Chapter 169
Chapter 169
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 169
Chapter Title: Ghosts of the Past, Ties of the Present (8)
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From beyond the darkness of the control room, the owner of the sudden voice stepped forward slowly. Amid the faint glow of the monitors, an elderly man in simple people's clothing revealed his face.
“…East Palace Lord.”
As Yeomyeong uttered his title, the old man with multiple faces smiled faintly.
But beyond his wrinkle-filled smile, his black eyes gleamed with murderous intent.
“Palace Lord… That’s a false identity bestowed by the oppressors.”
“…”
“My true identity is First Secretary of the Asha Communist Party, Perubi Sekretari.”
Communist Party First Secretary? Yeomyeong swallowed a hollow laugh.
“Quite the grandiose position. While you’re at it wearing that hat, why not go for Secretary-General?”
It was blatant mockery, but the old man replied with a serious face.
“The Communist Party’s Secretary-General can only be that one man. I’m merely filling his empty seat… How could I dare claim the title for myself?”
His voice was as earnest as his expression. The conviction and certainty it carried were all too familiar to Yeomyeong.
That’s how all those so-called Patriots spoke.
Feeling a faint chill at the realization, Yeomyeong placed his hand on the hilt of his black sword. Behind him came the faint sound of the Saintess readying her rifle.
A tense atmosphere where battle could erupt at any moment.
Yet Bikof made no response. Instead, he took a step forward and continued calmly.
“Cheon Yeomyeong, won’t you hear my proposal?”
“…”
“To cut to the chase: join our party.”
With those words, Bikof extended his hand. Yeomyeong glanced down at the rough, calloused palm and shook his head.
“…I have no intention of shaking hands with commies.”
“What if it’s as fellow victims?”
“…Victims?”
“The weak sacrificed by the oppressors. Unjust victims born of a flawed world.”
What the hell is this guy saying?
While Yeomyeong’s expression hardened, Bikof bent down and picked something up from the floor.
A Pig Head crusted with dried blood.
It was far from an ordinary pig’s head—the head of a Shepherd secretly bred by the Korean government.
“I pondered why you attacked the West Palace Lord. When no answer came, it hit me suddenly. Korean Cheon Yeomyeong and the freak created by the Korean government…”
“…”
“Your goal was revenge. Isn’t that right?”
Yeomyeong uttered neither denial nor affirmation.
Facing that silence, Bikof spoke with even greater conviction.
“I can understand you—more than anyone in this world! I too was once a little citizen tossed about by oppressors mad with power and might!”
Bikof tossed the Pig Head to the floor. The sound of flesh squelching and blood splattering filled the space between them.
“Why do people like us even exist? The answer is all too simple.”
“…”
“The ones who built this modern society! America and all the trash hiding behind it to perpetuate oppression! They are the root of every suffering we’ve endured!”
Bikof took another step forward.
“Cheon Yeomyeong, take my hand! Let me help you. Together, we can achieve not just revenge, but bring true justice to this land!”
“…”
The outstretched hand, a brief silence.
Before the silence could stretch, Yeomyeong drew his sword.
Atop the blade forged from the blood and tears of massacred Dwarves, a yellow glow reminiscent of mustard gas flickered.
Seeing the sword, Bikof clenched the hand he had extended, as if regretting.
“Reason for refusal?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘true justice,’ but the justice of a man who backstabbed his ally and unleashed a Ratkin legion doesn’t seem any better than America’s.”
“Oh… So Pinel visited you. Useless elf to the end.”
Bikof sighed deeply, then added with a hopeful expression.
“It’s regrettable, but… would you believe it was all necessary?”
“…The Korean government’s bastards said something similar to me.”
With those words, both men thought of a single phrase simultaneously.
Negotiations broken.
The next instant, a gunshot rang out from behind Yeomyeong.
***
Neti gasped as she watched her sister fire her pistol the moment the conversation ended.
Not a hint of hesitation—a shot aimed precisely at the head.
But upon confirming the bullet’s trajectory, Neti gasped again.
“No, what…?”
Seti’s shot hadn’t pierced Bikof. More precisely, he had caught it in his hand.
Catching a bullet in this darkness, at this range?
Bikof tossed the half-embedded bullet from his palm to the floor and said,
“Such poor manners.”
At his words as the signal, the Saintess and Yeomyeong moved.
First, the Saintess pulled the trigger on her nearly depleted anti-materiel sniper rifle.
Bang!
Unable to block the blessed anti-materiel round, Bikof immediately hurled himself aside.
He seemed to roll across the floor, then used the momentum to spring up, gathering mana in his legs.
And in the next moment, his body blurred as he accelerated explosively.
A speed akin to—or surpassing—Flying Leg Art.
‘A Superhuman after all.’
In a way, it was inevitable. No ordinary human could hold the position of Palace Lord in this cesspool of a city.
