Chapter 19
Chapter 19
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 019
Chapter Title: Yeom-pal's Desertion Incident
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Ever since the last battle, the Demonic Cultists had withdrawn across the river, not even showing their faces.
Whether they holed up in their own territory and killed each other or not, the lack of fighting on this side was always welcome.
No fighting didn't mean they weren't getting paid, so right now, it was like free money.
Of course, the Subdue Demon Corps and Justice Assault Corps were direct affiliates of the Murim Alliance, so even without battles, they underwent training.
But the Demon-Exterminating Corps consisted of hired mercenaries, so they rarely had formal training sessions. Each member had to cultivate their martial arts on their own.
It had now been a full year since Seok Du-myeong first met his master through the manual. They'd connected in early November last year, and now it was October again, with just a few months left in the year.
The seasons were heading back toward winter, and the war was once again dragging on into the new year.
Seok Du-myeong had now reached the 8th stage of the Master's Augmented Piercing Swift Sword Technique. The Clear Wind Sword Technique was notoriously difficult, progressing slowly, yet he'd managed to hit the 3rd stage.
His master had said that the Clear Wind Sword Technique only became practical in real combat after surpassing the 5th stage.
'That old man made the swordsmanship needlessly complicated. No progress at all. None!'
What Seok Du-myeong was proudest of was his internal energy. The amount accumulated in his dantian now exceeded 15 years' worth. By now, he knew his master hadn't been exaggerating—five times the normal amount was indeed stored in his channels.
'Wait, then 15 times five is 75, plus the base makes 90 years? This is insane!'
What Seok Du-myeong was mistaken about was that the energy in his channels didn't multiply exactly by five.
It was roughly equivalent to 90 years, but in truth, it was a bit over 70—far short of that.
The reason was that he'd only been accumulating energy in his dantian for a short time, not long enough to fully settle it into his channels.
Even so, Seok Du-myeong decided to round up to 90 for his own satisfaction.
70 years was still an astonishing amount. It had long surpassed peak-level internal energy, but he still couldn't manifest Wind Energy, the sword qi equivalent.
That was his biggest worry these days.
As Seok Du-myeong lay on his bunk lost in these thoughts...
"Brother, you feeling sick? You've been lying down all the time lately."
Yeom-pal approached the bunk.
Yeom-pal looked brutish, but he could read and write. He claimed he'd been called a child prodigy as a kid, which sounded ridiculous, but somehow he knew his letters.
Seok Du-myeong had learned to read and write young thanks to his grandfather.
It might seem ordinary, but ronin like them—lowly wanderers living by the blade—rarely knew literacy.
"Brother, looks like your mother's not doing well. The physician says she might not make it through the year."
Yeom-pal was reading a letter from home right now.
His wife was illiterate, so a village tutor had penned it for her, but letters could still be exchanged here.
Of course, they took nearly three months and cost a fortune, so they were rare.
Yeom-pal's face darkened.
"Brother, the war'll end this year, right? We can go home? It has to happen."
Tears welled up in Yeom-pal's eyes.
Yeom-pal was a filial son. His father had died of illness when he was three, leaving him raised by his widowed mother.
To support her only son, his mother lived with unyielding grit. She toiled at a brothel doing menial chores and took in sewing from the local cloth shop for meager pay, burning the midnight oil under dim lantern light every night.
Despite their poverty, she sent him to school to learn his letters. Yeom-pal had an ugly mug but a massive build and monstrous strength.
From childhood, he ruled the neighborhood alleys as the local bully boss, and at sixteen, he joined the Venom Snakes gang that controlled the backstreets.
His tearful mother begged him to quit, but he wouldn't listen.
At seventeen, during a turf war, he killed a rival gang member and spent three years in prison.
His mother worked as a maid at the prison office during those three years, doing every dirty job to support her incarcerated son.
Out of prison, Yeom-pal straightened up, partnered with a gang brother to run a brewery, served his mother well, got married, and lived decently.
But the partner fled one night, secretly selling off the brewery to pay gambling debts.
To make matters worse, his mother fell ill with what the physician called "half-stomach"—incurable cancer in modern terms.
She refused treatment, but Yeom-pal couldn't accept that.
Hearing the Murim Alliance was recruiting warriors with a hefty advance of fifty silver taels, he signed up.
But the Alliance didn't hand out such sums to lowly ronin without reason. It was early in the war, so the contract's brutality wasn't widely known yet.
—Until the war's end.
The war had stretched far longer and fiercer than expected.
Still, Yeom-pal had sent every penny of his life-risk pay home without fail.
*
All the squad members in the barracks were asleep.
There should have been a night watch, but with the unit down to just seven from twenty, no one bothered. Even command had slacked off; why would the grunts enforce rules?
