Murim School Record - Chapter 49

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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 49: Culling the Worthy (3)

That was when it happened—a deafening roar shook the earth itself, and the tables and furnishings inside the chamber trembled violently.
In the next instant, every opening to the outside—windows and doors alike—slammed shut with heavy iron plates.
The Mechanism Trap had been triggered.
The defensive mechanism installed against sudden raids or assassination attempts had been activated.
As the iron-forged Mechanism Trap suddenly sprang to life, the room plunged into darkness.
Broad daylight vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the depths of night.
Whoosh!
Yeo Dang-cheon rose from his seat.
His eyes narrowed to slits as he fixed them on Yi Mo-baek.
The fact that a mechanism known only to himself had been triggered told him everything he needed to know about the identity of his intruder.
“An enemy.”
Yi Mo-baek smiled.
“A trip to the latrine from the Byeongsu-dang Guest Hall takes roughly fifteen minutes—even with some dawdling, perhaps twenty at most.”
There was no time for leisurely exchanges.
Slash!
He pressed in immediately.
The Bulnyeong-bo.
“The… Bulnyeong-bo.”
Yeo Dang-cheon started in genuine shock.
He pivoted sharply to the right, trying to evade—but it was useless.
Yi Mo-baek moved like a shadow in his wake.
A cramped space.
That meant one thing: footwork of exceptional caliber.
A passive, defensive fight was impossible.
Whether broken or whole, there was no path but to charge forward and meet force with force.
Swish!
He extended his left palm.
The first form of the Geumgang Hyeolbyeok Sippal-su.
Crack!
Yi Mo-baek’s fist shot out with tremendous force, striking Yeo Dang-cheon’s outstretched palm. A deep grunt tore from his chest.
Yeo Dang-cheon cried out, recoiling in shock.
The destructive power was immense.
The breath flowing through his palm left him gasping, strangled.
He clenched his teeth.
His inner force threatened to surge backward.
“Did you come from Sorim?”
Whoosh!
No steps, no measured advance.
Yi Mo-baek was so blindingly fast that he seemed to glide forward rather than walk.
Yeo Dang-cheon sensed the mortal danger closing in.
How could Yi Mo-baek have triggered the mechanism that only he and Moo Gok-ja knew about?
The Geumgang Hyeolbyeok Sippal-su, though a palm technique, grew far more devastating in open space.
From his position, luring his opponent into the wider courtyard outside would be to his advantage.
Yet the mechanism had been activated.
The only way out now was through the entrance.
And Yi Mo-baek stood in his way.
He drew upon every last scrap of his inner power, pouring it all into his right hand.

‘Geumgang—
—Sabyek.’

The pinnacle of a lifetime’s cultivation.
Everything he had earned through decades of struggle was poured into this single form of the Geumgang Sabyek.
Life or death.
Boom!
Yi Mo-baek extended his fist with an expressionless face.
Yeo Dang-cheon flinched at the sight of the white fist hurtling toward him.

‘Could it be…the Baekbo Singwon?’

A low voice flowed from Yi Mo-baek’s lips.

‘Ilgwon Ilsa.’

There was no fanfare, no crushing weight behind it.
It was a shout closer to gentleness, whispered as though in confidence.
Crack!
Whoooooosh!
Sparks erupted at the moment of collision.
Then the red palm began to shatter.
That was the Geumgang Sabyek.
At first sparks flew, and then the entire hand split apart, scattering into pieces.
“Uhhhhh.”
A moan escaped.
Yi Mo-baek lifted his gaze and looked ahead to find Yeo Dang-cheon leaning against the wall, his right arm hanging limply at his side.
Drip. Drip.
Blood drops fell, but his right hand was not visible.
It had vanished as though severed at the wrist.
Shredded and obliterated by the Baekbo Singwon.
Yeo Dang-cheon, leaning against the wall with ragged breaths, asked with a look of shock rather than pain.
“That fist you just showed me—was that the Baekbo Singwon?”
His gaze was one of disbelief.
Being a warrior who wielded the Jeoksu Gonggwon rather than weapons, he possessed deep knowledge of the various fist and palm techniques renowned throughout Jungwon.
Though he had never witnessed it with his own eyes, rumors of the Baekbo Singwon passed along by word of mouth were abundant.
‘It could be called the ultimate fist technique.’
‘Once perfected, you might as well think of the hand as an iron weight.’
‘There exists no steel that a blade or sword cannot pierce, but there is no steel that the Baekbo Singwon cannot shatter.’

