Murim Login - Chapter 261

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Chapter 261
A wet gurgle.
Blood stained the sparse white hairs mingled in the middle-aged monk’s beard. He expelled a fractured sound.
“You… you are a demon.”
A calm voice pierced through his ears.
“Shakyamuni repelled the demon’s delusions and attained enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree, they say. But…”
A sickening squelch.
A hand suffused with an achingly blue inner force withdrew from the monk’s chest.
The gaping wound had already frozen solid, and frost-laden droplets of blood fell to the ground as shards of ice.
“No enlightenment can endure before death.”
The monk trembled violently as chills seized his entire body.
Whether it was the extreme yin-cold technique that had even frozen his organs, or the aura of death bearing down upon him, he could not know. No—he could not know.
A soft rustle, then a dull thud.
The Old Master gazed down at the monk who had expired with eyes wide open—Han-su, the Yin Ghost, his pupils sinking into fathomless depths.
‘That was dangerous. More than I anticipated.’
He surveyed his surroundings. Four corpses lay scattered at the collapsed entrance of the Face Wall Cave, including the middle-aged monk who had just fallen.
‘The Four Great Vajras.’
As befitted the elite warrior monks of Shaolin Temple, each one had possessed formidable martial prowess.
Especially that last monk—a master who had reached the threshold of the supreme pinnacle. Had I not sacrificed flesh to preserve bone, I might well have perished beneath their combined technique.
‘Tiresome vermin. They cling to existence by any means.’
Shaolin Temple had suffered losses approaching ninety percent in the recent Great Confrontation.
The devastation was so immense that they bore no comparison to their former glory as the greatest under heaven, yet the thousand-year legacy of Shaolin Temple still endured.
‘But that ends today.’
All proceeds according to plan. Dharma King Hung-do is dead, the Four Great Vajras are dead, and Heung-cheon will soon fall to Yeom-ho’s hand.
Hundreds of vengeful spirits stripped of all sensation will drench Songshan in blood and burn the secret texts of the Scripture Repository before withdrawing.
With the loss of their master experts and martial techniques, Shaolin Temple will surely fall to ruin.
Yet there was one mission that took absolute precedence.
‘The Jade Buddha of Eternal Life.’
I could not fathom why Shaolin’s sacred treasure was deemed so crucial, but it must be obtained.
It was the Heavenly Master’s command, after all.
Was that not why ‘he’ had come along—the one who received absolute trust?
‘I will handle Hung-do. You handle Shaolin. If you fail to find the Jade Buddha of Eternal Life… well, I’ll leave the consequences to your imagination.’
Han-su’s face hardened like stone as he recalled those final words from ‘him’.
There could be no margin for error. Failure would exact a terrible price.
A tremendous crash!
As Han-su swept his sleeve, the blocked entrance to the Face Wall Cave was laid bare.
The massive stone gate that emerged could not impede his advance.
A deafening rumble!
The stone gate collapsed inward. Beyond the billowing dust and stone fragments, a pair of eyes gleamed with brilliant light.
“Honored guest. What brings you here?”
I watched the young monk Mu-myeong slowly rise from his seated position, and Han-su’s lips curled upward.
“So you’re a disciple of Hongdao?”
“And what if I am?”
“I’ve come to receive something.”
“We have nothing to give to a donor.”
“Then let me correct myself. I’ve come to take it by force.”
“From one reeking of blood, not even a single grain of rice can be taken.”
“No need to deliberate. I’ll be taking your life as well.”
“Amitabha Buddha.”
With palms pressed together, Mu-myeong’s eyes blazed with resolve as he gripped his prayer beads.
“That will not be easy.”
* * *
The clash between Heung-cheon and Yeom-ho—two masters who had reached the pinnacle of transcendence—was fierce and unrelenting.
Screeeech! Boom!
Every extension, every swing, every upward strike carried devastating force without pause.
A battle between superhuman beings who had stepped into that lofty realm of transcendence, where no one dared to interfere.
Yet as time wore on, the scales of victory began to tip.
Crash!
