Murim School Record - Chapter 18

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 18: Those Who Can (2)

Mo Yong Cheon observed the movements of the Demonic Path factions, listened to the grievances of minor sects who had suffered unjust losses and harm, and received denunciations of villains masquerading under the guise of the Orthodox Faction while committing wickedness in the shadows.
Mo Yong Cheon verified the truth, and when it was confirmed, he meted out merciless punishment in accordance with the Murim Alliance’s laws.
Crack!
Thunder and lightning tore through the sky, and Bin Gak shook as a whole.
Whether it was the weather or some other reason, today Bin Gak stood all but empty.
Five monks in red robes sat by the windows.
Woo Gun walked forward with confidence.
Snap!
He offered the Respectful Fist Salute to Cheong Ak Seonsa, the Sect Leader of Shaolin, seated in his chair.
“Woo Gun of the Mugeuks Sect pays his respects to the Sect Leader.”
“Amitabha Buddha! It has been far too long, hasn’t it?”
Woo Gun opens his mouth in response to Cheong Ak Seonsa’s words.
“Three years, I believe. I trust all has been well with you?”
“What troubles could befall one who sits buried deep within a temple? Woo Gun.”
“Yes, please speak.”
“As I told Ma O, the Great Master of the Eighteenth Heavenly King Protectors, this old monk has come to meet the Alliance Leader. Will you guide me to him?”
Whoosh!
Cheong Ak Seonsa rose, and Sa Dae Geumangang followed, his massive frame lifting from his seat.
Woo Gun felt a sudden oppressive weight, as if five mountains had risen before him.
The Great Shaolin.
The Jade Peak of the North Star.
The Greatest Sect Under Heaven.
These were the grand appellations bestowed upon Shaolin.
Though the tide of power had ebbed and flowed across the ages, Shaolin had always endured.
Yet over the past thirty years, Shaolin had suffered repeated and inexplicable decline.
One proof was the record at the Heavenly Martial Arts Tournament, held every five years.
Not once had a Shaolin disciple claimed the championship.
This time too, they had suffered the shame of finishing third.

‘Shaolin has fallen.’
‘And it’s not just once or twice—at every tournament, barely scraping third place. It’s almost pitiful to watch.’

The absolute reverence and awe once concentrated upon Shaolin had begun to shift, bit by bit, toward Wudang.
When the Nine Great Sects and One Alliance were invoked, Shaolin had always been named first, with Wudang second.
But at some point, that order had reversed—Wudang first, Shaolin second.
It was no longer Shaolin and Wudang. It was Wudang and Shaolin.
“The Alliance Leader is currently training his Divine Art in the Underground Training Chamber. As you know, once a Divine Art is begun, it cannot be abandoned midway until completion. I pray you will show magnanimous understanding.”
“What do you mean, training a Divine Art?”
“I must humbly beg your forgiveness, but I cannot disclose the precise details of the Divine Art.”
“Why can you not speak of it?”
“What would happen if the Divine Art that the Alliance Leader cultivates became known to the Heterodox Sects? They would search for its weaknesses, and it is simply not advisable for such knowledge to spread.”
Pop-pop-pop!
Suddenly, Sa Dae Geumangang’s red robe swelled as if it would burst.
Crash!
More than that, the small tables and teacups around him were swept away and shattered by the explosive force of his energy.
The Alliance Leader could cultivate a Divine Art.
Moreover, the information regarding that Divine Art must be guarded with absolute secrecy.
If it reached the Demonic Path, it might not be today or tomorrow, but someday they would uncover its flaws.
The Alliance Leader’s martial prowess was inseparable from the peace of the realm.
Revealing a Divine Art was no different than laying bare the Alliance Leader’s weaknesses.
Woo Gun’s words were flawless.
“Could you not guide me, at least, to the entrance of the Underground Training Chamber?”
These were the highest echelons of Shaolin.
Here was the Sect Leader of Shaolin, the greatest pillar of the Murim Alliance, petitioning to catch a glimpse of the Alliance Leader’s face.
Yet to refuse this was to show disdain and give offense.

‘The Sect Leader is in the midst of martial training. Take that knowledge and depart.’