The problem was that it was so difficult that even the disciples of Sorim shunned it.
No matter how formidable a martial art, if it is difficult to master, it is nothing but a dream.
There is no point in pursuing a study that one cannot complete.
Thud-thud-thud!
Yi Mo-baek walked closer.
Click!
He halted at close range, and the ragged breathing of Yeo Dang-cheon could be heard, spray and spittle accompanying each breath.
“Why…why do you look at me like that?”
“It must be two months or so now? If I recall correctly, you were struck once at Jinhoe-ha, then came while resting briefly in the forest, yes?”
“Song Won-rim!”
“So that must be Song Won-rim.”
It was not far from here.
Of course, for ordinary people, the distance to Geumneung was fifty li away, but still.
Yeo Dang-cheon, who had been staring intently at Yi Mo-baek for a moment, felt his expression waver.
Then a powerful wave of emotion spread outward from his lips across his entire face.
Shiver.
His body trembled once, and he muttered softly.
“Yi—Mo-baek.”
“Also known as Moyong Mo-baek.”
The correction of the name signified that he would take control of the Mooyong Clan.
It was also a declaration that he would surely fulfill his role as the next household head of the Mooyong Clan.
Hiss!
Yi Mo-baek smiled at Yeo Dang-cheon, who was looking up at him.
His gaze lingered on the dumpling-sized scar etched above his right eyebrow.
“A mark from that day.”
Thirty of the finest masters of the Yuseong Hyeolro-dae, including himself, had been dispatched.
The one commanding them was Elder Jong Li-gun.
They were not ordinary couriers.
Their tactical instincts surpassed those of any unschooled warrior, and a few of them—Jong Bae, Na Sool-man, and Bo Hae-man especially—possessed a chilling clarity of mind.
Thirteen dead on this side.
Eight of them had fallen to those three men alone.
There was one particular exchange from that day that still lingered in memory.
It had come through Jong Li-gun’s own lips.

‘Heaven favored us. Had another year passed, none of us would have walked away.’

And then he had spat blood.
Though Yi Mo-baek had been eliminated, Jong Li-gun himself had sustained internal injuries.
Jong Li-gun was one of the Uwinae Oggi.
They were evaluated in a single word.
Dragon.
Not every fish was called a dragon.
Mere size could never make a dragon, nor did savagery grant one that title.
A dragon was simply a dragon.
A towering thing unto itself.
Of course, he had not believed it.
The fact of internal injuries was undoubtedly shocking, but there had seemed to be exaggeration in Jong Li-gun’s words.
Jong Li-gun’s martial arts shifted without end.
That meant he could calibrate his power to suit necessity.
In any case, when the casualties on this side had mounted so heavily that day, he had assumed Jong Li-gun was simply overestimating matters.
He had been confident in that judgment.

‘He’s twice as strong now.’

But now, facing this directly, it was clear that Jong Li-gun had not overstated the case at all—rather, he had failed to capture Yi Mo-baek’s true nature.
The martial prowess displayed before his eyes was staggering.
Yeo Dang-cheon, the Mooyong Clan’s illustrious lord of the Yuseong Hyeolro-dae, had not survived fifty moves and now teetered at the edge of death.
“Let us end here for today.”
Crack!
Yi Mo-baek extended his fist with blinding speed.
Yeo Dang-cheon instinctively tried to evade it, but escape was impossible.
Burst!
The punch struck Yeo Dang-cheon’s face head-on.
His face caved in.
Countless fragments of bone and flesh sprayed outward in all directions, yet not a speck adhered to Yi Mo-baek’s form.
Thud!
His body toppled sideways and crumpled to the floor.
Yeo Dang-cheon’s corpse—missing his right hand, his face obliterated—was a grotesque sight.
Yi Mo-baek gazed down at it for a moment, then walked toward the entrance.
Crack!
He struck a small circle on the left ceiling with a pulse of energy.
At once the sealed mechanisms activated, and everything returned to its original state.
Yi Mo-baek walked out of the chamber.

