Hands and Feet

The rooftop.

From ahead and behind, internal energy techniques came crashing in on Tang Baek, who was surrounded by enemies.

"Flesh-Cleaving Severance!"

With a sound that tore the air, a keen blade wavered as if split cleanly in two.

"Hup!"

From the rear, a short battle cry rose as a broadsword scraped the floor, spat sparks, and sprang up as if launched.

"…"

Yet Tang Baek's face remained as cold and utterly emotionless as ever.

He knew that no blade would ever ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reach him.

The heads of two martial artists from different underworld organizations, who had been coordinating a pincer attack from front and rear, rolled across the floor.

Those who had been pressing in to surround him could not even manage proper shock at the sight. Some had their necks snapped by chains, others lost their heads outright, and still others took throwing daggers straight through the skull.

"Huu…"

Tang Baek reeled in his chain sickles and recovered his throwing daggers, drawing a long, steadying breath.

The farther they advanced, the higher the proportion of true martial artists among the enemy. That also meant they were drawing closer to the plaza at the heart of the midstream Valley of Sin.

The prediction had already been made: that plaza, where the forward base stood, would be the central battleground in the struggle among the three dark organizations. In the midstream, the only wide-open ground was the plaza itself.

Even so, the enemy's resistance was fiercer than imagined, and the share of martial artists higher than forecast.

In the same measure, he could see his own subordinates—moving to seize the rooftops—taking turns concealing themselves to reorganize.

Ordinarily, this would be the moment to switch to hit-and-run tactics.

No matter how skilled a fighter, unless one was locked in a life-or-death decisive battle, the most important thing was always to preserve one's breathing and the flow of internal energy. For someone like Tang Baek, who had trained in one-strike-kill arts, that importance was greater still.

But…

Tang Baek's gaze turned toward the street below.

There stood a man who was endlessly drawing in even those enemies who should have been charging Tang Baek and his subordinates. That presence was greater than Tang Baek and all his subordinates combined—and because of it, they were being given the room to regulate their breath and their energy.

The First Young Master, Yeon So-hyeon.

Alone he held the center of the line, taking every ounce of pressure at the spearhead of the formation and opening a path on the ground.

An assassin of the underworld, whose name had been made through assassinations born of an innate art of concealment, was watching for an opening.

Fearless, he was hunting the prey that had leapt alone into their three-way struggle.

Foolish. Utterly foolish. The boy is drunk on his own skill.

Whenever these conflicts broke out, the vanguard champions who rampaged through the chaos became his shining achievements. Those forced to face endless enemies in the thick of a melee always developed the habit of accepting minor wounds—and slipping a blade into those gaps was his specialty.

"…"

Clutching a short dagger coated in virulent poison, he crawled down the wall without the faintest sound. His eyes were fixed, as if nailed in place, on the boy swinging a steel staff.

And he waited—for the moment when his prey's hands and feet moved at their most tangled.

He did not miss it.

Huh?

He was thrown into confusion. His poison-smeared dagger had stabbed the wrong man.

What?

When the steel staff lightly tapped the hand that gripped the dagger, the blade was driven this time into another organization member's chest.

What is this…?

The steel staff seemed to be controlling his body. When it brushed his knee, then his elbow and wrist, his body spun of its own accord and cut down fellow organization members who had been about to deliver a splendid pincer strike from either side.

"Wha…?!"

And with that single strangled sound, he realized that the dagger he had so carefully cherished was buried in his own jaw.

Watching the scene, Tang Baek let a hollow laugh slip out before he could stop it.

The assassin's concealment art had not been half bad, and choosing the moment when the First Young Master's hands and feet grew most complex had not been a poor idea either. But that was all. Against a master of Tang Baek's own level, that concealment was all but meaningless—and the so-called decisive strike into an opening had, in the end, been crude. An assassin of that caliber was never going to work against the First Young Master.

But.

The reason he had laughed was not the assassin's futile waste of his own life.

The man believed he could take the First Young Master—and so he moved.

Yes. The assassin had acted because he had judged that he could kill the First Young Master. Enough that Tang Baek had laughed without meaning to—that was how strange the First Young Master's movements were.

A sword stroke aimed at Yeon So-hyeon seemed to cut empty air in vain—then its owner took the steel staff across the nape of the neck. The blade that had carved the air was drawn along by the opposite end of the staff and buried itself in another organization member's gut. The iron mallet that man had been holding seemed about to fall, then brushed Yeon So-hyeon's sleeve and cracked another man's throat. Having shattered that neck, the mallet smashed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠someone's kneecap, then buried itself in yet another's skull before it could finally rest for a moment.

