Chapter 910

They say even a dog at a village school can recite poetry after three years. Spend a few years working as a Hunter, and you stop batting an eye at most things.

The awful stench coming off a monster’s body? That’s nothing.

If you see blood spraying like a fountain and someone’s limbs getting chopped off—not in a game or a movie, but in real life—

And if that someone is you or one of your companions… well, there’s no need to say more.

First comes the fear of death, before you even set foot on a battlefield. Then you watch brutal scenes day in and day out until every nerve and sense begins to go numb. Only then do you become a Hunter in the truest sense.

That was how it happened for me.

But even I, with a fair amount of hard-earned experience under my belt, couldn’t hold back the nausea rising from the pit of my stomach right now.

“That’s…”

What the hell is that?

I couldn’t bring myself to say the rest aloud. I had to clamp my mouth shut just to settle my churning stomach.

And I wasn’t the only one.

“Ugh.”

Ju Hwaran was the first to bend over, her face pale as she covered her mouth.

As heir to the Yongbong Escort Bureau, she’d had far more experience than other young prodigies her age. But compared to the rest of us, she still lacked real combat experience. Her reaction was only natural.

No, the fact that she hadn’t thrown up was impressive.

Everyone here—including me, who’d fought my way through all kinds of hellish situations—was barely holding back a gag, our faces twisted.

“What… What is this?”

The Divine Physician muttered in a strained voice.

The old physician’s eyes trembled with undisguised shock and the fear of someone who’d glimpsed something beyond comprehension.

Along with a sight before us that was impossible to believe.

Sizzle. Hissss.

Less than a dozen jang¹ away, flesh burned with a sound we could hear. A horrible stench filled my nose.

Amid the remnants of the flames and the blackened ashes, shapes staggered to their feet.

“Grrr… Gaaah.”

Their voices were neither screams nor words.

The black-clad figures—no, the things—let out strange, unrecognizable cries through melted lips and stumbled forward.

As though they couldn’t feel the slightest pain.

As though they didn’t even know what state their bodies were in.

Crack. Crumble.

Arms, legs, and other parts blackened by the Scorching Yang Qi that had swept through them broke apart and scattered as ash.

One of the things that lost its balance and fell tilted its head.

“Grr…?”

It looked as though it were asking why its body wouldn’t move. A shiver ran down my spine.

They’re moving? Even after taking a blow like that?

Of course, not all of them had been caught in my attack.

But the hundred or so black-clad figures at the very front had taken the flames pouring from my spearhead full on.

That terrible heat. That devastating strike made of Scorching Yang Qi.

I’d seen it with my own eyes, and everyone here knew what they’d seen.

That was why it was so hard to believe.

That should’ve killed them outright. No—there’s no way they should’ve survived.

My body might not have been in good shape, but I’d given it everything I had.

I’d poured most of my remaining internal energy into the strike. I’d been certain it would kill at least one in ten of them.

But I’d been wrong.

Before my eyes, nearly half of the hundred figures at the front were getting back up, trampling the ashes of what had once been their comrades.

And they looked nothing like creatures with any life left in them.

“…This is insane. What am I looking at?”

Namho had lived through the horrors of the Great Faction War. His groan spoke for everyone here—except me.

Or, to be more precise, at that moment I was seeing something else the others didn’t know.

How is this possible?

Death was fair to everyone.

A Supreme Peak master could be cut down by a weapon just like a Third Rate knife-fighter. Once your skin melted and your insides burned like theirs, you didn’t get back up.

But they had survived.

They showed no sign of screaming, no agitation—not even the pain they should have felt.

This is…

That was when a word I desperately didn’t want to believe came to me. It struck like lightning, then slipped through my parted lips.

“Undead…”

Not dead, but not alive either.

Supernatural beings who went on existing past death instead of finding rest. Monsters that should never have appeared in this world.

There was only one answer, and I knew what I had to do.

“Eom Dae-du? What does that mea—”

“Run.”

“What?”

I looked at Hyuk Mujin, whose eyes had gone wide, and spoke to him and everyone else in a low, tight voice.

“If you want to live, run. Right now.”

“……!”

“……!”

The next moment—

Rumble!

Through the ringing air, the smoke still hanging thick around us, and the blazing piles of ash, an army of the dead walked out and began to advance as one.

“Grrraaaaa!”

Their cries carried the chill of death.

For as long as anyone could remember, the Murim had fascinated the continent’s gossips.

And why wouldn’t it?

Another world, with borders and laws of its own—or rather, none at all.

A place where outlaws lived beyond the bounds of nation and citizen.

It teemed with righteous heroes, fiends, and people who, depending on the moment, might be neither. A mountain of sabers and a forest of swords, where even the greatest master could meet his death at any time.

So those who belonged to the Murim were scorned and admired in equal measure. And the gossips, who loved nothing more than a story, gathered everything they saw and heard and ranked its people.

That was how a book with the ridiculous title Murim Ranking Record came into being.

But no matter how many connections those gossips had or how keenly they listened, there was a limit to what they could know.

Who was stronger than whom?

Everyone named in the Murim Ranking Record was a formidable master. The closer you got to its last page, the more often you encountered those called superhuman.

Supreme Peak masters of the orthodox faction, the unorthodox faction, the Demonic Cult, or somewhere between orthodox and unorthodox.

