Old Hunting Dogs (3)

Several weeks earlier.

Hodu Village. A shanty hut.

Yeon So-hyeon stood in the middle of the desolate shack. Through the crude gaps in its poorly fitted walls, the heavy light of sunset leaked in and stained everything inside.

"…I have no face to show you."

The two directors of Hodu Village's House of Mercy bowed their heads toward Yeon So-hyeon.

"We checked, just as you instructed. But as you can see for yourself… the situation had already run its course."

Yeon So-hyeon asked in a low voice,

"And the body of the retired soldier's younger sibling?"

"About that…"

The priestess of the Fairy Cult worked her wrinkled lips for a moment, searching for the words, before finally forcing out an answer that was half a sigh.

"…The neighbors did 'defile' certain parts of it. Even so, we gathered what remained and saw to the funeral."

Yeon So-hyeon looked down at a small iron pot rolling across the floor, dyed red by the sunset. Naturally, there was not even a trace of the thin gruel that had once been inside. Those who had desecrated the body of the retired soldier's sibling would have licked up every drop that had spilled onto the dirt floor.

He found, in another corner of the floor, carefully gathered fragments of a shattered wooden carving.

"…This."

He knelt and picked up the head of the statue.

"The retired soldier's younger sibling made it."

"The child was said to be named Yeong… They had a gift for carving. There were those among our people who remembered them."

"…We heard they were a truly kind and gentle child."

"They supported the family alone until their older brother returned from the northern war…"

Listening to them, Yeon So-hyeon gathered every last fragment with his own hands. Then he bent low, passed through the shack's low doorway, and stepped outside.

Outside, white smoke drifted on a bitter smell. A group of Fairy Cult priestesses had gathered at the place where the retired soldier's "ashes" had been found, and were performing a rite over a fire of burning wood.

Yeon So-hyeon cast the fragments of the carving said to have been made by the child named Yeong into the blazing pile of logs. In his eyes, the flames burned high and fierce.

In the eyes of Yeon So-hyeon as he fixed his gaze on Yang O-dan, those same flames of that day were burning. Beyond red into a searing blue-white, fiercer still, more violent still, they burned.

Luoyang was full of people who would be content with a single bowl of warm gruel for the day. And yet, no matter how patiently Yeon So-hyeon prepared, how carefully he planned, how thoroughly he cultivated his work—no matter how he himself fed them "prey" beyond their station, coaxed them, soothed them, and indulged their every whim—there were those who never knew the meaning of satisfaction. Worse still: there were those who, far from being unsatisfied, already harbored other designs and were plotting treachery behind his back.

If it were up to me, I would massacre every last one of them right here…!

As if answering that voice, Yeon So-hyeon's mouth split wide, revealing the rows of awl-like teeth packed within.

"Kh—khugh…!"

Yang O-dan snapped back to his senses under the pain of the body part he was seized by being crushed as if in a press. This was no time to stand dazed by the bizarre phenomenon and the abnormal killing intent clouding his mind.

If this continues, I'm finished!

He had to make distance. Caught in overwhelming physical strength, he could neither properly execute the Art of the Divine Spear nor plant his footwork as he should—but that did not matter. His realm, the experience he had accumulated, leapt past every intermediate step without wasting a single moment and found the answer.

"Hup!"

A single breath. The majestic internal energy surging from his dantian concentrated in an instant along the meridians of his right arm. For an ordinary martial artist, such a sudden flood of internal energy would have destroyed every meridian in the arm on the spot. But he was no ordinary martial artist. The palm he had pressed against Yeon So-hyeon's abdomen looked as if it were white-hot. And before his opponent could even sense something amiss and react, the concentration of force reached its absolute limit.

Now!

For a single instant, the grip that had bound him loosened. And in that same instant, even more, even stronger internal energy had already gathered again in his right hand. It was an almost unbelievable method of energy control.

True to the name of the Thundering Heaven-Piercing Cannon, a roar that tore at the ears split the air, and the surroundings shook as if in an earthquake. In the midst of it, Yang O-dan opened distance from his opponent like a bolt of light. He executed footwork refined to the extreme five times over, turned two midair somersaults, and landed on the ground.

"Huuu…!"

Drawing a great breath and circulating his mind method, the raging meridians settled into stillness in an instant. At the edge of his vision, through the haze of dust, stood the silhouette of Yeon So-hyeon. Behind him, the aftermath of four successive discharges of internal-energy force was unfolding.

The garden floor had been gouged open in four long scars, as if a giant had struck it. Along those paths, every aged garden tree had been smashed to splinters and scattered. Fine garden soil rained down from the sky, and grass and leaves whirled in every direction as if caught in a typhoon. A few trees that could no longer hold on were ripped up by the roots and crashed down with a tremendous noise.

And yet, on the face of Yang O-dan, who had just displayed such terrifying power, only horror was written.

This… this is impossible…?!

His technique had been executed perfectly. The result, however, had not. The Thundering Heaven-Piercing Cannon at its peak was not merely an inch-force technique that could be used at zero range. It was a penetrating force that concentrated every last shock into a single point inside the opponent's body. Under a "normal" outcome, the enemy's body should have been blown apart from within by the force that erupted outward.

And yet—what was he looking at now? It was as if his opponent had simply shed every last bit of it. Only the surroundings had been destroyed.

Moreover—

"Urgh!"

Yang O-dan suddenly heaved up a mouthful of black blood. At some point, without his even registering it, his opponent's strike had already landed on his abdomen.

"What in the—!"

"Is that all you have?"

From across the way, a voice like boiling molten iron cut him off. The dust settled.

"Pathetic."

There, still standing exactly where he had been, utterly untouched by any impact, Yeon So-hyeon's figure was revealed.

