One Day Before the Bomb Drops
With the quarterfinals finally over—an affair of endless chatter and endless chaos—only three duels remained in the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament...
It was my turn to face that baldy monk, the very one who'd come around sniveling at me before. Granted, my body hadn't fully recovered yet, and every time I tried to draw on my strength, my heart would seize up with a painful lurch. But the real problem lay somewhere else entirely...
"Innocent if rich, guilty if poor!!!"
There I was, both hands wrapped around the bars, wailing my lungs out.
Tanhyeon, Tanhwan... whichever it was. Either way, my grand plan—drumming an exhilarating beat on that baldy's glossy forehead—had come to an end with him pocketing the match by forfeit instead.
Yesterday, I'd sat down with the Sword Saint for a "heart-to-heart" conversation.
No... for an interrogation disguised as a heart-to-heart.
"Oh-hoh. So the dantian really is missing altogether."
"Come on, why would I bother lying about that?"
"So what you're telling me is that you devised these martial arts yourself—is that it?"
"Yes, sir!"
The Sword Saint chewed something over for a moment... then reached out and wrung my cheek like a dishrag.
"Aaaagh!!!"
Whether I shrieked or not, he ignored it with perfect grace, pinching the skin of my face over and over...
"Hmm... the cultivation method too—you made that as well?"
"Naturally. Father told me from the start to make my own and use it, after all..."
"And of all things, it had to be an art that works with blood?"
"Yes....."
"And with it, you can conjure up every freak of nature imaginable?"
"That's what I've been saying."
I couldn't say I answered with my chest out, but I got through it all with as much composure as I could muster. At that, the Sword Saint ran his hand over his snowy beard, humming and hawing in thought for a while... before opening his mouth again to press on with the questioning.
"Young'un. Ever heard of the Blood Cult?"
"No? How would I know anything about such a despicable bunch?"
The name came so far out of left field that I denied it with the blankest face I could manage while my mind raced.
The Blood Cult? Why now? Seriously—he hears "martial art that uses blood" and his brain goes straight to them? Good grief.....
The thing is, the Blood Cult hardly had any blood-based martial arts to begin with. At most, they latched on like leeches, drank a little blood, and built their inner energy off it. Granted, the idea inspired more revulsion than fondness, but in practice they'd only take a blood donation's worth before releasing you back out to pasture... In a way, they were surprisingly gentlemanly about the whole affair.
The very reason they'd hammered the word blood into their own signboard was so they would never forget the blood of the martyrs shed in the days of their persecution... Their fame even came second to the Demon Cult's. All things considered, in the game at least, they'd sat in a rather pitiable position all around.
With the Sword Saint's remarks sounding for all the world like he meant to tie me to those very people, I was just opening my mouth to fire back when—
"Was it last month...? This old fool happened, purely by chance, to meet a fellow calling himself the Blood Cult's Vice-Cult Leader. Strange thing—he was using the very same martial arts as you. Would you call that a coincidence too?"
"Fuck—what did you just say..."
My brain blue-screened on the spot.
Perhaps because of his age, the Sword Saint knit his brow as he groped for the memory...
"I can't speak for the rest, but those eerie summoned beasts of yours... the Vice-Cult Leader fellow used them too. Though his lot must have eaten better—glossier coats and bigger frames, every last one of them..."
It was nonsense. Those were skills I had carved out with my own two hands and ground down ten thousand times over. No—they had long since outgrown the word technique; some had even called them Authorities. And now some lunatic was making free with them, copyright trampled underfoot like so much garbage?
Tuning out the Sword Saint, who was still muttering away beside me, I sank deep into thought.
Another True Ancestor besides me? No... no way, that's impossible. Then just who, in the world.....
Thoughts run in chains by nature, and I found myself snared in that cascade...
Don't tell me... my original body.....
Just as my imagination spiraled all the way to the worst possible scenario—
Smack—
"Ow!"
I let out a short cry and clutched my head.
"In any case, you'll be staying with me for the time being. Well... you'll have to withdraw from the tournament, mind you."
"Why are you deciding that on a whim, Elder?! If you'll excuse me, I'll just be going—"
"This is a sight better than Shaolin's cells. But if you're dead set on drinking that cup of punishment, I won't stand in your way."
"..... But how could I, a rising star of the Orthodox factions, ever refuse the request of its great pillar, Elder Sword Saint? It can't be helped."
I wheeled my already-departing footsteps right around and sat back down on the bed, and the Sword Saint looked at me with eyes gone sour as milk left out in the sun.
"Speaking of which—what's this about Shaolin detaining me?"
"Isn't that obvious? They seem to think you're using sorcery or demonic arts, so they want to seize and interrogate you."
"Wow... is this the Orthodox faction or the mob? Throwing people in jail without a shred of evidence."
"Hehehehe... you're right about that. How on earth did the Orthodox factions come to this....."
In this bizarre spectacle of the very warrior representing the Orthodox factions cursing his own affiliation, I happily chimed along...
"Exactly! It's always those old coots rotting away in their back rooms... I mean, they pose a problem."
"Hmm?"
"If you're going to gobble down your years, at least do it gracefully... honestly. If those old men had even half the character of Elder Saber King, it would never have come to this."