Only a moment. When the endlessly advancing Yeon So-hyeon's rear foot stepped on the mallet's head, the weapon sprang up and shattered the jaw of a man who had been charging in. And in that same span, the poisoned dagger that had ended the assassin's life had already cut several more life-threads.

Weapons seeking Yeon So-hyeon, men seeking his life—they tangled with him as if dancing, moving in a dizzy whirl. It looked precarious. It looked desperate.

Through it all, Yeon So-hyeon's face was as calm as if he were out for a stroll, and his mind was calmer still than that expression.

How was one supposed to describe those uncanny movements?

Tang Baek licked his drying lips.

Too much motion to call it stillness within motion—too little motion to call it motion within stillness.

Too prepared for every surrounding movement to call it striking second to land first—and yet the movements themselves were too slow to call preparation.

Slow. And yet not slow. And even so, slow.

It was contradictory. And yet the spectacle the First Young Master created was, without question, exactly that.

There was no grand display of internal energy techniques, nor were dozens of men sent flying with a single blow. The First Young Master looked like a skiff about to founder in a violent storm—and precisely for that reason, every enemy who spotted him made him their target.

From the enemy's eye level, Yeon So-hyeon was at a level that looked catchable. That skiff—the First Young Master—seemed only barely cresting each wave that came crashing in on the storm's back. To those without internal energy, he looked as if a concerted rush would eventually bring him down. To those who had internal energy, he looked like someone who could be taken if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only the right opening were found.

And to one who had crossed the wall…

…I cannot understand it.

Tang Baek shook his head.

I cannot even define it.

If it were mere external martial arts—no. Then was it internal energy technique? Yet it was not Dark Force, nor Inch Force, nor Flying Force, nor Silk-Reeling Force, nor Cross Force, nor Sinking Force, nor Springing Force. To call it the methods of Transforming Force, or Diverting Flowers and Grafting Trees, fell short as well—he was not merely redirecting an opponent's energy; he seemed to be dominating the opponent's flesh itself.

I cannot even limit the category.

To say he was executing a single technique—steel staff, fists, palms, and legs were all erupting at once. And yet to call it a martial art that carried its own continuous flow—there was no distinctive form. It seemed like change, yet was restrained; seemed like restraint, yet was change.

I cannot grasp it.

Incomprehensible. It looked like a child flailing his body at will. Looked another way, like a novice showing off newly learned skill. And at the same time, like movement that held the lofty enlightenment of a Grandmaster.

I cannot judge it.

Tang Baek could properly judge neither the First Young Master's realm, nor his martial art, nor anything else. It was like listening to a high monk's koan, as the man pointed at an empty wall and insisted enlightenment lay there.

Tang Baek snapped back to himself at his subordinate's sound transmission.

"…"

He had been gripping both chain sickles so hard that his palms were slick with sweat.

At Tang Baek's transmission, the subordinate answered.

In the end, Yeon So-hyeon had succeeded—drawing every enemy's attention upon himself—in reaching the very threshold of their destination.

Valley of Sin, midstream—the forward base.

"This is the worst of every situation I could have imagined!"

An old daoist shrieked as he whirled his sword in a frenzy atop the forward base's wall.

"If I'd known it would be this bad, I never would have come to reinforce the Valley of Sin…!"

The old daoist never stopped grumbling. At that voice thick with complaint, an old man in a ragged monk's robe—who had been smashing organization members vaulting the wall with both fists—bellowed back.

"You mad hooked-nose daoist! You're driving me to distraction—shut that mouth!"

Despite the claim of distraction, the old man in the tattered robes maintained absolute concentration, treating his entire body as a weapon as he pulverized the enemy.

"Silence, you mad bald monk! If you hadn't sweet-talked me into joining the reinforcement, would I be in this mess?!"

The daoist called Hooked-Nose kept grumbling—but separately from that, his light, graceful movements kept stacking enemy corpses along the wall.

Besides those two, every person at the forward base who could still fight was fighting. Yet everyone there—including the two who called each other Hooked-Nose and Bald Monk—felt how bleak the present situation was.

The fire downstream was something anyone with eyes could see for the catastrophe it was. They knew, therefore, that help was hard to hope for. And they knew as well that without help, they would not last the night by their own strength alone.

Then—

With a thunderous crash, one section of the defensive line shattered outright. From the dust and wind emerged a giant of a man in heavy red armor.

"Heh heh heh…"

Confirming the figure, Hooked-Nose and Bald Monk shuddered with loathing.

"That damned Primal Heavenly Venerable!"

