Chapter 25
Chapter 25
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: Assassin Kim Ji-yong - [6]
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Father died. It seemed like tuberculosis took him, but I'm not entirely sure. I barely remember the symptoms back then, and he never even saw a doctor.
Three days later, Mother hanged herself. She left behind a young brat like me and a newborn baby, vanishing off on her own. It wasn't some sentimental urge to follow her dead husband—it felt more like despair after the family's breadwinner was gone.
Left alone, I tried desperately to get someone to nurse my little brother, but my pitiful pleas did nothing to stir anyone's compassion.
Thrusting him forward and begging for just a suckle at the breast must've looked to folks like a filthy beggar trying to hawk his own sibling. Not a single soul offered milk over those two days.
In the end, my brother died too.
Around that time, everyone was buzzing about the country on the brink of being swallowed by the Japanese devils, but I couldn't have cared less. With my blood kin dead, who gave a damn if the nation fell?
I stole, ran odd jobs, wandered the streets until I hit fifteen.
One day, foraging for greens in the mountains, I stumbled on a young woman collapsed on the ground.
She rasped for water in her dying breath, so I gave her some. When she begged for food, I handed over a rice cake.
Not out of kindness. I was at that age where lust raged two or three times a day. I figured maybe she'd repay the favor with her body.
Once she recovered her strength, she didn't grant my wish.
Instead, she offered to teach me Taoism and martial arts.
She hailed from the Mosan Sect of the Ming Dynasty. A Joseon native who'd crossed to Ming to learn martial arts, only to rush back when she heard her homeland was in peril—then tumbled down the mountain, ending up like this.
She told me: My leg's shattered; I can no longer tread proper footwork. Take my place—fight for our people.
I had zero interest in Taoism or nationalism, but martial arts? That piqued me. I trained hard, absorbing the Taoist teachings along the way.
Living in close quarters, practicing body-to-body with this young woman and boy—we naturally grew attached.
She tempted me with dual cultivation arts; I pretended to be duped while our bond deepened.
Traditional dual cultivation forbade emission—preserve the essence. I couldn't stick to that.
She got pregnant. After an awkward standoff, we vowed to wed.
We scraped together even a gold ring, praying for a hundred years together. Didn't even make it ten.
She died giving birth. Probably the midwife's filthy hands.
No time to wallow in emptiness.
My one remaining child. Remembering my brother—who I couldn't even feed to death—filled me with terror.
I battled to nurse him, tried formula, but he didn't last half a year. Whatever I fed him came right back up.
Took him to some hotshot herbalist, but he died anyway.
Digging a tiny grave beside my master's—my wife's—final resting place unleashed a flood of her unspoken grief I'd been too frantic to feel before.
Plunged into horrific depression, I refused all food. No appetite anyway—might as well starve.
Starving, my only thoughts were how to die quick and painless, then what came after.
She'd taught that a true Taoist achieves corpse liberation, ascending as an immortal post-mortem. I couldn't buy it.
This Mosan Sect priestess, upon death, lost sphincter control and shat herself messily. That was no ascension.
Watching her beautiful end twist so ugly hammered it home: death is revolting filth.
I wondered: Would mine be the same? Unlike her, no one to bury me—probably even worse.
Obsessed with death all day bred a phobia before it even loomed.
Time only swelled it, filling my head until I couldn't shake it—inevitable doom closing in.
At this age, even Taoist denial of death made the word itself taboo.
Now Heo Pung-gae dreaded death in everything.
Not just his own—others' too gripped him fiercely.
He avoided killing or averted deaths not merely for merit points. His obsession with mortality bled into excessive empathy for any demise.
Heo Pung-gae assumed his stance. One hand pocketed, clutching BB bullets inside; the other poised for Taijiquan.
Outwardly impassive, inwardly he battled tension.
President Park...
He'd clashed with this peerless master several times before. Two draws by sheer luck; lost the other five.
Never once won.
Even as a peerless master himself, victory seemed impossible.
The bastard hit that realm around forty? Now seventy—thirty years honing it since.
And those spirit elixirs in his gut? Worlds beyond what a street thug like me scarfed down. Same tier, different class.
