Murim School Record - Chapter 26

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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 26: Jeoksan Transport Company (1)

He too had wrapped cloth around his nose and mouth, and a felt cap was pressed down on his head, so his features were impossible to discern, but the keen glint in his eyes as he surveyed the path ahead was unmistakable.
Transport Captain Wi Cheongcheon.
The leader bearing full responsibility for today’s transport operation, forty-two years old.
“Halt!”
Wi Cheongcheon, who had been riding hard, thrust his left hand up high and called out.
The entire procession began to slow, and a fierce gust of sand enveloped the party before dissipating.
The Escort Guards at the front, uncertain why the procession had stopped so abruptly, turned their eyes toward Wi Cheongcheon ahead.
Wi Cheongcheon urged his horse forward.
After advancing some dozen paces, he pulled his horse to a stop, and his gaze fixed on the ground.
“Oh!”
Na Gwansong, the deputy captain who had hastened to attend him, started in surprise.
A man lay collapsed in the sand—his lower body buried, his torso exposed above.
Whoosh!
Na Gwansong leaped from his horse and hurried toward the man.
“Appears he was swept up in quicksand and somehow managed to work his way out.”
Uncommon, perhaps, but such a sight could occasionally be glimpsed when crossing the Desert.
“Yes.”
“Why do you say so?”
“He’s breathing.”
Na Gwansong quickly felt for the man’s pulse.
“The pulse is strong.”
That meant he was still alive, and whether he could be saved depended entirely on what they did next.
They were already deep into a long journey.
All the Transport Workers were exhausted, and they had to cross the Okmunn Gate before nightfall.
There was no guarantee that breathing meant survival, and what mattered far more was that this was a stranger with whom they had no connection whatsoever.
“Let’s move on.”
Na Gwansong opened his mouth to say “Let’s move on, then,” but closed it instead.
The collapsed man was rising of his own accord.
The man extracted his two legs from the sand that imprisoned them and flopped flat on his back facing the sky.
“Ugh… hack.”
He expelled the breath he’d been holding in a harsh retching cough and gasped for air.
Sand that had entered his mouth tumbled out.
Hack, hack, hack!
Watching the man gasp toward the sky as though newly alive, Wi Cheongcheon’s eyes gleamed.
“Another twenty ri or so and we’ll reach the small town of Nok Ju. We’ll rest there a while.”
Crack!
Wi Cheongcheon drove his horse onward again, and the carts and Transport Workers followed in his wake.
Na Gwansong, who had fallen back to the rear, spoke.
“Can you ride?”
Yi Mobaek, who had by then gotten to his feet, nodded.
Thump!
Na Gwansong mounted first, and Yi Mobaek settled easily behind him.
Thud-thud-thud!
The horse set off at a gallop toward where the procession had vanished.

Three years later.

