Murim School Record - Chapter 4

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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 4: The Witch (1)

The kitchen quarters had grown busier.
Whenever a contingent of Shaolin monks ventured beyond the temple gates on some matter, the kitchen staff would accompany them to see that meals were prepared.
“Wouldn’t it be possible for someone to go in my place? Mother said she’d be arriving from Sichuan today.”
“Ugh, my stomach!”
Suddenly, several monks began complaining of abdominal pain, and others claimed family visits were scheduled for today.
Dang Du-chun, the official supervisor of this kitchen expedition, furrowed his brow.
Six men had been assigned to the mission.
But two of them were now doubled over clutching their bellies, and a third wore a miserable expression, bleating about family visits.
“Are you genuinely ill?”
The man’s eyes widened indignantly.
“Supervisor, do I strike you as someone shirking duties?”
“You too?”
“My insides feel like they’re tearing apart.”
“Is your mother really coming?”
“You’ll know when you see, won’t you?”
Dang Du-chun’s frown deepened.
“Everything is loaded.”
Yi Mo-baek appeared then, wiping sweat from his brow, and made his report.
The kitchen equipment and cooking tools for the journey had all been packed onto the cart.
“Is Seol also under the weather? He was fine when we broke fast this morning.”
“That was then. I’m in pain now.”
“The mood’s gotten thick as mud. Should I start feigning illness too?”
Yi Mo-baek turned to face the three men standing before Dang Du-chun.
“What, do some of you think you have two necks to spare?”
Not often, but kitchen staff who accompanied expeditions did sometimes lose their lives.
The expeditions themselves existed for the sake of war.
“There’s no help for it. I’ll report to the Abbot first.”
Dang Du-chun turned and walked away.
“Yi Mo-baek!”
A man called out.
It was Seol Yeo-chul.
One of the two complaining of stomach pain, he was three years Yi Mo-baek’s senior.
And naturally, he’d entered Shaolin earlier as well.
“I’m genuinely ill, you know.”
“Yes, yes!”
Yi Mo-baek nodded earnestly.
Seol Yeo-chul shot him a warning glance, as if to say he should mind his tongue.
But after a quarter hour had passed, Dang Du-chun returned with words spoken in a glacial tone.
“The Abbot says anyone who cannot go must leave Shaolin immediately. That settles it.”
Everything was resolved in a single moment.

A white banner bore the words “Young Attendant” written in crimson characters.
The fluttering banner hung high from a standard at the front of the cart as a company of men set out beyond the Shaolin temple gates.
The procession bound for Qing Yao Mountain was the kitchen corps of Shaolin Temple—Young Attendant marking their designation.
Two warrior-monks escorted the cart, though the faces of the four men besides Dang Du-chun and Yi Mo-baek were noticeably dark.
“Brighten up!”
Dang Du-chun barked sharply.
“Do you look like you’re headed to the Underworld?”
“What’s wrong with our expressions? We’re perfectly fine,” Seol Yeo-chul grumbled resentfully, his face twisted with annoyance at having failed in his bid to shirk the expedition.
The faces stained with fear showed little sign of lifting.
Only Yi Mo-baek followed the cart with a beaming smile.
He moved ceaselessly back and forth, never still.
Sometimes quickening his pace, sometimes slowing it, he matched the cart’s rhythm as it rolled forward.