The moment their fists collided, wrapped in overwhelming force, blood trickled from one man’s lips.
“Cough.”
The gray robes worn by the monks stained crimson.
Yeom-ho bared his yellowed teeth as Heung-cheon staggered back more than a dozen paces, as if swept away by an invisible wind.
“Boy. When you were still suckling at your mother’s breast, I was ravaging the Southern Wilderness. You’re still thirty years too early.”
Heung-cheon wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Despite his pallid complexion, the old monk’s eyes burned with fierce determination.
“You’re quite the eccentric. How about stepping into your coffin now?”
“Even when the orthodox sects cast their heavenly net, they could not capture me. What need to speak of a mere temple monk like you?”
As Yeom-ho’s momentum grew fiercer, Heung-cheon bit his lip. He knew those words were not mere boasting, but absolute truth.
‘What manner of monster is this, flitting about so effortlessly?’
During the Great Righteous Confrontation, the Yin-Yang Twin Ghosts had already passed sixty years of age.
Yet despite clearly being well over a hundred, there was no sign of exhaustion.
His unfathomable martial power and the experience accumulated through countless acts of slaughter—even aging itself seemed to have bypassed Yeom-ho, and despair threatened to consume him.
‘But there is still hope.’
Heung-cheon’s eyes flickered subtly. His gaze fell upon the hundred or so warrior monks engaged with the Masked Figures.
Precisely one hundred and eight strong, they were the face and pride of Shaolin Temple—the One Hundred Eight Arhats.
As befitted the elite chosen through rigorous selection, they wielded their staffs and spears, pushing back the Masked Figures.
“These are the world’s greatest villains. Show them no mercy!”
“Open the Gate of Slaughter!”
The true power of the One Hundred Eight Arhats revealed itself when they formed the One Hundred Eight Arhats Formation. And each fulfilled their role perfectly.
They calmly reproduced in real combat what they had drilled hundreds and thousands of times.
Clang clang clang! Scrape!
Like the palm of the Buddha descending upon them, the momentum of the One Hundred Eight Arhats formation pressed down with such force that the Masked Figures fell one by one, spraying blood.
Unlike the one-sided disadvantage at the start, the battle had now reached a stalemate.
‘If this continues… it’s possible.’
The Martial Alliance was only a few hours’ journey away. Once reinforcements arrived, it would be the Yin-Yang Twin Ghosts and the Masked Figures who would suffer.
It was the moment hope flickered across Heung-cheon’s eyes.
“Krahaha!”
“…?”
“Your thoughts are written all over your face. How naive, like a simple monk.”
Heung-cheon’s expression hardened like stone. He had sensed something amiss in Yeom-ho’s demeanor.
‘Did he already know it would come to this?’
But why?
Before the question could fully form, the earth trembled with a deafening roar that made his ears ring.
Kwaaaaaang!
Heung-cheon found his mouth hanging open as he stared at the sight before him.
In the slowed world, between towering mounds of earth that shot up a dozen zhang high, he saw human limbs and blood pouring down like a downpour.
And one flank of the One Hundred Eight Arhats formation—swallowed whole by a colossal beast.
“No!”
With Heung-cheon’s anguished cry, time resumed its flow.
A dozen zhang of space reduced to scorched earth by the explosion. More than twenty Arhat monks turned to mangled flesh, and the Masked Figures surged in like a tidal wave.
Shing, shing, shing!
The Arhat monks were, after all, only human.
Before their shock-frozen eyes, flashing sword light filled the entire space.
A battlefield where not a moment of carelessness was permitted. The price of hesitation was catastrophic.
“Kraaaaagh!”
“Master!”
The One Hundred Eight Arhats formation, an impenetrable shield, crumbled helplessly. A few elder monks attempted to restore the formation too late, but all was in vain.
For what they faced was no ordinary person—beings that could only be called demons.
“The Heavenly Master has commanded. Kill the enemies.”
Tss, tss, tss, tss.
With a monotone murmur, a crimson light flowed from one Masked Figure’s seven acupoints.
