Murim School Record - Chapter 43

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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 43: The Ones Meant to Live (2)

The beasts tearing at the corpses of the porters showed no inclination to flee—they watched I Mobaek with open hunger.
When the beasts appeared, the horses seemed to have bolted long ago.
Crash!
He walked on.
He had no idea where he was going.
His feet simply carried him forward.
Thud!
Staggering, his face struck the rough bark of a massive tree beside him.
Blood trickled down.
Perhaps because his body was in its death throes, he felt no pain.
Thud!
Crack!
He collided again and again.
His face already slick with gore, I Mobaek did not stop walking.
He walked as though some destination awaited him.
Then he heard the commotion behind him.
The beasts had followed.
Having already gorged themselves on the dead porters, they trailed after I Mobaek—soon to be their next meal—waiting for death to claim him.
Whoooosh!
Suddenly a fierce wind swept up from below.
A cliff.
How deep, how far the plunge might be, he could not know—but his foot had found only air.
The sound of wind screaming past his ears was sharp and bitter.
And then he laughed.
Rather than dread of dying, the shock of the rising wind cleared his mind, and a strange coolness suffused his body.
Then, unbidden, a single face rose in his thoughts—

‘Father.’

Even in that final moment, he had wished to live as a son who’d mastered the supreme martial arts the great monks of Shaolin Temple possessed, to be honored for that strength.

‘You must live with all your might.’

But it had come to this.
Since death was upon him, there was no use hurrying it.
If this was his fate, he would accept it.
Peace settled into his heart.
Crash!
Something struck him, and the impact stole his consciousness.
Far above, high in the sky, dozens of pairs of eyes gazed down from the cliff’s edge into the abyss below.

He woke.
Opening his eyes, he saw dusty bamboo rafters overhead; turning his gaze to the right, he made out a small window set into one wall.
He blinked several times, gathering his thoughts, and surveyed his surroundings more carefully.
This was undoubtedly a dwelling.
He drew a long breath.
“Ungh!”
His chest burned as though pricked by needles everywhere.
One face flashed through his mind at once.
Jong Ri Gyun—the one who had unleashed that merciless Black Flame Technique upon him.
“Mmh.”
Steadying his breathing through soft groans, he carefully pushed himself upright.
Though pain lanced through him, he felt no immediate suffocation, no sign of death drawing near.
Moving cautiously, I Mobaek opened the door.
A courtyard overgrown with weeds came into view.
A dense bamboo grove surrounded the yard like a fence, and between the stalks ran a narrow footpath leading in and out.
Whoosh!
The bamboo swayed in the wind, releasing a crisp, cool sound.
Wait—
I Mobaek, in the act of extending both feet to slip on his shoes, froze.
Before him lay a pair of shoes—tattered and crusted with dried blood.
I Mobaek hesitated only a moment before beginning with his right foot, working the ragged cloth-like sole onto his heel.
Once shod, he stepped out into the courtyard.
He looked back at the clay hut where he’d been lying. Weeds sprouted thick across its roof.
Whose house was this?
But looking at it now, he could recall nothing of its owner.
“Is it much farther?”
“We’re almost there.”
At the sudden sound of voices, I Mobaek turned his head.
A figure emerged onto the narrow path that cut through the bamboo grove.
Whish!
The man came rushing down the tunnel-like path with such staggering speed that he was suddenly before I Mobaek, who gasped in shock.
“Here it is.”
The man who materialized in the courtyard was, astoundingly, Cheongmong Seonsa.
Yet strapped to his back, like cargo, was an elderly monk in a threadbare robe.
“Ah, my aching back.”
Thud!
Cheongmong Seonsa let out a groan and dropped the old man from his shoulders as if he were a sack of grain.
“Oof!”
The old monk tumbled across the ground, crying out as though death had claimed him.
“What kind of heartless brute kills a man like this!”
“Stop your whining and get up. You’re going to scare people.”
Cheongmong Seonsa quickly pushed open the closed door.
“What!”
Peering inside, Cheongmong Seonsa let out a cry.
“This…this…this…”
“What’s wrong?”
The old monk, still clinging to Cheongmong Seonsa’s back, peered in after him.
“Where did the wretch go? He was certainly sprawled out in here.”
“I…I’m here!”
Cheongmong Seonsa spun around.
There sat I Mobaek on a rock at the edge of the courtyard, soaking in the sunlight.
“Well—are you all right? You shouldn’t be moving around.”
I Mobaek regarded the approaching Cheongmong Seonsa with a steady stare.
It wasn’t that he bore the old monk ill will; it was rather that he could recall nothing joyful or pleasant between them.
For I Mobaek, Cheongmong Seonsa was an exhaustingly intrusive elder.
He appeared without warning, only to tease him about how well I Manbok had raised his one son.
At first it had passed easily enough, but as the old monk repeated it endlessly, like calling to a child, the sting grew real.
I Manbok was his father.
He had lived half his life as a lay servant at Shaolin Temple, then departed this world in illness.
In short, he had toiled himself to death merely to feed and clothe his one son.
When death came, all such ties should have ended.
Yet Cheongmong Seonsa spoke of his father as one might call a servant—I Manbok, I Manbok, over and over.
It wasn’t as though I Mobaek had asked the old monk to append some honorific to the name.
That chapter of his father’s life was closed; I Mobaek wished it left undisturbed.
His father had not departed in glory or high station—he had simply lived and died as a servant in a wealthy household, nothing more.
“Still sulking?”
Cheongmong Seonsa chuckled at the sight of I Mobaek, whose face was knotted in displeasure despite the fact that the old monk had saved his life.
“Is this the boy?”
The old monk who had ridden on Cheongmong Seonsa’s back asked the question.
Cheongmong Seonsa nodded.
“Well then—was it worth my effort, carrying him these two thousand li?”
At the mention of two thousand li, I Mobaek’s eyes widened in genuine shock.
If a Supreme Master like Cheongmong Seonsa had carried this old man such a distance, who in heaven’s name could he be?
“Pay your respects. This is an old man named Jin Mong. Of course, he’s also a friend of this salty old dog here.”
At the name Jin Mong, I Mobaek’s eyes widened.
The elderly man named Jin Mong was clearly a physician.
There were many physicians bearing the Jin surname in the Central Plains, but I Mobaek knew of only one Jin Clan physician of note.
Jin Yuesan—the legendary physician Bian Que of the Spring and Autumn period, and his descendants.
The Jin Clan—Bian Que’s line—had become renowned for their medical arts, and there was a particular story among them.

