Murim School Record - Chapter 25

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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 25: Swastika Demon 2

Seol Yeochul laughed.
“Hehehehe—enemy fields? I’ve heard fishermen speak of fishing grounds, but never enemy fields.”
“The truth is, enemies surround us on all sides.”
“Though aside from the Demonic Sect, there aren’t many martial sects capable of standing against the Martial Alliance one-on-one.”
“True enough. But until you open the lid, you never know what’s inside. Who would’ve thought I’d smash that stubborn fool of a village chief?”
“Fair point.”
Seol Yeochul grinned wider.

‘Yi Mobaek, bring me a bowl of cool water.’

A whispered transmission burrowed into his ear.
“Yes.”
Though the order came by secret transmission, Yi Mobaek answered in a clear voice, then quickly retrieved an alms bowl from the storage vessel and hurried toward the underground spring.
He filled the alms bowl to the brim with water that bubbled up from below, then walked out into the dark sandy expanse.
The Desert lay shrouded in absolute darkness without even starlight to guide it, yet Yi Mobaek’s eyes caught a figure in the distance—a man training in Martial Arts.
It was Wumu.
Every martial sect was consumed with tracking an unprecedented calamity in the Martial World’s history, yet he was here practicing martial arts through the night.
Not that he was idle during the day.
More than anyone, he labored to identify the killer who had slaughtered the Shaolin monks.
And when the sun set, he threw himself into training with this desperate intensity.

‘One might say he’s mad with Martial Arts.’

Yi Mobaek spoke with extreme caution.
“Wumu, I’ve brought water.”
Wumu approached.
His body was drenched in sweat.
Snap!
There was no time to block or dodge.
The hand that should have received the water bowl struck directly at Yi Mobaek’s Vital Point Seal instead.
Yi Mobaek’s body went rigid, still holding the water bowl in its original position.
“Why would you do that?”
Wumu took the alms bowl from Yi Mobaek’s frozen hand and drank.
He tossed the empty bowl aside carelessly, then smiled at the paralyzed Yi Mobaek.
“You’ve taken the Grand Circulation Pill?”
Yi Mobaek was startled.
He understood why Wumu had sealed his vital point—the monk had sensed something in him.
The Grand Circulation Pill, like all miraculous elixirs of legend, shared one thing in common.
The medicinal essence lingered in the blood of whoever consumed it.
The Blood Drinking Cultivation Method—
one could absorb Inner Power by drinking blood.

“So you mean to drink my blood?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know where you heard such things, but if that’s what you want, help yourself.”
Yi Mobaek smiled.
“I’d gladly cut off my wrist and fill that bowl for you, but since I’m in this state, you’ll have to do the work yourself.”
Hehehehe!
Wumu laughed.
Then he picked up the bowl that had fallen to the ground.
Crack!
Stars flashed before his eyes.
Wumu had punched him in the nose with his fist.

‘The nose again.’

Strangely, everyone who’d tried to strike him or kill him had targeted his nose as if by some unspoken pact.
His nose had begun to look slightly twisted because of it.
The pain was so sharp that tears pricked his eyes for a moment.
Whoosh!
Wumu quickly held his alms bowl beneath his nose.
Drip-drip-drip!
Blood streamed from both nostrils like rain.
The surroundings were so quiet that the sound of blood flowing into the alms bowl came through with startling clarity.
The blood filled the bottom of the bowl in an instant, then began to rise.
Tap!
Wumu pressed the Four Whites Point beside his nose to stop the bleeding, then drained the blood from the bowl in one long gulp.
Gulp-gulp!
After drinking it down, Wumu released the sealed pressure point and held the bowl beneath his nose again.
Drip-drip-drip!
Blood continued to pour out.
If he bled away even thirty percent of the blood in his body, not even a divine immortal could save him.
Gulp-gulp!
He drank a second time.
Since he had to drink before the blood could coagulate, the amount hadn’t filled the bowl completely, but Wumu emptied it quickly anyway.

‘This man is completely insane.’

