Chapter 287
Chapter 287
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 287
Chapter Title: Doghouse
-----------------------------------------------------------------
After the group crossed the Yellow River and traveled for about a day, martial artists began to stealthily emerge from somewhere, circling around them.
It was clear they weren't mere curious onlookers. They had all cultivated martial arts, and none approached closer than a reasonable distance.
Namgung Myeong grumbled.
"Dang Mujin, can't you just hurl one of those flying wheels and scatter those guys?"
"Better to keep it hidden for now."
Curiosity tinged the voice of Gye Ryul, the Precepts Master, who was walking a short distance away.
"Has Donor Dang also mastered the wheel?"
"Yes. As I trained with the sword, I realized it wasn't the path for me."
Among the many weapons passed down in Shaolin Temple, there was one called the wheel. Like the flying wheel, it was a circular metal weapon.
However, the Shaolin wheel differed from Dang Mujin's flying wheel in several ways.
It was much larger, and its shape was subtly different. Fundamentally, the Shaolin wheel was meant to be gripped by its bladeless section and swung. It could be thrown, but it wasn't designed for throwing.
Even Shaolin monks found the wheel difficult to master and not particularly powerful, so it was rarely used in actual combat.
"Mastering the wheel must not have been easy."
"It suited my hands perfectly, actually."
"Interesting. But as Donor Namgung says, throwing it now would be poor judgment."
"You're right."
That was the conversation, but in truth, Dang Mujin was itching to hurl his flying wheel.
The unorthodox martial artists' behavior clearly aimed to prevent the group from resting, and the sight grated on him.
They weren't just maintaining distance and needling nerves.
"Whoa!"
Hyeon-gong reached toward Seol-hwa's side. In his hand was a dagger without a crossguard, thrown by one of the unorthodox martial artists circling nearby.
The unorthodox fighters occasionally hurled daggers or stones.
"You okay?"
"I can do it too!"
Seol-hwa's voice brimmed with genuine confidence.
It wasn't empty bravado. Her hand had stretched out along the dagger's trajectory.
Hyeon-gong's hand had simply been a bit faster, and his desire to show off to Seol-hwa had outweighed her need to evade danger.
As Hyeon-gong pocketed the dagger, he thought.
'Good thing Dang Mujin isn't the enemy.'
If there had been an opponent like Dang Mujin hurling flying wheels from afar, the situation would have been dire.
But unlike flying wheels, daggers lacked power and couldn't be retrieved once thrown. Blocking them was troublesome, but so was throwing for the attackers—clear limitations.
Just then, Manryeok, the monk standing beside Dang Mujin, pointed at a figure lurking among the unorthodox martial artists.
"That's the Blood-Faced Mad Wolf."
The unorthodox supreme expert known as Blood-Faced Mad Wolf was a man with faintly reddish hair.
He appeared to be in his early fifties. His disheveled, unbound hair stood out especially.
Blood-Faced Mad Wolf lifted one leg into a bizarre stance, then hurled a fist-sized stone in a straight line.
*Whooosh—*
As the stone cut through the air, the group's gazes converged on Blood-Faced Mad Wolf.
"Hey, is that old fart of yours doing well in the afterlife?"
A provocation invoking the deceased Geolseon. The Beggars' Sect disciples nearly charged in fury, but Sinseung calmed them.
"Easy now."
"That bastard's spouting nonsense from his loose lips—how can we hold back?"
"He's saying it hoping you'll react like that. Geolseon wouldn't want you acting rashly either."
The Beggars' Sect disciples were hot-headed and short on patience, but not fools.
After all, Geolseon had died just recently, falling into a trap while pursuing the enemy.
Unlike the seething disciples suppressing their rage, Manryeok remained utterly composed.
"That guy's getting anxious seeing our direction."
"Anxious how?"
"Where do you think we're headed?"
"Aren't we just moving north?"
Manryeok chuckled.
"No. We're heading to Blood-Faced Mad Wolf's lair, the Mad Wolf Sect. Despite appearances, he's their sect leader."
"...What do you plan to do there?"
"Blood-Faced Mad Wolf built his sect through unforgivable acts like murder and plunder. If we threaten to burn it down, he won't sit idle. He'll charge instead of skulking around. That's when we take his head."
