Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Prologue: Invincible BB Bullet
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Eventually, shit hit the fan.
Without any warning whatsoever, the Demonic Cultist finally started raising hell.
He suddenly tried to bolt out of the building.
The door was locked, so his half-assed escape attempt failed, but it was enough to snap the guards to attention.
The guards quickly sized up the situation and surrounded the Demonic Cultist, barking orders at him.
"Get on your knees and hands up! Now!"
The Demonic Cultist ignored the command. Instead, he charged straight at the guards. In response, they raised their batons.
"Urk..."
Despite being outnumbered, it was the guards who went down.
Every time the Demonic Cultist swung a limb, one guard inevitably crumpled. And none of them got back up.
There was no need to be surprised by this brutal outcome. When a martial artist trained in internal arts squared off against regular folks, it always went down like this. Protocols for such incidents were already in place.
"Shoot him! Just shoot the bastard!"
More guards rushed in and finally opened fire with their pistols.
One shot to the thigh, two to the leg, one each to the arm and shoulder. Hell, they even nailed him in the side. But all that marksmanship was for naught.
Drug addicts on a high shrug off bullet wounds and keep moving, right? And this Demonic Cultist might as well have been perpetually stoned.
Bullets be damned, he sprinted down the hallway. He snatched a paring knife someone had been using to peel an apple and took a hostage to boot.
"Get me drugs, let me out, or... watch this fucker die!"
The Demonic Cultist bellowed at the top of his lungs, pressing the blade against the neck of the middle-aged guard he'd grabbed.
"Hold on just a sec..."
"Pick one, you pieces of shit!"
The guards were at a loss, frozen in confusion.
And the Demonic Cultist couldn't even tolerate that brief hesitation. Suddenly, he started counting down like a goddamn timer.
"Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!"
"Wait, counting down now? What the hell are we supposed to..."
"Six! Five! Four!"
Everyone's eyes widened as they stared at the Demonic Cultist and his hostage.
What happens when those ten seconds are up? Does he really stab the guy?
It'd be a dumb move, but he just might. The Demonic Cultist seemed way more pissed about the lack of drugs than the bullets he'd taken.
At a glance, he wasn't in any state to listen to reason. No one—not even the Cultist himself—knew what he might do next.
"Three!"
And that's when it happened—a faint thip.
It wasn't loud. Just a small, sharp sound, clear enough that you couldn't ignore it. It rang out three times in a row: thip, thip, thip.
"Wha—"
Mid-shout, the Demonic Cultist's body stiffened unnaturally. Then something the size of a BB pellet dropped to the floor with a tiny clink.
No one there could connect the dots between those two events.
So the guards had no clue why the Cultist stopped counting, why he was trembling like he'd been hit with a tranquilizer dart. They just stood frozen, worried about the hostage.
Except for one young guard, who turned his head toward where that pebble had come from.
This time, he saw it.
Another thip, thip, thip, and something small streaked through the hallway's shadows.
It was heading straight for the wrist of the hand gripping the knife.
"Huh?"
With a thip, the Demonic Cultist dropped the knife.
Only then did the guards spring into action.
"What are you waiting for? Take him down!"
After tying up the Demonic Cultist and carting him off to the infirmary, the short-lived jailbreak was over.
The guards rewound the CCTV footage to review the incident and were left slack-jawed.
Why the hell had the Cultist suddenly dropped the knife?
They first thought it'd been blood loss, but the video proved otherwise. It was the result of someone who shouldn't have been involved—someone locked in solitary, dozens of meters away.
The Taoist Priest in that cell.
"They said this priest was a top-tier master, but this is almost..."
The footage showed the priest like this:
The moment the Cultist hit "three," the priest in his dim solitary cell closed his eyes in meditation. He flicked a small pebble he used for training through the bars.
The pebble's path from the cell was limited. A wall blocked the opposite side, so anything thrown would just smack into the wall or ceiling and fall.
