Chapter 968

Someone once said:

When three people walk together, one of them is sure to have something to teach me.

Of course, the Thunderbolt Saber King wasn’t sure whether it had been Confucius or Mencius.¹

But the main reason he was smiling now was that he’d thought of someone who wasn’t there.

If it weren’t for the Fire King—that crazy old man—I’d never have grown stronger.

He had spent his life in the spotlight. Not merely because he’d been born into the Hebei Peng Family, one of the Five Great Families, but because he had the talent and skill to earn that attention.

Namgung Cheon. Murong Baek. Peng Cheolhu.

Of all the young prodigies born to prestigious families, those three had stood above the rest. Unexpected misfortune had kept Murong Baek from joining the other two at the top, while Namgung Cheon and Peng Cheolhu had come to be known as the Sword King and the Saber King.

But the Thunderbolt Saber King knew why he had made it that far.

Fire King Jeok Cheongang.

That old man had laid into him at every opportunity. Without him, Peng Cheolhu would have kept treading water instead of growing stronger.

“I’ll tell you something. That grassland you were born and raised on isn’t as vast as you think.”

The Thunderbolt Saber King slowly raised his great saber toward Jamukha, who trembled as he clutched the shoulder Peng’s Force had nearly severed.

Toward the king of the steppe, holding back a groan before a giant who stood tall beneath heaven.

“Now, let’s finish this.”

Whoosh.

With a single step, the space between them vanished.

The Thunderbolt Saber King’s form blurred. For a man of his enormous build, he moved at an unbelievable speed, yet the path of the great saber plunging down like lightning was precise and controlled.

Shhk!

A single slicing sound rang out. Pain spread through Jamukha like fire, and he clenched his teeth against the scream rising in his throat.

Ghk…!

He’d dodged. He should have dodged.

But the wound in his shoulder throbbed without cease. The Thunderbolt Saber King’s internal energy had seeped through it and shaken his organs, slowing his feet.

Wooooom.

A resonant hum filled everyone’s ears.

Jamukha’s crescent saber lay shattered. The Thunderbolt Saber King’s great saber bore only a few scratches. It trembled, then surged forward once more.

No. It split as it advanced.

The single blade became five, then ten, then dozens. Its afterimages formed an enormous net and shot forward.

The Thunderbolt Saber King spoke quietly.

“Go.”

There was certainty in his voice and in his eyes as he faced Jamukha. Not a trace of carelessness toward a wounded, bleeding enemy—only confidence in his own strike and his own skill.

Fwoooosh!

The net of Force swept down. Jamukha threw himself backward, but the immense energy stayed close on his heels, cutting through everything it touched.

The cliffs on either side. The rocks and corpses scattered across the ground.

Even the loyal men who rushed in to save him.

“Stop him! The Khan is in danger—!”

Puk! Fwoooooosh!

No scream followed.

Those who had rushed forward with desperate cries crumpled into dozens of chunks of flesh. Jamukha, teeth clenched, reached for a weapon abandoned by its owner.

Woom.

The air shuddered. A crescent saber flew into his hand, drawn by Seizing an Object Through Empty Space, and he unleashed a burst of Force.

BOOM!

Part of the net scattered. Jamukha swallowed the blood that surged up his throat as the impact shook his entire body.

His saber techniques, wielded with only one arm, were slower. Every time he met a strike head-on, the impact battered his insides, which kept screaming in pain.

But—

Do you think I’ll die like this? And at your hands?

With that cry in his heart, Jamukha sent his crescent saber flashing in every direction.

Thunderous impacts rang out, flashes of light filling his vision. Beyond them, the distant past swept through his mind: his younger self struggling to survive, clenching his teeth until they bled as he swore revenge. And the voice of someone who had willingly reached out to him.

“Don’t you want to live?”

He had thought everything was over.

The warriors who had once numbered in the thousands had been all but wiped out by the Hebei Peng Family’s elite, led by Peng Cheolhu. His rivals had been waiting for his fall. They would take his livestock and wealth, then enslave the few people his tribe had left.

That was the law of the steppe, passed down through the survival of the strong.

But just when he thought it was over, one last chance appeared.

Sitting amid the wreckage of his ambitions and the bodies of his men, the young chieftain seized the hand held out to him—the lifeline dropped from heaven—with all his strength.

“I want to live. No—I must survive!”

“If you live, what will you live for?”

