Murim School Record - Chapter 41

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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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Chapter 41: What Must Come, Comes (3)

In this world, there is no greater pleasure than watching a fight.
“What tremendous fists.”
“Who is he? Since when has the martial realm harbored a master of Quan Gong like that?”
Nearly every eye among the spectators fixed itself upon I Mo-baek.
Crack!
Snap!
Not merely death—total obliteration, shattering beyond recognition.
The five newly appointed Pyo-sa from the escort unit shuddered.
They had fought with everything they had, but their opponent’s martial skill ran too deep and their numbers too few; they could not hold out much longer.
By any reasonable measure, they wouldn’t last more than fifty or sixty breaths.
Then, suddenly, the assault weakened.
A lightening enemy attack meant diminished power—and that meant their own strength was beginning to gain ground.
“Ahh!”
All of them gasped in shock.
It was I Mo-baek.
Under his fists, the attackers’ skulls split and cracked; one man’s body smashed against a mast floating in Jin Hoe-ha and went limp.
“Push a little harder. We can take them.”
The tide of battle turned.
The five men were entirely revived.
Thud!
Boom-boom-boom!
Fighting and wine—they seemed different, yet shared something profound.
It was atmosphere.
Once a fight catches the right rhythm, unstoppable assaults pour forth.
Before conscious thought can take hold, the body excites itself and rages.
Wine, too, flows endlessly without intoxication if the mood is right.
Crunch!
Snap!
Slash!
Bodies were severed, torn, shattered.
Watching human flesh scatter like debris, terror began to frost the eyes of every spectator.
They knew I Mo-baek and his companions were Pyo-sa of the Jeoksan Pyo-guk.
Yet the killing intent directed at the attackers was merciless and unforgiving.
The Pyo-sa they envisioned—warriors who guarded escort cargo—were skilled in martial arts, but their methods were not vicious or savage by nature.
They simply defended their cargo with measured restraint.
What unfolded before their eyes now was not the work of such Pyo-sa.
The assault was far more indiscriminate than anything the would-be attackers had launched.
Most of all, the fists of their leader—I Mo-baek—were utterly without mercy.
Il-gwon Il-sa.
Every extended fist claimed a life.
Crack!
The fighting ceased.
The blue waters of Jin Hoe-ha had turned crimson, and many corpses drifted upon the waves.
Along the roadside, countless unrecognizable remains lay piled like a swarm of flies.
I Mo-baek gazed at the Pyo-sa.
Blood-soaked.
Not one of them stood unmarked by the carnage they bore upon their frames.
Some swayed and collapsed to the ground; others leaned upon their blades as makeshift canes, barely supporting their weight.
“Thirty-nine, sir.”
Suk Ji-un, who had already begun counting the fallen, reported the tally to I Mo-baek.
Plod, plod.
I Mo-baek approached one side of the street.
Upon a vendor’s stall near the River Bank, where flatbread was normally sold, one blood-drenched Pyo-sa lay motionless.
Drip, drip, drip.
The wooden stand was slick with blood seeping from the Pyo-sa; its owner stood frozen, unable to speak.
It was a man named Ban Do-rak, one of the five newly hired Pyo-sa.
He’d mentioned having two young daughters and being the head of a household.
Thud!
I Mo-baek hurled five Silver Coins at the stall owner.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The owner immediately grasped it was compensation for the shattered stall and bowed repeatedly.
Whoosh!
I Mo-baek hoisted Ban Do-rak’s corpse into his arms.
“Let’s move!”
He draped the body across his horse’s back and began down the road.
The Pyo-sa, caked in blood, resumed pulling the cart forward.

