Chapter 1108

He was dead.

No—he’d thought he was dead.

Fifteen minutes earlier, the young man who had rushed in front of Jin Taekyung, lost in a Trance and unable to sense the danger, had been certain he was about to die.

But he hadn’t.

A blood-red flash charged with an unprecedented force had struck him, followed by a tremendous impact that battered his entire body.

When he finally opened his eyes, clinging to the thread of consciousness that had briefly been severed, the young man buried beneath a pile of stones—or rather, Cheongpung—muttered to himself:

This is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever been through… No, it isn’t.

If this had happened before—more precisely, if he hadn’t gone through what happened on Mount Song—he might have trembled with fear.

Overwhelmed by the terror of death, something he’d never experienced before, and frozen by the killing intent and madness he’d never felt amid the clear streams and plum blossoms of Lotus Peak, he might have been unable to move.

But—

I have to move.

Things were different now.

The child who had wandered through Huashan’s beautiful scenery had entered the martial world and learned how to run.

He’d faced the world’s ugliness and learned what anger felt like. He’d spent time with good people and come to understand what it meant to do right by others.

So even knowing that countless threats and hardships awaited him, he could rise again.

That was the right path his grandfather had raised him to follow. It was the chivalry he had learned from watching Jin Taekyung.

Go. To my Benefactor. To them.

Cheongpung pushed himself to his feet, unsteady.

He shoved aside the stones weighing down his body and endured the pain of bones broken here and there, moving slowly.

And more stealthily than ever before.

“You want me to teach you martial arts?”

Perhaps it was the blood trickling from the large and small wounds etched across his body. In his wavering vision, a conversation he’d once had with the Slaughter Saint seemed to echo in his ears.

“Do you even know what you’re asking?”

“Uh, I think so.”

“Unbelievable. The Sword Saint’s Disciple, of all people, wants to become a mere assassin.”

“Huh?”

“You idiot. I don’t practice martial arts. I practice the art of killing. It’s not for someone like you.”

Back then, the Slaughter Saint had shaken his head with a bitter smile.

At least, until he heard Cheongpung’s reply.

“Huh. I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“My grandfather told me it’s not the tool that matters, but the person holding it. And there was an assassin I saw a long time ago who didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d hurt someone for no reason.”

“……!”

“Oh, and he said everyone I cross paths with in this world could become my teacher and Benefactor.”

“……You.”

“Please take care of me, Granduncle!”

Remembering how the Slaughter Saint had silently watched him, then spoken with an expression that grew complicated, Cheongpung let out a quiet breath.

Hoo.

His heart, pounding from pain and blood loss, grew calm. The blood flowing from his wounds gradually stopped, and he erased all trace of his presence.

“It won’t be easy to master even one technique. You don’t have the time, and the situation won’t allow for it.”

“Wow, so you’re saying yes, right? You are, aren’t you?”

“Damn it. Fine. But I have one condition.”

“A condition?”

“Never call me that again.”

“Yes, Little Master!”

“Damn it.”

“Oh. Sorry, Granduncle.”

“……Where in the world did the Sword Saint pick up a lunatic like you?”

The Slaughter Saint probably hadn’t known.

Before even a month of their journey had passed, he would ask that question again—but mean something entirely different by it.

“……Where in the world did the Sword Saint pick up a lunatic like this?”

“Grandpa said a stork brought me. My Benefactor said it was ovulation, fertilization, and implantation, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

“……I really can’t understand.”

“Right? I’d never heard such bizarre words in my life.”

“……It’s my first time, too. Seeing anything this bizarre.”

The Slaughter Saint’s bewildered face rose before Cheongpung’s eyes.

At the same moment, Cheongpung’s feet, now as light as feathers, touched a pool of blood.

No—they barely brushed it.

Shhk.

Ghost Illusory Slaughter Step.

The unique footwork technique created by the greatest assassin of all time—so stealthy that no other technique under heaven could match it—unfolded beneath Cheongpung’s feet.

“You were right, Granduncle. This really isn’t easy.”

“……Is that something someone who reached three-tenths mastery in only a month should be saying?”

It was the unique technique of none other than the Slaughter Saint, known as the greatest assassin of all time.

And yet Cheongpung had mastered Ghost Illusory Slaughter Step at a dazzling speed.

For someone else, a month might have been only a month. For him, it was a whole month.

“I like martial arts. A whole, whole lot.”

“That much I know…… This is driving me mad. How is this even possible?”

It was possible.

To Cheongpung, all of it came as naturally as breathing.

He watched with his eyes and moved with his body, and before he knew it, the technique became his.

Not merely copied: it was reborn with Cheongpung’s own character woven into it, a new martial art that belonged to him alone.

Whoosh.

Cheongpung moved forward.

His steps were neither fast nor slow. With each one, it seemed that the fragrance of plum blossoms, perceptible only to him, spread through the air.

Dark Fragrance Drift.

The fragrance of Huashan’s plum blossoms spread through the pouring rain. Joined with Ghost Illusory Slaughter Step, which Cheongpung had brought to nine-tenths mastery over the past six months with the Slaughter Saint, it had grown quieter and more elusive still.

So much so that even with both eyes open, no one could clearly make out his presence.

