Chapter 130
Chapter 130
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 130
Chapter Title: Demonic Cult
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The Grand Protector approached Three-Eyed Buddha with a friendly smile.
“What brings you here?”
“Brings me? I just happened to run into you on the way.”
“Somehow, when you come near, I get all cautious. Makes me wonder if I’ve done something wrong.”
As the Grand Protector joked around, Three-Eyed Buddha let out a hearty laugh. It wasn’t clear which part of the story he found so amusing.
The Grand Protector then turned to Dang Mujin and spoke.
“This young hero you brought along this time—he’s the poison expert, right?”
“That’s right. He’s got remarkable talent and rare skills. Just call him Young Master Dang.”
“If even you hold him in such high regard, Three-Eyed Buddha, I guess I’ll have to overlook that cocky talk I just heard.”
“Hah. So if I were gunning for your Grand Protector seat, that’d make it cocky?”
“Is that how it is?”
Three-Eyed Buddha and the Grand Protector laughed a bit louder than before, and this time Dang Mujin managed an awkward smile.
Judging by how he brushed off Dang Mujin’s slip of the tongue with good humor, the man didn’t seem to have a sly or sinister nature.
“Young Master Dang. I hear you’ve been working non-stop without a break. Take some time to rest in between. Nothing’s more important than proper rest.”
“Understood.”
The Grand Protector gave Dang Mujin a warm, gentle smile, then moved behind the Cult Leader to stand guard.
Dang Mujin let out a small sigh. As the Grand Protector walked away, he felt his shoulders lighten.
All the Absolute Peak experts he’d met so far had their own distinct auras.
Namgung Jincheon was sharp, like he could slice through anything. Three-Eyed Buddha was taut, as if ready to explode at any moment.
But the Grand Protector’s aura was different. It resembled the morning mist over water, or thick storm clouds.
He enveloped and pressed down on those around him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He was more suited to the position of Grand Protector than anyone.
With a man like that standing guard, who would dare challenge the Cult Leader’s authority?
Dang Mujin calmed his mind and belatedly tuned into the Cult Leader’s words. The elderly Cult Leader was speaking to the crowd in a steady voice.
“—Nothing is more important than moderation, so it’s good to reflect on yourself each night before bed. Focus on the inner self rather than outward appearances, on the afterlife rather than this present life.”
One man listening raised his hand and asked a question.
“What should we moderate, and how?”
“Whatever feels excessive to you—moderate it as much as you can. If you love drink too much, cut back on liquor. If your temper runs hot, learn to hold your anger in check. That’s enough.”
“That’s all?”
“If we demanded more, even from here in the Heavenly Mountains, people would run away by the handful. We have no choice.”
The crowd chuckled softly.
A few more people asked questions. Some were about doctrine, others born of simple curiosity.
The Cult Leader answered them all with the gentle demeanor of a kindly old neighbor. It felt less like a sermon or doctrinal debate and more like everyday conversation.
“—We need only know where we must arrive. If you know your destination, even staring at your feet as you walk will eventually get you there.”
Whenever the Cult Leader wrapped up one topic, he shifted to a new subject and atmosphere, pulling out another story.
He shared amusing tales or folk legends, or posed questions to the followers.
Occasionally, someone would come seeking mediation for a dispute, and he would listen patiently before offering wise counsel. The title of village elder suited him better than Cult Leader.
Three-Eyed Buddha and Dang Mujin listened a bit longer before moving on.
“I figured the Cult Leader would be more authoritarian. This is unexpected.”
“Among rough folk like these, someone with a silver tongue and generous spirit is rarer than you’d think.”
Pushing through the crowd, they emerged onto a street lined with shops on both sides. There were as many people as there were shops, and the air buzzed with strange excitement.
Dang Mujin quickly realized the source of the mood. They were drunk on liquor.
The inns and taverns lining the alleys had large jars out front, filled with a purple liquid.
“What kind of liquor is that?”
“Grape wine. Made from grapes.”
“There’s liquor like that?”
