Chapter 967

To a martial artist, martial arts were like fingerprints: each person’s took a different shape.

Even disciples who studied under the same master, learned the same martial arts, and followed the same formulas would move differently according to their temperaments and physical traits.

A man who doesn’t fear death might use a sword technique more boldly than prescribed. Someone with short arms and legs might widen their stride when using a footwork technique.

And at that moment, something about Jamukha felt strangely familiar to Peng Cheolhu, the Thunderbolt Saber King.

BOOM! BOOM! KRAAA-BOOM!

The two saber blades clashed without pause, accompanied by a barrage of fierce impacts.

Beyond them, Jamukha’s calm face—and every movement he made—grew more familiar the longer the Thunderbolt Saber King watched.

What is it?

For a martial artist who had reached a high realm, letting his mind wander during a life-and-death duel was forbidden.

Yet the Thunderbolt Saber King kept watching Jamukha, breaking that rule until he finally recalled a scene buried deep in his memory.

Could it be?

His eyes flew wide.

Jamukha seized that instant of distraction and brought his crescent saber down with all his might.

BOOM! KRRRACK!

Two sabers worthy of being called treasured blades locked together, scattering sparks.

Neither man gave an inch. The Thunderbolt Saber King studied Jamukha’s face beyond their crossed blades, his gaze growing grave.

“I wondered where a barbarian like you had come from… Now I see we’ve met before.”

Jamukha was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in Chinese so fluent that no nomad from the western steppe, so far from the Central Plains, should have known it so well.

“So you finally remember. Your head’s still as thick as ever, Thunderbolt Saber Peng Cheolhu.”

“Thunderbolt Saber. There was a time when they called me that.”

The Thunderbolt Saber King murmured as if to himself.

Only one character separated that title from his current one, but more than half a lifetime lay between them.

The first time the two had crossed paths was before the unprecedented Great War called the Great Faction War, back when Peng Cheolhu was the Lesser Family Head of the Hebei Peng Family.

I thought so. He’s that barbarian from back then.

The Thunderbolt Saber King looked at Jamukha with fresh eyes.

It was a fragment of a memory more than half a century old. And yet he could still dredge it up from his aging mind because the young nomad, who had rampaged like a wolf despite his terrible injuries, had left such a powerful impression on him.

Right. That’s how it was.

Nomads crossed the Great Wall and raided the borderlands. Those who lived there fought to protect their homes and possessions.

Such clashes were a fact of life along the frontier near the Great Steppe. Hebei, where the Peng Family stood like a great tree, was no exception.

What made this encounter different was the young chieftain who had risen to power amid the turmoil of the eastern steppe. He had set his sights on Hebei and brought thousands of warriors with him.

Even along a frontier accustomed to raids and resistance, that was rare.

No—it was the first large-scale invasion in over a decade.

Peng Cheolhu had led his family in place of the bedridden Family Head. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, the Murong Family had sent a thousand elite fighters to help, including its own Lesser Family Head.

The Hebei Peng Family and the Murong Family each held a place among the Five Great Families. Their forces were led by two Lesser Family Heads emerging as the finest young masters of their generation.

Before the Great Faction War, the two families had been at odds over supremacy in the north. Their dramatic alliance proved enough to secure a fitting reward.

A flawless victory, without a single misstep.

Or perhaps a glorious triumph.

No one in the world questioned either description.

So complete was their victory that the young chieftain of the eastern steppe, routed by Peng Cheolhu and the Hebei Peng Family, had barely escaped the Murong Family’s pursuit when its fighters arrived.

Leaving behind only the blood of the countless warriors who had followed him.

Then he vanished without a trace, seemingly forever.

Or so everyone, including the Thunderbolt Saber King, had believed.

Until they met again today.

“I never thought you’d still be alive. You’re a hard one to kill.”

They said a needle in a bag would eventually poke through. Someone that sharp was bound to reveal himself—even if he was out on the vast steppe rather than inside a bag.

Yet the young chieftain, with ambition and skill to spare, had not shown himself for more than half a century. The nomads had never invaded Hebei again.

That was why the Thunderbolt Saber King had forgotten Jamukha.

Barbarian or not, a man of his ability would not have failed to rise again without good reason. Peng Cheolhu had assumed that the wounds he’d inflicted that day had killed him, or that he’d fallen victim to another conflict on the steppe.

Whatever had happened, Peng Cheolhu had been certain of the outcome: Jamukha was dead.

“I should’ve done whatever it took to root you out back then. I should’ve torn out the source of this trouble.”

The Thunderbolt Saber King sighed quietly across their locked blades. Jamukha saw him reflected in his own gleaming eyes.

“I couldn’t die. Not before I repaid an old debt.”

Jamukha spat out the words.

How could he forget that bitter past?

He had returned from Hebei in defeat, then left the eastern steppe with the surviving members of his tribe. After marching thousands of li,¹ he had reached its distant western edge and raised a ger² of his own.

There, he could no longer see the hated banners of the Hebei Peng Family. There, he could avoid the teeth of the wolves waiting for his downfall. He settled in and waited for his chance to rise again.

Some fifty years flowed by like a river.

So much changed.

The new name he had taken to avoid a possible pursuit—Jamukha—had become a symbol of authority across the western steppe. His ranks teemed with fine steeds and warriors like hunting dogs. The few dozen gers² he had started with had grown into tens of thousands of households.

