Murim School Record - Chapter 70

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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 70: Life Is Never Simple (2)

It was also a sign that the balance of power had likely tipped in that direction.
Trickle.
Though too far to see clearly, a bead of sweat rolled down Mok Iji’s temple.
Concentration brings heat.
And heat brings sweat.
Mok Iji was no exception to this.
Flash!
The sweat had been a signal.
The blade at Mok Iji’s side exploded in a flash of light.
The Soulheart Blade.
A single stroke in which he poured everything he had.

‘Only the untrained fight long.’

The master who taught Mok Iji the blade had said that combat should never be prolonged.
In large-scale battles, tactics might require extended exchanges, but in single combat between two individuals, speed was paramount.

‘Stake everything on a single instant.’
‘But what if even that fails?’
‘It cannot fail. When you stake everything in one moment, you either die or kill.’

The sooner a fight ended, the better.
If you could settle matters in one second instead of ten, you not only saved nine seconds but preserved enormous physical stamina.
Even if you spent all the strength meant for ten seconds in that single instant, it didn’t deplete you the way an actual ten-second fight would—such was the nature of the human body.
His master’s words always came down to this: remember that somewhere, someone unseen is waiting to kill you. End it fast.
In the martial world, everyone is either friend or foe.
If you assume an assassin lurks somewhere in the shadows, urgency comes naturally.
That wisdom had proven itself again and again.
His master’s words were sound.
Though he’d taken risks to end the fight quickly, those desperate measures had yielded unexpected insights into his own technique.
What he’d failed to understand under his master’s guidance became suddenly clear when cornered at the edge of death—his weaknesses exposed, his gaps laid bare.

‘To become a true master, become a wanderer.’

Now he understood why such words existed.
The wanderers who roamed the land and threw their lives away like ash had reached the apex because of this truth.
Only by abandoning yourself do you truly gain yourself.
Crash.
His wrist stung.
The blade had struck something.
As the wrist throbbed, a tremendous force reverberated through his palm and drove deep into his body.
A scorching energy had burrowed into him.
An incredible force—raw Yang Qi.
Shake.
Mok Iji’s upper body swayed violently left and right.
Then he stepped back one pace.
His face had been pallid from the start, making it difficult to read anything from his expression.
Yi Mo Baek, meanwhile, had thrust his fist forward to deflect the blade, but his shoulders trembled as well.
Mok Iji’s right hand still gripped the sword, while Yi Mo Baek’s right fist had advanced toward the solar plexus.
Their stances, which had been rigid at the beginning, had shifted after that single exchange.

‘What game are you playing now?’

The voice invaded his mind.

‘A trick?’
‘You thought I’d be grateful for this?’
‘And if you’re not, what of it?’

Yi Mo Baek’s eyes narrowed.

‘One thing is certain—I’ve taken an internal injury as well.’

Retch!
Suddenly Mok Iji coughed up blood.
But Yi Mo Baek did not.
In other words, coughing blood meant defeat.
Yi Mo Baek’s brow furrowed.
The internal injury wasn’t deep enough to make him spit blood.
In short, Mok Iji had deliberately coughed blood to show Sa Bok Si that he had lost.

‘Yi Mo Baek has won.’
‘A fist defeating a blade—remarkable.’