Yeomyeong immediately unleashed Flying Leg Art to pursue him.
Their speeds were evenly matched, but Yeomyeong’s reach was slightly longer with his sword.
“Not bad swordsmanship. A bit light on killing intent, though.”
Bikof chattered while barely dodging the blade. Before Yeomyeong could swing again, he pulled a small remote from his pocket and pressed it firmly.
Soon after.
—Wheeeeooooweeeooooweee!
A siren blared in the control room, and red lights flashed on.
Likely an alarm echoing through the entire bunker. The sound of Ratkin feet thundering from the far side confirmed it.
“Now, shall we fight properly?”
Bikof said as he raised his fist.
A brief silence, eyes locking. The moment the Saintess chambered her next round.
The two charged at each other, swinging sword and fist. Flesh met steel, but the mana-wrapped fist struck with the weight of an iron mace.
Clang!
The clash of metal on metal.
Suppressing the shock traveling up his arm, Yeomyeong thrust his sword. Bikof extended his hand in a blade form.
Swordplay with a hand blade? It was a technique Yeomyeong himself favored, so he altered his sword’s path to block it.
Metal screeched again, sparks flying intensely—like welding.
Yeomyeong shook him off and glanced back.
In his view, the control room’s main door swung open, swarming Ratkin visible through the slight gap.
‘…Have to leave the Ratkin to Seti and the Saintess.’
The moment Yeomyeong thought that, Bikof slipped inside his guard and thrust a fist.
“Oh dear, turning your eyes during a fight?”
His fist was fast and powerful—more than any martial art Yeomyeong had seen.
Yeomyeong barely deflected it with Ghost Step, but each time, monitors, desks, even the concrete floor shattered into debris.
Boom! Boom!
Shockwaves unbelievable from a human hand.
Bikof’s strikes rivaled modern weaponry—not just in power, but in the intent behind them.
Faster, stronger, more efficient… martial arts designed to kill.
While defending against Bikof’s style, Yeomyeong suddenly realized something and gathered Comet Light into his sword aura.
The instant Bikof saw the light, he halted his attack and leaped back, widening the gap.
Yeomyeong neither pursued nor fired the Comet Sword.
Part of it was mana depletion from fighting Kahal Magdu, but he had gathered the light mainly to gauge his reaction.
‘As expected, he dodged the moment he sensed the Comet Sword’s killing intent.’
He stared at Bikof with deep-set eyes. Bikof stroked his beard and asked,
“…Eclectic style, but efficient use. Got a master?”
“Korbus.”
“The hermit of the crossroads? Then…”
You know magic too.
Before the words finished, ice spears bloomed around Yeomyeong. Dozens arced menacingly toward Bikof.
Bikof batted them away, dodged, and closed in again. Followed by a fist.
Yeomyeong pinned the fist with telekinesis from his left hand and thrust his sword with his right.
The sword aura drew a long crescent toward Bikof’s neck.
And…
It was blocked. Bikof had clamped down on the blade with his teeth.
‘What?’
As Yeomyeong frowned at the unimaginable defense, Bikof drove his knee into Yeomyeong’s side.
Crack—several ribs snapped in one blow. Yeomyeong gritted his teeth and poured sword aura into the blade when Bikof leaped back.
“Such a pity. You could have accomplished great things.”
Regenerating his bones, Yeomyeong smirked. Bikof’s words meant he intended to kill him here today.
Ptoo. Yeomyeong spat the blood pooling in his mouth and asked,
“Bikof, one last question.”
“Surrendering? I’ll accept gladly.”
Yeomyeong shook his head and asked,
“What’s your connection to Juga Shibili?”
A question he’d fielded countless times. But now, Yeomyeong had no choice but to ask in reverse.
The martial arts Bikof displayed matched every description of Juga Shibili he’d heard.
Simple, efficient killing techniques.
Yet Bikof’s answer deviated slightly from expectation.
“Juga Shibili… is my family name. Come to think of it, I only gave you the fake surname. Cheon Yeomyeong, my full name is Bikof Ivanes Juga Shibili.”
“What?”
Juga Shibili was Stalin’s original surname, wasn’t it? Yeomyeong frowned.
“…Stalin’s bastard?”
“Oh, more imaginative than I thought.”
Bikof curled his lips in a smile. Glancing at Seti and the Saintess holding back Ratkin at the control tower entrance, he added,
“The Secretary-General’s bloodline is already severed. Both sons sacrificed heroically for the people, and the daughter was corrupted by capitalism.”
“…”
“Yet I bear the name Juga Shibili… not by blood, but by inheriting his will.”
Will. The moment he uttered the word, red energy rippled around Bikof’s body.
Tangible killing intent mingled with mana.
“I am the last successor and survivor of the Juga Shibili school. Does that answer your question?”
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