Witnessing such a phenomenon for the first time, the Arhat monks’ eyes widened in astonishment.
“What… what is this?”
“Demonic energy! It’s demonic energy! Everyone, flee!”
But it was already too late.
The crimson light, which had swollen to envelop the Masked Figure’s entire body, burst outward in all directions. Engulfing dozens of Arhat monks and several Masked Figures alike.
Kwaaaaaang!
Explosion. Roar and screams.
Someone’s limbs flew skyward, and the drops falling like rain were stained crimson.
Blood vessels burst across Heung-cheon’s eyes as his soul returned to his body.
“How… dare you.”
Shaolin is collapsing. The Shaolin Temple is crumbling.
Corpses and death now overflow through Shaolin, a place that remained unchanged even during the Jeongma Tournament.
The young disciples who greeted me with smiles each morning have breathed their last, and the masters with whom I built decades of friendship have vanished without a trace.
Facing the hellscape unfolding before my eyes, blood droplets fell from my clenched fists.
“This… this cannot be… this cannot be happening.”
Yeom-ho burst into raucous laughter upon hearing Heung-cheon’s anguished cry.
“The Exploding Blood Demonic Art, you say? It’s notoriously difficult to master, but it’s perfect for a situation like this. I brought a couple of specimens, and they’ve proven far more useful than I expected.”
“How dare you wretches—!”
With a scream that was almost a death cry, Heung-cheon’s form shot forward.
But what awaited him was a fist engulfed in crimson energy.
Thud-thud-thud!
His protective energy shattered, and the devastating force of the punch battered Heung-cheon’s limbs.
Along with the blinding pain and the blood that surged forth came fragments of his internal organs.
“Kugh-aaaack!”
Through Heung-cheon’s blurred vision as he was hurled backward, Yeom-ho approached with an unhurried gait.
“Fool. You mastered Shaolin’s techniques all these years, yet you’ve forgotten the Immovable Heart?”
“Cough, cough!”
It was a clear mistake. No matter what happened, I should not have lost my composure. I should have remained calm and responded appropriately to any sight.
My opponent was already a monster comparable to the Ten Kings even during the Jeongma Tournament.
The best strategy was to maintain a stalemate and buy time however I could.
“This bastard…”
Yet Heung-cheon rose to his feet, breathing heavily.
It wasn’t over. If I fell, Shaolin would fall with me. I had to hold this ground until my last breath.
Even a moment longer, so that at least one more person could survive.
That was the final mission of an old monk who had devoted his entire life to Shaolin.
“Come then.”
Yeom-ho’s brow furrowed at the blazing intensity in Heung-cheon’s eyes.
“This is why I hate you monks. You’re all full of pretense right up until you die.”
“What would a demon head like you understand?”
“One thing, perhaps.”
Yeom-ho laughed savagely.
“You’re dying right now.”
Whoosh!
It was a speed the already gravely wounded Heung-cheon could not match.
Yeom-ho’s fist, which had closed the distance in an instant, came crashing down on Heung-cheon’s shoulder.
Crack!
With a dull sound, the energy concentrated in that single punch tore through flesh and bone.
With the area below his shoulder blade hollowed out, Heung-cheon let out a scream.
“Krraaaagh!”
“You damned bald fool, you dare dodge this old master’s fist? Let’s see if you can dodge this one too.”
Yeom-ho’s foot pressed down on Heung-cheon’s head as he writhed in agony and injury.
With even a fraction of his power, Heung-cheon’s skull would be crushed like a watermelon.
“What do they say at times like this? Ah, yes.”
Yeom-ho continued, slapping his forehead with exaggerated theatricality.
“May you achieve enlightenment in the Pure Land.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Pressure applied with deliberate slowness.
Death descended upon Heung-cheon in that very moment.
“Remove that filthy foot. Before I reduce even your wretched spirit to ash.”
“Crush him to dust, why don’t we.”
Two voices pierced through the air.
The first belonged to an old man, the second was not merely young but fresh as spring.
Yeom-ho’s face hardened like stone as he turned toward the source of the voices.
“Fire King…!”

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————