Blood stained the corner of his mouth bright red.
So far, there were no signs of dizziness or the high-pitched ringing in his ears that marked excessive blood loss, but as he began collecting a third helping, the thought struck him that he was going to bleed to death.
“Yi Mobaek.”
That was when Seol Yeochul, noticing Yi Mobaek hadn’t returned promptly, came searching for him.
“Yi Mobaek, Yi Mobaek.”
Wumu’s expression twisted in an instant.
“Yi Mobaek.”
Seol Yeochul spotted Yi Mobaek and approached.
Wumu remained composed.
“Seal my vital points for a moment.”
Seol Yeochul was quick-witted.
Yi Mobaek hadn’t turned to look at him despite his approach, and stood in an awkward, unnatural posture—from this, Seol Yeochul immediately understood that the vital points had been sealed.
Of course, beneath this suspicion lay a reservoir of accumulated resentment toward Wumu.

‘Wumu has always been fundamentally corrupt.’

This was the common judgment among those in the kitchen.
So the moment the words left his mouth, Seol Yeochul struck the vital points.
Because this Yi Mobaek would never ignore someone approaching him without turning to look, and his hunched posture was deeply troubling.
In nearly the same instant, Wumu roared.
“Insolent wretch!”
Crack-boom!
The vital points released, and Seol Yeochul flew backward from Wumu’s left palm strike, crashing into his chest.
“Ugh!”
Seol Yeochul screamed and collapsed into the sand.
Gasp!
Yi Mobaek quickly approached the fallen Seol Yeochul and sat down to help him up.
Retch!
Seol Yeochul coughed up a mouthful of blood but laughed.
“How was that Arhat Fist technique you used to break the seal? Good?”
“Excellent. Fast.”
“Then I have no choice but to bury both of you here in the sand.”
Yi Mobaek spoke.
“What are you saying? Master Wumu, come to your senses!”
“Madman!”
The palm strike that Wumu was about to extend toward Seol Yeochul redirected toward Yi Mobaek, who was rising to his feet.
Whoosh!
“We cannot allow this. Wumu is the future of Shaolin.”
“Hehehehe!”
But a sinister laugh escaped him as yellow radiance stretched forth.
Yet the dragon pattern that appeared was dim and indistinct.
Yi Mobaek did not hesitate, meeting the faint golden dragon with a fierce blow from his right fist.
Crack!
The golden dragon shattered completely under the force of his strike.
“Ugh!”
“Huh!”
Groans burst from both their mouths, and Wumu’s eyes widened.
“This…what is this.”
“Brother, what are you doing? Get word to the monks quickly.”
“Y-yes.”
Seol Yeochul began running toward the passage.
He needed to alert the Shaolin monks to what was happening here.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re not getting anywhere.”
A yellowish palm struck out toward Seol Yeochul.
A Single Golden Palm.

‘One—step—one—strike’

Yi Mobaek unhesitatingly unleashed one form of the Hundred Step Divine Fist.
Boom!
Thunder rumbled across the sky.
The force of their collision sent sand and dust spiraling upward, and Wumu staggered.
“You…you wretch.”
As he deflected the successive attacks with ease, killing intent flickered across Wumu’s face.
“I fear our arrangement has already collapsed, Master. I cannot simply let today pass, and you cannot afford to let me live either.”
“Of course not.”
Whoosh!
The dark sky suddenly turned brilliant blue.
And a seated Guanyin Bodhisattva came flying toward him.

‘The…the Guanyin Blue River Water.’