"Isn't that the vice-chief of the Three-Five United Gang—Red Armor Boar?!"

The man called Red Armor Boar let a sinister laugh roll from within his massive iron helm.

"You are all going to die now."

Hooked-Nose cried out as if having a fit.

"No, you madman! Fight among yourselves—why take it out on us?!"

Red Armor Boar snorted.

"Was it not you who first got greedy and planted a base in the midstream—our territory?"

"…"

At a loss for words, Hooked-Nose's face twisted.

"If we take this base, our Three-Five United Gang will control the plaza from here on! You've built us a fine fort!"

The words were barely finished when organization members of the Three-Five United Gang began pouring in through the breach Red Armor Boar had opened.

"…Amitabha!"

Red Armor Boar savored the Buddhist invocation Bald Monk cried out, his iron armor shaking as he laughed aloud.

"Boys! Kill them all—smash everything! This place is ours now!"

Then a voice struck every ear with impossible clarity.

Lightning fell from the sky.

The bolt smashed into the center of the plaza. The bodies of dozens of organization members tangled there in mutual slaughter burst apart where they stood. As the earth shook, those without internal energy lost their balance and toppled. Those who had trained in martial arts hurriedly drove their weapons into the ground and barely held their footing.

When the dust that had billowed across the entire plaza was torn away by the fierce valley wind, what stood revealed at the point of impact was a massive banner. Someone stumbled through the characters written upon the flag as it snapped in the wind.

"Luo…yang Sword Family… First… Young Master…?"

Then a boy's form descended and stood tall upon the tip of that banner. Black silk outer robe streaming in the wind, arms folded, the boy smiled with arrogant calm.

The fighting stopped. Everyone in the plaza was looking at Yeon So-hyeon.

"…The Swordless One?"

Among them, a few began to murmur.

"Wasn't the Swordless One supposed to know nothing of martial arts?"

"Is that man the Swordless One?"

Swordless One, Swordless One—the muttering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠swelled, and Yeon So-hyeon raised a hand.

"Guh—!"

"Kh!"

Those who had been pointing and chattering at Yeon So-hyeon—without exception—spun half a turn through empty air and sprawled across the ground. Hidden weapons were buried in every one of their skulls: the work of the concealed Tang Baek and his subordinates.

"Hold!"

It was the voice of Red Armor Boar of the Three-Five United Gang. Faced with a single technique of unguessable realm when the banner had been driven home, and with hidden weapons flying from unknown directions, he had chosen dialogue for the moment.

"…Whether you are truly that First Young Master or something else, I cannot say—but in any case, I will state our position!"

The man who had broken the forward base's defensive line stepped out into the plaza. He shouted up at Yeon So-hyeon atop the banner.

"Our Three-Five United Gang—and every force gathered here—pays ample 'tribute' to the Sword Family!"

At the words tribute to the Luoyang Sword Family, the eyes of those at the forward base went wide as if they would tear.

"Tribute? They're paying tribute?"

"To the Sword Family…?"

He swept an arm encased in solid armor.

"And yet if you are the First Young Master of the Sword Family—why do you ignore our territory and oppress us?!"

He thumped his chest.

"In place of a Sword Family that does not wish to dirty its name or its hands, we turn this filth-choked latrine of a place into gold and offer it up!"

A small stir rose at the forward base.

"In place of the Sword Family…?"

"Is that man's word the truth…?"

"Elders—answer us…!"

From the ones called elders—Bald Monk and Hooked-Nose—there came no answer.

"…"

They looked as though they knew something, yet only kept their mouths shut and watched the plaza.

The vice-chief of the Three-Five United Gang, Red Armor Boar, cried out with swelling force.

"Even if the Sword Family does not acknowledge it outwardly—we are without question the Sword Family's hands and feet, its agents!"

His words rang across the plaza.

"Therefore—!"

He never finished the sentence.

A ground-shaking roar and a flash of light erupted—and Red Armor Boar's torso exploded where he stood. The storm of immense force that began from within his body could not be stopped by the heavy red armor he had so prided himself on.

"Hm."

Yeon So-hyeon withdrew the fist he had extended and folded his arms once more.

"In their own way, those words were not wrong…"

What the man had ranted was not so far from the facts Yeon So-hyeon already knew.

"…!"

As gazes filled with shock gathered upon him from the entire assembly, Yeon So-hyeon snorted.

"What I disliked was that he did not know his place—and that his manner of speech was insolent."

Standing upon the snapping banner, Yeon So-hyeon addressed the crowd.

"There will be others here who wish to speak with this First Young Master."

He smiled.

"This time, I would prefer it be someone who knows his place."