Among them were wandering martial artists who roamed the Murim alone like lone wolves, heirs to mysterious and little-known sects, leaders of great powers, and people called Cult Leaders. Most of them shared one thing in common.

Nonaggression. A ban on fighting.

They didn’t confront one another lightly, much less come to blows.

That was only natural when every one of them was a giant capable of moving the Murim. For the gossips, though, it was a disappointment.

If a life-and-death duel broke out between Supreme Peak masters, they’d learn for certain who outranked whom—and gain a rare story they could dine out on for the rest of their lives.

But conflict in the Murim didn’t erupt so easily. For a long time, the last page of the Murim Ranking Record, where the greatest warriors’ names were written, went unchanged.

Until the storm of the Great Faction War swept through some fifty years ago.

As if to mock those long years of peace, things no one could have imagined began to change.

One revered master died, then another, and another.

News arrived with every sunrise and sunset. The gossips nearly wore their brushes down recording it all.

But just as surely as the sun rose and set, new names appeared.

“Have a look at this. I think we’ve been given bad information.”

“Bad information? That can’t be right.”

“Read it. It says a thousand Demonic Cult members were wiped out in Anhui. I can’t see how it could be true.”

“A thousand? That’s quite a force. But why doubt it? Looks like the Murim Alliance finally dealt them a proper blow.”

“It wasn’t the Murim Alliance.”

“What?”

“It says it was all done by one person. He wiped out a thousand Demonic Cult members alone, without anyone’s help. Not a single one was spared.”

“…What?”

The name Jeok Cheongang was first made known that way. A few years later, he acquired the title Fire King. By the end of the Great Faction War, which had shaken the world of the Murim, his name had made it to the last page of the Murim Ranking Record.

The Martial God and the Three Saints.

And among the ten Supreme Peak masters who followed them, he was the fiercest and strongest of the kings: the King of Kings.

Fire King Jeok Cheongang.

The man himself wasn’t proud of it in the slightest.

“Murim Ranking Record? The world’s gone mad. Do they give firewood grand names like that these days?”

The monk who’d brought him the news smiled at Jeok Cheongang’s indifference and sipped his suspiciously warm grain tea.

“Is that so? When I looked it over, I found it surprisingly accurate for firewood.”

“That’s just fools talking nonsense. Are orthodox martial artists the only ones in the world? There are plenty of strong fighters among those who practice demonic and heterodox arts.”

“Even so, in the orthodox Murim, you’re fourth. After the Martial God and the Three Saints. Quite impressive.”

“Enough of that nonsense. Pour this old man a drink. What did you brew it with this time?”

“Amitabha². You mustn’t say such things. This is grain tea, not alcohol.”

“Grain tea, my ass. You sound like you’re kicking the Buddha in the ribs.”

“Watch your mouth. Do you want to suffer in tongue-pulling hell³ someday?”

“Fine, fine. Give me a cup before I break that Green Jade Buddha Staff you’re holding. I don’t want to set fire to the Shaolin Temple at my age.”

“Ha ha! What a joke. Still, I’d wager that within ten years, you’ll overturn the order of this Murim Ranking Record.”

“Hmm. I probably will. I’m old enough that I could be dead within ten years.”

“…Amitabha². You say the most ill-omened things without a second thought.”

“I’ve lived long enough. I don’t know when we’ll meet again, but if you haven’t heard from me in ten years, come to Mount Jiuhua and cremate my body. Scatter my ashes from the highest peak, if you would.”

“Hm. You’re more extravagant than you look. Asking the Abbot of Shaolin to come chant sutras for you.”

“I don’t need sutras or a fortunate rebirth in paradise. That’s how I’ve lived.”

“Then shall we make a wager?”

“A wager? On what?”

“Whether you’ll surpass even the Three Saints in ten years, or die as you say. I’m betting on the former.”

“……”

“Trust me. And in ten years, let’s meet here and have another drink.”

That had been a long time ago.

The ten years they’d spoken of had passed three times over. Jeok Cheongang had seen off an unworthy Disciple he’d taken in by mistake, and even the friend who’d sat across from him sharing drinks had returned to the earth.

Yet now, a memory he’d long forgotten came back to him.

The words Hong Dao, the Dharma King, had spoken with a serious face, though he was usually so quick to smile.

You’ll surpass the Three Saints.

Boom!

His departed friend’s faint voice didn’t fade beneath the blast of air from a powerful Palm Force.

If anything, Jeok Cheongang heard it more clearly.

Trust me.

Shh-shh-shh-shing!

Wind sharp as blades whipped around him. But the Eastern Heaven Demon Lord’s fierce attack—the pale-skinned old man’s—didn’t touch a single part of Jeok Cheongang’s body.

To him, that felt entirely natural.

Ah.

Elation welled up from deep in his chest.

He had lived a hundred and several decades. All his life, he’d inflicted pain, suffered pain, and, for the first time, shared that pain with someone.

His advanced age. The Heart Demon that had filled his mind.

I thought this realm, which I reached by a stroke of fortune, was the furthest I could go.

Now he knew.

He had been wrong. His departed friend had been right.

Though I haven’t surpassed them yet…

“I’ll try.”

As the words scattered from the tip of his tongue, a faint smile formed on Jeok Cheongang’s lips.

At that moment—

Fwoosh.

A massive blaze unlike anything seen before struck the Eastern Heaven Demon Lord in the chest.