Bian Que had two elder brothers.
When the King of Wei once asked Bian Que which of the three brothers was the most skilled physician, Bian Que answered without hesitation.
His eldest brother was the most accomplished.
His second brother came next, and Bian Que himself admitted his own skill was the least of the three.
The king asked why.
“Why, then, are your two brothers not famous?”
Bian Que replied.
“My eldest brother treats the cause before illness ever manifests, so people never know he’s saved them. My second brother treats illness in its earliest stages, so people regard his cases as minor and he’s known only in his own district. As for me, I lance boils, draw blood, and have patients swallow medicines—I make a great spectacle of it all. That’s why I’ve become famous.”
“Such skill becomes a sheath for another man’s blade. When you resurrect the dying, what clan lord wouldn’t want to claim you? In time, his descendants had no choice but to hide away in the Deep Mountains and Valleys. I am much the same.”
He finished speaking and smiled slightly, as if a little embarrassed by his own words.
“Hmph! Such grandiosity. The Jin Clan counts itself fortunate merely to have shrunk rather than vanished entirely.”
It was his way of saying they had long ago forgotten any former glory or renown.
Since treatment was the urgent matter at hand, though I Mobaek had many questions, he lay down to rest in the room.
Crack!
Old Jin Mong, who had been taking his pulse, started visibly.
“Is it severe?”
Cheongmong Seonsa seemed to have some inkling already.
“What martial art carries such heat within Demonic Qi?”
“It looks like he was struck by the Black Flame Technique.”
“Ah! That cursed art.”
Jin Mong stripped away I Mobaek’s clothes.
He was left in only undergarments, nearly naked.
“Hah…”
Jin Mong exhaled deeply.
It was a ruin.
Not a span of his skin could be found intact—his entire body was split and hung in tatters.
But there was something even more alarming.
His body was darkening, stained black.
The burning Demonic Qi of the Black Flame Technique.
Left unchecked, his entire body would transform like ink and then melt like ice, dissolving into a handful of water.
Jin Mong pressed and examined different parts of his body, but his expression grew grim.
“Why do you hesitate?”
“Keep quiet. I can’t concentrate.”
He spoke irritably, then turned his attention back to the examination with grave focus.
“Mm.”
His expression darkened again.
Cheongmong seemed to want to ask something—his lips moved—but he held back, afraid of being scolded, and waited for a sign.
“There is an order to saving a life.”
“So what is the first step for this boy?”
“Left as is, within a fortnight, he will become like a handful of ink and vanish.”
“I understand. Tell me the first treatment.”
“We must expel the Demonic Qi that is turning his body black.”
“How?”
Jin Mong looked at Cheongmong Seonsa.
“Chugung Gwahyeol.”
“I see. Can we begin now?”
Jin Mong was startled.
There was not a moment’s hesitation.
Chugung Gwahyeol could not be performed by just anyone.
For Chugung Gwahyeol to be necessary meant critical internal injuries—the patient’s life hanging by a thread.
For a case like I Mobaek’s, where Black Flame Qi was rapidly invading the Eight Extraordinary Meridians, Chugung Gwahyeol required a Supreme Master who had reached the Ultimate Realm to pour forth every ounce of True Power, overwhelming and stimulating the entire body.