This was an order to leave.
“Ah—Amitabha Buddha!”
Cheong Buk Seonsa, the righthand abbot of Sa Dae Geumangang, extended his right hand.
From that hand, bathed in golden light, a golden dragon unfurled.
The Great Golden Dragon Mountain Water.
Crack!
It struck Woo Gun’s chest directly.
“Huh!”
Both Cheong Buk Seonsa, who had launched the attack, and Sect Leader Cheong Ak Seonsa froze in shock.
Neither had imagined Woo Gun would take the blow without dodging—accepting it fully.
Cough!
Woo Gun spat blood and crumpled.
Drip, drip.
Blood continued streaming from the corner of his mouth.
He tried to push himself upright against a nearby table, but collapsed again.
Crash!
He rose halfway, fell, and repeated the struggle three times before finally staggering to his feet.
Blood at the corner of his mouth, he spoke toward Cheong Ak Seonsa.
“I…I have nothing to offer but deepest apologies.”
Thud!
He fell again.
Bang!
The door to Bin Gak burst open and Ma O, the Flying Tiger’s Eighteenth Guardian, rushed in.
“Woo Gun.”
He quickly caught the fallen Woo Gun, but the boy lay limp and unresponsive.
“This…this is terrible.”
Ma O cradled Woo Gun and bolted from Bin Gak.
Boom!
The entrance doors swung violently back and forth as he passed through.
Bin Gak fell silent.
All five men stood motionless, their faces rigid.
“Amitabha Buddha!”
Cheong Buk Seonsa, who had driven the Great Golden Dragon Mountain Water into Woo Gun’s chest, muttered to himself.
It had been the Tenth Star’s full power technique.
In that moment, heat had surged through him.
Though Shaolin’s influence had waned from its former glory, the fact that its disciples were being shown such disrespect—ignoring even the Sect Leader’s escort—kindled a sudden killing intent.
At first, he had channeled it as the Twelfth Star’s force.
But midway, recognizing the excess, he had hastily reined in his power—yet he never expected Woo Gun to show no resistance whatsoever.
“Let us return to Shaolin Hall.”
Shaolin Hall was where the Shaolin monks dispatched to the Murim Alliance made their quarters.
The five men departed Bin Gak and vanished.

Shaolin monks were sweating heavily as they trained in martial arts on the Training Ground.
Cheong Ak Seonsa and the other members of Sa Dae Geumangang watched the disciples training in the distance, their expressions darkening.
The monks were currently learning the Arhat Fist.
“Tsk, tsk!”
After observing for some time, Cheong Ak Seonsa clicked his tongue in displeasure.
“Shaolin’s martial teachings have not suddenly become more complex or difficult than before—so how can they be falling so short?”
The Murim Alliance does not send just any disciple.
Because the Nine Sects and One Alliance, the Five Great Clans, and numerous other renowned schools have all gathered here, the selection is made with considerable care.
Though the Orthodox Martial Sects are united under the Murim Alliance, conflicts large and small are inevitable.
When disputes arise, one must win unconditionally.
Defeat means the honor and prestige of one’s sect tumbles down.
This is no longer an age when the mere name of Shaolin would make others cower and lower their tails between their legs.
To put it crudely, everyone and their dog comes running.
If they lose to Shaolin, they lose to Shaolin; if they win, they beat Shaolin—nothing ventured, nothing lost, as far as they are concerned.
He’d selected only disciples with at least three years of study, yet their conduct left much to be desired.
“Master, have you arrived?”
At the sound from behind, Cheong Ak Seonsa turned.
Woo Moo bowed deeply with palms pressed together.
“I offer my respects to you and the four other masters.”
He then bowed toward Sa Dae Geumangang.
“What have you been doing lately?”
Cheong Ak Seonsa asked.
Woo Moo’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t understand the sudden question.
“Have you seen the Alliance Leader?”
“Not at all… but why do you ask?”
“Why did I send you to the Murim Alliance in the first place? Do you still think it was merely to separate you and Gong San?”
Gong San and Woo Moo were sworn brothers.
They were also both Nominated Disciples of Cheong Ak Seonsa.
Shaolin traditionally raised two Nominated Disciples.
They were made to compete, and the one who surpassed the other would be designated as the Dharma Transmission successor, the next Sect Leader.
Dharma Transmission meant the passing of robe and alms bowl—the symbols of succession.
To give the robe and bowl was a proclamation of complete recognition as the rightful heir.
“Tell me what you know of the Murim Alliance.”
He asked as if testing him outright.
This was an examination.
An evaluation to measure who between himself and Gong San was better suited to inherit the Sect Leader’s seat in years to come.