A small grave appeared by the wayside.
Ban Do-rak’s grave.
I Mo-baek’s party had stopped to rest along the road.
The Pyo-sa scattered about, absorbed in the Yun-gi Yo-sang technique.
Creating a grave for a fallen comrade was both a leader’s consideration and his code—but there was another purpose.
Yun-gi Yo-sang.
Though not fully healed, even thirty minutes was enough to restore some semblance of strength to the body.
There was no telling who might attack next.
On a battlefield, rest is victory itself.
The enemy grants no mercy breaks.
So one must steal moments of rest whenever the chance arises.
“Pyo-du, who do you think it was?”
Suk Ji-un approached, his eyes now bright with keen interest.
“They’re definitely not after the cargo, are they?”
“My life.”
“So they were targeting you, Pyo-du?”
“This will happen again. Often.”
“Wait, Pyo-du.”
Suk Ji-un’s eyes widened.
“If they were after you and not the cargo—could it be the Mo-yong Family?”
Grin.
I Mo-baek reached over and ruffled Suk Ji-un’s hair.
“Our Suk Ji-un is quite sharp.”
“Ah.”
Suk Ji-un smiled sheepishly and spoke.
“Inauspicious as it sounds, they’ll keep attacking until they take your head, won’t they?”
“They will.”
“So what do we do? As the saying goes—Ten Men Guard Cannot Catch One Thief.”
It meant ten guards cannot catch a single thief.
In a situation where you don’t know when or how they’ll strike, mounting a defense is extraordinarily difficult.
I Mo-baek is undeniably at a disadvantage.
“Why not strike first?”
Suk Ji-un’s eyes glinted.
“We strike the assassins before they strike us?”
“But who are the assassins?”
“If we investigate, we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Flash!
That was when I Mo-baek’s eyes ignited.

Gi-cheok.

Sal-gi.
The killing intent descended like night fog—dense and overwhelming.
Most of the Pyo-sa performing Yun-gi Yo-sang were near completion, but they still needed time.
He hadn’t engaged in the technique himself partly because his internal injuries were minor, but mainly to protect the others.
Creep-creep!
Figures in black martial robes began emerging from the forest all around them.
Suk Ji-un spoke in a trembling voice.
“Pyo-du! Pyo-du!”
I Mo-baek narrowed his eyes at the twenty-odd men in black who had completely encircled them.
“Mm.”
A groan escaped I Mo-baek’s lips.
There’s an old saying: dire predictions kill their men.
He’d just made one.
After that chaos at Jin Hoe-ha, he’d assumed there would be no second attack before the day was through.
Sending enemies in quick succession wasn’t as simple as it sounded.
He studied the men with cold eyes.
If those he’d faced at Jin Hoe-ha were the vanguard, these were the main force.
The aura emanating from their bodies showed a marked difference from the others.
“Will you two wake up?”
Suk Ji-un shouted abruptly.
They would hear his voice.
More than that, they would have sensed the arrival of the men in black—but those caught in the depths of Yun-gi Yo-sang couldn’t simply stand at will.
And if they forced themselves to end the meditation prematurely, it would only strain their bodies further.

‘Half a moment might do it.’

No.
Less than half a moment—a Ban-da-gyeong, the time to drink a cold cup of tea—and they might manage to rise.
But the men in black would never let such an opportunity slip.
He’d thought once more that they might come again, then dismissed it. Yet here they were.
When he thought about it, the assault at Jin Hoe-ha had been aimed more at wounding than killing.
And they had watched his movements from a distance, waiting until he’d entered the meditation before appearing.
Waiting for the moment when Yun-gi Yo-sang reached its deepest point.
I Mo-baek let out another low, bitter laugh.
Against a foe who moved with such precision and flawless strategy, there was nothing to do but submit.

‘Ji-un.’

I Mo-baek sent the thought-message.

‘Run.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t call you a coward for fleeing.’
‘Retreat is also strategy.’
‘What of you?’
‘Don’t concern yourself with me. I’ll attack first and scatter them—use that moment to escape.’