“Revenge. I’ll repay today’s humiliation and grudge, no matter what. If you save me, I swear by Tengri²…”

“I’m not helping you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m using you.”

“…!”

He did not think for long. The decision he made in that instant was as firm as an iron tower.

“Show me the path I must follow, my lord.”

The savior smiled, pleased to see him prostrate himself like a slave. He pointed beyond the endless horizon.

“Go. Build a new home where neither the Hebei Peng Family nor the eyes of the Central Plains can reach you.”

“You mean I should head west?”

“Don’t worry. The west is still in chaos, and you’re no longer alone. You have ‘us’ now.”

“Us…”

“Yes. We’ll help you, Jamukha—warrior of the Great Steppe, reborn here today.”

The savior had been right.

The young chieftain left with a new name and soon distinguished himself on the western steppe. The greatest reason he was able to build such a powerful force was the savior’s support.

Livestock and wealth in vast quantities. Even people and information.

“They’re quite capable. Make good use of them.”

And so Jamukha’s personal guard, the Keshik, was born.

“These are supreme martial arts for you to learn, along with the Hebei Peng Family’s martial arts. They don’t include the secret techniques passed down to only a select few, but studying them will certainly help you.”

The savior had even given him a sword and shield with which to face the enemy of a lifetime—the man who had since become the Thunderbolt Saber King.

Clang!

The crash shattered his reverie. Blood burst from his torn palm, and Jamukha swung his crescent saber wildly at the net of Force bearing down on him.

One arm was useless, its flesh, muscle, and even bone torn apart. But the immense internal energy he had accumulated over long years still flowed into his fingertips, along with the supreme martial arts he had learned.

So did a memory from years after he had settled on the western steppe.

“Tell me. When should we march?”

“Not yet. Wait. You are not to leave the west until you receive an explicit order.”

“Not yet? How much longer must I wait?”

What?

“If I keep waiting for that order, we’ll miss our chance. The Central Plains are in turmoil because of the Great Faction War. If we strike Hebei now…”

“Remarkable. A hunting dog that speaks like a man.”

“…!”

“Draw your saber. Now.”

The savior’s eyes filled with killing intent. Jamukha did not refuse. He charged—and found himself facing a wall that seemed even higher and more imposing than the one he had encountered against Peng Cheolhu in his youth. He fell to his knees.

Only then did he understand.

“Remember this. Until ‘that person’ gives the order, we do not move.”

“…That person?”

Even the savior, who had seemed like heaven itself to Jamukha, was someone else’s hunting dog.

From the beginning, the “us” he spoke of had meant something far deeper and more powerful than Jamukha had imagined.

“Keep that in mind until the day you take your revenge and claim the steppe. You will not be forgiven twice.”

Jamukha felt neither humiliation nor defiance. He trembled with fear and joy.

If he followed the owner of the leash around his neck, he could reach the goal that had seemed to be slipping farther and farther away. Once that master had swallowed the world, he would toss the vast Great Steppe to the hunting dog who had carried out his task.

“…As you command.”

From that day on, every trace of defiance vanished from Jamukha’s heart. Years passed, frost settling in his hair, until one day he realized the time had finally come.

“What is this?”

“A kind of pill. It lets you draw on power beyond your limits for a short time, though you’ll pay a price to match.”

Its effects were too ominous for a spiritual elixir. The savior called it a Temporary Strength Pill.

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“Consider it an experiment. For the near future.”

“Then… could it be?”

“That person has awakened. Begin building a bridgehead for our advance into the Central Plains.”

“…!”

After a wait of more than fifty years, the last few years passed in a flash.

On orders, Jamukha scattered pills and a number of martial arts manuals across the steppe. Each pill found its own owner. Armed with power they could never have imagined, those people spread chaos and disrupted the established order.

Not just on the steppe, but in the Central Plains beyond the Great Wall.

Pung Yang.

The leader of the mounted bandits known as the Red Wind Band on the eastern steppe was an ambitious man. With the Temporary Strength Pill’s help, he built his forces at an astonishing pace. Then he turned his horse toward Shanxi Province and met his death there.

His killer was the scion of a borderland martial family in slow decline, a young man with the unfamiliar epithet Sleeping Dragon of Shanxi.

Jin Taekyung. Jin Taekyung…

Roughly two years passed. So much happened in that time.

The Jin Family of Taiyuan rose to rule Shanxi Province. On the eastern steppe, where Jamukha’s old name had been forgotten, two young upstarts named Temur and Chinggen distinguished themselves. Far away in the Central Plains, the Star-Array Grand Banquet was held.