Seok Du-myeong stirred in his sleep, sensing someone slipping out of the barracks, and opened his eyes.
The figure tried to mask their presence, but it was obviously Yeom-pal.
Seok Du-myeong could now detect individual presences within a hundred paces of the barracks.
'Just going to take a piss.'
At first, he thought nothing of it and tried to sleep again.
But then Yeom-pal's presence drifted farther away and vanished. He'd gone beyond a hundred paces.
What that meant...
Seok Du-myeong grabbed his sword and dashed out. Yeom-pal was heading forward toward the river, not the rear.
Seok Du-myeong unleashed his lightness skill, pursuing. Yeom-pal hadn't trained in it, but his big frame moved nimbly and swiftly.
That explained how he'd survived three years here.
Yeom-pal came into view, a heavy pack on his back and a saber at his waist—clearly set on deserting with resolve.
As Seok Du-myeong closed in, he sensed two presences approaching from the side.
Pursuit Unit bastards.
The Murim Alliance locked lowly ronin into hellish contracts; did they think there'd be no countermeasures?
The Pursuit Unit hunted and executed deserters like Yeom-pal.
They recruited bounty hunters and trackers from the jianghu.
Demon-Exterminating Corps members despised them more than Demonic Cultists. Dozens had been executed by them, from what Seok Du-myeong knew.
Suddenly, the two Pursuit Unit members blocked Yeom-pal's path.
"Where you off to in such a hurry at night?"
Yeom-pal froze in panic.
"Ah, I gotta take a piss..."
"Who takes a piss with a sword and pack?"
Realizing the jig was up, Yeom-pal gripped his saber's hilt.
Shick, shick.
As if anticipating it, the Pursuit Unit men drew and attacked with quick-draw strikes.
Clearly second-rate experts. Even one would overwhelm Yeom-pal.
Clang!
Yeom-pal parried one sword with his saber. But the pair, used to teamwork, exploited the opening as he blocked, the other slipping in fast.
Blood sprayed from Yeom-pal's shoulder as the blade bit.
Normally, Pursuit Unit men used signal whistles for coordination, but not tonight.
Why share a rare easy prey? Toy with him, then kill...
With a shoulder slash, Yeom-pal's stance crumbled. The pack hindered him, but no time to ditch it.
He barely defended.
Slash.
His leg was cut too.
The Pursuit men sneered, prolonging the fight without intent to kill quickly.
Seok Du-myeong hesitated. To save Yeom-pal, intervene now—but killing them meant messy cleanup.
Dumping bodies? Their specialty was tracking traces; not easy.
As he pondered...
Thud.
Yeom-pal, slashed all over, collapsed.
One raised his sword for the killing blow to the neck.
Clang!
Seok Du-myeong leaped in, blocking the strike.
In the rebound, he twisted and severed the man's throat in a blur.
Fearsome swift sword speed.
"Gurk, gurk."
The man clutched his half-severed neck, gurgling as he fell back.
The other, shocked by the ambush, tried to blow his whistle.
Flash.
Thud.
The whistle hand flew off.
But no scream.
Splat.
Seok Du-myeong's sword pierced his throat.
"Guhk, guhk."
Choking groans instead of screams as he toppled, convulsing, then stilled.
Two breaths. Seok Du-myeong had unleashed the 8th-stage Master's Augmented Piercing Swift Sword Technique at full power for speed.
The result stunned even him—leaps beyond the last battle.
"Brother... huhuhu..."
Yeom-pal sobbed, unable to continue.
"Brother, I have to see Mother. She's lived for me alone; I gotta be there at the end. If I can't see her go... it'll haunt me forever... huhuhu."
Yeom-pal writhed in sobs.
Slap!
Seok Du-myeong backhanded him. Yeom-pal's lip split, bleeding.
"You think you'll make it home alive like this? Without me, you'd be dead now, you idiot. Fine, you die—what about your wife, your daughter? You gonna make them live like your poor mother? She's dying anyway. Would she want this? The living must live on."
After long sobs, Yeom-pal wiped his tears, sobering a bit.
"Brother, sorry. Now you're involved too. Just say I did it all..."
"Saved your suicidal ass. Listen, Yeom-pal—this is instant execution if caught."
Seok Du-myeong's mind raced.
'How to clean this up?'
Desert with him? Alone, maybe—but wounded Yeom-pal? Risky.
Hide bodies and traces? Suspicion inevitable eventually.
As he agonized, faint demonic energy flickered two hundred paces away.
Demonic Cult scouts.
'Never thought I'd be this grateful for Demonic Cult bastards!'
Approaching aura: at least three peak experts, total over twenty.
Seok Du-myeong nearly wanted to kiss them.
