Murim School Record - Chapter 27

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

Episode 27: Juksan Pyoguk (2)

Cheong Mong blew his nose loudly and wiped it on his robe, then continued.
“A Third-Rank Sect, Shaolin is now Third-Class. Mark my words well. The days of sitting idle, waiting for treasures to fall into our hands—those are long gone. Don’t you understand that masters must now seek out their own disciples?”
It was then that someone outside called out in a loud voice.
“Nam Seol of Bulmuak reports. The five hundred wooden swords commissioned from the Meng Clan Wood Workshop have just arrived.”
Everyone turned to look toward the entrance, and Cheong Ak spoke.
“Understood. Store them all in Bulmuak for now.”
Cheong Ak gave the order.
Acknowledging words followed by the sound of footsteps fading away.

Bulmuak was Shaolin’s armory.
Yet it was not a place where swords, blades, spears, or pikes were kept; rather, it managed the equipment needed to train in the martial arts of Jeoksugongkwon.
The warehouse door of Bulmuak was now open, and several monks were unloading the wooden swords from the cart together.
Beneath the shade of a large bodhi tree some distance away, Yi Mo Baek and Suk Ji Un sat with their backs against the trunk, speaking in low voices.
“Hehehehe! Is it really true?”
Suk Ji Un gazed at Yi Mo Baek with eyes full of amusement, as if he found something utterly hilarious.
“Why would I lie to you? If you wanted, I could even take you to meet him.”
“No, thank you. Why would I want to meet a mad monk? Still, the fact that a monk has gone mad is hilarious. I wonder how a mad monk chants his sutras?”
According to Yi Mo Baek’s account, he had once lived in Shaolin for a time and thus knew the affairs of this place well—and spoke of a mad monk who could not control his bowels.
“A mad monk’s chanting must be special too. ‘Amitabha Buddha, Buddha-Amita, no wait, Nimitta Buddha’—something like that, I imagine.”
Suk Ji Un, muttering to himself, suddenly started.
“Uh…Captain, over there?”
Suk Ji Un pointed to one side.
A group of monks in crimson robes was walking toward Bulmuak.
They were monks of the Cheong Generation, led by Cheong Ak.
The monks who had been unloading the wooden swords quickly clasped their hands in respect and bowed.
“Don’t mind us. Keep unloading.”
The monks continued to remove the wooden swords from the cart.
Whoosh!
It was then that Cheong O reached in and yanked a wooden sword from the pile loaded on the cart.
Though it was a wooden sword, its length and shape were identical to a real blade.
Swish!
Whack!
He swung the sword sharply with both hands, then looked around and walked toward the side of the warehouse, where there was a boulder of suitable size.
Cheong O walked to the rock and brought the wooden sword down upon it.
Crack!
Some pieces of rock broke off, but the wooden sword remained intact.
Only the blade left a jagged impression upon it.
The wooden swords of the Meng Clan Wood Workshop were made from Heukjamok Wood.
Heukjamok was harder than most metals, and swordsmen often carried Heukjamok blades when their purses were shallow.
The eminent monks of the Cheong Generation, apparently astonished at how solid the weapon truly was despite having only heard of it before, took turns striking the blade against rocks in different places—and it still maintained its form.
“Now I understand why it commands such a price,” Cheong O remarked.
Cheong O nodded.
“All goods have been unloaded.”
A monk who had been unloading the swords approached and called out.
Yi Mo Baek rose from his seat.
Suk Ji Un climbed onto the driver’s bench first, and Yi Mo Baek produced the Cargo Manifest.
“Please sign here, confirming that you have received the cargo in good order.”
Nam Seol, the keeper of Bulmuak, affixed his mark to verify that he had accepted the goods.
Rip!
Yi Mo Baek tore the Cargo Manifest in half.
He gave one half to Nam Seol and kept the other in his pocket.
With this, the delivery was now complete.
Heave!
As Yi Mo Baek leaped onto the driver’s bench, Suk Ji Un pulled on the reins.
“Hold on!”
Just as the cart was about to leave Bulmuak, Cheong Ak suddenly cried out.
“Wait a moment.”
Clang!
Suk Ji Un pulled hard on the reins, and the cart lurched to a halt with a screech.
“What is it?”
Suk Ji Un turned to ask.
“Not you.”
And he fixed his gaze on Yi Mo Baek, seated beside him.
At that moment, Yi Mo Baek was picking at his nostril with his right index finger.
Shwip!
Cheong Ak approached, dragging his robes, and regarded Yi Mo Baek—who was industriously mining his nose—with a sharp, penetrating stare.
“Young donor, a word.”
“Me, sir?”
Without hesitation, Yi Mo Baek wiped the nasal discharge from his fingertip onto the wooden post of the cart-driver’s seat.
“What is your name?”
“My name?”
He pointed to his own chest with a finger.
“Why do you ask? It’s Yi Mo Baek, if you must know.”
“Yi with the character for Mo Baek, then?”
“Is there something wrong with my name? Everyone else finds it perfectly acceptable.”
Cheong Ak’s eyes narrowed.
He studied Yi Mo Baek’s face intently.
A figure came to mind.
This young man bore a striking resemblance to him.
Cheong Mong, the most senior of all at Shaolin, had taken unusual fondness to that man.
Cheong Ak had met him a handful of times—he was a Wood-Carrier then, but possessed the kind of sturdy frame and bones well-suited to martial cultivation.

