Murim School Record - Chapter 66

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Episode 66: Victory (1)

Yet his words dripped with venom.
Yi Mo Baek turned and left the hall.
Boom-boom-boom!
The pavilion shook.
“Argh! This…this…this damn thing!”
Someone unable to contain their fury stamped the floor and screamed.

‘Cheong Dong.’

Yi Mo Baek recognized the voice at once.
The man would be mad enough to tear the roof off.
Not long ago, Yi Mo Baek—a vice-abbot of Shaolin—had nonetheless drawn blood from him.
What was Buddhist mercy, then?
Especially for a martial monk, there was no mercy at all.
Nothing but the desire to win, to conquer.
He had learned that they were people who hid behind the veil of compassion to employ every underhanded tactic in their arsenal.
At first, perhaps, there had been no intention to kill.
But when Cheong Dong fell, everything changed.
Heart speaking to heart—unspoken understanding.
Cheong Ak Seonsa had tried at first to turn a blind eye, to pretend he hadn’t seen.
But once he realized there was no profit in the calculation, he had arranged for Yi Mo Baek’s release.
“Patriarch!”
As Yi Mo Baek walked out of Shaolin Hall, Woon Ak San rushed over to support him.
“You look very unwell, sir.”
A glance at his complexion told him everything.
“We can walk together. Still, as patriarch of the Mo Yong Clan, I shouldn’t accept assistance. But hold close, in case.”
Woon Ak San then quietly released his hand.
Yet he stayed almost pressed to his side, ready to catch him at the first sign of faltering.
“Is anyone watching from Shaolin’s side?”
The question was whether any Shaolin monks were observing.
“No one, sir.”
Before the words had finished, he spat blood.
A terrible retching sound.
Dark crimson blood stained the ground.
Woon Ak San was startled.
In the blood, small fragments were visible.
Pieces of organs.
It meant Yi Mo Baek’s internal injuries were grave—yet when Woon Ak San looked at his face again, there was no sign of a man suffering such devastating trauma.
Pale though he was, he had not lost his smile.
He wiped the blood from his lips, and one would never have guessed from his appearance that this was a man nursing internal injuries so severe that organ fragments were spilling out with his blood.

‘His emotional control is remarkable.’

A face is a mirror of the soul.
Whether one is in a foul mood, or suppressing laughter from being too pleased; whether one’s cousin bought rice paddies and one’s belly aches—it all shows through.
Of course, a person might claim they had mastered their emotions, but that was merely their own delusion.
A keen observer’s eye cannot be deceived.
Yet Yi Mo Baek now held a thin, subtle smile.
In a tightly matched duel, this became a devastating secret weapon.
For an opponent not to know the other’s physical state—worse, to see composure radiating from the opponent’s expression—was an enormous threat and burden.
“There’s no need to rate me so highly. From childhood I’ve been careful to cultivate an impassive face—it’s simply become a habit.”
While Woon Ak San stood lost in surprise, Yi Mo Baek had already walked some distance ahead.
Woon Ak San quickened his pace to follow.

Though it had no legs, it spread with remarkable speed.
Moreover, though he had said nothing himself, the news had circled the entire Murim Alliance in an instant and spilled out across the Central Plains.

‘Cheong Dong has fallen.’

The identity of his opponent mattered little.
One of Shaolin’s Sa Dae Geumangang had fought and lost.
Sa Dae Geumangang.
They were Shaolin itself.
That one of the Sa Dae Geumangang possessed martial arts superior to the Sect Leader was hardly surprising—at least not to those who understood their station.
As the supreme guardians of the Sect Leader, they could be nothing less than formidable.
When they attained Enlightenment, the Attainment of the Way, or Entered Nirvana, a single shadow clung to them like a wraith.

‘Undefeated Champion.’

Not once in their lifetimes had they lost a fight to anyone.
They were absolute masters—and yet one of them had been defeated.
But following that shock came another rumor, equally stunning in its implications.

‘Two of the Sa Dae Geumangang came at him together, yet neither could overcome him.’

And then news of his opponent began to circulate belatedly.

‘Yi Mo Baek, the Next Patriarch of the Mo Yong Clan.’

