Chapter 2
Chapter 2
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 002
Chapter Title: Demon-Exterminating Corps (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
A day had passed since the battle ended.
With early winter setting in, the biting cold made it impossible to stand still without shivering.
Seok Du-myeong stepped into the makeshift tent crudely patched together from straw mats to barely block the wind.
A fire crackled in the center, surrounded by wooden bunks lined up in rows.
The bunks were little more than roughly woven straw mats topped with thick hemp blankets, just enough to fend off the chill rising from the ground.
Two men had died in this battle, leaving only nine squad members. The tent felt hollow, with empty bunks here and there.
The survivors all bore wounds across their bodies.
"Aigoo, my arm! That damn bastard calls himself an expert, swings his sword like lightning, and picks on low-rank warriors like us. Cough, what a blind idiot deservedly skewered by some stray blade. Aigoo, it hurts~ah."
"Yeom-pal, you got some nerve saying that. All you care about is saving your own skin. Thank the heavens your arm's still attached. That last burst of sword energy was damn near first-rate. Facing a first-class expert and keeping your head? That's pure luck. I nearly lost my shoulder if I'd been a hair slower."
Yeom-pal was slippery as they come, with instincts honed from it. If he hadn't yanked his arm back in that split second, he'd have lost it for sure.
On the battlefield, losing a limb meant death for low-rank warriors.
If you couldn't staunch the bleeding or seal the acupoints in time, massive blood loss would kill you.
What kind of acupoint-sealing technique would a low-rank scrub with weak arts even know?
Even if a superior was nearby to seal it, it wouldn't help.
What lunatic expert would waste their internal energy sealing points for some half-stranger amid flying blades, where every moment was life or death?
Yeom-pal knew it too, so he shut up about dying.
He just grumbled under his breath.
There was good reason for Yeom-pal's griping.
Even after begging the squad leader to list him as severely wounded, it hadn't worked.
A right-handed blade user unable to grip his sword was obviously combat-ineffective.
But Yeom-pal's wound was ambiguous—just awkward to use, not impossible. So he'd been classified as lightly wounded instead of severe.
Here, the severely wounded got treatment at the medical camps on the battlezone's outskirts.
That meant exclusion from combat for at least a while.
To Yeom-pal, it was a life-or-death matter.
"Those bastards won't be happy till my arm's hacked clean off. The fearsome Black Wind Corps of the Demonic Cult... I threw myself at a first-class expert for the fate of the jianghu, and they treat this righteous warrior's wound so lightly. Unbelievable."
"What bullshit."
Seok Du-myeong snapped as old memories stirred his anger.
He vowed not to care if Yeom-pal died next time.
Still, he scanned the other squad members on their bunks.
No sign of the squad leader. That guy curled up in the corner looked like Yeom Se, skinny as a rat with a protruding snout.
The one silently sharpening his blade over there—if not for the scar across his face, he'd be quite the looker, enough to turn heads with women. Ma Seong-hu.
Yang Ho, with his burly build and lopsided oversized head, had wrapped his noggin tight in cloth—probably from a mace cracking his skull in the last fight.
Made sense; big target like that, he always took headshots.
But still kicking without major issues? Must be as tough as it was huge.
O Jin seemed to have been classified severe and shipped to the medical camp.
He'd lost a leg in the battle.
Yeom-pal envied that? Guy's head was a mystery...
Around here, "severe" meant losing a limb.
And as said, that usually meant bleeding out and dying. So effectively, few survived severe classification.
In that light, O Jin got lucky.
Replacements had been scarce for nearly six months.
Many reasons, but the big one: no more ronin warriors signing up.
Early on, naive swordsmen flooded in, lured by the monthly stipend.
But the quick war dragged into a grinding attrition slog between Demonic Cult and Murim Alliance, hemorrhaging lives with no end. Who'd come here for money when survival was iffy? Numbers dwindled, now near zero.
Rumors said both sides were negotiating truce to end the pointless meat grinder, but key disagreements stalled it.
"Bro, losses were heavy this time. O Jin's out severe, new guy's dead—down two already."
"What’s that got to do with me? Long as my neck's intact, fine by me."
Truth was, Seok Du-myeong barely remembered the dead guy's name. Fresh transfer, couple months tops—no real bond even if introduced.
Lately, he made a point not to memorize names.
Early days, he'd known every squad mate, wept nights when they died, felt the loss hard.
But war dulled it. Remembering names for the doomed became nauseating drudgery. Now he only knew long-term survivors.
Excluding the squad leader, the remaining eight had dodged death over two years—battle-hardened vets.
