Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 001
Chapter Title: Demon-Exterminating Corps
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Arrows rained down sporadically. It was a routine occurrence in the battle that had dragged on for three full days already, but today's barrage felt particularly vicious.
The war between the Demonic Cult and the Murim Alliance had passed through the initial frenzy of fierce clashes and now stagnated in a deadlock.
In this grueling stalemate of push and pull with no end in sight, casualties mounted relentlessly in a war of attrition.
That was when the war had ground to a halt.
Rumors swirled that a truce might be imminent before long.
As if to gain the upper hand in any upcoming negotiations, the Demonic Cult intensified their assaults.
"Big bro, you think we can make it home in one piece? They've been slinging arrows at us whenever they get the chance. Heard those Demonic Cult bastards are broke as hell, scraping by... so what the fuck gives with wasting all these fancy arrows? Ptooey."
Jin Yeom-pal spat dryly beside him. Yeom-pal was worn out from the previous battles too.
In situations like this, with arrows scattering unpredictably, they had to hunker down in awkward standby—better than charging into combat, sure, but no less exhausting and irritating.
Still, unwilling to let go of his lifeline just yet, he tightened the straps on his battered armor, scarred with blade marks everywhere, bracing for the fight ahead.
Yeom-pal, two years younger than Seok Du-myeong, was one of the rare survivors in Squad 2 of the Demon-Exterminating Corps who'd kept all four limbs intact for over three years.
Most ronin who joined the Demon-Exterminating Corps didn't even last six months.
Why would any skilled, renowned ronin with decent gigs come to a hellhole like this?
Those who ended up here were the dregs, ronin who'd hit rock bottom with nowhere else to go.
Lowly skilled and scraping for jobs that barely came, they chased the money and wound up here.
And that's how they were used—as cannon fodder. When battle erupted, they were thrown to the front lines to gauge the enemy's momentum and numbers.
"Hey, quit your yapping when things are tense! Shut it, you punk. At least you've got a home to crawl back to. Me? Nothing. But I ain't dying here. Can't go out like a dog in this shithole."
Seok Du-myeong muttered, as if affirming it to himself.
"Du-myeong bro, what's the vibe today?"
Seok Du-myeong had one knack: he could read the day's fortunes before battle kicked off.
On days when his gut screamed bad news, they'd inevitably get pushed back, barely scraping by with heavy losses.
On the good days, they'd hold the edge, pulling through without major injuries.
Seok Du-myeong spoke up.
"Dunno. Can't feel it."
-Boom!
A signal flare burst in the distance. It meant the arrow volley was over—time to attack.
"All squad members, assume assault formation and advance!"
Maeng So-bo, leader of Demon-Exterminating Corps Squad 2, bellowed the order.
Green as he was—barely a month into the role himself.
The previous leader? No one knew his name well, but he hadn't died in battle. Somehow pulled strings after less than three months and got transferred out.
The current one, in his late twenties, wore his tension plain on his face.
Rumor had it he was a lay disciple of Mount Hua Sect who'd founded his own minor sect, reaching first-rate level young and earning the moniker "Shaanxi Swift Sword."
"Bro, think that squad leader's making it home alive today? Fuck. All these Shaanxi this-sword, Shaanxi that-sword—similar-sounding nobodies dropping like flies after a few months. What's with Shaanxi and their fast-track-to-the-grave swords?"
Seok Du-myeong couldn't argue with Yeom-pal's gripe and just chuckled.
Truth was, plenty of first-rates in their twenties and thirties had perished on these fields.
Demon-Exterminating Corps grunts were mostly ronin, but squad leaders above were appointed from above.
Prestigious clans or the Nine Great Sects? They didn't touch these gigs. Too many better options.
Those who volunteered or got assigned as squad leaders were usually lay disciples from regional dojos or no-name splinter sects.
They came for one shot at glory.
The foundation for turning their lives around: fame. A moniker.
Pathetic fame and titles drew them to this forsaken corner.
Of course, the pay was decent too. Survival was the catch, but back in their little ponds, they'd been hotshots, cutting farts that echoed.
That bloated confidence brought them here.
But things were different on this battlefield.
First-rate wasn't shit in the Righteous-Demonic War.
Most assigned or volunteering here lacked experience in massive battles.
Yet every Demonic Cult fighter they faced was a battle-hardened vet, skill be damned.
Inexperienced first-rates? Prime targets for blind blades.
Nothing more, nothing less.
"What're we waiting for? Let's move."
Squad 2's leader, Jo Ja-muk, issued the reluctant order.
The men rose with sour grimaces, looking every bit the ragged stragglers.
A full Demon-Exterminating Corps squad was supposed to be twenty strong, but without reinforcements, only eleven remained.
Among them, only squad leader Jo Ja-muk, Jin Yeom-pal, and Seok Du-myeong had lasted three-plus years.
And Seok Du-myeong? Intact from day one of the war.
His skills weren't anything special.
Second-rate, tops.
Late twenties, a bit tall, but otherwise unremarkable.
His average mug only drew attention from courtesans if he flashed coin.
Still, he'd survived.
Dogged luck.
Sure, he had scars aplenty from blade wounds, some near-fatal, but here he was.
The Demonic Cult assault unit—clad in black robes billowing like raven wings—charged at breakneck speed.
Like a black storm cloud rolling in, the Demon-Exterminating Corps gripped their weapons and met them head-on.
-Clang!
-Ching!
Metal clashed everywhere.
"Argh!"
"Gahk!"
Screams echoed from all sides.
The melee devolved into chaos.
In close quarters, individual skill and experience trumped formations—deciding life or death.
In that sense, Seok Du-myeong lagged in martial prowess but matched anyone in savvy.
He dodged a downward slash, deflected it, and thrust into the foe's gut.