Rattle-rattle!
A single cart was climbing the steep slope of Sung San.
“Yah! Yah!”
The carter was lashing the horse’s back hard with his whip as it struggled, foam flecking from its mouth.
Crack!
One of the cart wheels caught on a massive stone and lurched to a halt.
Creak-creak!
A boy of about fifteen or sixteen, dressed in black, sat on the driver’s bench and cracked the whip hard.
Neigh!
The horse screamed in pain, but the cart wheel remained stuck on a stone, refusing to budge.
“Damn it! Once this shipment’s done, I’m getting new horses. These ones are useless.”
The boy climbed down from the driver’s bench.
He studied the stone blocking the right wheel, then glanced around.
He found another stone along the roadside, wedged it against the left wheel to keep the cart from rolling backward.
Then he pushed at the stone blocking the right wheel with his foot.
But the stone wouldn’t move.
Thud!
Groan!
The stone seemed deeply embedded.
The slope was steep, and with so much cargo loaded, backing the cart up carelessly would risk the horse losing its footing and the whole thing tipping over.
The boy bent down and tried to pry the stone out with both hands, but it didn’t budge.
“Sir, Transport Captain! Captain, wake up!”
Creak!
The boy threw open the cart’s curtain.
Snore! Rumble!
Huff, huff, snort!
A man lay sprawled across the cargo filling the cart, fast asleep.
“Captain, come on, wake up! Captain!”
“What?”
The Transport Captain lifted his head, his brow furrowed.
“We’re stuck. The wheel won’t move. Come on!”
Suk Jiyun pushed against the cart with both hands, bracing himself.
The cart had started sliding backward.
“You idiot, go forward!”
Suk Jiyun shouted at the horse backing up.
Yawn!
Yi Mobaek, mouth stretched wide in a yawn, jumped down from the cart.
“What’s stuck?”
He walked toward the right wheel.
“Yeah, it’s really caught.”
Kick!
He struck the protruding rock with the ball of his foot.
Crack!
The stone crumbled weakly, and Yi Mobaek climbed onto the driver’s bench to grab the reins.
“Come on, move. Get going!”
He pulled the reins sharply while patting the horse’s hindquarters with his palm, and the horse trembled once, then began climbing slowly.
Bump!
The cart resumed its climb up the steep slope.
Hop!
Suk Jiyun, who had been pushing the cart from behind, came around and sat beside Yi Mobaek.
“Why is the road in such terrible shape? Shaolin has plenty of money — you’d think they’d maintain the roads.”
Suk Jiyun grumbled.
“And how would you know Shaolin has money?”
“They work the most tenant farmers among the Nine Sects and One School. I heard they put the tenant rights to Taesil Peak up for auction this year — the year’s expensive medicinal herbs are supposed to grow there — and more than ten merchants bid on it.”
“That so?”
“They preach Buddha’s compassion up front while squeezing every last coin in the back.”
As Suk Jiyun grumbled, Yi Mobaek laughed.

Three years had passed.
After taking the blow from Wu-wu, he’d fallen straight into quicksand.
He’d thought himself dead, but according to the Jeoksan Transport Company workers who’d rescued him, he’d miraculously surfaced.
Most who fall into quicksand disappear without a trace, but he’d been thrust upward and crawled onto solid ground.
It was natural that he became a Transport Worker for the Jeoksan Transport Company, indebted as he was to their aid.
He’d worked diligently to learn the trade.
And six months ago, with a strong record of shipments, he’d finally been promoted to Transport Captain.
Though he now led only Suk Jiyun as a Transport Worker, he planned to recruit a few more as the situation allowed.
“Stop.”
A great cry rang through the quiet mountain.
The Mountain Gate entrance to Shaolin Temple appeared in the distance.
Two sturdy monks stood firm, guarding the entrance.
The cart rolled to a stop at a proper distance from the gate.
Suk Jiyun spoke.
“A transport shipment.”
“What shipment?”
A monk with a mole on his right forehead asked.
“Wooden Swords from the Maeng Ssi Timber House in Sichuan. Here’s the Transport Document.”
Yi Mobaek drew a Sealed Letter from his breast and handed it to the monk with the mole.
The monk tore open the letter and withdrew the document inside, unfolding it.
A Transport Document.
After scanning the contents, the monk approached the cart and drew back the rear curtain.
Inside lay Wooden Swords stacked neatly, bundled in packs of ten each.
The monk folded the Transport Document again and returned it to Yi Mobaek.
“You may pass.”
Yi Mobaek returned to the driver’s seat and guided the cart through the Mountain Gate.
Watching the cart rumble away and vanish, the mole-bearing monk spoke in a low voice.
“A thousand years, then.”
His fellow guard asked, “What?”
“What?”
“Swords entering Shaolin, for the first time in all that time.”
In the Dharma Muscle Change Scripture, there is nowhere to be found any martial art of Shaolin that employs weapons to kill.
Even in the taking of life, Barehanded Combat stands closer to transgression than any art wielding blades.
To kill a person with sword or spear is, plainly, slaughter—a cruel and inhuman act.
Yet it is not true that Shaolin possesses no martial arts employing weapons.
There is exactly one.
The Dharma Triple Swords—left behind by the Dharma Patriarch just before he closed his eyes for the final time.
Like the old proverb of fortune and misfortune following one another, even Shaolin is not exempt from the turns of human fate.
All things rise and fall.
Shaolin has entered its darkest season.
The Dharma Patriarch left a decree that Shaolin must avoid training in weapon-based martial arts unless facing absolute crisis and annihilation.
Yet the five hundred Wooden Swords now loaded in that cart must be interpreted as a sign that the Dharma Triple Swords are preparing to emerge into the world.
The two monks watched until the cart disappeared from sight.