The spectators erupted in cheers.
They knew nothing of the deeper truth.
But Mok Iji had coughed blood and Yi Mo Baek had not, so the victor was clear.
If both had endured without coughing blood, how would one determine the winner?
A master’s eye sees differently.
With Sa Bok Si’s caliber of judgment, one could discern who had suffered the deeper injury merely by listening to their breathing.
Yi Mo Baek had felt the magnificence of Mok Iji’s blade.
He could have won, but he too had borne considerable strain.
The strain did not mean he couldn’t win or that he would suffer an internal injury.
He wanted to befriend him.
The problem was that if he held back—showed mercy—how would Mok Iji react?
He might grow even more resentful, talking of pride and dignity.
One could let him win without him knowing.
But such tricks work only on the mediocre.
Masters discern even the slightest yielding, the tiniest reserve of mercy.
That was why Mok Iji had spat blood—to announce his own defeat as plainly as possible.
“Yi Mo Baek has won.”
Sa Bok Si called it out.
Boom!
The drum of victory thundered across the ground.
“I’ve lost. But only in today’s duel. Who knows how many more times we’ll meet—and the outcome may not be the same next time.”
With those words, Mok Iji hurled himself away and vanished.
“What was that? Talk of frequent meetings—it’s obviously a promise of revenge.”
“If he wanted revenge, he could’ve said so in two words. Instead he goes on and on. Losers do love to talk.”
Some spectators laughed, while others watching Mok Iji disappear felt a pang of sympathy.
“Who’s my next opponent?”
He asked without much thought.
Sa Bok Si’s expression turned cold.
“You don’t know the rules forbid me from saying?”
“Ah, that’s right. I understand.”
Yi Mo Baek smiled easily.
“Leader!”
As Yi Mo Baek descended from the tournament ground, Suk Ji Un approached him.
“You’re all right?”
His expression showed no great concern.
Yet he sensed Yi Mo Baek’s inner thoughts, asking carefully.
“He didn’t seem like an ordinary wanderer.”
What Suk Ji Un meant was that given Yi Mo Baek’s superiority, any ordinary opponent would have died or suffered grievous wounds.
“Don’t worry. I’ve already arranged for someone to track this man Mok Iji.”
Snap!
Yi Mo Baek stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening in surprise.
“You said someone of Gae Bang Division Chief rank was an acquaintance of yours. With Gae Bang watching, there’s no way they’ll slip away.”
Suk Ji Un smiled as he spoke.
“You said the more the merrier—so we’d need at least twenty people, wouldn’t we?”
He needed subordinates with no connection to the Mo Yong Family whatsoever.
For now, things were stable and the Mo Yong Family was already in his grasp.
But a leader with questionable legitimacy would always find subordinates trying to shake him.
He needed to build a personal guard willing to die for him.
They didn’t need to be numerous.
Yet Suk Ji Un saw through it all with perfect clarity.
Not only was he shrewd—his mind worked with astonishing speed.
Yi Mo Baek competing in the tournament was a fisherman.
When opponents he faced could be useful, he’d send a signal.
Just as he had with Mok Iji a moment ago.
Suk Ji Un followed that signal and saw the process through after opening the Gae Bang.
“Let’s have dinner together. It’s been a while.”
“I’d like that.”
Suk Ji Un’s expression turned satisfied.

It was past the dinner hour.
The inn was beginning to empty, and guests were rising from their seats and gathering themselves.
Everyone had left except four people.
Three and one.
The three spoke in rough voices and talked loud, looking like merchants, while one sat alone in a corner eating by himself.
The man eating alone was Mok Iji, who had lost to Yi Mo Baek at the tournament earlier that day.
He wasn’t wearing the same clothes as before.
The black robe torn by punches and the drenched figure caked in sweat were nowhere to be seen.
It seemed he’d bathed, washed thoroughly, and changed into fresh clothes.
Clack!
Mok Iji’s movement stopped as he brought a morsel to his mouth with his chopsticks.
He lifted his head, and Yi Mo Baek was sitting across from him.
When their eyes met, Yi Mo Baek smiled softly.
“Did you ask my permission before sitting down?”
“What permission do warriors need from each other to sit? I should have said—this man’s taking a seat right here, so what kind of brother would I be sitting in front of him?—and come on out.”
Flinch!
Mok Iji’s eyes widened at the loud voice.
“Hey, Jeom So Yi.”
“Yes, sir?”
Jeom So Yi hurried over, bowing respectfully.
“Bring us Bamboo Leaf Wine and two cups.”
“Right away, sir.”
Jeom So Yi disappeared quickly.
“Who are you? If you have something to say to me, speak. You won the tournament—what more could you possibly want from me?”
“Has age worn away your patience? Let’s talk slowly. What’s the rush?”
As Yi Mo Baek relaxed, Mok Iji narrowed his eyes and studied him more carefully.
“Your name is Yi Mo Baek?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of fist shattered my blade head-on? My master said there were hardly any fists in the world that could withstand a direct strike from my sword.”
“Your master—you mean the sword master of the Eight Stars, Cheong Mong Seonsa?”
Whoosh!
A sharp wind cut through the air.
And suddenly the point of Mok Iji’s blade was pressed against Yi Mo Baek’s throat.
“How do you know my master’s name? Did you come from Shaolin? Wait—that fist technique?”
“Baek Bo Shin Gwon.”
Jolt!
The blade point trembled.
It had grazed the skin, and blood trickled down.
The blade had wavered not from intent to strike, but from genuine shock.
There was a Blade Traveler known by the title “Eight Stars.”
The Mad Blade.
His blade was a dance.
Rough, merciless, ice-cold—once drawn, it never sheathed itself without drawing blood.
A blade that made no distinction between friend and foe, Orthodox Faction or Demonic Path.
Because he never spared anyone whose actions displeased him, regardless of who they were, he earned the notorious epithet: the Mad Blade.
Then, some twenty years ago, he vanished without a trace.
The terrible wind of slaughter that had swept through the Martial World without warning simply ceased to blow.

