Chapter 122
Chapter 122
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 122
Chapter Title: Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms
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After the fight ended and Namgung Jincheon departed, Chu Sam and Dan Seoryeong, who had been watching the situation from a distance, came rushing over.
Dan Seoryeong was appalled at the sight of Namgung Myeong's wound.
"What the hell is that crazy old man? Who the fuck just slices off someone's arm and walks away? If you're gonna leave, at least do it politely."
"It's my father."
"Your father must be incredibly bold. There must've been some reason for it."
Chu Sam moved between the Jeomchang Sect patients, checking their conditions.
However, true to the Jeomchang Sect warriors' style of fighting heedless of their own backs, there were many fatalities but few injuries. Treatment didn't take long as a result. Whether that was misfortune or a blessing was hard to say.
Dang Mujin reexamined Namgung Myeong's wound before heading toward the Jeomchang Sect warriors. He intended to at least help with the aftermath for the dead.
But Wi Hwan shook his head.
"You don't need to help."
"But..."
Dang Mujin hesitated all the same. The Three-Eyed Buddha had stormed this place because of him, not the Jeomchang Sect warriors.
"If they hadn't gotten tangled up with me, no one would have died."
Dang Mujin couldn't shake his self-recrimination. Wi Hwan's demeanor, however, remained utterly composed.
"Funeral rites are for the dead, but they're also for the survivors, aren't they? Leave the wrap-up to my sworn brothers."
Only then did it dawn on Dang Mujin. Wi Hwan had lost brothers, yet not a single Jeomchang Sect warrior directed resentment his way. For them, deaths like these were far too commonplace.
They were men who could hurl their entire bodies into the fray without a second thought once a goal was set. Their outlook on death naturally differed from ordinary folk.
Dang Mujin stood off to the side, watching the Jeomchang Sect warriors.
The Jeomchang Sect warriors dug pits in a row, burying the corpses of the fallen alongside the swords they had wielded in life. It was a funeral as straightforward and unadorned as the men themselves.
Having observed the rites, Dang Mujin returned to the group. Namgung Myeong, Hong Geolgae, Dan Seoryeong, and Chu Sam—no deaths among the five was heaven's grace alone.
Time passed, however, and the group's attention inevitably converged on Namgung Myeong. More precisely, on his left arm, severed clean half a span below the shoulder.
Dang Mujin pressed the acupoints around Namgung Myeong's stump once more. The bleeding hadn't fully stopped, but it was down to an occasional drop forming and falling with a soft plink.
Dang Mujin pulled black garments from Namgung Myeong's pack and wrapped the wound snugly.
Namgung Myeong grimaced fiercely, the pain evidently intense, his complexion deathly pale. He'd already lost a great deal of blood, and even setting hemorrhage aside, the injury was gravely serious.
Dang Mujin felt pangs of guilt. It was as if he'd destroyed the bright future of a promising young talent.
If only my skills had been a touch sharper. If I could have withstood the Three-Eyed Buddha's onslaught alone.
No, not even fully withstand it—if I'd just held out a few breaths longer, that would have sufficed. Namgung Myeong's left arm would still be whole.
"I'm sorry. This happened because I fell short."
Unlike his usual levity, Dang Mujin apologized with solemn gravity. Namgung Myeong replied with calm detachment.
"At least you know your limits—that's something, I suppose... But it's fine. I figured something like this was coming soon enough."
"You expected it?"
"Yeah. Dealing with one first-rater is tough enough, but tagging along with a whole horde of them? By the numbers, it was bound to be at least ten times harder."
Over the past several months—precisely from the day Namgung Myeong had broken through the peak barrier on his own—nearly identical exchanges had played out dozens, hundreds of times.
Each time, Dang Mujin would half-seriously throw a punch, and Namgung Myeong would effortlessly dodge or deflect it. Jokes flowing into fisticuffs into evasion—it had all fused into a single natural rhythm.
Thus, even now, Dang Mujin reflexively cocked his fist toward Namgung Myeong.
But Namgung Myeong's response differed today. It had to. He moved to react with his left arm—yet below the upper arm, there was nothing.
Dang Mujin's fist struck Namgung Myeong's side without the slightest obstruction. The dull thud against his knuckles made Dang Mujin realize, belatedly, what he'd done.
It hadn't been a full-force blow, of course. Still, Namgung Myeong winced sharply in evident pain, clutching his flank and sucking in a breath.
"Hngh..."
Before Dang Mujin could stammer an apology, Namgung Myeong huffed out heavy breaths.
"Hoo... hoo..."
"It's... fine. Don't... sweat it."
At those words, Dang Mujin crumpled to the ground, cradling his head in both hands.
"What... what have I done..."
As Dang Mujin's eyes fixed downward, Namgung Myeong let out a sinister chuckle.
The tangled mess of the present, the throbbing agony in his left arm, the hollow ache of loss—those could wait.
Namgung Myeong had always lived in the now, and he deemed this the moment to relish it. He'd taken the avoidable punch on purpose, and the payoff was splendid.
Dan Seoryeong and Hong Geolgae, watching from nearby, wore expressions of utter revulsion.
