Murim School Record - Chapter 54

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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 54: Tiger’s Mouth1

Yi Mo Baek took the seat where Tan Hwang usually sat, while the delegation that had returned from Moryong Sega settled themselves at a long rectangular table below.
Eom Chi Dong, the delegation’s leader, spoke.
“He said the sooner the better.”
“Wei Zhigongzi said that?”
“They were calling him the family head there.”
“Family head, heh-heh-heh, yes, that’s right—the family head. Wei Zhiguang the family head.”
Yi Mo Baek caught himself mid-laugh.
No matter how hard he tried to mimic Tan Hwang’s mannerisms, his laughter sounded far too stiff and forced.
“He said he’s been waiting with his neck craned, so he asked us to send word through carrier pigeon about when we’d arrive.”
“Eom Chi Dong!”
“Yes, Tan Hwang!”
“Seize the Moment—that’s what I’m saying.”
Eom Chi Dong blinked, confused by the meaning.
“When the moment comes, slack not in your effort. Prepare to depart for Moryong Sega at once.”
“At once means now?”
“We depart tomorrow at dawn. Now get out.”
Eom Chi Dong and his men looked startled, as if they thought even tomorrow morning was rushing things.
“What are you all standing around for? If there’s any delay in tomorrow’s departure, I’ll have every last one of your heads.”
Crack!
Their eyes widened.
They scrambled to their feet and hurried out of the room.
Alone in the now-empty chamber, Yi Mo Baek exhaled a long breath of relief.
No matter how well he performed, much longer at this pace and some tell would surely betray him.

Go Jung Moo.

Suddenly, a single name rose in his mind.
The Righteous Path and Demonic Path are sworn enemies.
Light and darkness—they cannot coexist because of what they are.
The war between the Murim Alliance and the Demonic Cult is the very history of the Jianghu.
For the past five hundred years, the Murim Alliance has never once yielded to the Demonic Cult—always maintaining the upper hand.
That the Murim Alliance has held supremacy over the Demonic Cult, one name cannot be omitted from that account.
Go Jung Moo—High Cry, his code name.
Of course, it was a code name.
His true name was Go Jung Moo.
He had entered the Demonic Cult as a low-ranking martial artist and risen all the way to the rank of elder—a spy who demonstrated unparalleled ability.
Based on the intelligence he sent, the Murim Alliance learned of the Demonic Cult’s movements in advance and, time and again, shattered them utterly.

Someone within our ranks is informing on us.

The Demonic Cult spared no effort in trying to root out the mole, yet they failed.
Though his identity was eventually discovered and he met the Lingering Death Execution, his sacrifice secured the Jianghu centuries of peace.
His own situation differed, yet the very fact that a counterfeit could play the role of the genuine article meant he could never, for even a moment, set aside his guard—an endless succession of crises.
In any case, his target was not Tan Hwang.
He was entering Moryong Sega under Tan Hwang’s identity, which is why speed was essential.

San Sang Sul, who had followed Tan Hwang all his life and devoted himself to Poison Bomb Research alongside him, sat alone sipping tea.
The back of his hand, which held the teacup, was scattered with countless scars like grains of sand.
Not only his hands but his face too bore several burn scars.
Sigh.
An endless stream of sighs flowing out.
“The moment the delegation from Moryong Sega returns, he’s departing the very next day.”
Tan Hwang’s nature was impatient.
Once he set his mind to something, there was no “later” or “let’s give it more time.”
He lunges forward without hesitation.
There’s no problem with the decision to depart tomorrow itself.
What troubles him, furrowing his brow in thought, is because of two women.
Chu Wol and Sa Bun.
Courtesans from the Cheonhwa House, the largest pleasure house in nearby Muwei.
Tan Hwang brought them back after they caught his eye during a drinking visit, and now they’ve suddenly taken up brushes.
He’s made a promise to help them enter a calligraphy competition.

‘A calligraphy competition.’