Shh-shh-shh-shhk!

“Graaagh!”

Stab! Slice!

“Heaven above and earth below; all demons—Guh!”

The fighting all around had spun beyond anyone’s control, yet no one properly noticed Cheongpung slipping past them.

As he crossed the heart of the battlefield, he blended naturally into everything around him.

He was the rain falling ceaselessly over everyone’s heads. He was a Dark Heaven fanatic, drunk on madness and the effects of a Temporary Strength Pill—and he was one of the martial artists and soldiers trying to stop them.

He was a part of this chaotic battlefield, and the battlefield itself.

Moving in only one direction, toward only one person.

Benefactor.

Cheongpung saw him.

Gooooom.

Space warped as if gripped by an invisible hand. Jin Taekyung was about to unleash an appallingly immense force all at once.

The Blood Lord was charging toward him, while a pitch-black figure lunged from his blind spot as though it had been waiting for this very moment.

Too late.

His instincts whispered it to him.

It was a shame, but this wasn’t enough.

Cheongpung had neither the strength to bring down the Blood Lord nor the time.

But—

He can do it. My Benefactor can.

That wasn’t a guess. It was certainty.

His faith in Jin Taekyung didn’t waver in the slightest.

So Cheongpung shot forward without hesitation.

Toward the enormous flames erupting in a blinding flash.

Toward the Black Ghost, which had thrown its own body in the way as a shield to counter that unprecedented force.

Fwoosh.

Time slowed. Space disappeared.

Just before One Annihilation was unleashed, a flash slipped between his tightly shut eyelids and pierced his retinas like a needle.

But Cheongpung could feel it clearly.

The Black Ghost at the end of his path.

The single line his strike was drawing toward that pitiful being.

And then—

Shhk.

The moment he passed the Black Ghost with a cut almost too quiet to hear, a lightning-like shiver surged up his spine.

A shiver that wouldn’t fade, not even in the dreadful heat swallowing the space he had just crossed.

I did it.

At the same moment, a colossal fire dragon swallowed the Black Ghost’s body as it tilted helplessly.

No—more precisely, it swallowed the blood-red monster charging from behind it.

KWA-AAAAA!

Even as the overwhelming shock wave swept him away, Cheongpung laughed aloud.

He watched the Red Blade shatter beneath the pillar of fire that had finally burst forth.

But he didn’t know.

At that very moment, one person was watching the blue-black flames dye everything around them.

Jin Taekyung’s face had gone colder than ever.

Cough.

His skin had gone deathly pale, his eyes growing cloudy.

Yet even as he coughed up a doe¹ of blood, Jin Taekyung forced his heavy eyelids open and watched the wave of fire he had unleashed.

He took in the surest information he could get—something only he could hear.

Beep! Be-be-beep!

He’d poured everything he had into that strike.

With a body emptied of strength and senses gone dry, he tried to understand what was happening.

But he couldn’t see or hear.

It wasn’t in any of the countless holographic windows floating before him. It wasn’t among the System warnings sounding without pause in his ears.

The clear chime announcing the enemy’s death never came.

Not even as his legs gave way beneath him, the spear shaft the only thing keeping him upright.

Splash.

And as Jin Taekyung’s knees plunged into a pool of blood—

Drip. Drip.

From within the wave of fire that had engulfed a radius of dozens of jang,² the monster’s charred body rose to its feet.

Thirst.

That was the first thing the Blood Lord felt when he regained consciousness.

What the hell happened?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

He remembered nothing.

He couldn’t even recall who he was or what kind of life he’d lived.

Only the instinct to quench this terrible thirst remained, controlling his body.

Scuff.

His unsteady footsteps sounded as dry as if he were walking through a desert.

Why?

The Blood Lord wondered blankly.

He’d been sure there was something somewhere around here that could quench his thirst.

He’d been sure of it.

Why?

He turned his head and looked around, but he couldn’t see anything. His senses had failed, his retinas burned away, trapping him in pitch-black darkness.

All he could make out was a faint sound.

……!

……!!

A strange noise.

Yes, he remembered. Screams and the sound of steel scraping against steel.

And then, from the unknown thing that touched his skin, came a feeling that was familiar—and strangely dear.

Splash.

At that moment, forgotten sensations and memories awoke.

Something hot, wet, and sticky.

The Blood Lord remembered what this utterly familiar thing was.

Blood.

Something inside the human body. The source of his strength—and the only liquid that could quench his thirst now.

I’m thirsty.

Strange. Just thinking it was enough for him to feel the blood splattered across his body seeping into him.

As it did, his senses gradually sharpened.

But—

More. Give me more.

This wasn’t nearly enough.

He needed far, far more blood.

“More!”

With the cry already escaping his lips, the Blood Lord swept his hand out with all his strength.

Grab.

At last, his fingertips touched someone’s shoulder. At the same time, a voice rang more clearly in his ears, echoing like a distant sound.

“Blood Lord! Your subordinates will protect you—!”

But before the desperate voice could finish, the Blood Lord’s teeth, already grown, sank into the man’s throat.

Crunch!

He chewed and swallowed.

For greater strength. To quench his thirst.

Only then did the world around the monster grow bright.