Chapter 515

The chaos in the marketplace clearly hadn’t reached the ferry landing yet.

If it had, no one would be shouting like that.

“The Jin Family of Taiyuan! The Jin Family of Taiyuan is here!”

“Waaaah!”

The main road was some distance from the landing, but everyone still gathered there could hear the cheers carrying from afar.

Black Dragon Saber Sama Pyo was among them.

The Jin Family of Taiyuan…

His gaze darkened.

In less than two years, the Jin Family of Taiyuan had grown into a formidable power. Though perhaps “newly risen” wasn’t quite right for a family with three hundred years of history and standing behind it.

And one man had brought that fading great family back to prominence.

Blazing Flame Divine Dragon Jin Taekyung.

The young man had once seemed like a sprout with no hope of growing. Now he had put down deep roots in the soil of the Murim and was growing into a mighty tree.

Every branch connected to him was thick and flourishing.

Fire King Jeok Cheongang. Huashan Divine Dragon Cheongpung. Cheongpung’s master, Sword Saint Mae Jonghak, and Huashan, one of the strongest powers among the Nine Sects and One Gang.¹ Then there were the prestigious sects Taekyung had forged close ties with during his travels through the martial world.

And among them was Shaolin Temple, the Mount Tai and Northern Dipper of the Murim.

“I wondered what sort of guest would bring Shaolin’s Discipline Hall Master all the way here to greet him. Now I know.”

“Amitabha.² This humble monk is not a man with time to spare.”

Jung Ho fixed Sama Pyo with a stony look.

“Nor am I so easygoing that I’ll stand by while someone starts a pointless quarrel.”

“Ah.”

Sama Pyo took his hand off the hilt of his saber. He hadn’t noticed it settling there.

“My apologies.” He smiled. “Force of habit.”

“I hope that is true.”

“I know how to conduct myself. Surely you don’t think I’d show disrespect to Shaolin.”

“Amitabha. It would be best to refrain from actions that could invite misunderstanding, Benefactor Sama Pyo.”

“I will. But…”

The smile at the corner of Sama Pyo’s mouth grew more pronounced. He looked from Jung Ho to the unidentified monk whose conical hat hid his face.

“For a devout Master like you to speak so firmly, he must be someone you care for a great deal.”

Jung Ho’s title alone made it clear that he held no minor position in Shaolin. His master had been one of the three disciples of Hong Dao, the late Abbot of Shaolin and Dharma King.

By both office and seniority, Jung Ho was a leading figure within the temple. Sama Pyo suspected his open hostility had less to do with temperament than with the identity of the monk beside him.

“I’ve heard you haven’t taken a Disciple yet, Master.”

“…You have sharp ears.”

“And a keen eye, as you know.”

Jung Ho frowned.

“Amitabha. Enough wordplay. Let us leave this for another time. We must greet a guest who has arrived earlier than expected.”

“Ah, I see. Have you taken on a new Disciple?”

“Benefactor.”

Woom.

The Zen staff in Jung Ho’s hand gave a low, resonant hum.

Then the person who had been watching in silence spoke.

“It’s all right, Martial Nephew.”

“…!”

“…!”

A voice as rough as metal scraping against metal came from beneath the low brim of the conical hat. The air seemed to grow heavy around it.

Jung Ho and the other Shaolin monks trembled at the immense internal energy in that voice. Beside Sama Pyo, the eight-foot-tall giant opened his bulging eyes wide.

But it wasn’t only the monk’s aura that startled Sama Pyo.

Martial Nephew? Did he call Jung Ho his Martial Nephew?

As Sama Pyo stood momentarily frozen, the monk in the conical hat spoke quietly.

“Return the sword to its owner. Here in Henan, we will tolerate no disturbances.”

“…!”

“If fate brings us together, we shall meet again.”

That was all. Having let the words fall as lightly as if he were giving them to the wind, the monk turned and disappeared. The Shaolin monks followed him.

Sama Pyo watched them go without a word.

The giant turned toward Sama Pyo and spoke in his halting voice.

“Young Sect Leader. That monk. Who is he? I cannot beat him.”

“…”

“No hair. But skill. Very strong.”

He recalled the faint righteous gleam he had glimpsed in the monk’s eyes beneath the conical hat at the final moment, then muttered.

“The Discipline Hall Master’s young Martial Uncle.”

The glimpse had been brief, but enough to judge his age. The face beneath the hat had been astonishingly young. And yet…

“Young Sect Leader?”

“Yes, I heard you, you idiot.”

Sama Pyo returned from his thoughts and clicked his tongue softly. He tossed the sword back to the merchant cowering and trembling in a corner, then looked up at the sky and stretched.

“Come on. I could use a drink.”

“Pleasure house! Pleasure house!”

“Yes, yes.”

The sky was blue, and heroes who had roamed the Murim were gathering in Henan.

Far off, the crowd at the ferry landing kept calling the Jin Family of Taiyuan’s name.

“I apologize for troubling you, Martial Uncle.”

On the way to the ferry landing, Jung Ho quickened his steps to draw alongside the monk in the conical hat. The monk shook his head.

“It wasn’t your fault, Martial Nephew Jung Ho.”