‘Have you ever heard of someone called the Eight Stars of the Nine Regions?’

Cheong Mong Seonsa had launched into a lengthy boast.
He’d shown up uninvited at the timber yard where Yi Mo Baek was working, rattling on about how he’d done brilliantly before losing his mind.
‘They say he rivaled the Five Uniques, but in my judgment, the Eight Stars of the Nine Regions surpassed them.’
‘I have no interest in such talk. Please leave.’
‘That old man lost to me. He was being so difficult, so I gave him a quiet demonstration of my skill. The Baek Bo Shin Gwon, that is.’

Yi Mo Baek’s eyes, which had been dismissing him with a cold stare, shifted.
The mention of the Baek Bo Shin Gwon changed everything.
He was training relentlessly in the Baek Bo Shin Gwon.
Perhaps something useful might emerge from this conversation.
Cheong Mong Seonsa was Shaolin’s highest authority—he pricked up his ears and listened.

‘He’s probably gnashing his teeth somewhere even now.’
‘The Baek Bo Shin Gwon has reached the level of a killing technique. Wasn’t it said that not a single Shaolin disciple has awakened to its secrets enough to wield it as a decisive move?’

Yi Mo Baek paid no attention to the story about defeating the Eight Stars of the Nine Regions.
What mattered was that the Baek Bo Shin Gwon was the killing fist that shattered his blade.
If such a legendary master could be struck down by that fist, it would have reached a considerable realm of power.

‘He’s reached the Eighth Rank. Beyond that, no amount of effort budges him an inch.’

Even at the same Eighth Rank, the difference was absolute depending on which techniques were deployed.
The Arhat Fist was one of Shaolin’s representative arts.
Yet if matched against the Baek Bo Shin Gwon at the identical Eighth Rank, it would never prevail.
Though the Eight Stars of the Nine Regions had a formidable blade, he must have struggled terribly before Cheong Mong Seonsa’s Baek Bo Shin Gwon at the Eighth Rank.
The reason Cheong Mong Seonsa had suddenly raised the topic of the Eight Stars of the Nine Regions was transparent.
He wanted to make Yi Mo Baek an official disciple of Shaolin.
Yi Mo Baek wanted to learn the Baek Bo Shin Gwon, but he had no interest whatsoever in becoming a Shaolin disciple.
Even when he’d left his father’s home, his impression of Shaolin hadn’t been entirely unfavorable.
But working as a laborer there had shown him that the monks’ abuses differed not at all from the corruption of the secular world.
Arrogant displays of power and status, treating inferiors with contempt, casual violence in speech, even physical blows.
Yet he couldn’t afford to break completely with Cheong Mong Seonsa.

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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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