O Jin bailed severe this time, though...
For the guy showing wild delirium after every fight, maybe a blessing.
His mental state was fraying anyway; couldn't last here.
Prolonged war bred more like him—mental cases everywhere.
Not that anyone here was truly sane.
Dodging death multiple times monthly, comrades turning to sudden corpses, killing like meals—no normalcy left.
Seok Du-myeong wasn't tight with O Jin.
Still, remembering his name meant the guy lasted two-plus years without dying...
Now another squad mate gone.
The tent flap lifted, letting in two men with the outer chill.
Gong Seo-chil and I Jo-hyeok, hauling a heavy pot between them.
The savory aroma of beef noodle soup filled the tent.
Right past snack time, stomachs rumbling—every eye locked on.
They set the pot over the central fire, ladling generous bowls.
"We'll serve starting with the squad leader."
I Jo-hyeok brought the first heaping bowl.
Every time, seeing his face up close: this kid didn't belong here.
Ma Seong-hu had looks, but that cheek-to-chin scar killed any softness.
I Jo-hyeok? On another level.
Delicate features, flawless skin—no scars. Slender build, smooth complexion; dress him as a girl, he'd pass for a beauty anywhere.
If Seok Du-myeong hadn't sneaked a peek during a piss break, he'd have pegged him for a woman in disguise.
Youngest at eighteen, not even twenty.
On arrival, Seok Du-myeong gawked at his looks but shrugged it off.
Whatever backstory dragged him here, figured three months max before death.
Yet here he was, over a year later—limbs intact, unscarred.
Clear implication: trained properly, noble house stock.
In fights, he hid it, but his refined sword stance showed. Solid internal energy too.
Seok Du-myeong's meager qi couldn't gauge precisely, but crisis bursts hit speeds beyond typical third- or second-rate ronin.
Plus, amiable personality—got along great with tent seniors.
Skeptical glares turned to camaraderie over time.
Beside him, pudgy Gong Seo-chil with those tiny, perpetually squinted eyes—stark contrast.
Still, at twenty-two, closest in age to I Jo-hyeok; they bro-ed out well.
"Whoa, what's this? Beef chunks loaded up nice. What's the occasion?"
Arm-killer Yeom-pal slurped away fine with his right hand.
"Heard Azure Dragon Unit might visit, so they said spruce up rations or whatever. Anyway, more food's good for us."
Seo-chil explained what he'd heard to Seok Du-myeong.
Seok Du-myeong gulped the rare meaty broth, pondering.
"Why would Azure Dragon Unit come to this front-line dump?"
Yang Ho said.
"Why? 'Cause they got nothing better."
Yeom-pal shot back.
"Idiot, nothing better so they come here? What's to see?"
Yang Ho ribbed him instantly.
Seo-chil jumped in.
"But Yeom-pal bro, rumor says women coming with this Azure Dragon Unit."
"W-women? Who?"
"Not sure, but probably one of the Five Flowers of Murim."
"How'd you hear that?"
"My sources say three of the Five Flowers are in Azure Dragon. And the visiting First Unit Leader's Jade Face Divine Sword Namgung Chang-seong. He's a total hunk matching his title, so folks figure one Flower's tagging along."
"Lucky bastard. Some guys starve for months without glimpsing a skirt, rotting with stinking dudes—others roll up with a Murim Flower in tow."
Yeom-pal whined like his gut hurt.
Seok Du-myeong noticed I Jo-hyeok stiffen at Namgung Chang-seong's name.
Some connection? He kept it to himself.
Truth was, late-war logistics sucked.
Rations: thin gruel and hardtack.
Even skimpy, so he hunted furtively for meat when possible.
Azure Dragon visit prompting commanders to impress with better chow? Welcome change.
Azure Dragon Unit: Murim Alliance's elite reserve strike force under a transcendent leader, packed with righteous faction juniors.
160 total, split into four 40-man units.
First Unit visiting here.
Not a full "unit" by scale—proper ones needed 400-plus.
But downgrading precious heirs' club would bruise noble egos.
Hence "unit" status.
Fame partly from housing jianghu prodigies: five of Nine Dragons, three of Five Flowers.
Namgung Chang-seong one of them.
They rarely front-lined but joined when soft Demonic Cult targets offered glory and experience.
Not weaklings, though.
Seok Du-myeong knew their leader, fortysomething Namgung Byeok—transcendent realm.
Alias: Azure Dragon's First Sword. Clan head's cousin, top-tier powerhouse.
All 160: peak first-class at minimum, elite heirs.
Still, something felt off about precious young masters hitting this forsaken front now.