“No. I should have settled the matter myself. I never imagined that young Benefactor would behave that way…”

Jung Ho’s displeasure showed plainly on his face. Sama Pyo’s conduct still rankled.

At a time like this, on a main road under countless eyes, the young man had not only beaten Blood Cudgel to death but had also tried to provoke one of Shaolin’s senior figures.

“I’d heard the Black Dragon Demon Gate held considerable power in Gansu, but its Young Sect Leader is more insolent than I expected.”

“Is that so?”

The voice beneath the hat was rough, but the monk’s manner was perfectly calm. He kept walking as he spoke.

“My experience is limited, and there is still much I don’t know. But I’ve heard that those who follow demonic, heterodox arts are not especially powerful.”

“That is true of most. Not every unorthodox sect is the same.”

“The Black Dragon Demon Gate is an exception, then.”

“Yes. Among the unorthodox sects of the Central Plains, it could easily be counted among the top three. It may even be their greatest rallying point.”

“What do you mean by ‘rallying point,’ Martial Nephew?”

“What it represents, Martial Uncle.”

“What it represents…”

“The Black Dragon Demon Gate has the longest history of any unorthodox faction in the Murim. It was once one of the Twelve Branches of the Demonic Cult.”

“Did they betray the Demonic Cult?”

“Amitabha. I think ‘compromise’ would be more accurate.”

The Black Dragon Demon Gate’s compromise had succeeded. Victory in the long, brutal war had ultimately gone to the orthodox faction, but the Black Dragon Demon Gate had drawn together the unorthodox martial artists scattered like grass roots across the Central Plains, recovered from its losses, and grown stronger.

“But for its Young Sect Leader to behave with such arrogance… Shaolin suffered enormous losses in that bloody conflict. To look down on us now is—”

Jung Ho broke off.

As though he could read his thoughts, the monk beside him spoke softly.

“It’s all right. Don’t let it trouble you, Martial Nephew Jung Ho.”

“…Martial Uncle.”

“Everyone in Shaolin was deeply wounded. Some lost the Senior Brothers and Junior Brothers who had shared their hardships. Others lost Disciples. I’m no different.”

Step. Step.

Step by step, their pace quickened. The rough voice continued from beneath the hat.

“I was… more grief-stricken than I thought I could bear. But just because that person has gone somewhere he can never return from doesn’t mean his will has vanished too.”

Jung Ho and the other Shaolin monks bit their lips.

How could they forget that day? How could they fail to understand his grief?

They all remembered. They all knew.

“I will carry on his will—my Master’s will. That one thought carried me through my time in Repentance Cave.”

The skin glimpsed beneath the conical hat was as rough as the monk’s voice, covered with countless scars.

For the unnamed monk, the past three months had been like hell.

Every day, he had repeated treatment and training while writhing in terrible pain. Those who heard the screams echoing from Repentance Cave could not keep themselves from shedding tears.

Three months of anguish and suffering.

But he had endured. Bearing the grief of his master’s death and his anger at the killers, he had kept going.

And at the end, enlightenment had come to him like a single ray of light.

“Martial Nephew Jung Ho.”

“Yes, Martial Uncle?”

“My Master would sometimes say this. Everything begins with one person. If one is not enough, then two. If even that is difficult, then three should step forward. That is how we raise up what has fallen and move onward.”

His master, who had gone where he could not return, had loved wine and meat.

He would lie on a rock and sleep all day, waking only when the world had grown dim. Then he would shake the shoulder of the Disciple who had come to wake him and fallen asleep beside him, and point high into the night sky.

Look. You’re up there too.

The Disciple, rousing himself with disheveled hair, would rub his eyes and ask in return.

Why do you call that star your Disciple?

Because I followed that star when I first went to bring you back.

But… it’s so small and faint.

That’s why it’s a good star.

What?

The star that shines brightest and clearest will soon disappear. Yours will stay there and light the sky for a very long time.

The Disciple still remembered what his Master had told him that day.

Even after a long time had passed, the heavenly patterns had become distorted, and a new star had risen somewhere in the north.

Even on the day his Master departed on a distant road and the grounds of Shaolin were stained with blood.

He remembered. Part of him still lingered in that place, on that day.

Master. Where is my star now? Have you become a star somewhere in the sky? Are you watching over me?

He stopped on a hill overlooking the ferry landing and raised his eyes to the clear blue sky.

There were no stars to be seen. Even after nightfall, he would not know which was his. He would not find his master’s star, either.

However hard he looked, all he could see were two ships moored at the landing and people filing down from them. However closely he listened, all he could hear were the cheers of the crowd gathered thick as clouds.

Master. Where are you?

He gently closed his eyes. But there were no stars in the darkness behind his eyelids, and no matter how intently he listened, his master’s voice did not come.

Today was no different.

He was about to open his eyes and face that truth once more when—

Splash!

“A person! Someone was running across the river and fell in!”

“Gasp! That’s… our youngest!”

Screams. Someone’s startled cry. Then a voice he knew, desperate and unmistakable.

“Fuck, don’t just stand there screaming! A rope! Throw me a rope!”

Light flickered before his eyes, where a moment ago there had been nothing but darkness.

It was the Morning Star that had risen in the north. A trace of his master.

Have you come?

A smile formed on the stiff lips of the monk in the conical hat, Unnamed.