“Around the Heavenly Mountains, fruit wines are as common as grain brews. You’ll get used to it quick living here. They say the Emperor of Wei loved it too.”
Three-Eyed Buddha flicked a silver coin to the owner of a nearby inn. The owner filled four large gourds to the brim and handed them over. Quite cheap for liquor.
Dang Mujin took a sip. The astringency was unfamiliar at first, but he soon grew accustomed to it.
Time passed, and darkness fell. Merchants didn’t close up shop but hung lanterns out front. Vendors appeared from somewhere, setting out snacks for sale.
The snacks were mostly very sweet, and shockingly cheap.
“I’ve felt it since the first day, but the Demonic Cult seems pretty prosperous.”
“The weather’s too cold for rice to grow well, but the soil’s rich, so other crops thrive. Western merchants come and go often for trade too. No worries about starving.”
“I see.”
“Of course, it’s not always this abundant. Things are just lively now because the festival’s approaching.”
“Festival?”
“Once a year, at the tail end of the slack farming season. The Mani Cult’s festival is next month.”
The conversation trailed off. Dang Mujin and Three-Eyed Buddha sat at a street corner, gazing at the lantern-lit road.
Three-Eyed Buddha stared off into space, lost in thought, while Dang Mujin recalled the tavern alleys of Zhongjing from the lanterns.
Soon, Three-Eyed Buddha stood and spoke.
“Like the Grand Protector said, no need to rush. Rest when you should, and the results will come.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll head back first. Take your time. I’ll bring the goshawk droppings within three days.”
By the time Three-Eyed Buddha’s figure vanished, Dang Mujin stood as well, looking around.
A pleasant buzz from the wine and the distant pipa music put him in high spirits.
Dang Mujin headed to a nearby vendor selling candy-coated hawthorns.
He didn’t particularly crave them and had no idea the price. Still, he held out a silver coin.
It was instinct. When tipsy, men feel an urge to buy heaps of snacks and head home.
The vendor handed over eight skewers—five hawthorns each, coated in sugar. Dang Mujin’s hands were full.
He thought of his father and Dan Seoryeong. Unable to return to them now, he staggered back toward the Poison Blood Cave.
With each step, the two gourds at his waist sloshed, releasing a faint grape scent. Dang Mujin overlaid the aroma of grapes atop the name Demonic Cult.
When Dang Mujin returned to the Poison Blood Cave, Mok Wan-ah, who had been squatting in a corner, looked up at him.
She was mid-meal—half a barley cake in her left hand, her right cheek bulging as she chewed.
Her gaze shifted to the candy in Dang Mujin’s hands. Without a word, he offered her all eight skewers.
“All mine?”
“Not mine.”
Mok Wan-ah took them with an excited grin.
Crunch—the sound of sugar cracking under her teeth.
Dang Mujin also handed over a gourd of grape wine.
She didn’t refuse, downing the candy with the wine as a chaser. She devoured all eight like someone tasting sweets for the first time.
Sipping his wine, Dang Mujin asked,
“You like sweets so much—why eat barley cakes every day? Go to the village and buy some. It’s not like you’re broke.”
Mok Wan-ah gave a curt reply.
“I don’t go out of the cave.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer, and Dang Mujin didn’t press.
Instead, he rambled on about various things.
The larches blazing red around Sichuan every autumn. The lavish tavern alleys of Zhongjing. The stunning vistas seen while sailing down the Yangtze. The snowy expanses of Qinghai Province. The sticky sea breeze of Guangdong Province.
Mok Wan-ah knew none of these scenes. But that didn’t matter to Dang Mujin. He wasn’t telling stories to share—he was simply reliving memories slowly.
His gourd ran dry, and so did his tales.
Dang Mujin lay on his side, chin propped, dozing off before falling fully asleep.
Mok Wan-ah gently loosened his arm, letting him sleep more comfortably.
*
Of course, nothing special happened between the two.
After a leisurely day off, they dove back into work.
Dang Mujin and Mok Wan-ah took the goshawk feathers Three-Eyed Buddha had brought and focused on experiments, but used them all up without notable progress.