It was the footwork from the scroll he’d obtained at Sungru Hermitage, and he was determined to master it.
Nothing could be better than this.
Free to practice without anyone watching, he felt as though he might take flight.
“Mo-baek!”
“Yes, Sae Myeol.”
Sae Myeol, one of two monks dispatched from the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform to escort the wagon, approached him.
For this expedition to Qing Yao Mountain, Shaolin had sent the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform.
The martial monk groups representing Shaolin were the One Hundred Eight Arhats and the Eighteen Arhats, along with the Four Great Vajras, masters at the level of abbot.
They moved only when Shaolin faced catastrophe; otherwise, they remained in their own quarters, quietly cultivating their martial skills.
Both Sae Myeol and Sae Ryong belonged to the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform.
“What dance have you been practicing so diligently?”
At the word “dance,” Yi Mo-baek barely suppressed a laugh that threatened to burst out.
Sae Myeol seemed completely unaware that he was practicing a footwork technique.
Yi Mo-baek was in a state of considerable excitement.
In truth, Shaolin possessed many footwork techniques.
There was the Eighty-One Subduing Demon Step, the Golden Dragon Step, the Avalokiteshvara Eighteen Steps, and others.
But if one had to name a single footwork technique, it would undoubtedly be the Buddha Shadow Step.
An extraordinarily flashy and destructive movement, far too showy for Buddhist martial arts.
Naturally, it was not easy to master.
Because of its difficulty, it was neglected by disciples, much like the Hundred Step Divine Fist.
Sae Myeol was among those who had turned away from the Buddha Shadow Step, so he could not possibly recognize it.
“How wonderful it is to venture beyond the temple gates after so long! My feet seem to have a mind of their own. But what brings you here, Sae Myeol?”
“Nothing, really—it’s just that your movements are so graceful.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Do continue!”
“Then I shall practice with even greater enthusiasm.”
Sae Myeol began to walk away with a composed demeanor.
He certainly did not recognize the Buddha Shadow Step.
If he didn’t, there could be no better opportunity to practice freely.
Tap!
Pat-pat-pat… pat-pat-pat!
The footsteps made someone uneasy, yet they gave another person the chance to master the Buddha Shadow Step—a technique absolutely necessary for learning the Hundred Step Divine Fist.

The sun was setting when they came within fifty li of Henan Province, Sinan County, where Qing Yao Mountain lay.
“There it is!”
In a small basin, monks wearing crimson robes came into view.
Fifty or so members of the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform had arrived before the supply group.
“Why are you so late?”
A monk in his early forties, his beard trimmed short, asked this of Dang Du-chun.
It was Myeong Gong, the master of the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform.
“Forgive us. The sudden long journey caused us to fall behind somewhat. I shall have evening provisions prepared at once.”
“Make haste!”
Under Dang Du-chun’s direction, a cauldron was hung and portable cooking stands, about half a zhang in height and collapsible, were unfolded.
The supply monks moved busily about their assigned tasks—washing rice, preparing side dishes.
Yi Mo-baek chopped dead wood with an axe.
Firewood was abundant everywhere.
In no time, he gathered an armful and scattered it on the ground.
Dang Du-chun placed the wood Yi Mo-baek had prepared into the fire pit and lit it.
While the supply monks bustled about preparing evening provisions, tension hung in the air within a small tent.

