts twisted in tension, bile rising.
Kaboom! Boom!
A downpour of sword gangs.
Energy rained like a torrent, turning the area into a wasteland. Yukchil regretted his report immediately. He'd held back the truth, and now it showed.
'It's Peak Realm!'
He'd reported it as Absolute Pinnacle, but a barrage the next day—what did that make his judgment?
Why not hide it longer?
Wasn't that the plan all along?
"How about it? Feel the dignity of an absolute master?"
He never dreamed the man craved attention this badly. If he'd blocked the intel flow, maybe different story—but this guy didn't care. Utterly irresponsible, indifferent to being known or not.
To think such an open bastard existed!
Yukchil didn't want to rank Mujin alongside the Divine State's Twenty-One Strongest. If a guy like that matched the former Beggars' Sect Leader, it'd piss off any sect disciple.
"At my age, pulling this off means miracle elixirs won't work... right?"
They'd turn to ash anyway—invincible under the heavens, or whatever.
He should deny it.
If that fool were truly invincible, what of the world?! Yet it felt possible. Variables aside, he couldn't flat-out refute it.
"Meager as it is, you've got a knack for survival. Impressive."
Was this praise or an insult?
Yukchil, barely catching his breath after surviving, swallowed the curse threatening to escape. But tolerating such a flippant assessment of the Beggars' Sect's prized technique was tough.
'We get it.'
Cheolho and Narung understood Yukchil's bottled rage better than anyone. Pride in their sect meant nothing to Mujin. Efforts to reclaim honor only piled on self-loathing. He thought it was the end—but it was merely the snake's tail.
'Just give up; it's easier.'
Don't compare to Mujin. Humans compare to humans. Pitting against a non-human made life barren.
"Walking beats the carriage after all, doesn't it?"
They were nearing Yongzhong Mountain already.
From Wuhuan to the next relay, they'd ridden carriage until Yukchil's loose lips turned it into a hike.
Self-inflicted, foot rot.
From then on, it was run-for-your-life sprints. Sour breath was daily routine. Legs felt foreign from endless running.
No complaints despite the grind because they were growing stronger.
Not the type to indulge whining anyway—better talking to walls for mental health.
Body aches, but mind at ease.
For this moment, Cheolho, Narung, and Yukchil were united.
Mujin descended the mountain and sought an inn.
Yangyang County, not far from Yongzhong Mountain, was sizable with plenty of inns. Asking locals, he found one with a solid reputation.
Big and flashy didn't guarantee good. Glitter without substance spelled doom. Of course, he skipped any that neglected even appearances.
Huaping Inn.
After booking rooms, washing up, and changing into fresh clothes, he'd prepaid the owner for meals. The table held neatly arranged, appetizing dishes. A small touch, but they respected serving order.
Yukchil grumbled from his chair.
"How long do I have to wear this?"
"Stomach full already? Even buying you clothes gets complaints. Better than sackcloth, isn't it?"
"Still, I'm a branch leader at least. This hurts my face!"
"Shut it! Stink up, and you're dead."
Despite sprinting till his breath soured, Yukchil had to stay clean. Any whiff, and Mujin shook him down till odorless. A beggar forced into neatness unwittingly.
Every contact with local sect members required explaining his tale.
"Who're you?"
"It's me, Yukchil!"
Strangers might understand, but acquaintances playing dumb was infuriating.
He'd reeked the Beggars' Sect's signature stench. For beggars, smell and filth were badges. They even ranked who stank and dirtied most.
He'd always placed high.
Armored in cleanliness now, no wonder unrecognized. Explaining every time made meeting sect folk awkward for Yukchil.
"Since when did the Beggars' Sect fuss over that? To gather intel, swallow discomfort as needed. Modern beggars lack grit."
Ugh!
Yukchil couldn't retort to Mujin's scolding.
It rang true.
Every Beggars' Sect member was an informant. True informants endured extremes for info. That was proper form. But acting "normal" grated.
Mujin quizzed Yukchil on the current landscape.
"Recite the power structure."
"You know the Nine Great Sects and Five Great Families. The Black Dragon Gang is a coalition of twelve unorthodox sects formed to shake the current righteous-dominated order."
Yukchil outlined groups, distributions, territories, then dove into incidents. Info was money, not free—but Mujin was clueless on the jianghu. Not ordinarily ignorant; he knew next to nothing.
Basic stuff anyone with ears would've heard. The more revealed, the stranger the man.
"Why stare like that?"
"Shouldn't you know this basics?"
"Small fry."
"……(Crack)."
Surely the Nine Great Sects and Five Great Families weren't "small fry" too?
No way!
Has to be.
Yet it felt like he truly thought so. Confidence beyond limits—monstrous arrogance.
"Brief me on the Divine State's Twenty-One Strongest."
"What do you know?"
"I know the Sword Emperor."
"……!"
Who doesn't know the Sword Emperor? Don't strut knowing that! Impulse to crack open his skull and peek inside surged often.
"Kidding. As if I'd not know."
"Know the Six Saints, Seven Killers, Five Peaks?"
"They're the Twenty-One Strongest."
He doesn't know squat!
Damn punk!
Yukchil swallowed curses and sighs.
It lingered faintly in Mujin's memory.
He'd recalled that era's memories at times. Post-return, he'd heard of the Twenty-One but hadn't delved deep.
'How am I to memorize every small fry!'
-Fair point.
This time, even the Demon King fully agreed. Beyond the Demonic Cult's core leaders, he hadn't bothered much.
With his current might, even the Demon King couldn't match him. Honestly, he'd grown tremendously strong.