It would take days more to get another supply of goshawk venom.
Frustration built. Nearly a month since arriving at the Demonic Cult, and no breakthroughs in the research.
The massive goshawk atop the Cult Leader’s Hall still perched like a statue, occasionally joined by others circling nearby.
‘I don’t know when I’ll get home.’
In the end, Dang Mujin opted for a bold approach. Unable to research an antidote from the airborne poison, he would ingest the poison directly, then experiment with other herbs and toxins to find a counter.
Mok Wan-ah tensed upon hearing the plan.
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It’s fine. I won’t die.”
Dang Mujin crept close enough to the Cult Leader’s Hall to inhale the poison without mortal risk.
As confirmed before, none of the poisons he’d encountered resembled the goshawk’s in any way.
Its properties were so alien that not even opposing toxins existed—no antagonism to suppress it.
This only fueled Dang Mujin’s greed.
‘If I could just get my hands on this poison.’
But the goshawk venom disrupted qi circulation, preventing rapid expulsion via Qi Circulation and Breathing for repeated tests.
Dang Mujin inhaled the toxin once each day and night, pondering solutions.
After about ten days, he noticed something new.
Compared to his first time outside the cave, he could now approach much closer to the Cult Leader’s Hall.
His body was gradually adapting to the goshawk poison. At this rate, he might soon reach the bird itself.
‘Even without an antidote, solving the problem is what matters.’
Dang Mujin shifted focus to acclimating his body to the poison.
Far better than crafting an antidote. He could train his poison arts while resolving the issue.
*
Thus time passed until one night when Dang Mujin was within about a hundred張 of the Cult Leader’s Hall.
He sensed an unfamiliar presence.
‘Did I imagine it?’
He doubted his senses first. No people or even wild animals frequented the area.
But the presence grew clearer. Holding his breath and waiting, Dang Mujin spotted a figure in a bamboo hat approaching the Cult Leader’s Hall from afar.
His mind raced.
‘Who is that, and why enter the Cult Leader’s Hall?’
A prior thought overrode it: How had that person entered?
The goshawk perched on the roof, the thickest poison around the hall. Even poison-attuned Dang Mujin couldn’t rashly approach.
Sure, one could enter to die, but the bamboo hat man didn’t seem suicidal.
‘Whatever it is, he has a way to withstand the goshawk poison.’
Dang Mujin crept toward the direction the presence had come from.
Unless there was special reason, he’d likely return the same way.
Hiding behind a large tree, Dang Mujin thought,
‘Am I butting in where I shouldn’t?’
Probably not.
Even if the Cult Leader wasn’t authoritarian, not just anyone could enter his hall. A legitimate visitor wouldn’t sneak in at night when no one was around.
Minor trouble was fine.
The Grand Protector, Three-Eyed Buddha, Iron Soul Granny, and others knew why Dang Mujin was here—not just a few. They could smooth over most issues.
As he mulled this, the bamboo hat man reemerged.
Expecting theft, Dang Mujin scrutinized him, but the man carried nothing new, nor did his robes bulge. If thievery, he’d come up empty.
Dang Mujin then examined the face. Only the jaw showed beneath the hat. An enormous jaw.
‘No. It’s not big. His mouth’s open.’
The mouth gaped slightly, something inside.
Between upper and lower teeth, a gray bead about three or four inches across.
Two possibilities: an unparalleled poison arts master, or the bead neutralized goshawk poison.
The man approached Dang Mujin’s position. Habitually reaching for his needle case, Dang Mujin reconsidered.
‘Can’t use needles now.’
His poison slug was empty—throwing them precisely meant nothing.
Reluctantly, he gripped his sword hilt. As long as he didn’t kill, any mess could be mitigated.
Dang Mujin held his breath, waiting.
As the man passed, he swung his scabbard at the back of the head.
A clean ambush, sure to succeed—yet the foe reacted like lightning, blocking the sword.
‘Damn it. An expert.’