What in blazes is a calligraphy competition.
These are women who’ve lived by their bodies.
“Ugh!”
He understands Tan Hwang’s affection for the two women well enough, but Tan Hwang is absolutely not the sort to take such interest in their scholarly pursuits that he’d send them to a calligraphy competition.
The type of person Tan Hwang hates most is scholars.

‘Those bastards prancing about with a little knowledge of characters—I’d like to smash their skulls in.’

That such a man would promise servant girls entry into a calligraphy competition makes no sense whatsoever.
Clack!
He sets down his teacup roughly and rises.
Something’s not right.
When that happens, he needs to examine things carefully once more.
As San Sang Sul turned to leave the room, the entrance door burst open.
He looked up in surprise, and there stood Tan Hwang and Yi Mo Baek.
“Where are you going?”
San Sang Sul was caught off guard by their sudden appearance.
“What brings you here?”
“Why? I’m not allowed to visit your quarters? Do I need your permission?”
“No…of course not. Please, sit.”
San Sang Sul offered them a place.
He sat across from them, studying Yi Mo Baek.
There’s nothing wrong with his speech, manner, or appearance.
Perfect.
Yet something clearer than visual perfection exists.
It’s the feeling that comes from long experience with people.
“This morning I checked the Underground Ammunition Chamber, and the production of Poison Flash Explosive Thunder Bombs seemed slower than anticipated.”
“How many were there?”
“The count that the lord grasped a fortnight ago—”
He cuts him off.
Yi Mo Baek’s eyes narrowed.
He’s suspicious.
That’s why he’s asking directly how many Poison Flash Explosive Thunder Bombs there are.
The real Tan Hwang could never not know.
Yet Yi Mo Baek didn’t come here by chance either.
Something had been nagging at him for a while.

‘If there is one person most dangerous, it would surely be San Sang Sul, Tan Hwang’s right hand.’

That’s what was written in the letter sent by the Red Mountain Information Bureau.
That’s why he came.
He came to assess the situation—to determine whether to simply kill him or whether to gain his cooperation and various assistance as they proceed together.
“Hmph!”
Yi Mo Baek rose to his feet.
“Had I been even a step late, I’d have had quite the headache.”
He muttered as if speaking to himself, and San Sang Sul’s eyes widened.
Though he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning, it was clearly something troubling directed at him.
“San, the Great Swordsman!”
Yi Mo Baek stood tall and looked down at him.
“I’m currently pursuing a certain matter. Fortunately, a considerable number of those I’ve met so far have indicated their willingness to cooperate. Since you seem to doubt my identity, I’ll speak plainly.”
Yi Mo Baek walked toward a shelf mounted on one wall.
Various artifacts from ancient times were displayed there, most of them concealed weapons.
There were finger-thick throwing darts, foot crossbows mounted on carriages or saddle pomels that were triggered by stepping on them for surprise attacks, flying claws with hook-shaped tips that deployed a dozen needle-like blades to bind the target upon contact, and unlike sleeve-hidden throwing darts, there were many varieties of returning darts fitted with thin strings that could be thrown and retrieved repeatedly.
Yi Mo Baek picked up a throwing dart.
Whoosh!
He suddenly hurled it.
The dart flew through the air and embedded itself in a young woman’s mask hanging on the wall.
Thunk!
San Sang Sul gasped in alarm.
“Heh.”
A gift from one of the elders of the Thunder Sound Society in Seojiang—the Tara Bodhisattva Mask.
Tara Bodhisattva is the mother who carries people across the river of suffering in that region.
The problem is the mask’s construction.
It was made of Manpasuok Jade, produced only in Seojiang.
A jade said to be stronger than steel yet light as wood.
That jade had been pierced clean through.
“Will you become my collaborator in this work, or will you die as a loyal servant of Tan Hwang?”
Tremble-tremble.
San Sang Sul’s face shook.
That meant Tan Hwang was already dead.
His martial skill wasn’t particularly formidable, and neither was Tan Hwang’s.
Tan Hwang’s true ability lay in his cunning mind—unnaturally brilliant beyond measure.
He carried countless poison bombs at all times.
In the worst case, Tan Hwang would accept mutual destruction with his opponent.
A master of the highest caliber could kill Tan Hwang.
But he would die too.
His poison bombs would never let him die alone.
“Could it be…?”
San Sang Sul opened his mouth.
“That boy who came not long ago—Yi Mo Baek… is that you?”
He had said “boy,” then quickly corrected himself to “you.”
“That’s right.”
With that, he began to use Byeonchegwanyong.
His face writhed.
Twisted and contorted.
Kneaded and disheveled, then it morphed back into Yi Mo Baek’s visage.
“Ahhhhh!”
San Sang Sul swallowed hard.
When he first saw Yi Mo Baek, he had not thought of him as a master in the slightest.
He was merely an ordinary warrior who wanted to learn the art of bomb-making.
What shocked him even more was the Byeonchegwanyong technique.
He had never seen it before.
He had only heard tales of it; today was the first time he had witnessed it with his own eyes.
It was the ultimate disguise art—something that required profound martial skill to even imitate.
“Wasn’t he the one Mo Yong Cheon designated as the next family heir?”
“That’s right—me!”
“I heard he was dead.”
“Nearly died.”
San Sang Sul rose from his seat.
“There’s no way out of this.”
“So you’ll choose me?”
“If I refuse, you’ll kill me, won’t you? Even the greatest Tan Hwang died without uttering a single cry—what chance does an old man like me have?”
“If you wish, I’ll allow you at least a cry.”
“Hehehehe.”
San Sang Sul let out a low chuckle.
“San Sang Sul kneels before his master. I pledge my loyalty and shall dedicate myself to the fulfillment of your ambitions.”
The two men regarded each other with deep smiles.