President Park's gaze brimmed with leisure.
He asked softly.
"Don't you have a weakness I hold? You sure you wanna push it?"
Heo Pung-gae faltered inwardly but masked it.
"Planning to use it now?"
"Nah."
"Then..."
President Park chuckled.
"Let's see how much you've grown."
President Park took stance. Trained in swordsmanship by his Huashan Sect Plum Blossom Sword Saint mentor.
Blade sheathed, though. Shaolin Vajra Fist form—he'd fight barehanded.
Heo Pung-gae inwardly relaxed. Not going all-out, then. No need for me to either.
Good thing too. Injuring a corporate titan? The fallout terrified him.
He hid all this, bluffing boldly.
"No sword? Fine, I'll use plastic BBs instead of metal."
"Whatever."
President Park stayed casual. Master of barehand combat too—Vajra Fist from his Shaolin Luohan master, Three Peaks Taijiquan from his Wudang mentor. Heo Pung-gae couldn't guarantee victory even there.
Especially outnumbered.
President Park ordered his martial masters.
"You two, back me up. You two, watch those thug bastards—keep 'em from interfering."
The Shaolin and Wudang masters distanced to monitor the martial artists. Huashan and Nangong Family masters flanked President Park.
At fight's start, Heo Pung-gae eyed reducing numbers first. He told the Nangong master:
"Cover your head."
President Park's masters knew Invincible BB Bullet well. They clocked his intent instantly.
"Me first?"
Heo Pung-gae whipped out his pocketed hand. Dozens of BBs wedged between five fingers.
Flicked them all—the distant martial artists watched.
Someone murmured.
"Full Sky Flower Rain..."
Facing shotgun-spread BBs, the Nangong swordsman had no chance for his art. Couldn't dodge or block them all.
Barely shielded his face; dozens peppered his body.
Nangong master's form stiffened.
Ambush whittled one, but odds unchanged.
Heo Pung-gae went for repeat. Pocketed hand swift—
Park bellowed as he flicked:
"'Heave—hooo!'"
Distant martial artists flinched, clapping ears. Sensitives crumpled, knees buckling.
True Shaolin Lion's Roar—inhuman roar shattered the qi in the BBs.
Qi-less plastic? Just toys.
Tanking Full Sky Flower Rain unscathed, President Park charged. Palm thrust mid-leap, air ripping.
Fierce Shaolin Subduing Demon Palm.
Heo Pung-gae yanked the incoming arm, counter-thrusting. His chest-targeting fist met Park's left palm.
Fists locked into grappling claws.
They tangled in complex exchanges—bad for Heo Pung-gae, hands bound.
Another foe idle no more. Huashan master dashed in, smashing his flank.
Onlookers thought him done—till his waist twisted divinely, shedding the blow. Eyes widened at the miracle.
Pain still gnawed; Heo Pung-gae gritted teeth regardless.
Fishing line lashed at the pressing Huashan master.
Unaware of Martial Alliance intel or the new peerless master's tricks, the fool grabbed it—electrocuted. Convulsed, collapsed.
President Park double-fisted forward.
Heo Pung-gae arched back, evading, then waist-sprung airborne, gaining distance.
Park didn't press rashly. Leisurely recovering qi.
He called to his lookouts.
"Two down—send two more."
Heo Pung-gae bit his lip, watching two masters approach.
Full Sky Flower Rain, lightning shots—inner energy drained. Defeat certain.
Just endure public loss now.
Assassin Kim Ji-yong would go with Park. Martial Alliance would rage.
All he could do: fight desperately, prove full effort to mitigate reprisal.
Bracing for defeat, Heo Pung-gae noticed:
His watchers gone— what of the Martial Alliance crew?
Glanced over.
Doubted his eyes.
Alliance folk did nothing. Someone from this side moved.
True assassin—Kim Ji-yong's steps silent. Only spotted now.
Kim stood amid the Alliance martial artists.
They'd feared approaching Park. So he walked to them willingly.
From their grip, Kim turned to Heo Pung-gae.
Heo read his lips:
"Thanks for everything."
Kim bowed deeply, boarded one of their vehicles.
Vanished with them.