"Hngh."
As the man groaned and crumpled, Seok Du-myeong twisted his blade free in a flash.
Then, a presence closing from the flank.
Seok Du-myeong dropped low, sweeping horizontally.
-Slash!
He felt the blade catch, but lightly— just a graze, by the feel.
No time to check.
Plenty of others would finish the guy off. Glancing aside meant missing the overhead chop coming straight at him now.
That was instant death.
"Grrrk."
Seok Du-myeong closed in fast, slamming his body into the foe while shoving the enemy's sword aside with his own in his right hand.
-Puk!
His left-hand dagger plunged into the throat; he twisted it, letting arterial spray paint the air as he shoved the gurgling body aside.
In this chill, a poorly lodged blade could stick fast to flesh—leaving you open for a headless end.
Seok Du-myeong knew from hard experience: better drenched in gore than sloppy finishes.
-Shing!
Suddenly, a razor edge whistling down from the side.
-Clang!
Seok Du-myeong barely parried with his sword and staggered back a few steps, eyeing the attacker.
The blow's power had nearly wrenched his weapon free.
This guy's aura was no joke.
His sword hand throbbed, alarms blaring in his head.
-Run. Run. You're dead. Dead.
No hesitation—Seok Du-myeong hurled his bloodied dagger at the foe and bolted without looking back.
The enemy batted it away but couldn't pursue, blocked by an incoming blade from the side.
"Whew. Took out a couple—that's my share."
Seok Du-myeong caught his breath and scanned around.
Squad leader Jo Ja-muk was proving his upper second-rate chops, felling one foe after another. Jin Yeom-pal swung his saber wide, keeping enemies at bay.
Overall, the fight held steady. No disasters yet.
Seok Du-myeong exhaled deeply and lunged at the bastard in front of Yeom-pal, slashing laterally at his ribs.
-Ching!
The foe blocked in a panic.
-Slash!
-Thud!
Yeom-pal seized the opening, hacking down and severing the neck.
The saber didn't cleave clean; blood erupted, drenching Yeom-pal head to toe.
He kicked the corpse off and yanked his blade free.
"Thanks, bro."
"You idiot—think you're some master? Going for the neck like that. Slip up and get your blade caught, you're done."
"Feels badass, right? A real man goes for the head."
"Fucking moron."
Seok Du-myeong and Jin Yeom-pal readjusted their grips and scanned for threats.
In the brief frenzy, corpses littered the ground—including several Demon-Exterminating comrades.
No interest in hunting specific foes.
Pick the wrong matchup in a brawl, and you're dead.
Bravery without brains? Dead.
Choosing winnable fights smartly mattered more.
No need to burn out against elites.
But some days, luck soured.
Like today.
That powerhouse he'd dodged earlier approached again, blood dripping from his blade.
'Why the hell's this prick coming back?'
"Shit, that guy's no pushover—we saw earlier."
Jin Yeom-pal got the hint, flicking blood from his saber and holding it diagonally—coordinating for a combo.
The enemy charged Seok Du-myeong.
-Flash!
A terrifying swift sword strike downward.
-Pak!
Seok Du-myeong tilted his blade sideways, barely blocking... but blood sprayed from Yeom-pal's arm.
Too fast to track—two strikes in one blur.
Lucky the arm stayed attached; Yeom-pal had yanked back just in time.
The foe swung laterally at Yeom-pal next.
Seok Du-myeong countered with his life-saver, Pursuit Claw Strike, stabbing the ribs.
-Clang!
The enemy recalled his strike in a hurry, batting Seok Du-myeong's blade aside.
-Whoosh!
Another dazzling swift slash carved Seok Du-myeong's left shoulder.
-Puk!
Blood spurted; numb pain flared.
But the blade kept descending.
No chance to counter—Seok Du-myeong twisted aside and rolled across the dirt in desperation.
Yeom-pal timed it perfectly, backpedaling several steps for distance.
The foe paused, visibly irked at failing to drop two lowlifes. He stood appraising them.
Tall and lean, but packed with wiry muscle—radiating menace.
Seok Du-myeong figured it was time for the Murim Alliance's "peerless" techniques they'd handed out.
He called them peerless derisively for good reason.
Moon-Cutting World-Shaker.
Sea-Reversing Thunder Tip.
Mountain-Slicing Sweep.
Names that sounded badass, and their power and edge lived up to "peerless."
Problem: each was plucked from somewhere else, no synergy.
No supporting internal art either—you jury-rigged it with your own qi.
Worst: unleashing one drained your qi massively, leaving you wide open.
With barely over twenty years of cultivation, one move meant defenseless suicide on this field.
Hence, peerless in name only—utterly unusable.
-Boom!
A red signal flare soared from the enemy rear and burst high.
Retreat signal.
"Lucky bastards. I'll remember your faces. Next time we cross paths, that's when your luck runs dry."
-Flash!
Cool words, but the sneaky fuck swung at Yeom-pal, standing just paces away clutching his wounded arm.
Seok Du-myeong agonized for a split second.
Then hurled himself in front, unleashing the first form of Moon-Cutting World-Shaker.
This one expelled all qi for explosive acceleration—no stance needed.
Didn't matter; it was a one-and-done desperation move.
-Ching!
The foe recoiled a step to control his rebounding sword, face flickering with surprise at the sudden threat.
Then Squad leader Jo Ja-muk closed in, and the enemy backed off.
Before turning, he shot them a venomous glare, then vanished in a blur of lightness skill.
Even low-rankers like them, but three-on-one meant a drawn-out grind.
With retreat called, no point overextending...
Jo Ja-muk approached.
"Tough sons of bitches, anyway."
Seok Du-myeong's trembling legs gave out, and he collapsed.
"That was fucking close!"
A rare curse slipped from his lips that day.