The air in the chamber hung heavy.
Cheong Ak Seonsa, the sect leader, sat surrounded by the senior masters of Shaolin’s Qing Generation, each bearing the same grim expression.
No consensus had been reached.
Sect Leader Cheong Ak Seonsa insisted that Shaolin’s honor could no longer be allowed to deteriorate, and declared he would draw the Dharma Triple Swords forth into the world.
In contrast, Cheong O Seonsa, the Abbot of the Arhat Hall and the sect leader’s dharma brother, vehemently opposed.
Sadae Geumgang and the other senior masters of the Qing Generation were divided, and the uncompromising conflict persisted.
Yet the final authority rested with Sect Leader Cheong Ak Seonsa.
His word was law.
In the end, Cheong Ak Seonsa pushed through his will and found himself purchasing five hundred wooden training swords.
“Even if we teach the Dharma Triple Swords, there remain grave problems. I have not yet studied the forms, but judging by the Dharma Muscle Change Scripture left by the Dharma Patriarch, the difficulty is evident.”
Cheong O Seonsa opened his mouth to speak.
“If the disciples merely fail to learn properly and fall into calamity, that too is a grave matter.”
“Calamity, you say?”
Cheong Ak Seonsa asked.
“When one overreaches beyond one’s ability and ignores one’s limitations, who knows what misfortune may befall? Does the sect leader not understand what happens? Demon Possession from Cultivation, and should one’s vital essence reverse its flow, a man—and his dharma brothers alike—become raving madmen. One may even fall into the Bloodlust Condition, unable to survive a single day without drinking blood.”
“Amitabha Buddha! You remain ever negative, dwelling only on what can be lost.”
“It is precisely because what we might lose could exceed what we gain that I take counsel beforehand.”
“Such calamities will not come to pass, so do not worry yourself.”
“This is pure madness.”
The sudden curse startled everyone in the chamber.
Bang!
The door flew open as a ragged monk of small stature entered.
“I bow to you, my elders.”
The venerable monks of the Qing generation sitting in lotus seats all rose and bowed with palms together.
The monk who entered was Cheong Mong Seonsa, renowned as a monk of broad wisdom.
In terms of seniority, he was currently the highest-ranking elder of Shaolin.
“Shaolin has flowed as the greatest school under heaven for hundreds of years without the Dharma Triple Swords. What do you think the reason is? You, as the head abbot, tell me.”
He fixed his gaze on Cheong Ak Seonsa.
“Surely it is because our temple’s martial arts are exceptionally strong, is it not?”
“You understand well enough. Shaolin’s martial arts have not changed from before until now. Wudang has not changed from before until now either, and the same holds true for all other sects. Why is Shaolin alone making such a fuss about this?”
Silence fell.
Everyone hung their heads.
“The mouth is not meant only for eating rice. You wear it to speak, so speak.”
He pressed them, demanding why they could not answer.
“Have any of you wandered the world begging alms to find even one disciple worth training? Is there anyone here who has done so?”
No one spoke.
“Pathetic, truly pathetic. Do you know that Taegeuk Geomdo, the head abbot of Wudang, spends half the year roaming the realm?”
Whoosh!
All of them startled and turned their heads.
“Master… is that truly so?”
Cheong Ak Seonsa stammered.
“You’re… you’re asking that as if it’s news? Sitting there without even knowing what the rival sect’s leader is doing?”
“Master…”
“Why shouldn’t I have said it? While he wanders the world listening to the hearts of the Jianghu, discovering talented children and bringing them to Wudang as disciples—and you still don’t understand this? Now I see why Shaolin has become a second-rate sect.”
The expressions of the Qing generation elders hardened.

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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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