First clash confirmed it. Beyond Peak realm. Dang Mujin’s heart shrank.
Sensing Dang Mujin’s skill, the foe’s lip curled slightly.
Dang Mujin found the smirk infuriating. Like whispering, ‘Oh, a first-rate? Too bad for you.’
He tossed the scabbard and slashed horizontally.
The bamboo hat man tilted aside lightly, parrying. No way a frontal attack worked post-ambush.
‘Need to create distance first.’
Unlike the foe with his poison counter, Dang Mujin fought honestly amid the toxin.
As he edged back, the foe anticipated, blocking the path to the village.
‘Weakling.’
The foe swung vigorously. From right upper to left lower in one cut. Then upward thrust, deep stab. All flowed like water.
Aiming not to kill but force maximum movement, deeper breaths from Dang Mujin.
Dang Mujin felt like a fish in a net, twisting, swinging his sword in defense.
Worse, poison hampered qi use, making defense tougher than usual.
Dodging wildly, he noticed something odd. For beyond-Peak, strikes lacked sharpness.
‘Why?’
Observing closely, he found the answer.
Martial arts fundamentals: breathing. Starts with breath, ends with it.
Every art has optimal breathing; ignore it, and you’re no warrior. Even seasoned second-rates rarely falter.
Yet the foe breathed only through his mouth, not nose. Drooling uglily, unable to close around the bead.
‘The bead neutralizes the poison.’
Its color seemed darker than at first sight.
Maybe. It was night, surroundings dim.
The foe, eager to end it, unleashed a killing intent-laden major technique.
Sword raised high swung mountain-cleaving wide. Dang Mujin rolled back desperately.
Flat on the ground, his hand touched dirt.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a handful and flung it.
“Eat this!”
Foe blocked with left hand over mouth, creating a gap.
Enough. Dang Mujin reached into his robe, fingers closing on a long case.
Two Heavenly King needle cases from Dan Seoryeong before fighting Three-Eyed Buddha.
He drew one, firing straight at the foe.
Thwack!
Something struck hard inside, then dozens of iron shards and needles scattered at blinding speed.
Unprepared, the foe panicked, moving hastily—spitting out the bead. It rolled to Dang Mujin.
In that instant, the bamboo hat man decided: better flee than fight inhaling goshawk poison.
Dang Mujin had no intention of letting him escape.
‘I’ve trained poison arts, adapted nearly half a month. I can endure a bit.’
He lunged, grabbing the man’s ankle.
“Where you going!”
“Let go, let go!”
Foe flailed hands and legs wildly, but qi control was abysmal. Goshawk poison infiltrating, too scared to breathe properly.
Thus, both lost qi use entirely.
Dang Mujin clung, hooked both legs with arms, toppled him, and mounted.
First time atop someone since childhood fistfights with friends.
Too close for swords, they traded wild punches.
Pathetic for a proud first-rate versus beyond-Peak. Good no audience.
Advantage: top position. Dang Mujin’s fist smashed the face, dislodging the hat.
Plain features, hard to describe—but standout trait: nostrils twice normal size.
‘Breathing goshawk poison through those would end him quick.’
Mid-fight, foe’s elbow exploited a gap, smashing Dang Mujin’s jaw.
Vision shook like heat haze, mind blanked.
‘Damn…!’
Dang Mujin collapsed. Bamboo hat man sprang up.
But no time to finish. He turned and fled.
Flat on the ground, Dang Mujin thought,
‘Pass out here, and I’ll keep inhaling poison. Big trouble.’
He flailed arms. Something solid touched his hand—he gripped instinctively. Round bead in left palm.
Instinct screamed,
‘Put it in your mouth now! Drives out poison!’
Reason yelled back,
‘That bead’s soaked in spit, isn’t it? Remember whose mouth it was in! Drenched in a man’s saliva! Die before putting that in your mouth!’
Dang Mujin agonized desperately. Survival or manly pride?
In the end, he couldn’t put the saliva-drenched bead in his mouth. Consciousness faded, body went limp.