Until now, both the Great Golden Dragon Water and the Single Golden Palm had seemed imperfect in their execution.
But the Guanyin Blue River Water was far too vivid.
A blue bodhisattva piercing through absolute darkness.
The Guanyin who hears the cries of all sentient beings, who appears anywhere to resolve suffering and bring salvation.
Yi Mobaek flinched without realizing it.
For a moment, he felt he was throwing a fist directly at the Bodhisattva herself.
A battle where lives hung in the balance.
Crash!
Rip!
The Bodhisattva split in half.
Cough!
Yi Mobaek’s legs sank deep into the sand.
This time blood dripped not from his nose but from the corner of his mouth.
It was still too much.
Wumu’s martial prowess was far greater than he had anticipated.
Whoosh!
Wumu came flying, striking palm after palm in rapid succession.
Thud!
Crash!
In truth, Yi Mobaek’s inner power was no weaker than Wumu’s.
His disadvantage lay in his lack of experience and his incomplete mastery of the Hundred Step Divine Fist’s forms.
He had not yet grasped the profound secrets hidden within them, nor could he fully draw them out.
For now he remained at the primitive stage of relying on brute force.
Whoosh!
As Yi Mobaek extended his fist, his eyes widened.
Wumu’s hands drove forward toward three targets—Mobaek’s face, chest, and lower abdomen.
A single attack aimed at three vital points.
The One Breath Three Strikes—invisible unless one understood the form perfectly and had trained it to mastery.
Wumu knew that Mobaek relied too heavily on brute strength and lacked sophistication in applying technique; so he’d struck with speed, grounding himself in both skill and cleverness.
Remarkably fast.
Crack-thud!
The blows aimed at his face and chest he managed to block, but there was no defense against the strike to his lower belly.
A strangled cry burst from him.
Mobaek flew backward, gasping in agony as the force slammed into him.
He vanished into the darkness.
Whoosh!
Wumu drove off the ground without hesitation, racing after where Mobaek had been hurled.
Thud!
He landed on the sand.
A sharp intake of breath.
Wumu’s eyes widened in alarm as he scanned the ground ahead.
Shhhhhh!
The sand was moving.
Like a massive river, the sand swept and flowed in torrents.

Flowing Sand.

Across the Desert, rivers of sand flowed in countless places.
Some visible to the eye, others churning and colliding beneath the surface, ceaselessly streaming without rest.
Once caught, none could escape—it swallowed like quicksand.
He found nothing.
Judging by the arc and distance of the throw, Mobaek must have fallen here.
Snap!
A sound reached his ears.
Shaolin monks were rushing toward his position, clearly in response to Seol Yeochul’s signal.
Swish!
Wumu dashed to the site and unleashed a powerful burst of inner power, flipping the sand.
The trace of blood that had marked Mobaek’s fall vanished in an instant.
Whish!
Shhhhhh!
The monks descended like a flock of geese.
What met their eyes was Wumu, engrossed in martial training.
No sign of Mobaek anywhere around.
Wumu stopped his practice, his face registering surprise, and he asked.
“What brings you all here?”
The flood of monks surveyed their surroundings.
“Mobaek! Mobaek!”
Seol Yeochul called out into the darkness, searching for Mobaek.
“Mobaek!”
Dae-un stepped forward, watching Seol Yeochul dash about like a man possessed, frantically searching for his companion.
“Wumu, what has happened?”
“Venerable Dae-un, why do you all come here without rest? What is the matter?”
Every Shaolin monk turned his gaze upon Wumu.
“We heard that you intended to kill Mobaek.”
Dae-un repeated what Seol Yeochul had told them.
“Amitabha Buddha—what words are these, Venerable? Why would I wish to kill Mobaek? He never even came to this place.”
A furrow appeared.
Dae-un’s brow creased.
“Consider this, Venerable: would we truly resort to ambush against one who labors so hard to support us? The merit of his service far outweighs any need for poison. It seems the boy, having walked so far, has seen phantoms.”
It was not uncommon.
Unlike the martial folk, the monastery servants and those untrained in martial arts sometimes spoke nonsense or lost their minds from exhaustion.
“Mobaek! Mobaek!”
From the darkness, the sound of Seol Yeochul calling for Mobaek continued to drift across the night.

A fierce wind swept across the desert.
The sands stretched endlessly in a blanket of ochre dust, and the sun overhead vanished from sight.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats shattered the silence of the wasteland.
Within moments, a massive caravan emerged through the veil of sand and wind.
Five cargo wagons, surrounded and protected by some thirty sturdy mounts galloping in formation.
The riders had wrapped their noses and mouths with gray cloth against the dust and heat, and each wore a bamboo hat pressed firmly upon his head.
A single flag hung from the right pillar of the lead wagon, impossible to miss.

Red Mountain Escort Bureau.

An escort bureau’s reputation rests upon the perfection of its deliveries.
By that measure, the Red Mountain Escort Bureau stood among the most renowned in the Central Plains.
Its clients trusted it utterly—for whenever goods were stolen en route, or when bandits or highwaymen succeeded in their ambush, the bureau made full restitution without hesitation.
Though such incidents were rare indeed.
The man leading the column from the front sat his horse with unmistakable authority.

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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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