North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 29

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

29. The Arrival of the First Flower

The wind of the Northern Sea showed no mercy.
The bitter gale that flayed exposed skin ground the snow blanketing the white waste into knife-sharp particles, slicing the traveler’s cheeks raw.
Five shadows crossed that pale wasteland in silence.
Behind them, a sixth shadow—small and relentless—clung to their trail.
“Chieftain.”
Garkan, following in Airak’s wake, whispered low.
“A rat’s latched onto our tail.”
“I know.”
“Should we deal with it?”
“Leave it.”
Airak did not break stride. His Gray Wolf Fur Cloak billowed against the wind, coarse and restless.
“If there’s business to be had, they’ll come to us on their own feet.”
“Yes.”
Airak had already sensed it. The presence following them carried not killing intent but something else—an odd fragrance. The extreme of Unseolbo, leaving no footprints even on snow. And a coldness that merged with the ice itself, masking all trace: the art of Hyunggyeol Tugi.
“Chieftain.”
Taikan drew near.
“That presence—it smells like the Fuku Tribe.”
“The Fuku Tribe?”
Garkan’s eyes widened.
“How can you tell?”
“No footfall. Not a sound, even treading on snow. That’s Unseolbo.”
“Unseolbo, you say….”
“Only the women of the Fuku Tribe practice that art.”
Airak spoke without slowing his pace.
“I don’t know why they’re following, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

It happened as the party turned the winding bend of the Narrow Gorge.
The grain of the wind shifted. Through the knife-sharp gale came the subtle scent of plum blossoms—a fragrance that never bloomed in the Northern Sea.
Taikan’s nostrils flared slightly. Garkan, without thinking, slowed his pace.
……!
Taikan and Arko in the vanguard gripped their weapons in unison.
“What is that?”
Harku rubbed his eyes.
Barely a zhang ahead, sheltered behind a boulder where the gale could not reach, a strange scene lay spread before them.
A dazzlingly crimson Silk Mat lay upon the snow. Upon it sat a Brazier, steam rising in gentle curls, and the rich scent of roasted mutton drifted in all directions. A woman with long silver hair was methodically rinsing tea bowls.
“That woman….”
Garkan murmured.
“The one who was following us….”
“How did she get ahead of us?”
“The extreme of Unseolbo.”
Taikan’s eyes narrowed.
“Faster than the wind, they say—and it’s true.”
The woman sat with the ease of one in her own parlor.
“You’ve come at last?”
The woman lifted her head.
“Though you’re a touch later than I expected.”
Skin that shone with crystalline clarity even in the blizzard. Crimson lips. Eyes as clear as a doe’s gazed toward Airak.
Airak came to a halt.
“Who are you.”
“You don’t know me?”
Instead of answering, the woman rose and approached Airak. Through the frigid air drifted the subtle fragrance of plum blossoms.
“I am Seria, the First Flower of the Fuku Tribe, successor to Karani.”
“The First Flower….”
Garkan held his breath.
“Karani left this world, so now I’ll serve the Northern Sea Martial Artist in her stead.”
Airak’s four subordinates knelt in unison.
Garkan dropped to one knee and spoke in the Airak Tribe’s tongue.
“Erken Hwi-ra, Seria.”
(The flower joins with us, Seria.)
Seria smiled and answered in the Fuku Tribe’s language.
“Borkan Erken, wolves.”
(Wolves and flower together.)
A greeting that had endured for five hundred years.
A sacred ritual blessing the union of the Airak Tribe and the Fuku Tribe.
To the Airak Tribe, a Fuku woman was no mere companion. She was part of a sacred bond that stretched back five centuries. The men of the Airak Tribe took the most beautiful and strongest woman of her people—the First Flower—as their bride, securing the tribe’s stability and the strength to carry on their bloodline.
“Rise.”
Seria smiled.
“Nothing has been decided yet.”
“But if the First Flower has come….”
“That’s for him to decide.”
Seria looked toward Airak.
Airak’s gaze turned cold.
“Pointless. Go back.”
“Pointless?”
Seria grasped the edge of Airak’s cloak.
“The union between tribes is a custom that’s endured five hundred years. You can’t simply refuse it away, Airak.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“If a Fuku woman could simply refuse what’s necessary, she wouldn’t be worthy of the name.”
Seria’s gaze hardened.
“Have you thought about who will become the fifteenth Northern Sea Martial Artist after you’re gone?”
……
“The strongest child among the Airak will inherit that position. If there’s no Fuku woman to guide and teach him when he’s born, the tribe will crumble.”
……
“Will you break this tradition in your lifetime?”
Airak found no words to counter her.
He loved the Airak Tribe with an almost painful devotion. He could endure his own solitude, but he could never accept the severance of his tribe’s bloodline or the collapse of its order.
Airak brushed her hand away roughly and turned his gaze to the meat broth beside the silk mat.
“…Do as you wish.”
It was not consent, nor was it refusal. A brilliant smile bloomed across Seria’s face.