"Do you even remember the last time you fought a real battle?"

Behind Yeon So-hyeon, who stood wreathed in black energy like some ill omen, the scenery itself was beginning to warp and twist.

"Can you recall the last time you poured blood and sweat into training?"

The trees tangled together as if screaming in pain; the overgrown thickets thrashed as if howling. The sky was steadily darkening.

I'm still ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠protecting my upper dantian even now—aren't I?!

Yang O-dan's eyes fluttered rapidly. Each time he blinked, his opponent's face flickered between that of the Swordless One, Yeon So-hyeon, and the visage of a demon. By now, any man should have sensed that something was going terribly wrong. But already, the protection of the upper dantian by internal energy was useless; the demonic qi of the Jeam Jincheon Scripture was seeping into his very marrow as if laughing at him.

What was happening to Yeon So-hyeon—what was happening to himself—he no longer possessed even a shred of mental composure left to reason it out.

"Just because others praised you for crossing the wall, did you think that was the end of it?"

"Enough of your nonsense!"

Struck dead on the mark by Yeon So-hyeon's words, Yang O-dan roared.

"This Yang O-dan has not even begun!"

In a fury, he stamped his foot, and a pole that had been leaning precariously nearby shot up into the air and was sucked into his hand. It was an iron lamp-pole, used deep in the garden among the trees to hang lanterns and light the grounds.

"Hup!"

As he swept the iron pole once around his body, a gale rose and scattered the black energy that had settled like fog. A new, razor-sharp presence poured from him—as if his entire body had become a single divine spear, for all that he held nothing more than a simple iron pole.

"I don't know what unholy tricks you're playing at…! But let's see whether you can still swagger in front of the Yang Family's spear!"

Indeed—speak of the Yang Family, and one spoke of the spear; speak of the spear, and one spoke of the Divine Spear Yang Family. Moreover, his twisted left hand and the abdomen that had taken the blow were already recovering rapidly under the circulation of his true qi.

"Amusing."

But the one standing before him paid none of it the slightest mind.

"After casting so many young lives onto the front lines…"

Now a "something" wrapped in black energy that soared high into the sky—its very form warping—sneered at Yang O-dan.

"Not even on the front, not even at the northern command…"

The face of a monster baring awl-like teeth and the face of Yeon So-hyeon mocking Yang O-dan flickered in rapid succession.

"…what use is the spear of a man who stood ten thousand li away, safe before the maps of the Imperial Palace, and merely waved a command baton?"

Trees that had grown as if lunging toward the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heavens coiled together in midair, blotting out every ray of sunlight. Yang O-dan shouted as if in a fit.

"Shut your mouth!"

In the hands of the former head of the Yang Family, the profundity of Piercing unfolded. It was a spear strike so powerful and so profound that his earlier perfected inch-force looked like a child's game by comparison. Ignoring distance, shaking the air, overturning the earth, it seemed even to ignore the passage of time as it drove through its target.

Or rather—it seemed to drive through.

"?!"

Yang O-dan's iron pole was held, absurdly easily, in his opponent's black grasp.

"Hup!"

He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠twisted his body, shook, poured force into it, trying to wrench the pole free. The iron pole, caught in a hand from which sharp claws had sprouted, wreathed in black flame, screamed. But no matter what method he used, it would not come loose.

"Nngh—!"

At some point, blood was streaming freely from the places where both his ears had been. Every time Yang O-dan shook his head and strained with all his might, blood sprayed in every direction. But with his energy drawn to its absolute limit, he did not even feel it.

The last thin, pale shafts of sunlight vanished as the sun itself seemed to turn its face away. Night fell over the vast and luxurious forest garden.

"And the spear of a profiteer who pursued only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠private gain and self-preservation, never the army's victory—such a spear is not even worth a reed stalk."

Yang O-dan recoiled in terror and released the pole, backing away. By some witchcraft, the iron pole melted like candle wax and poured down into the thick black smoke that blanketed the ground.

"D-damn it…!"

He leapt back to open the distance and snatched up another nearby pole in a panic. Before he had even opened that distance, several of his fingers were already gone—but he did not feel that either.

Not yet! Not yet!

The true realm of body and spear as one had not abandoned him—that much was no lie. And yet the cold sweat pouring down without restraint grated on Yang O-dan. He had no leisure to wipe it away. In truth, it was not cold sweat at all, but his own blood streaming from a long gash across his forehead. The hand that gripped the iron pole trembled dangerously, missing several fingers.

"Before the resentment and the cries of the tens of thousands of dead, a mere realm means nothing."

At that voice of twisting metal, his head felt as if it would split open.

"Ueeegh!"

This time he outright vomited fragments of dark-red entrails. The pain that had lingered in his abdomen—pain he had thought of no great consequence—had been a lie. The demonic qi of the Jeam Jincheon Scripture, which had burrowed in through the principle of penetrating force, had already torn his insides to shreds.

"Uuuugh…"

By the last shred of a martial artist's pride, he somehow lifted his head. Yang O-dan's pupils, contracting and dilating in frantic, endless succession, reflected his opponent's face.

In place of the original face, a howling white mask. The artisan's mask, which had no eye-holes—for one who could not bear to look upon the world—now bore, in its twisted form, a searing blue ghost-fire rising. As if standing in for the wide-open eyes of all those who had been dragged to war, who had been forced to die by that war, who were filled with bitter grudge.

Now the master of the Jeam Jincheon Scripture revealed his full majesty.

Amcheonjonza spread both hands, from which long nails blacker than night itself had sprouted.

From the demonic qi that had been flowing across the ground, black thorns burst upward.

"Kraaaaaagh…!"

A desperate scream tore from Yang O-dan as the thorns that shot toward the heavens pierced his entire body.