Yet neither bothered telling Dang Mujin. This was no ordinary jest—it had cost an arm. Namgung Myeong had earned the right to toy with him awhile.
Dang Mujin, however, had no means to notice Namgung Myeong's expression.
"If only I'd been a bit stronger. If I'd endured just a little longer until Elder Geolseon and the Sword Ghost arrived, this never would've..."
"You've got nothing to apologize for. It wasn't some piddling first-rater like you who lopped off my arm. Three-Eyed Buddha and my father—two absolute peak masters pooling their strength. Makes this an honorable scar. Only hitch is it's the left arm, so folks might mistake me and Uncle for father and son."
Even Namgung Myeong's jest failed to lift Dang Mujin's gloom. He had no clue how to respond.
Watching him, Namgung Myeong snickered.
"If you're really sorry, make me a new arm later."
"A prosthetic? I could manage that. But what good would it do?"
No experts in the world rivaled Dang Mujin and Dan Seoryeong for prosthetics. Dang Mujin's craftsmanship was peerless; Dan Seoryeong was a singular genius at conceiving and fabricating the unfamiliar.
They had ample experience too. Crafting Mokinhang, they'd fashioned wooden arms by the dozen.
Yet such an arm couldn't mimic a real one's motion. It wouldn't grip a sword properly—just flop about, awkward and limp.
"Doesn't matter if it doesn't move. Sky falls, but headway rises to meet it. With luck, it might even turn into a boon."
With that, Namgung Myeong flopped onto his back. Confident words aside, acclimating to the phantom void of his left arm would take no small time.
*
That night, Hong Geolgae met Geolseon.
"Sect Leader. I'm Hong Jusam from the Zhuul Village Branch. My master instructed me to seek you out and learn martial arts."
"And who's your master?"
"Elder Great Wind Beggar."
"Great Wind Beggar? Hm. Paengcheon's taken a disciple, has he."
Geolseon trusted Great Wind Beggar.
At first, he'd simply taken note of a Kunlun Daoist joining the Beggars' Sect out of curiosity. But Great Wind Beggar proved capable across the board.
The man could divine heavenly portents and judge character unerringly—a true dragon in hiding, impossible to conceal.
A disciple he'd taken must possess remarkable talent, this Hong Jusam.
Geolseon simply couldn't fathom why Great Wind Beggar had chosen Hong Geolgae.
Young, with solid attainments, sure. But only that. Aptitude and frame were decent, yet beggars of comparable caliber abounded.
'Doesn't strike me as successor stock.'
Successive Sect Leaders had sought their heirs differently. The one before last picked a beggar who simply pleased him; the last chose one of exceptional martial talent.
Geolseon had yet to name his own. The role's gravity forbade rashness.
The successor was the Leader's heir apparent, second-in-command, architect of the Beggars' Sect's coming generation. Prudence was paramount.
Lacking an eternal vacancy as option, Geolseon opted otherwise.
Rather than anoint one outright, he'd impart snippets of martial arts to various prospects, biding until one shone brightest.
The technique taught was ever the same.
"Behold the first stance of the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms: Proud Dragon Repents. Watch closely and memorize it."
Geolseon sank into stance, rotating his arms in languid circles.
Moments later, a drumbeat thunder cracked the air asunder.
*
Come morning, Geolseon departed without lingering.
"Fate willing, we'll cross paths again. Should we, I'll impart the next stance."
"My thanks, Sect Leader."
Hong Geolgae offered a deferential clasped-hands salute, seeing him off.
Geolseon gone, Hong Geolgae's face fell into deep gloom.
Last night, Geolseon had demonstrated Proud Dragon Repents—but once. A fearsomely potent ascending palm technique, yet crippled by one glaring flaw: the single showing.
Hong Geolgae had nearly begged for another, but the words stuck in his throat. Conviction burned in Geolseon's gaze.
'Shown once, so of course he's mastered it.'
Such presumption demanded genius eclipsing mere excellence—top-tier in the world.
The rub: Geolseon was precisely that; Hong Geolgae fell short.
His chest constricted. Scouring high and low to meet Geolseon now felt idiotic.
Worse, his mind brimmed with the urge never to face him again.
Meet anew, and Geolseon would demand a display of Proud Dragon Repents nine times out of ten. He'd flounder like a fool aping the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms, and Geolseon would no doubt wear profound disappointment. Hong Geolgae dreaded that look above all.
Hong Geolgae sighed. Namgung Myeong, walking beside him, asked,
"What's with the face?"
Hong Geolgae started to fob him off, then reconsidered. Gazing at Namgung Myeong, more wretched than himself, his own woes seemed petty.
"The truth is..."
Namgung Myeong's reaction, however, was peculiar.
"Can't grasp it from one look? Just ask him to show it again."
"Huh?"
"I peeped while pretending to sleep yesterday."
Namgung Myeong halted, dropped into stance, and slowly circled his arm.
No match for Geolseon's godlike two-armed execution, but discounting the absent left arm, the form was uncannily faithful.
At last, his right arm speared forth.
A drum-thrum boomed as qi rent the empty air.