Then, like dams breaking one after another, everything that had been held back burst forth.

The bloodshed began with Shaolin Temple in Henan, swept through Sichuan and Anhui, then spread as far as distant Yunnan.

The Sleeping Dragon of Shanxi came to be called the Divine Dragon. Sensing danger, the people of the Central Plains gathered under the Murim Alliance’s banner. Even the great sects drew back, wary of an enemy blade that might strike at any moment.

Of course, none of this applied to Jamukha.

Dark Heaven, which everyone in the Central Plains dreaded, was “us” to him.

This was the moment he had waited for all his life.

“By the coming Double Ninth Festival,³ take control of the eastern steppe. Mobilize every soldier and seize Shanxi.”

Jamukha summoned his warriors at once. After so long a wait, he moved with lightning speed.

At last he assembled an army drawn from across the steppe. The savior, meanwhile, passed along timely news from beyond the Great Wall.

The strength of Shanxi Province, gathered around the Jin Family of Taiyuan. The place where the fiercest fighting was expected.

And one last thing.

“The Thunderbolt Saber King will go there. Without fail.”

He had even given Jamukha the place where he could finally settle his oldest grudge.

Everything had happened as the savior predicted.

Except for one thing.

Why? Why?!

With a cry that circled only on the tip of his tongue, Jamukha twisted his unsteady body around.

Shhk! Puh-puh-puk!

Pain like a branding iron.

He could see the attacks coming. His mind registered them. His body simply could not move fast enough.

The net of Force that had pursued him relentlessly had faded after leaving dozens of large and small wounds across his body. But beyond it stood a great tiger that would never let its prey escape.

Lips pressed tight. Eyes alight with a cold flame.

Both hands gripped the great saber so hard they had gone white. Brilliant light enveloped the blade from end to end.

Whoooom.

The Thunderbolt Saber King swung without hesitation. Jamukha watched the terrible strike, a fusion of defeat and swiftness, cut through the air.

And he understood.

Only one choice remained. Even if that choice left him drained and collapsed in this narrow gorge, it would be a hundred—a thousand—times better than dying at the Thunderbolt Saber King’s hands.

Shk.

As the Force came at him from several yards away, the world seemed to slow. Jamukha took something from inside his robe.

He tossed the small, blood-red pill into his mouth without hesitation.

Or tried to.

At that very moment, a flash of light fell from above.

Thuk!

Through a stab of pain and disbelief, Jamukha saw a spearhead gleaming in five colors.

It had pierced the back of his hand—and the Temporary Strength Pill in his grasp. His last hope.

“…!”

Jamukha looked up, forgetting even the pain.

The owner of the spear that had fallen from the darkened sky spoke not to Jamukha, but to the Thunderbolt Saber King.

“With people like this, no amount of caution is ever enough. Don’t you agree?”

Shwaa!

The great saber, poised to sweep everything away, whistled through the air and stopped.

The Thunderbolt Saber King recognized the face. A surprised smile touched his lips.

“I knew you’d come.”

He looked at the graying, middle-aged man, who appeared twenty years younger than he truly was, and spoke with deep feeling.

“It’s been a long time, Murong Baek. Or should I call you Family Head Murong now?”

They had fought countless times for supremacy in the north. Through the Great Faction War, they had become true comrades and friends. The Thunderbolt Saber King grinned broadly at Murong Baek and lowered his saber.

Good.

The war was over.

Jamukha could no longer fight, and the elite fighters Murong Baek had brought from the Murong Family must already have joined the battle.

Just as he expected, a shout rose from beyond the gorge.

“The Murong Family! It’s the Murong Family!”

The tension that had held the Thunderbolt Saber King’s entire body taut began to ease.

At least, until a panicked shout from someone who was surely a member of the Hebei Peng Family followed in the next moment.

“Grand Family Head! The enemy—the Murong Family—!”

What?

For an instant, the Thunderbolt Saber King’s thoughts stopped. A sudden chill sank deep into his body.

Shhk!

Through the blinding pain, he heard a quiet voice.

“I told you. You can never be too careful.”

“…!”

As his vision faded, the Thunderbolt Saber King understood.

Jamukha.

The young chieftain who should have lost all his forces and died a defeated man—how had he shaken off his pursuers and survived until now?

The Murong Family.

Of course.

More than fifty years ago, the man who had pursued him was Murong Baek.

The true source of all this calamity.