Righteous martial artists had much to lose too, but unorthodox ones weren't immune. Blood-Faced Mad Wolf had plenty at stake.
*
As days passed and they neared the Mad Wolf Sect, Blood-Faced Mad Wolf's provocations intensified.
A torrent of vile curses poured out, followed by daggers and stones, and occasionally arrows from some procured bow—though he ran out quickly.
Manryeok shouted toward Blood-Faced Mad Wolf.
"Hey, you know where we're going. Just prepare to welcome guests at home like a good host. Ha!"
Of course, Blood-Faced Mad Wolf didn't stay quiet.
He vanished abruptly, only to return half a day later with nearly 150 trained martial artists. Less a mob, more an army.
True, the numbers included many riffraff, but the sheer pressure was no small thing.
Sinseung addressed the Shaolin monks.
"Form up and protect the donors. Don't recklessly take lives—focus on defense. I trust no injuries will occur. Understood?"
"Yes!"
No pep talk to fight hard—just three constraints.
Protecting the donors meant only Shaolin monks would fight.
No killing the enemy, yet no injuries allowed. With only about thirty Shaolin monks against three or four times as many foes.
'Is that even possible?'
Dang Mujin and his friends doubted it could happen.
Regardless, the Shaolin monks encircled the Beggars' Sect disciples and Dang Mujin's group in two concentric rings.
Soon, the two rings began rotating in opposite directions—the inner clockwise, the outer counterclockwise.
No weapons in the monks' hands.
"Uwaaaah—!"
"Kill!"
The unorthodox martial artists surged like waves, crashing into the Shaolin monks.
But the monks stood like rocks against the tide, unmoved by the impacts.
"Wow..."
What followed was an unprecedented spectacle in Central Plains history. Thirty-odd monks formed a perfect Combined Strike Formation in a circle.
It redefined the very concept of Combined Strike Formations.
Hyeon-gong muttered.
"This... what even is..."
Well-crafted Combined Strike Formations typically involved three or four people; even famed linked formations rarely exceeded six.
No Combined Strike Formation for seven or more existed in the martial world. Creating one was leagues beyond inventing ordinary techniques.
Non-martial artists imagined them like group dances—everyone performing the same move simultaneously.
But that was foolish, unworthy of the name.
Simultaneous identical moves exposed the same flaws in unison.
The foundation was every participant compensating for others' weaknesses with their strikes.
Yet difficulty skyrocketed with numbers. Two sufficed to cover weaknesses; three demanded covering two sets, doubling concerns.
If three arranged exquisitely for perfection, their power dwarfed a duo's—one flaw shielded by two.
Inevitable gaps. Strikes to cover them. Endless cycles.
Creating a Combined Strike Formation solved perpetual riddles.
What optimal strike fit here, syncing with neighbors'? Ponder, refine, entwine.
But that wasn't all.
Solving riddles was hard; greater still, every participant had to internalize them fully.
One might switch positions mid-formation, adapting roles seamlessly.
No choice—casualties demanded replacements.
Imperfect, unmastered formations failed to shield flaws, crumbling like sandcastles at the slightest disruption.
Worse than fighting solo.
Thus, even history's finest topped at six.
Yet these thirty-odd Shaolin monks executed flawlessly.
As unorthodox fighters hesitated, Blood-Faced Mad Wolf bellowed.
"Break it! Break through!"
"How the hell do we break that?!"
Blood-Faced Mad Wolf decapitated the nearest unorthodox fighter, prompting others to reluctantly advance again.
But results stayed dismal. They charged with drawn blades, only for bare-handed monks spinning like twin wheels to pulverize the armed foes.
Those summoned by Blood-Faced Mad Wolf got dragged between rings and flung out—most disarmed.
As Sinseung said, no need to kill.
Such overwhelming solidity and precision sapped their will to fight.
After one sweep through the formation, unorthodox martial artists fled pell-mell.
"This is Shaolin's true power..."
With monks achieving near-impossible feats, even Namgung Myeong and Hyeon-gong gaped in awe.
But Dang Mujin differed—stunned blank.