Before his departure, the master of the Jeonsan Hyeopguk arrived with a smile.
Accompanying him was an elderly man in white robes, his posture rigidly upright.
‘I should pay respects—Moo Gok-ja is someone I’m close with.’
Yi Mo-baek cupped his fists in salute.
‘I am Yi Mo-baek.’
‘Then accept this.’
Tan Hu Jaam withdrew a small sealed letter from his breast and offered it.
‘I told this friend about you, and the moment he heard, he insisted on giving you a gift. Open it and see.’
Slip!
Yi Mo-baek withdrew the parchment from the letter and unfolded it.
It was a technical diagram—a drawing of a Mechanism Trap’s internal structure.
‘There is a man named Yeo Dang-cheon in the Mooyong Clan. They say his nature is cruel beyond measure and his suspicion so deep he trusts not even his closest aides. Half a year ago, I accepted his invitation and visited him, and while I was there, I installed several of my Mechanism Traps throughout his quarters.’
‘Break it down?’
‘Not that I’d call it breaking it down—I’m just providing it in case it might be useful someday. I drew it hastily, so while it may not be perfectly accurate, there’s nothing wrong with it. Lord Tan Hu Jaam seemed to have high expectations of this young man, so I’d be grateful if you’d accept it as a gift.’
It was Moo Gok-ja’s unexpected gift that had created the situation he now faced.

‘A man born for fortune will land a knife between a woman’s thighs even if he tumbles backward.’

It was something his father often said after drinking.
Effort alone was useless.
Of course, one could rise to a certain level and achieve things, but becoming a supreme master of the realm required more than mere skill and effort.
Fortune had to favor you.

As he stepped into the Byeongsu-dang Guest Hall, Seo Woo-don glanced at him.
“The latrine’s just a stone’s throw away, yet you seem to have walked ten li and back?”
It appeared he’d been gone for well over an Ilgak.
From Seo Woo-don’s perspective, it was a fair question to ask.
“Well, this is awkward.”
“Why?”
Yi Mo-baek sat down and his face flushed slightly.
“I suffer from severe constipation. Some people scoff and ask whether constipation is truly an illness, but unless you’ve experienced it yourself, you cannot know this torment.”
“Ha ha ha.”
Seo Woo-don burst into loud laughter.
“I understand. Even if others don’t, this Seo certainly does—all too well. I myself once suffered terribly from it. That sensation of almost, almost coming, only to have it stick at the end, burning with frustration—unless you’ve endured it, you cannot possibly know. Tears and snot flowing while that spot aches.”
He nodded vigorously, affirming that he fully grasped Yi Mo-baek’s predicament.
And so they had navigated past a danger that could have crept closer.
Yi Mo-baek filled his mouth with cooled tea, swirling it as if rinsing before swallowing.
“While Dragonwell is celebrated as supreme, I myself believe Moonlit Snow Tea is the finest under heaven.”
He let the words float.
Seo Woo-don broke into even louder laughter.

The carriage, having finished unloading, was departing the Mooyong Clan compound.
About one Sijin had passed since the carriage left.
It was just past Misi.
The trouble began at Yuseong Pavilion, the residence of the Yuseong Hyeolro-dae commander.
Now it was time to use the Red Silk Cloth stored in the warehouse to make garments for the warriors.
After confirming the warehouse contents once more, Seo Woo-don sought out Yuseong Pavilion.
Since it was the Mooyong Clan’s premier combat unit, he needed to consult with its commander first.
But when Seo Woo-don entered the residence, he froze.
The room was in complete disarray.
Objects lay shattered, a table was overturned, and a sickly metallic stench crawled through his nostrils.
The smell of blood.
“Ugh.”
Seo Woo-don recoiled.
A corpse.
But it had no face.
Seo Woo-don approached hesitantly, but without a face, there was no way to identify who it was.
With a ghastly pale expression, Seo Woo-don hastily tore open the clothing on the corpse’s chest.
Rip!
As he ripped the garment away, the chest was exposed, and a faint red palm print was stamped upon it.

It had been sometime in the summer.
A drought coupled with scorching heat had caused heatstroke deaths to break out here and there.
Even warriors were helpless against such heat.
For short spells it was bearable, but in the sweltering summer, they died just like ordinary folk.
Just after early evening in Sulsi, he had waded into the valley waters.
He was about to undress and plunge in when he found someone already occupying the spot—Yeo Dang-cheon, the commander of the Yuseong Hyeolro-dae.
What caught his eye first was the faint red seal stamped upon the man’s chest.

‘I got knocked down in one blow. Right to the master.’

Though he’d been defeated, he spoke with a note of pride in his voice.
He said that if Moyong Cheon hadn’t held back in that strike, he would have died on the spot.

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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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