That night, the group made camp in the shadow of a cliff face.
The charcoal in the brazier crackled—pop, pop.
Mutton fat dripped onto the flames, sending wisps of pale smoke drifting upward.
Airak settled at the edge of the silk mat.
“Here, eat.”
Seria offered him a warm bowl of broth.
“Thank you, First Flower.”
Garkan received it respectfully.
“First Flower? Just call me Seria.”
“That would be….”
“It’s fine. Nothing’s been decided yet, anyway.”
Seria laughed lightly.
“Arko, you can’t leave that wound like that or it’ll get infected.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not.”
Seria withdrew a small medicine bottle from her belongings.
“Fuku remedy. Apply it.”
“Ah, yes….”
Arko took the medicine awkwardly.
“Harku, why do you feel the cold so much?”
“I’ve always been sensitive to it….”
“Come here. Let me adjust the Blood Wind Robe for you.”
“Ah, that’s really not necessary….”
“Hold still.”
Seria fastened Harku’s cloak snugly around his shoulders. The burly man flushed and bowed his head.
“Th-thank you.”
“What about Taikan?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s a lie. Your eyes look clouded. You stood watch all night, didn’t you?”
……
“Sit here. I’ll take the watch instead.”
“But—”
“You think a Fuku woman can’t stand guard?”
Seria’s gaze sharpened.
“My Unseolbo is faster than the wind. If enemies come, I’ll sense them before you do.”
“…Understood.”

Airak sat a short distance away, his eyes fixed on the Beommyeongdo. The black blade trembled faintly in the darkness.
“Is that the Beommyeongdo?”
Seria approached and asked.
……
“It keeps crying. It wants blood, doesn’t it?”
“If you know, why ask?”
“Because I want to talk.”
Seria sat beside Airak.
“I heard Karani died.”
……
“I know how she died too.”
Airak’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly.
“The rumor was that she fell to a sword from the Central Plains—a blade faster than anything you’d see in the Northern Sea.”
……
“Will you take revenge?”
“I have to.”
Airak spoke matter-of-factly.
“How long until we reach Okmunan Gate?”
“Two days, if we push.”
“Here’s what I’ve heard: the gate has a thousand soldiers stationed there.”
“We’ll break through.”
“…Alone?”
“Not alone. There are five of us.”
Seria smiled.
“Now there are six.”

The next morning.
Airak had not taken his eyes from the Beommyeongdo.
Seria rose and adjusted her Blood Wind Robe. Her silver hair stirred once, and the scent bloomed again.
Airak’s nostrils flared subtly. When such a fragrance entered the senses, they could not help but respond. Was it this kind of scent?
As the group resumed their southward march, Taikan glanced back over his shoulder.
“Chieftain.”
“What is it?”
“Something’s coming from behind.”
“What?”
“Hoofbeats. Many of them.”
Airak stopped and turned his ear toward the sound. In the distance, a faint trembling of the earth could be felt.
“That many hoofbeats… it’s the Mazeon.”
Seria said.
“The Mazeon?”
Garkan asked.
“Wild bands from the north. They were probably summoned by the rats from the Ice Palace.”
“Taikan could see it with his Thousand-Li Eye, but how did you know, Seria?”
“The Fuku have keen hearing. Those hoofbeats—that rhythm is unmistakable to us.”
“I heard there were three thousand of them.”
Arko spoke, tension crossing his face.
“Quite the force.”
Airak replied flatly.
“Will you flee?”
“No.”
Airak gripped the hilt of the Beommyeongdo.
“Tor Arkan.”
(The hunt begins.)
Four subordinates drew their weapons in unison.
“Tor Arkan!”
(The hunt begins!)
Airak’s eyes flashed cold.
“This blade thirsts for blood.”

From that day forward, the character of their journey changed.
Seria was devoted and deft. She attended to what Airak’s four subordinates could not see, and accomplished what they could not.
“Your Blood Wind Robe has torn.”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine? You must have been frozen all night.”
Seria drew out a needle and began mending the leather robe. Garkan laughed awkwardly.
“Thank you.”
“It’s only natural. That’s why I’m here.”
She mended torn robes through the night, and managed to prepare warm meals even in the depths of ice pits.
It was no marvel. Fuku Tribe women were raised undergoing such training—the art of serving martial artists who survived in harsh lands with supreme skill.
And if she had been raised as a First Flower, her training must have been far more grueling than imagination allowed.
The path she had walked was hell by the standards of ordinary women. Yet Fuku Tribe women trained as though it were natural. They smiled while they did.
“What is this?”
Harku peered into the soup bowl.
“Snow-hare broth. I caught it earlier.”
“Snow-hare? When?”
“While you were all sleeping.”
“Remarkable.”
“All Fuku Tribe women are like this.”
Seria laughed lightly.
The four rough-hewn men had, before long, begun to treat Seria with the deference they would show a tribal leader’s wife.
“Seria, let me carry this.”
“Thank you, Harku.”
“Seria, the path ahead is slippery.”
“I see, Taikan.”
Airak remained silent, yet he did not reject the silver-bell-like laughter that rang in his ears each night. The scent that Karani had left behind—or rather, the vital spirit shared among all Fuku Tribe women—emanated from her.
He missed this scent. He missed Karani.

The morning they began heading south again.
The campfire had burned out. Cold wind swept lightly across white ash.
The breathing of the subordinates was even and steady.
Only Airak was awake.
He traced the hilt of the Beommyeongdo with his fingertip. It was cold. A familiar temperature. To Airak, it was a temperature he knew too well.
Seria naturally took her place beside Airak and matched his stride.
“Airak.”
“What.”
“They say it’ll be colder than yesterday.”
“So?”
“Will you hold my hand? It’s warm.”
Airak strode ahead without answering.
Yet the tips of his ears had flushed slightly—whether from the cold wind or some other reason was unclear.
Seria’s clear laughter pierced through the blizzard and lodged in Airak’s ears.
“Running won’t help. Fuku Tribe women know nothing of surrender.”
Airak did not answer. But his pace slowed, just barely.
Seria’s hand almost brushed the hem of Airak’s cloak, then drew back.
She swallowed her laughter and matched his steps.
Behind them, Garkan exchanged a glance with Taikan. Taikan shrugged. Harku opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

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