Early the next morning, in the form of Tan Hwang, Yi Mo Baek set out on his journey.
As he departed, a dozen carrier pigeons rose into the sky and vanished from sight.
One carriage, accompanied by five guards including San Sang Sul.
Inside the carriage sat Yi Mo Baek, wearing Tan Hwang’s face.
The procession was unremarkable enough that passing martial artists and farmers working in the fields along the road paid it no mind.
Excess Falls Short.
The principle that going too far is no better than falling short.
Whether too sharp or too blunt, a person draws unwanted attention or contempt.
This was the wisdom of the martial world.
A martial artist is made of seven skills and three kinds of experience.
Only when a hard-won life of countless battles harmonizes with martial prowess does one earn the title of master.
It is said: Clothing is Wings.
Fine garments make a person stand out—but for a martial artist, this is the very thing to avoid.
San Sang Sul had argued that the grander the scale of their departure, the better the treatment they would receive at Moryong Sega, and urged that more people be included in the escort.
It was a reasonable point, in its way.
Yet the humbler the appearance, the lower the regard in others’ eyes.
When scale and bearing are meager, one’s opponent—regardless of intention—begins to treat you carelessly.
A single careless gesture can determine the outcome of war.
“Shall we rest for the night in Muwei?”
San Sang Sul asked from horseback.
“No. Keep going.”
“We won’t rest in Muwei. We pass straight through.”
In ten li, they would reach Muwei, one of the largest cities in Gansu Province.
The carriage passed along the road without hurrying.

At Moryong Sega, activity was no less intense.
They were not merely receiving an invited guest—they were welcoming someone who would shape their house’s future.
“Explosive bombs are terrifying enough, but if poison is added to them…”
The head guard trembled visibly at the thought alone.
“Straighten up. The captain is coming.”
The two guards corrected their posture at once.
A broad-shouldered man with prominent whiskers approached—Captain O Pan.
“Any problems?”
“The gate is secure, sir.”
The two responded in unison, their voices sharp and loud.
“An honored guest travels three thousand li to reach us. There must be no weakness in our watch.”
“We understand, sir.”
O Pan entered the Guard Rest Hall, the small pavilion on the left where the guards took brief rest.

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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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