That the Next Patriarch of the Mo Yong Clan—a house currently under intense scrutiny and always on the precipice of becoming the storm’s center—had bested two of the Sa Dae Geumangang struck deeper than the news that their leader Mo Yong Cheon had been shattered by the Brilliant Flash Sword.
“I can’t bear it any longer.”
More than a fortnight had passed, and Cheong Dong’s internal injuries had largely healed when he cried out in extreme agitation.
“I will hunt that bastard down and kill him.”
The rumors were dragging Shaolin down to the ranks of a third-rate sect.
The most lethal story circulating was that two of the Sa Dae Geumangang had engaged him, that they’d been gasping for breath as if on the verge of death, and that Yi Mo Baek had merely spared them out of consideration for Shaolin’s honor.
“Calm yourself, disciple.”
“Calm? What good is blind forbearance? Mere patience is not compassion.”
Just as he was about to storm out, a voice cut through the silence.
“Stop spouting nonsense.”
Cheong Dong spun in surprise, his eyes darting to the entrance.
A gaunt wandering monk was just stepping through the doorway.
“S-surely not the elder?”
“Fool!”
Cheong Mong Seonsa clicked his tongue at the sight of Cheong Dong.
“And what exactly do you intend to accomplish by seeking him out?”
“We must verify the truth of these rumors. I never imagined that boy’s tongue could be so vicious.”
“Did you see it with your own eyes? Did you watch Yi Mo Baek spread these rumors yourself?”
“Well, rumors can be disproven once—”
“There’s nonsense, and then there’s your variety of nonsense. Tsk, tsk, tsk!”
“Please, come sit over here.”
Cheong Ak Seonsa rose and offered his seat.
There were only two of them in the room today—Cheong Ak Seonsa and Cheong Dong.
Thump!
Cheong Mong Seonsa dropped heavily into the chair and raised his voice.
“Bring me a bowl of cold water.”
“Perhaps some tea instead, honored elder?”
“Never mind.”
Cheong Dong hurried out and soon returned with a heavy earthen bowl brimming with cold water.
Gulp, gulp!
Clearly parched, Cheong Mong Seonsa drained the entire bowl in one long draught.
“Bring me another.”
Cheong Dong said nothing and disappeared again, returning with another bowl full of cold water.
Footsteps sounded, and Cheong Dong came back again with water.
Halfway through the third bowl, Cheong Mong Seonsa set the heavy vessel down on the table.
Thump!
“Among the disciples, the Sect Leader would know the most about that boy.”
“The boy you speak of?”
“Yi Mo Baek.”
“Are you taking his side now, Cheong Mong?”
“His side?”
“He is Shaolin’s enemy.”
“Count it a mercy that I’ve lost my mind. Had I been in my right senses, I’d have beaten you to death.”
Cheong Dong flinches in surprise.
“Why can’t you see that someone is sowing discord between Shaolin and that boy?”
“What do you mean? Discord between our temple and that boy?”
Cheong Ak looks startled.
Shaolin and Yi Mo Baek.
No matter that he’s become the next patriarch of the Mo Yong Clan, there’s no comparison in weight between them.
And yet discord—what could a mere child possibly accomplish?
“Surely you don’t mean that seriously?”
“I—I—I—I—”
Cheong Mong Seonsa clicks his tongue, watching Cheong Dong.
“Who is Mo Yong Cheon?”
The two men narrowed their eyes, regarding Cheong Mong Seonsa.
“Whatever anyone says, he is the greatest giant of this age. Do you truly believe it was mere jest or whimsy that he entrusted the Mo Yong Clan to his successor?”
Gasp!
Cheong Ak’s eyes gleam with understanding.
He’d turned over the thought himself, but hearing it from Cheong Mong’s lips felt different entirely.

‘Yes. Mo Yong Cheon, no matter what anyone says, is the greatest giant of this age.’