‘Shaolin must truly be declining. The disciples are lacklustre, yet this Wood-Carrier has such solid timber in him.’

These were his thoughts on Yi Mo Baek at the time.
Had his natural aptitude been exceptional enough to covet, Cheong Ak would have made him a formal disciple of Shaolin; but he judged the youth’s potential insufficient to warrant bending protocol to recruit him.
Of course, Cheong Mong, his senior brother, saw differently.

‘One could search until one’s eyes wore out and find no one of his calibre in all of Shaolin.’

There was no need to heed the wandering pronouncements of a senior whose mind drifted.
In any case, that Yi Mo Baek had simply vanished three years ago.
It was no matter worthy of drawing the Shaolin Patriarch out to search—just one Wood-Carrier missing from the Gongyanggan.
How many Wood-Carriers had perished to the fangs and claws of tigers and wild dogs whilst felling timber?
But seeing Yi Mo Baek now had stirred those old memories.
“Yi Mo Baek?”
“That is correct.”
Though he wore no disguise, there was reason enough for Cheong Ak not to recognize him.
It was the scars etched across Yi Mo Baek’s face.
Trapped in quicksand, he had thrashed about with desperate fury.
In that struggle, countless grains large and small had gouged his face with deep cuts.
Now his visage was covered in a web of scars so dense they seemed like rain falling across his skin.
“Then I shall take my leave.”
Yi Mo Baek, still seated on the cart-driver’s bench, pressed his palms together in salute.
“Go.”
The cart departed Bulmuak under the watchful eyes of Shaolin’s elder masters.
“Ahem.”
“Hem.”
“Heh-hem-hem.”
All of them cleared their throats in unison, as if by prior arrangement.
“It makes no sense,” Cheong Ak muttered.
Cheong Ak murmured under his breath.
The other senior masters of the Cheong Generation likewise spoke in low, uncertain tones.
“Could it be that a mere youth has attained the realm of the Upper Heavens…?”
“That’s impressive.”
The aura he gave off surpassed the realm of a Peak Master.
Depending on the martial skills one cultivated, it was not uncommon for vast spiritual energy to pour outward with unusual intensity.
In other words, there were plenty of martial arts that earned higher appraisals than the actual skill level deserved.
Yet all six senior monks of the Cheong Generation, including the Four Diamond Kings, shared the same assessment.

‘He’s a master.’

If that was true, then Yi Mo Baek from the carriage driver’s seat was indeed a master.
“I’m well aware of the Juksan Pyoguk’s excellence in protecting cargo shipments, but he’s quite a remarkable fellow.”
Exceptional cargo protection ability meant not only fewer failed deliveries, but also that the affiliated couriers possessed peerless martial prowess.
Central Plains had no shortage of escort houses.
Yet none of them executed cargo delivery with the perfection of the Juksan Pyoguk.
Mountain bandits plundered shipments, highwaymen seized them, and since cargo itself had monetary value, all manner of thief gangs descended upon convoys.
Eventually, high-value goods and important cargo gravitated toward the Juksan Pyoguk, but that was where the real problem began.
The bands of Heretical Practitioners eyeing the cargo also reinforced their numbers.
Fortunately, the Juksan Pyoguk’s reputation remained solid, but what surprised him was that they were taking on even Peak Masters like Yi Mo Baek.