‘I asked to be sent to the Murim Alliance.’

After the martial tournament fell through and Woo Moo brooded for several days, he sought out his master, Cheong Ak Seonsa.

‘Master, please send this disciple to the Murim Alliance.’

He’d appeared early one morning asking to be sent there without explanation.

‘Tell me. There must be a reason.’
‘Just send me, Master.’
‘Just like that?’

Cheong Ak Seonsa had nodded slowly.

‘Then go. Leave at once.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Woo Moo. The human heart exists, though it cannot be touched or seen. Everyone speaks of its existence. It does not need form to be real. Without form, we still know it exists through experience and principle. Zen is a pure heart. Polish your mind well. Let it not become defiled.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Observe the Murim Alliance carefully.’

That final instruction remained vivid even now.
He still didn’t understand what it meant to observe the Murim Alliance carefully.
Yet now his master was asking what he knew of it.
The question presumed that if he’d observed the Alliance properly, he would be able to answer sufficiently.
“Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.”
A lying tiger and a hidden dragon—that was its meaning.
“And?”
“The Island of Sword Forest.”
He realized his mistake as soon as he spoke.
Both Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Island of Sword Forest conveyed similar meanings.
“And what else?”
Why did the master keep pressing, as if seeking something more specific?
“Master!”
“Do you know that the Alliance Leader was ambushed by assassins?”
“I… yes?”
Woo Moo jumped in surprise.
“Amitabha Buddha!”
A long sigh escaped from Cheong Ak Seonsa’s lips.

An unfamiliar voice called out.
“Hey there.”
Yi Mo Baek had positioned the carriage at the roadside and waited.
When Dang Du Chun finished shopping, Seol Yeo Chul brought the goods and loaded them onto the carriage.
With more than a hundred people in their party, there was a great deal to purchase.
Yi Mo Baek stood guard over the carriage laden with market goods, when it seemed someone was calling for him.
“Hey, move that carriage forward a bit, will you.”
Yi Mo Baek sat on the driver’s seat, humming tunelessly.
“Move the carriage forward, I said.”
Someone approached and barked the order loudly.
Only then did Yi Mo Baek turn his head.
A man in black robes, appearing to be in his late twenties, wore a stern expression.
“What are you talking about?”
Yi Mo Baek furrowed his brow.
His gaze drifted down to the man’s chest, where the character for “Fist” was emblazoned in bold calligraphy across the solar plexus.
In the martial world, only one clan wore such a character sewn into their chest robes.
The Jin Clan.
A noble house requiring no introduction.
“Pull your carriage forward, if you would. We lack space for our own.”
He wanted them to move ahead so his own carriage could be positioned along the roadside.
Hangzhou was always crowded, even on ordinary days.
The Qiantang River flowed through it, and to the south a long canal stretched on.
With such commanding scenery, people of leisure and culture flocked from all directions, keeping the city perpetually bustling.
But today was also market day in Hangzhou, so the streets swelled with crowds, and carriages lined the roadside in rows.
Yi Mo Baek climbed down from the driver’s seat and walked toward the back.
The Jin Clan carriage had been positioned behind the Shaolin carriage, and the man in black robes shouted toward one of the other vehicles.
“So Hyung, bring it through here.”
A man who had been hesitantly waiting for a place to set down his carriage glanced at Yi Mo Baek.
Unless Yi Mo Baek moved his carriage or relocated elsewhere, there was absolutely no space for theirs.
In front of Yi Mo Baek’s carriage, small peddlers had spread out their wares and were sitting on the ground.
They were conducting business.
If the carriage moved forward, several of the merchants would have to rise from their spots.
“Hey, what are you doing? Move the carriage forward a little, I said.”
“Eh?”

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