Sure enough, the pebble hit the ceiling. But it didn't drop right away.
Thip. It ricocheted hard, flying a good ten meters without losing momentum. It slammed into a distant wall and bounced fiercely again.
Thip. Off the opposite wall. Thip.
The pebble finally reached the scene and nailed the Demonic Cultist square in the back. He went rigid like he'd been tranq'd.
From a third-person view, everyone could see the change crystal clear now.
Then the priest fired off another pebble. This one hit the Cultist's wrist; the knife fell, and the incident ended.
The guards traced the pebble's trajectory on the footage, doubting it was even possible.
Bouncing off the ceiling and two walls without losing power, hitting the target? Ricochets have limits—does that even obey physics? Common sense and science said no.
"Is he a wizard or something?"
Even seeing it firsthand was hard to believe—like straight-up magic. Or since he was a priest, maybe Taoist sorcery.
Either way, it made no sense, so they went straight to the source and asked the priest.
Was that really you?
And he answered.
"Yeah, that was me."
How do you pull off ricochets like that?
"Years of practice."
How do you hit a target you can't even see?
"I sense it with my qi."
Why'd a pebble to the back paralyze him like that?
"Hit his acupoint. Acupoint Strike."
The explanations didn't really click, but what could they do? Guess that's how it was.
When the guards bowed in thanks, the priest said,
"Skip the thanks. Tell them a model prisoner helped out. Might get me a sentence reduction."
"Sure, we'll mention it in the report."
The priest was satisfied, and so were the guards.
After they left, the priest tried closing his eyes and assuming the lotus position again, but paused.
He asked the young guard still lingering.
"Why're you hanging around?"
The young guard replied awkwardly.
"Just wanted to thank you again. That was seriously impressive..."
"No need. I did it for my own sake."
Too lazy for praise? The priest shut his mouth and tried closing his eyes.
Before he could, the young guard spoke up.
"Still, words alone feel cheap... I owe you one. Call in a favor anytime."
"A favor?"
"Nothing big. Smuggle in some smokes or magazines, that kinda thing."
The young guard had been here a while but still hated how others bent rules for martial artist inmates. This was his max show of respect.
Whether he got it or not, the priest eyed him with half-lidded eyes and nodded.
"Alright. I'll remember that."
For the young guard, the event was so shocking and awe-inspiring that it sparked interest out of nowhere.
He dug into the priest's background.
Info on martial artists was usually tough to get outside their world, but not this time. The priest was famous even without the TV station raid.
A master with a moniker to match.
Invincible BB Bullet.
They said every martial artist knew the name. Even civilians of a certain age had heard it.
Hard to picture from his antisocial vibe in prison, but Invincible BB Bullet was a renowned vigilante.
His deeds: rescuing island slaves and trafficked women, dismantling organ-harvesting rings.
Not just big news stuff—tons of small-time heroics too. Saving kidnapped youths from gangs, teaching thugs a lesson for shaking down street vendors.
He did it all for free, solo. His elite-level arts—one of Korea's top five—made it possible.
Why was a vigilante like that locked up? The TV station raid, as expected.
The violent assault shocked the public; he was slated for eight years. Fan petitions piled up thanks to his popularity, knocking it down to six.
The young guard was genuinely thrilled it might shorten further.
"Congrats. You got what you wanted."
The guard grinned; the priest nodded.
"Thanks for the heads-up."
"We could throw a little celebration. You eat cake?"
The priest refused without hesitation.
"Nah."
"Come on..."
"I'm good. Not being humble—time's too precious."
"Time? Worried about cutting into training?"
"Yep."
"What's with the training obsession? You're already a master of masters."
Not genuine curiosity—a social pleasantry.
He was ready to nod along to some profound line about the endless path of cultivation. By now, the young guard had come to respect this vigilante and was game.
But the answer blew past his expectations.
"Don't wanna die."
The guard blinked.
"Die?"