"Yeom-pal, crawl into that bush and play dead."
Yeom-pal started to speak but shut up at Seok Du-myeong's glare and obeyed.
Seok Du-myeong propped the corpses forward, then pulsed his energy blatantly.
Alert the Cultists to enemies here.
He knew their peak experts would've sensed him already.
This far from main forces, they might treat it as a scout skirmish.
Whoosh.
Thwick.
Indeed—daggers laced with demonic energy flew stealthily.
Thud, thud, thud.
They thunked into the corpses' chests and necks.
'Our pretty Demonic Cult boys throw daggers that well too?'
The stealth and speed suggested a peak expert specialized in them.
One problem solved.
Seok Du-myeong snatched the dead man's whistle and blew hard.
"Squeeeek! Squeeeek!"
Even the Cultists wouldn't expect survivors blowing it amid Jin Yeom-pal and Seok Du-myeong's auras.
The shrill wail echoed everywhere. Seok Du-myeong sensed Pursuit Unit rushing from all sides.
'Sorry, bastards—fight the Cultists, not the deserter.'
He hoisted Yeom-pal and bolted with lightness skill.
Moments later.
Whiiiish, boom.
Clang, clang!
"Urk, kuhk."
Signal flares burst where they'd been, followed by clashing steel and screams.
Seok Du-myeong pushed his lightness skill harder, ignoring it.
*
The next day.
The night's Demonic Cult raid left the entire unit in chaos.
Not a large assault, so no full battle, but Murim Alliance casualties were heavy.
The initial Pursuit Unit clash was worst: 13 dead, 7 critically wounded.
Including the two Seok Du-myeong killed, but with only about 40 total, it was near annihilation.
Later Subdue Demon Corps search teams lost 7 more.
Against that, the Cult lost 6—considering ambush, a one-sided Alliance rout.
Thus, no breakfast; early muster for all.
Subdue Demon Corps Leader Jeong Gu-chu began his speech.
"As you all know, an unfortunate incident struck our unit last night. We'd grown complacent in the lull, and vicious Demonic Cult fiends raided us. Thanks to the noble sacrifice of two patrolling Pursuit Unit members who spotted them early, Pursuit and Subdue Demon Corps coordinated to repel the evil, but our losses were great. In their honor, let's observe a moment for our fallen comrades. All, heads bowed."
Seok Du-myeong bowed deeper and longer to hide his grin.
'Our pretty Demonic Cult boys fight so well—they smashed the Pursuit Unit! So cute.'
Twenty-plus Cultists versus 70 Alliance at that spot? No traces left—just blood everywhere.
Seok Du-myeong inwardly prayed for the six dead Cultists.
Jeong Gu-chu droned on, then unit leaders ordered heightened vigilance before dismissing.
Seok Du-myeong supported the still-unsteady Yeom-pal back to barracks.
"Brother, truly grateful. How many lives do I owe you now? How to repay..."
'Just pay me.'
Last night, Seok Du-myeong had carried him back, applied hemostatic powder for first aid. Multiple cuts, but none deep. Yeom-pal was born lucky.
"Forget it. Recover quick so no suspicions."
Everything resolved neatly; Seok Du-myeong smiled heading to barracks.
*
A month later, another letter for Yeom-pal.
He read it, folded it carefully, and lay on his bunk.
Seok Du-myeong guessed: notice of his mother's passing.
Considering delivery time, she'd likely died around his desertion attempt.
Even on her deathbed, thinking of her son, saving his life.
From what Seok Du-myeong knew, Jin Yeom-pal was the only Desertion Corps deserter attempt survivor.
His intervention, the sudden Cult attack—that night, luck poured on Yeom-pal.
As elders said, ancestors watching over—like his mother.
Yeom-pal, who prized meals above all, lay all day without eating.
Seok Du-myeong started to speak but held back. Better to leave him be.
All slept, deep night fell; Yeom-pal rose and went out.
Seok Du-myeong, wary, focused senses on him.
Yeom-pal went thirty or forty paces, stopped.
Seok Du-myeong rose, exited, but halted at sight.
Yeom-pal knelt on cold bare earth, sobbing.
"Huhuhu..."
He bowed his head to the ground, weeping.
After long sobs, he rose, facing south toward Zhejiang Province.
"Mother, now cover with blankets and sleep warm. Little So-hee said you've slept on cold floors without fire since I left for war. No more—sleep well, really well now... huhuhu."
Finishing through sobs, he bowed reverently south.
Seok Du-myeong slipped back to bunk, relieved.
Long after, Yeom-pal returned.
Today, Seok Du-myeong's heart ached thinking of his late grandfather.
A chill wind whistled mournfully past the barracks.