The sole non-participant, Sinseung, smiled at him.
"As expected, you'd recognize it."
"How could I not?"
The monks' movements were Shaolin's Wooden Man Lane.
Since Dang Mujin repaired it, qualified Shaolin monks challenged it.
Dang Mujin saw it merely as training for Bul Young Sun Ha Bo and White Lotus Divine Fist.
Casual play yielding supreme arts—where else?
Satisfied, he assumed nothing more.
Yet one monk viewed its motions differently, sparking change.
Barring shattering it with raw power, even peak experts struggled to pass.
'What if Wooden Man Lane itself was an exquisite Combined Strike Formation?'
'What if humans mimicked its motions, infusing qi—becoming an unbreakable supreme formation?'
Mimicking proved easier than most formations.
Breaking it demanded hundreds, thousands of failures—inevitably memorizing dozens of patterns.
All monks shared identical ordeals, mastering the pinnacle riddle.
No rush for the slow—Wooden Man Lane patiently repeated until perfection.
Sinseung said.
"Your gift wasn't just Bul Young Sun Ha Bo and White Lotus Divine Fist. This formation is your greatest legacy to Shaolin."
"Not my intent."
"Sometimes intent doesn't matter. This is one."
Watching, Dang Mujin asked.
"This formation... it could expand. A few more outer rings, perhaps."
Sinseung asked, surprised.
"Already seen that far?"
"Familiar motions helped. What's the maximum participants?"
"I asked Cheong-uk the same recently. He said four more rings. I agree."
Six rings total, eighteen monks each—108 in one formation.
"A precise Combined Strike Formation for over a hundred..."
"Not enough breakers yet, but someday."
Seeing positive change from past actions always thrilled.
Elation welled in Dang Mujin's chest.
Smiling, he said.
"You've shown me a grand sight, so I'll show something fun."
"Something fun?"
"This flying wheel."
Dang Mujin shook his sleeves lightly; two flying wheels emerged, hooking onto his index fingers. He spun them, then launched skyward.
The small rings vanished upward. Blood-Faced Mad Wolf, yelling at fleeing fighters, missed it.
Light gleamed in Sinseung's eyes.
"You've taken up a curious weapon since last. Back then, you were a clumsy youth with middling skill."
"Still am."
"So humble. Show me how you wield it. I'm eager already."
Sinseung's gaze shifted from fingers to flying wheels.
Suddenly, Dang Mujin's middle and index fingers pointed downward.
Descend.
The skyborne wheels reached above Blood-Faced Mad Wolf, then abruptly dived vertically.
Faster, stealthier than his Kongdong Sect display.
Wheels plummeted toward his head.
Only when three *zhang* above did Blood-Faced Mad Wolf sense it.
Pure instinct. Unseen death approaching stealthily.
"..."
What elevated him wasn't schemes, superior talent, character, or virtue.
Just beast-like instincts over human.
He twisted instantly, barely dodging the two deaths. Cost: top half of his right ear severed from lobe up.
Dang Mujin clenched his fist.
'Got him.'
But Blood-Faced Mad Wolf's senses exceeded that.
Amid searing pain, a faint, tingling sensation—overlooked by most supremes.
He drew a dagger, unhesitatingly slicing off the remaining ear lobe and remnants. Mere two breaths.
Now, only ear hole and streaming blood remained.
Sinseung asked.
"Why'd he slice his ear again?"
"Realized poison on the wheels. Sharply perceptive."
Ear to brain—deadly for any expert.
Swift decisiveness saved him.
Blood-Faced Mad Wolf glared at Dang Mujin through the monks and fled, face bloodied red.
Retrieving wheels, Dang Mujin sighed regretfully.
"My skill fell short. A bit better, and I'd have killed him outright."
Sinseung smiled satisfied.
"Fine enough. Bloodied, tail tucked—fits 'Blood-Faced Mad Wolf' ill indeed."
Sinseung stamped lightly; faint tremor, dust rose.
The ring monks slowly halted. None bore wounds beyond scratches.
Sinseung tapped ground with Emerald Flame Palm, grinning.
"Let's go. Torch the scared dog's house—console our fallen friend's spirit."