That was an undeniable truth.
He had earned the highest praise—a leader who mastered both the martial and civil arts.
The foremost requirement for a leader is formidable martial prowess.
Yet he excelled in military strategy as well.
He rendered the tactics of even accomplished strategists beneath his heel.
Perhaps because he was so strong and brilliant, people struggled to gather around him.
“If it is one chosen by Mo Yong Cheon, then what must we do?”
He asks the question.
Neither man offers an answer.
“Sect Leader, speak your mind.”
“Brother!”
Cheong Mong Seonsa answers, meeting their careful gaze.
“Speak. Have we ever harbored unspoken words between us?”
Superiors never know.
How much subordinates swallow and restrain their words.
They cannot speak freely, constantly anxious lest they offend, yet the superior remains completely oblivious.
He too is caught in this bind.
Yet he asks—when have we ever hidden difficult things and hesitated between ourselves?
The words sting, and sudden anger flares.
“To speak honestly, I don’t understand that boy. Or rather, to put it plainly—I don’t see why you concern yourself with him so much. His bones and frame show some promise compared to others, but I cannot regard him as talent worthy of such careful attention and nurturing.”
“Tsk, tsk! That is the limit of a disciple’s sight.”
“A limit?”
“To my eyes, he shines like a pearl—why does a disciple’s eye see only an ordinary stone? Your blindness to this is grave enough to trouble the future of Shaolin itself.”
“I cannot agree that he is so exceptional.”
“Enough. Standing on the threshold of eighty years, defeated by a man in his twenties—and you still claim ignorance?”
“B-brother, you go too far.”
“In your twenties, did you ever defeat one of Shaolin’s Sa Dae Geumangang?”
Cheong Dong stiffens.
He is truly shocked.
“Tell me—at that boy’s age, have you ever subdued one of the Sa Dae Geumangang of the great Shaolin?”
Suddenly, all words catch in his throat.
In his own twenties, Shaolin’s Sa Dae Geumangang bore the lineage name Gong—Gong Sung, Gong Bu, Gong Gong, Gong Ha.
They were masters of unparalleled skill, standing in a realm he dared not even gaze upon.
He’d heard the reputation—exceptional talent—but winning against him was harder than threading a needle through a millstone.
“Now it’s beginning to feel real. You were of the Gongja generation, and Yi Mo Baek was your contemporary then. Which means you’ve bested one of the patriarchal generation.”
Shiver.
Cheong Dong trembled.
Now something truly struck home.
Martial mastery doesn’t advance like rice in a bowl, measured in neat levels.
But the longer someone trains, the higher the odds they grow formidable.
That’s why most masters don’t earn their names across the realm until after fifty.
Exceptional talents do emerge among the younger generation, yes—dominant within their peer group—but “giant of the martial world” is not a title they earn.
By that measure, Yi Mo Baek was truly staggering.
“Cheong Ak!”
“Yes, master?”
“There is a season to all things. Every living creature knows it. And if you lead a martial order, you must read that season well. Shaolin, I’m afraid, is in decline now. A steep one. If this continues, within ten years we may fall even further behind the Cheong Sung School.”
The Cheong Sung School was among the Nine Sects and One Alliance, yet it had fallen and clawed its way back more than once.
Shaolin was approaching that same position.
“M-master, surely not to that extent…”
“Listen to the rest.”
Cheong Mong Seonsa’s eyes hardened.
“When you fall from a cliff, all the thrashing you do won’t help. When you fall, you must simply let yourself fall. You cannot stop that descent—not in that moment. What matters is after. After you hit bottom, whether you can plant your feet and begin anew. That is where Shaolin stands now.”
The hall fell silent.
The resistance and discontent on the disciples’ faces had faded considerably.
“Bring me another bowl of cold water.”
Cheong Dong hastily retrieved a bowl and returned with it brimming with cold water.
Cheong Mong Seonsa drained it in one breath.
His throat was parched.
Danger was closing in by the moment, yet the disciples sensed nothing.
“Now listen carefully to what I say.”
The sudden gravity made both men tense.
And then a thought flickered across Cheong Ak’s mind.

‘Master is not in his right mind.’

But looking at him now, he seemed perfectly lucid.
There was nothing amiss about him anywhere.
“There is a Demonic Cult agent inside Shaolin.”
Crash.
Both Cheong Ak and Cheong Dong lurched backward.
It was the purest shock—the kind that strikes when you hear something utterly unimaginable and unforeseen.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————