"I'll just grow old and croak like this. Training to avoid that."
"Does training extend your life?"
"Taoism's all about immortality. Taoist martial arts are basically longevity techniques at their core."
"But... aren't you jumping the gun on lifespan worries? Heard you're barely sixty."
"Actually older."
"Ah, figures. Still, modern medicine means seventy-plus is no sweat. You past seventy?"
The priest stayed silent. The guard scratched his head and kept going.
"You were out there busting your ass helping people, though. Saving lives left and right. How'd you find time for that?"
"All to live longer."
"How's helping folks tie into longevity?"
"Part of immortal cultivation."
The priest's follow-up explanation went like this:
Become an immortal, achieve eternal youth and life. Transcend humanity, live forever.
How?
Baopuzi: Responses to the Vulgar says: 1,200 good deeds for a Heavenly Immortal, 300 for an Earthly Immortal.
Screw up with evil deeds? Back to square one. Some say even 1,000 good deeds lets you slide past minor slips and still ascend.
Either way, rack up merits through good deeds to become immortal.
"Just stack good deeds and boom, immortal?"
The guard's question got this reply:
"Nah. If good deeds alone did it, veteran firefighters and life-saving docs would all be immortals by now."
"So something more?"
"Elixirs."
"Elixirs?"
"Spiritual medicines."
"Oh... yeah, I've heard. The stuff rich folks and martial artists go nuts for?"
"That's it."
"Supposed to be crazy expensive."
"Obviously. Gotta chug a ton."
"How much?"
"Enough that I'd have to hustle gangsters and such to bankroll it."
The guard vaguely recalled the priest was classified as unorthodox in the martial world. No stretch imagining him earning via rough jobs.
So good deeds, bad deeds—all for one goal: immortality, cheat death. Constant training, rejecting real food for weird porridge? Same purpose.
No party in the end.
The priest seemed to grudge even chit-chat time. Conversation over, he dove back into training trance.
The young guard watched silently, thinking.
He'd once seen that dedication as noble—maintaining priestly poise even in prison.
But after the "don't wanna die" line? Not anymore.
Now it felt obsessive. Not serene faith, but desperate clinging—like a marathoner on the brink of collapse, forcing one more step to finish.
You can't help but root for a struggling runner. The guard silently wished him the strength to cross the line, get what he wanted.
Did that wish work?
Next morning, the young guard brewed that damn sesame porridge and headed to the priest's cell.
With every step, he blinked furiously.
A fierce gust whipped through the hallway.
The priest's internal training sometimes stirred the air before, but this was next level.
Like windows flung wide in a typhoon—actual wind blowing, pushing the guard toward the cell from behind.
Keep walking, and it felt like the wind was guiding him.
Glanced at the windows: sealed tight. No breeze possible.
Entranced, the guard trudged on.
Finally at the cell. Wind died.
He peered through the bars. Entranced again.
Wrong cell?
Not the priest—a total stranger, some young guy, inside.
Double-checked the door number. Right cell.
Then why's some other prisoner in there?
"Who the hell are you? Switch cells with the priest?"
The cross-legged youth replied.
"I'm the priest."
"Bullshit."
"You really can't tell? Face changed that much?"
No time for annoyance—the guard's eyes went wide in shock.
That voice... familiar. His own trembled.
"What... the fuck?"
In the priest's voice, the stranger answered.
"Looks like Return to Youth kicked in."
"What're you talking about..."
"I got younger. Check the CCTV, you'll see..."
The guard bolted to check the footage. Saw supernatural shit unfold.
As the priest breathed in, light poured into his mouth with the air.
Screen went black as it swallowed the light. When it returned... the old priest's spot held the youth, same pose.
Dazed, the guard returned to the cell.
The priest spoke.
"Before telling anyone, one quick question."
"Yeah?"
"You said you'd grant a favor?"
"Uh? Yeah..."
"Then lemme make a call."