Murim Debut (6) "I Am a Legend-!!"
"I am a legend!!" ...I'd shouted that boastfully, but honestly, my condition wasn't great.
My breath was already ragged, my legs trembling. I'd just chained together Immovable Bright King Step and Dog-Beating Stick Technique, burning through almost all my inner energy. Physically, I was hitting my limit.
But that's exactly why I put on the bravado. I wouldn't show any weakness. I bellowed loudly, projecting strength, sending a message to the enemies: any who wanted their skulls cracked could line up first-come, first-served.
I straightened my back and steadied my breathing. Once more, I raised my staff.
...Psychological warfare.
As the staff lifted, the swordsmen's eyes twitched. Their bodies shrank back. Even though there was only one opponent, not a single one dared move rashly. They looked just like frightened puppies dragged before a dogcatcher.
Numerous as they were, these swordsmen were less ferocious than the half-dragon heir of the Dragon King that I'd faced, less tenacious than the assassins of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult. They feared the merciless staff technique that pounded flesh without mercy, instinctively stepping back without realizing it.
...That confirmed it. As much as I was exhausted and weakened, they were too.
Sure, with their numbers, some hadn't been hit yet and their bodies were intact—but watching their comrades get smashed had frayed their spirits. Body and mind alike, they saw me as a dangerous beast.
Now, if I could just buy time, the guards who'd heard the commotion would show up. After all this flashy chaos? If they didn't, it'd be straight-up dereliction of duty. They'd have to cough up every last copper in taxes.
If they don't realize I'm weakened, victory's mine!!
The moment I thought that—
Unfortunately, one guy who hadn't taken many hits still had his wits about him.
"H-His right leg's shaking bad, right? He's tired, isn't he?"
I glanced down subtly. Even if my words bluffed strength, my body was honest—my right leg was quivering like mad.
Damn leg always acted up at the worst moments.
But luckily, among the survivors, if there was one who'd taken fewer hits, there was also one who'd taken so many his head was scrambled.
"I... heard somewhere that when a master limps~ limps~ like that, he's really pissed. Might be prepping a big move."
...It's been limping~ limping~ since birth.
Anyway, from those words, a weird vibe rippled through them. They exchanged sly glances, whispering furtively.
The mood split: "Huh? He really tired? Should we go in?" versus "Go in and we're dead, right?" They wavered, eyeing each other.
...But that balance didn't last.
The divided opinions slowly tipped toward aggression. Thugs or not, they were Salmak swordsmen. Fleeing from one guy? They couldn't make a living as swords-for-hire anymore.
They gripped their weapons tighter, closing the gap. Watching for a moment more, then they'd swarm.
I planned to smash the first one's head to break their morale.
The cooling tension reignited. Killing intent swirled once more between me and the swordsmen.
...And then, space froze.
Like a white heron descending from the sky, Soso fluttered her pristine white mourning garb, leaping gracefully from the second-floor railing to the first floor. Technically a jump, but it felt like flight—such a safe, light landing.
Her flushed face and unsteady stance made her petite frame seem even more delicate.
Yet no one could touch the little sword fairy before them. The chilling blade slipping slowly from its sheath dominated the space.
Emperor Sword Form. Like courtiers before the king, or fish trapped in a net—immobile.
All senses locked onto the blade. Sucked in.
The jackals fell silent before the overwhelming emperor's arrival. I felt the true might of the Emperor Sword Form for the first time and was purely awestruck. The swordsmen, overwhelmed by Soso's inner energy far surpassing late talent level, couldn't regain their wits.
An instant stretched like an hour before the technique released. Immense power demanded vast inner energy—that was the Emperor Sword Form.
For Soso, cursed and barely holding her body together, she could sustain it only briefly.
But she'd leaped in anyway. For me, whom she'd just met, protecting her savior in his battered state—she too put on a reckless show, staking her life.
Forcing steady breaths, she assumed her stance, sword aimed.
"Come if you wanna die. Sword Dragon Namgung Soso will oblige."
Petite build, petite name. Yet none dared take her threat lightly. Even after the Emperor Sword Form ended, the little king's aura overwhelmed them, freezing them in place.