The consumption of Internal Power would naturally be enormous.
For a martial artist, Internal Power was as vital as life itself.
Yet Cheongmong Seonsa had not hesitated for a moment, declaring he would begin at once.
During the entire journey on his back, Jin Mong had been forced to hear words that made his ears ring.
They were praises for the boy called I Mobaek.

‘In all my years, I’ve never seen a child with such bone structure and frame.’
‘That one is no human. Surely a god descended briefly in human form.’
‘Though he hasn’t learned much, his mind works at a level beyond human.’
‘I believe he’ll be the first since Bodhidharma to perfect the Hundred Step Divine Fist.’

Jin Mong looked at Cheongmong Seonsa.
“Will you be all right?”
“All right with what?”
“I mean—won’t you regret this?”
“Regret? Don’t talk nonsense.”
Snap-snap-snap!
Cheongmong Seonsa swiftly pressed several pressure points on I Mobaek’s body, sending him into unconsciousness, then spoke.
“Go wait outside. I’ll send word when it’s done.”
“All right then.”
Jin Mong opened the door and stepped out of the room.
Tap!
He slipped on his shoes and walked across the courtyard.
The bamboo stalks that had been swaying in the wind moments before now stood rigid and still.
The cool, distinctive chill of bamboo flowed in through his nostrils.

Hope.
All the way here, Cheongmong Seonsa had spoken of how Shaolin Temple had no hope.
The notion that the greatest martial sect under heaven, the grand Shaolin Temple itself, harbored no hope had unsettled him, and he’d sensed something grave was unfolding.
Yet the man had said he’d recently discovered hope—burning like a brushwood fire.
Hope not merely as a gossamer thread, but blazing fiercely like bundled kindling, meant that a dream was being realized.
A boy who drew such extraordinary praise—”hope burning like brushwood”—from the lips of Cheongmong Seonsa, a man as meticulous and deliberate as one who tests every stone bridge before crossing.
Hmm.
Jin Mong exhaled slowly.
The Cheongmong he knew was a remarkable man.
He’d met him years ago when the other was barely past his twenties, traveling to Tianzhu to study the scriptures, and had maintained their bond ever since.
Rumors spread that he’d become so brilliant his mind had gone strange.
Yet Jin Mong knew the truth: his madness was calculated and deliberate.

‘If he doesn’t go mad, Shaolin dies.’

One day he’d come to Jin Mong, sighed heavily, and laid bare a worry that was truly astounding.
To save Shaolin Temple, he had to go mad.
And so everyone called him Gwang Seung.
Naturally, the position of abbot that should have returned to him fell instead to his senior, Cheongak Seonsa.
Ugh!
A moan escaped from within the room.

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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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