‘Perhaps they stand in a far higher position than we’ve imagined.’

Cheong Ak murmured to himself.
He made a mental note to visit the Juksan Pyoguk sometime if the opportunity arose.

Meanwhile, the carriage that had departed Bulmuak was traveling through a forest path.
“Stop for a moment.”
When Suk Ji Un halted the carriage, Yi Mo Baek climbed down from the driver’s seat and approached the stream trickling down from the ravine.
Once Yi Mo Baek descended into the ravine, he knelt and bent forward, beginning to drink from the water.
Gulp!
He lifted his torso after drinking.
Then, catching sight of his own reflection in the water, he let out a bitter laugh.
“That was a lethal exchange.”
His face wasn’t ugly.
Yet the sand-carved marks upon it gave him a revolting sensation.
Yi Mo Baek’s bitter expression gradually hardened into something cold and implacable.

‘That bastard U Mu.’

He ground his teeth.

‘You’ll die by my hand, come what may.’

Yi Mo Baek climbed back onto the driver’s seat.
The carriage moved forward once more.

The carriage stopped again.
Not far below Shaolin’s mountain gate, another carriage was coming up from below.
Though there was ample space for two carriages to pass, Suk Ji Un pulled as far to the side as possible upon seeing the horse struggling upward, laden with heavy cargo and gasping for breath.
‘Alms.’

It was a carriage from Shaolin’s Gongyanggan.
Remarkably, the person seated as driver was Seol Yeo Chul.
Seol Yeo Chul pressed his palms together in gratitude toward the carriage ahead, which had kindly made way for his passage.
In that instant, he caught sight of Yi Mo Baek and started in alarm.

‘Jolt.’

The carriage suddenly lurched.
“What’s wrong?”
Dang Du Chun’s voice drifted from behind the carriage.
“It’s… nothing at all.”
From a distance, Yi Mo Baek’s facial scar, etched like rain streaks, was no longer clearly visible.
So naturally, his facial features were those of the Yi Mo Baek from before.

‘It’s really me, Mo Baek.’

Seol Yeo Chul started in shock.
He clenched his teeth quickly to swallow back the scream that was about to burst forth.

‘I fell into a whirlpool, but I was lucky enough to survive. And I’m the head of the Juksan Pyoguk now.’
‘Oh! Buddha!’

This time, it was Yi Mo Baek who was surprised.
Seol Yeo Chul had sent Sound Transmission.
Sound Transmission could not be executed unless one had reached a certain level of martial skill.

‘Brother, you can use Sound Transmission. Your Nahankwon has improved greatly.’
‘That bastard U Mu — I’ll catch him with these very hands. He’s no monk, he’s a damn fraud.’

Then he recounted what U Mu had done to him that day.
U Mu had played innocent, and in the end all the Shaolin monks had concluded that Yi Mo Baek had simply vanished.
But in the dead of night, U Mu came and gave him a grim warning.
He was never to speak of what happened that day.
If he so much as mentioned it to anyone, U Mu would cut off his head.
He’d been left with no choice but to look like a madman spouting nonsense.

‘I was furious about it. I came back and ground my teeth, trained in Nahankwon, and that crazy monk even helped me.’
‘Cheong Mong.’
‘That crazy monk — he’s remarkable. The way he teaches, it just sinks in so easily. Every word he says goes straight to your heart.’
‘He’s perfectly sane. I don’t know why he pretends to be mad, but he’s definitely not actually insane — be careful.’
‘I think so too. But are you going to stay with the Juksan Pyoguk?’
‘I learned Baekbosinkwon, so I don’t need to rely on Shaolin anymore. And there are too many monks here that I can’t stand to look at.’
‘Hehe, that’s fair.’
‘Let’s see each other again, brother.’
‘You’re alive — oh, it’s so good to hear that. Hehehehe.’

The two carriages went their separate ways, one ascending and one descending, growing distant from each other.

When one speaks of Shaanxi Province, the Huashan Sect on Huashan comes to mind first.
Yet for over a hundred years, though not matching the fame of the Huashan Sect, a vast organization had taken root in the ancient capital of Chang An.
The Juksan Pyoguk—
A shipping house that transported cargo all the way to Dongying across the sea, the finest transport company in Gangnam.

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