Yet Suk Ji-un’s expression didn’t change at all; he showed no sign of running.
Instead, he gritted his teeth and spoke.
“A man dies once, not twice.”
Suk Ji-un drew his blade and swung it at the men in black before I Mo-baek could move.
“I’m Suk Ji-un. Two of you I might let go, but one of you I’m taking with me.”
It was a calculated move to draw them in with the first strike.
In that time, his companions’ meditation would finish.
Hiss!
One of the men in black saw Suk Ji-un and drew his sword, rushing forward.
Crack!
He brought his full strength down against Suk Ji-un’s blade.
“Hgh!”
Suk Ji-un staggered back with a grunt.
Even uninjured, he knew there was no guarantee of victory against such a formidable opponent.
He called out loudly.
“Heh! So you can withstand my strike—not bad at all.”
Suk Ji-un pressed forward again, affecting ease and composure.

Meanwhile, I Mo-baek’s gaze swept across the men in black.
His expression hardened further.

‘This is it. This is the crisis.’

The aura emanating from the men in black was composed, unruffled.
That meant they were seasoned in this kind of fighting.
He faced danger as never before.
“Attack!”
Someone barked the order.
In the same instant, the men in black who had been standing like wraiths rushed forward as one.
A roaring cry tore through the air!
The momentum was like a storm.
Some of the men in black charged at I Mo-baek, but most of them were still Pyo-sa recovering from the Yun-gi Yo-sang meditation.
Still, he had to hold them back.
He had to endure with all he had.
He had to protect the Pyo-sa from the attackers’ onslaught.

‘Il-gwon Il-sa.’

Every fist that went out was meant to kill.
That meant pouring everything he had into it.
Killing with certainty meant focusing entirely on the target—but this Il-gwon Il-sa was different.
It was a fist meant to counter all nineteen of the men in black, save the one whom Suk Ji-un was facing.
That meant not gathering his strength in one place, but spreading it wide.
With all his might, he deployed it like a screen to block the attackers’ strikes.
A sharp, whistling sound!
The Bul-yeong Bo at its absolute limit erupted, and a shadow black as pitch drew an enormous circle.
A wall forged by Il-gwon Il-sa.
A desperate choice to shield the Pyo-sa still deep in Yun-gi Yo-sang.
A crack like shattering ice!
The wall seemed to falter for an instant, then gave way.
It was impossible for one man alone to stop all their blades.
Sickening thuds of steel piercing flesh!
Some of the swords sank into I Mo-baek’s body, tearing away skin and muscle.
A gasp of pain escaped him!
Wet gashes split his form!
I Mo-baek let out a strangled cry.
In a single second, his entire body had become a rag doll.
Yet it was not entirely without effect.
Some of the Pyo-sa were beginning to rise.
“Hah!”
“Dan-seom Mu-pa… Dan-seom Hyeol-pa!”
The awakened Pyo-sa unleashed their voices and began to engage the men in black.
Heavy breathing! Gasping!
I Mo-baek straightened his body with deep, labored breaths.
They had all awakened.
Yet the tide of battle had not turned.
Though his own number of opponents had dwindled, the Pyo-sa began to fall back within mere seconds of clashing with them.
I Mo-baek lifted his gaze.
A small-framed man in black, lean and slender, was watching him—and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
An old man.
His exact age was unclear.
But he seemed utterly at ease.
It was not a calculated display of composure, but something natural—and the light in his eyes as he regarded I Mo-baek was almost affectionate.
“Are you I Mo-baek?”
“I am.”
“You’re no fool to the ways of the world, and yet you accepted the master’s proposal without hesitation—which means you have the confidence to weather any storm that comes, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s so.”
“Good then. I sincerely hope you escape this peril tonight.”
Whoosh!
The old man hurled himself forward.
No—he hadn’t even moved, yet somehow he was already before me, his right hand extending outward in a smooth, terrible arc.
Muk-jang.
It wasn’t the darkness that made it appear that way.
When a palm force bleeds black or red from a person’s hand, you know to be afraid.
Not always, but the chance of Ma-gi or Sa-gi coursing through it runs high.
I Mo-baek did not dodge.
He drove his fist into the blackened palm.
Crack!
The fist shattered.
The black palm split into fragments as if glass had fractured across its surface.
“Ugh—”
Meanwhile, I Mo-baek, who had struck the palm with his fist, staggered backward with a groan tearing from his throat.
Pain lanced through his wrist—the feeling of bone breaking.
But that was not all.

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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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