As the swordsmen stood paralyzed, staring at the blade pointed their way—
A horn blared suddenly.
...Salmak's retreat signal.
No clue why now, but it gave them an out. They grabbed salvageable comrades and scattered in orderly panic—fleeing Soso's sword, really.
No clichéd "We'll get you later!" Just stunned silence at her overwhelming prowess, bolting from the inn.
One slash bent minds, routing foes. A sword fit for an emperor.
Though brief, I—feeling the true Emperor Sword Form of the Nangong family headquarters—narrowed my eyes at my staff. My trusty lifeline, soul partner, Taegu-bbang suddenly felt pathetically shabby.
I regretted not clinging to my master's robes as a kid to learn it.
Regret sprouted like weeds. I glanced slyly at Soso.
...If I top Dog-Beating Stick Technique with Empty Brightness Fist, would she trade for Emperor Sword Form?
My mind whirred with calculations on snagging that technique as she sheathed her sword and staggered over.
"...I have ointment in my room. Hurry and apply it to your wounds."
Her face screamed collapse—who was worrying about whom? Staying here was risky, but venturing out might invite ambushes at chokepoints. So I meekly got first aid in Soso's room.
I'd heard famous families and sects used special ointments that felt different. But this? No different from what we used at home.
Salmak's one-eyed assassin, Jangdal, blew the horn to retreat the swordsmen, then hid himself, evading the steel storm.
Namgung Soso was fair game—commissioned amid Nangong family infighting, killing her meant little backlash. But Sima family second son? Mess with him, and your life wasn't guaranteed, reasons be damned. Bad cost-benefit.
His head throbbed. Where'd it all go wrong?
Mancheon should've been downed by the poisoned tea like the others. Why'd he move unlike the other late talents?
If everyone had been fine, it'd be the conman's trick—but excluding Mancheon, the rest were immobilized.
...Not a total con, then.
At least he knew curses worked on Soso. Bide time for the next chance.
Hire the curse merchant again, curse her into immobility, and finish her this time.
As Jangdal schemed a new curse-based assassination, a chilling voice came from behind.
"Sorry to interrupt your busy time. Unfortunately, I must leave this village immediately, so I came to say goodbye."
A voice like a fox's cry—unsettling. The Curse Merchant Hyeonho's voice.
He leaped back, turning to confirm. The sly, fox-eyed man, Hyeonho, grinned warmly at Jangdal.
"Was gonna slip away quietly, but since we worked together briefly, here's some advice."
"...Advice?"
Jangdal squinted his one eye at the baffling words. Hyeonho nodded, explaining kindly.
"Dunno the details, but among those who drank the poisoned tea, one wasn't cursed."
"Yeah, I was about to bring that up."
Seizing narrative control, Jangdal suppressed unease and pressed hard.
"Your shoddy curse missed one. How'll you take responsibility?"
"Yessir~ Was getting to that. Hear me out first."
Hyeonho wiped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. His cheeks flushed hot for some reason.
"If someone resists my curse, it's usually one of three cases."
"First, high-level Taoists or eminent monks—bad matchup. Second, those with special energies in their bodies."
"Special energies?"
"For example... Esoteric Buddhism's Immovable Heart Method. It incinerates invading pathogens on its own, blocking curses."
"And last: already cursed. Think with poison, control poison—easy way to get it."
With Poison, Control Poison
Fighting poison with poison.
Jangdal grasped Hyeonho's implication: a stronger existing curse blocked the weaker one.
"...Can't pierce one curse and botch the job? Think I paid you peanuts?"
His face twisted in fury. Hyeonho burst out laughing—or rather, vomited blood rising from his throat.
"Kuh— keh— krah! S-Sorry, mid-conversation."
Hyeonho dabbed blood from his mouth and cascading sweat with the handkerchief.
"A curse is like an arrow that must hit someone. Arrogant maybe, but no one in the Central Plains handles curses better than me."
"...What're you saying?"
"This."
Hyeonho's right arm rose slowly. His pointed index finger aimed at the dark night sky, moon veiled by clouds.
"Not a human curse, but one from heaven. He bears divine punishment."