A small table stood at the center of the tent with a battle map spread across it.
Myeong Gong, master of the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform, stared at the map with clenched jaws.
“This is the entrance to Gui Du Valley, is it not?”
Myeong Sam, a disciple of Myeong Gong, pointed to the area marked with a red triangle.
“Indeed it is.”
“Surely they don’t expect us to enter Gui Du Valley.”
“We must block them before they can enter.”
Gui Du Valley was infested with venomous creatures.
Even a peak master, unless specially immune to poison, would likely lose their life.
“Why must we be the ones guarding the entrance to Gui Du Valley? Where are the Wudang and Huashan disciples?”
“Because we’re closest, the Alliance Leader ordered us to secure the most critical position first.”
Flap-flap!
Suddenly, the sound of wings beating came from outside the tent.
Swish!
The tent flap parted and a monk entered, a pigeon perched on the palm of his hand.
“A carrier pigeon from the Alliance.”
Myeong Gong untied the small tube fastened to the pigeon’s ankle, unscrewed the cap, and withdrew its contents.
A single slip of paper, brittle with age, fell into his palm.
As Myeong Gong carefully unfolded and read the note, his expression hardened by degrees, and he swallowed a heavy groan.
“Elder brother!”
Myeong Sam asked what was wrong.
“Hyeol Seon-seo-saeng isn’t traveling alone.”
“What?”
The other monks started as well.
“Byeok-an Mi-hee is accompanying him.”
“That madwoman!”
Myeong Sam spat out a thunderous curse.
“Amitabha Buddha!”
Realizing his language had been harsh, he quickly murmured the invocation and lowered his head.
“It’s fine. We’re at war.”
Myeong Gong looked at the note once more, then clenched it in his palm and drew up his Inner Force.
Whoosh!
Smoke seemed to rise from his palm, and moments later the paper had become ash, scattering to the ground.
Samadhi True Fire.
“Send word of understanding in return.”
“Yes!”
The monk departed with the pigeon, vanishing back outside.
The night had grown late.
Myeong Gong, master of the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform, stepped outside and gazed up at the starlit sky.
‘Hyeol Seon-seo-saeng.’
A face like carved jade, always carrying a blood-red fan.
Handsome, silver-tongued, gentle and considerate—he had even flirted with no few women of the Martial World, leaving hearts scattered in his wake.
The Murim Alliance sought to capture him because of the martial art he wielded.
He employed the Blood Ice Hand, designated as a Forbidden Martial Art.
For ages, five Forbidden Martial Arts had existed in the Jianghu—arts that must not be learned or used—and the Blood Ice Hand was one of them.
A mere brush with the Blood Ice Hand turned the entire body into a crimson ice statue.
If one died that way, turned to ice, it could be argued as merely a characteristic and power of the technique—thus it could not be bound as a Forbidden Art.
The true horror was that those struck by the Blood Ice Hand lived on as red ice statues for the rest of their lives.
Living ice statues that would not die.
Frozen though they were, unable to move, they remained undeniably alive.
They felt hunger. They excreted waste.
What would you do?
If that ice statue were your father, your husband, your child?
Would you kill what remained?
Or would you spend three hundred sixty-five days a year tending to that ice statue beside you?
The Blood Ice Hand condemned entire families to hell in this way.

‘The Jianghu is a place where the strong hold the lives of the weak in their grip. Remember this: death cleanses all things, and therefore it should be swift. There is no punishment greater than death, yet the Blood Ice Hand adds suffering atop it. It is evil that cannot be forgiven under any circumstance.’

Words left behind by Bodhidharma, founder of the Chan Buddhist school.

‘And now, Byeok-an Mi-hee.’

A woman assassin with blue eyes.
She killed only men.
She simply killed.
Flash!
Myeong Gong’s eyes suddenly gleamed.
He turned his head to one side, and as if perceiving something, began walking slowly forward.
Pushing aside the low branches carefully with his hands, he walked some twenty paces before coming to a halt.
It was the place where the kitchen attendants practiced.
In the thick darkness, a man was throwing punches.

One Fist One Death.

Myeong Gong’s keen gaze pierced the gloom and recognized that the man’s fists were executing One Fist One Death, a form of the Hundred Step Divine Fist.
“Suddenly it’s blocked.”
The man muttered irritably, dissatisfied with his own punching.
“Why won’t it work? The form is lethal, but damn it—One Fist One Death.”
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh!
But even this time, finding no satisfaction in the movement, the man’s face darkened.
“I mocked those earthheads for being blockheads, but my head’s no better. Hell.”
Thud!
With that, he struck the tree standing beside him with his fist.
“The saying goes, the more urgent the moment, the more you must slow down. So today I’ll stop here and try again tomorrow.”
“Hold on a moment!”
Yi Mo-baek, who had been heading toward the kitchen tent in frustration at how things weren’t working, stopped in his tracks and turned around.
Spin!
As he turned, Yi Mo-baek’s expression hardened.
It was a fierce look—how dare anyone disturb his troubled mood—but as the distance closed and the face became visible, he quickly bowed his waist.
“Myeong Gong, it’s an honor to see you.”
“Do you know me?”
“Of course. How could anyone at Shaolin not know the master of the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform?”
As he spoke, he raised his thumb, having nearly said “leader of the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform” instead.
Myeong Gong’s thick white eyebrows writhed like earthworms.
Within Shaolin Temple, there were numerous groups, large and small.
The Demon Subduing Lotus Platform could not be called the strongest, but neither was it a faction anyone dared slight.
And he himself was its chief.
They called it the Great Demon Subduing Lotus Platform—not simply the Demon Subduing Lotus Platform.
“The fists you threw a moment ago—were they not One Fist One Death?”

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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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