But even when he had become all but king of the steppe, Jamukha had not forgotten Peng Cheolhu’s saber cutting across his body like a bolt of lightning.

Nor had he forgotten the humiliation of that defeat.

Wooooom.

The green Force around his crescent saber set the air trembling as it swelled larger and larger.

In Jamukha’s gaze, fixed on the Thunderbolt Saber King, lay a past he had yet to put to rest.

“Thunderbolt Saber. No—Thunderbolt Saber King Peng Cheolhu.”

The young chieftain who had dreamed of restoring his ancestors’ achievements had returned as the absolute ruler of the steppe, leading a vast army. The Lesser Family Head of the Hebei Peng Family, who had taken everything from him, had come through the Great Faction War to become one of the Ten Kings—a great tree supporting the martial world.

One thing, though, had not changed: their old grudge.

“Do you still not understand?”

Krrrrk.

The crescent saber, engulfed in radiant green Force, pressed down on the great saber.

The Thunderbolt Saber King groaned as his blade trembled. Jamukha’s lips twisted.

“I waited. I waited for you—for the Hebei Peng Family—to appear here.”

“……!”

The Thunderbolt Saber King’s eyes widened at the unexpected words.

KA-BOOM!

With a thunderclap that seemed to split the sky, the great saber—until then like a colossal wall—was forced back, unable to withstand the crescent saber’s power.

KRAAAASH!

A gale swept through. Part of the rocky cliff cracked and burst apart under the terrible pressure.

Yet even amid the dust swirling around them, Jamukha moved with precision and speed.

Shwaa!

Space split along his saber’s path. Streams of green Force shot from the crescent-shaped blade toward the retreating Thunderbolt Saber King.

BOOM! BOOM!

The roar of the two sabers colliding had already gone beyond the realm of steel.

Jamukha’s gaze, so composed until now, had begun to boil like lava. So had the voice rising from his lips.

Just like—

“I’ll kill you! Every last one of you!”

—the young chieftain who had lost everything in a bitter defeat and been forced to leave.

FWOOOSH!

Green Force erupted from his saber with all his strength. The dazzling beam lit the gorge like an early dawn as it slashed diagonally toward the Thunderbolt Saber King.

Shhk!

A single, chilling sound of something being cut rang out amid the flash.

“Cough.”

Thud, thud.

The Thunderbolt Saber King staggered backward, spat out a mouthful of blood, and looked at Jamukha. Pain from his internal injuries twisted his deeply furrowed brow.

“…Impressive. Truly impressive.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. He meant it.

As a martial artist and a warrior who carried on the Peng Family’s legacy, the Thunderbolt Saber King admired Jamukha’s patience through all those years spent seeking revenge for his defeat. He admired his astonishing martial prowess.

And he admired Jamukha himself—a man who had kept his wits about him to the very end, even with his revenge almost within reach.

“How did you think to pull back? You had the perfect chance.”

Even an enemy deserved respect when he had shown courage and fighting spirit worthy of praise.

But Jamukha did not answer the Thunderbolt Saber King’s question.

No—he couldn’t answer.

Crack.

The sound was so faint it could only be heard by someone listening closely. His crescent saber trembled, and in the next instant—

KA-BOOM!

—the blade shattered. Blood spraying from Jamukha’s shoulder fell onto the fragments of steel.

FWASH! THUD-THUD-THUD!

The blood bursting through his skin was red. Pain surged from his deeply cut shoulder and his internal organs, hot as lightning, as fire.

Through the searing agony, Jamukha steadied himself and spoke.

“Cough. How—how did you…?”

He could not understand it.

The martial arts of the Hebei Peng Family were the very embodiment of domineering power. For generations, its members had made their name throughout the world with strength honed through training and explosive internal energy cultivated through their techniques. That reliance was also their one limitation.

So Jamukha had pursued speed above all else.

For the past fifty years, he had trained in saber techniques of the utmost speed and studied the Thunderbolt Saber King’s martial arts, believing the speed he had perfected would overcome the Hebei Peng Family’s overwhelming power.

But—

“Why? How…!”

As the Thunderbolt Saber King approached, steadying himself despite his internal injuries, Jamukha cried out, his voice thick with blood.

Unlike Jamukha, who had been unable to answer the earlier question, the Thunderbolt Saber King replied calmly.

“The Great Faction War. On that damn battlefield, I learned there were plenty of monsters in this world worse than this old man.”

Enlightenment had no end. Progress was not a privilege reserved for the young.

Especially not for an old master like the Thunderbolt Saber King.

“Among them, there was this crazy old man who toyed with me and laughed at me. Said I was built like a bear and moved like molasses.”

The Fire King, Jeok Cheongang.

Hoping to surpass that deranged old monster someday, Peng Cheolhu had kept training even after peace returned.

He had not missed a single day.

“Still don’t understand?”

The Thunderbolt Saber King raised his massive saber upright and looked at Jamukha, who was groaning as he clutched his half-severed shoulder.

“How Peng Cheolhu, the Thunderbolt Saber, became the Thunderbolt Saber King?”

Only one character separated the two titles.

But in this vast world, only ten great martial artists had earned the right to be called kings. They stood beneath the endless sky and three stars.

“The only place you can be called a king is out there on the steppe.”

Peng Cheolhu, the Thunderbolt Saber King, looked at Jamukha’s wide eyes and laughed aloud.