"........"
"And anyway, anyone who comes out of a Daoist sect or a Buddhist order is never quite right in the head. Those sole-lineage transmission and mystic-sect types are all missing a screw or two..."
Crack—
The Sword Saint finally brought his hand down on that apocalyptic mouth of mine...
"Ow....."
Wincing, I carefully wiggled my loosened tooth back into its socket.
"By the way, why wasn't that bastard arrested, then?"
"Who are we talking about? Ah... you mean that fellow Hail?"
"Yes! The sorcery was his doing, after all..."
"That one fled the moment he came to."
"Sorry?"
"What's with that look?"
When my eyes eloquently asked, Why wouldn't you arrest him? If it were me, I'd have bolted too, the explanation finally continued.
"That one only had his own hide to save, and he'd already lost and been knocked out of the running anyway, so I simply let him run. But you—we can't exactly do that with you, now can we?"
"Well, that's true, but..."
"To keep that baldy from pulling any dirty tricks, this was the only move left on the board. So accept it and be done."
His words were blunt, but the gist was, at bottom, that this was all to keep me safe—so I ended up folding too, and asked:
"But why trouble yourself this much on my account?"
"Well... for one, that baldy rubs me the wrong way, and for another, I feel no demonic qi from you..."
Demonic qi?
I obviously couldn't use the stuff. Strictly speaking, my body wasn't in any state to use ordinary qi either—but I could fake a passable imitation. After all, any road will carry you to Seoul, and whatever you eat, only the taste matters. In any case, the Sword Saint appeared to harbor no particular suspicions about me.
"Of course... as if I'd ever touch something like demonic qi."
"Also, my little disciple—apparently your duel left quite the impression, because these past few days it's been nothing but you, you, you. So, killing two birds with one stone..."
"Ha... I already have a fiancée, you see. Jegal Baekhwa—a truly lovely..."
"Who said anything about introducing our precious Haemu to the likes of you?! Dream of it, and I'll fight you to the death right here and now!!!"
Watching the Sword Saint roar loud enough to peel the skin off my eardrums, I went right on prodding him on purpose...
"Well... Baekhwa did say she'd permit concubines....."
The beating took me precisely to death's doorstep and not one step past it.
By the time the sun climbed to its zenith, it was nearly time for the duels to begin. People had gathered in twos and threes, chattering away about the figure who'd stirred up the most gossip of all...
"Did the Mad Blood Ghost really withdraw?"
"That's what they're saying! Supposedly it's the lingering effects of his injuries, but..."
The man mid-sentence shot a glance to the side.
"Innocent if rich! Guilty if poor!"
The scions of the storied great clans sat cross-legged in front of the arena, denouncing Shaolin and the Murim Alliance—clan banners planted right there beside them, no less.
Naturally, Baekhwa and a handful of others had already dropped by on "get-well visits," so most everyone had a rough idea of what was going on. They knew just as well that this display might well accelerate a fracturing of the Orthodox factions. But with Jegal Baekhwa, who'd devised the scheme, holding an iron-hard line, Dang Mulin bulldozing every objection, and Namgung Han pitching a fit about how fun it sounded and how they simply had to start right now...
...in the end, this utterly absurd plan—stage an open protest, ride the tide of popular opinion, and use it to squeeze Shaolin and the Murim Alliance—was rammed through. And I, hearing those voices rise from far below, raced to the window as well...
"Innocent if rich, guilty if poor!!!"
...and hurled my own cry out with all the anguish of a man bewailing every injustice under heaven.
The Sword Saint, naturally, watched all this with a distinctly sour expression and said:
"Now then, time we were off."
"Am I finally being released? Wow... didn't expect this little stunt to actually work."
"Enough nonsense—get dressed. We're going to watch Haemu's duel, so you're coming along. Think of it as a brief outing."
"Ah... what gives. And here I thought....."
Oozing disappointment as conspicuously as I could manage, I threw on my clothes any which way.
Meanwhile, Paeng Juhon was running his legs off, working his qinggong hard for the first time in ages.
This was before the youngsters of the Five Great Clans departed for Shaolin—
"I will return only after proving the name of the Hebei Paeng Clan."
Perhaps the boy who'd once let go of his sanity's tether had finally taken hold of it again...
The Saber King gazed fondly at Paeng Jun, who spoke now with resolute eyes, and said:
"Aye. Go on, then—go carve that will of yours into the world."
But into that heartwarming tableau barged, as ever, a certain someone with no sense of the mood and a gift for killing it...
"Elder, I've knocked this boy's head back on straight, so do me one little favor, would you?"
"Aigoo... all right, all right. Let's hear it, then."
"Then come on down around the time sixteen are left in the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament."
"What's with this sudden pie-in-the-sky talk, eh?"
"I haven't the slightest intention of withdrawing from this tournament. However....."
"Is it that Bulseong gives you the willies, so you're asking this old man to stand behind you?"
"Precisely."
"Tch... fine, fine. Off you go now."
That, without question, was the promise they had made.
But the Saber King's age being what it was, he went and forgot all about it... and the moment it belatedly came back to him, he bolted for Henan.
Roughly one day until the Saber King arrived.