North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 30

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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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30. Wolf and Wild Dog

Drums.
No—hoofbeats. Hundreds of them thundered across the frozen ground, shaking the earth like a distant storm.
“They’re coming.”
Taikan’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“How many?”
“Over three hundred.”
“…The main body of Majeon?”
“No. The vanguard.”
“Three hundred in the vanguard? You’re joking.”
“I’m not. The main force is still far behind.”
Harku interjected.
“That actually sounds fun.”
“You’re insane.”
“Insane? Brother, that’s a compliment.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Really? I thought it was one.”
“…Never mind.”
The ground beneath Serian’s feet trembled.
The artificial earthquake created by hundreds of horses—vibrations that burrowed into her very bones. Her teeth chattered with the force of it.
Her heart quickened. Not from fear. Tension at facing her first large-scale battle. The smell of iron and horseflesh drifted on the wind. Mixed with it was the metallic scent of blood. They had already killed someone on their march here.
The horizon turned black.
A dark wave swallowing the pure white of snow. Steel armor flashed and glinted; crimson banners whipped like blood in the wind. The wind tore at those red cloths, but the cavalry pressed forward regardless, undeterred.
“A thousand silver pieces! For the head of a Northern Sea Warrior!”
It was the howl of a starving pack of wild dogs. Not human voices—the sounds of beasts.
Airak hadn’t even drawn his blade.
Sweat beaded on Serian’s palms.
The hilt of Silver Snow grew slippery in her grip. She curled and uncurled her fingers once. As she steadied her breathing, a chill settled across her chest.
The memory of the Northern Sea returned to her.
Airak simply stood there, arms folded, watching his subordinates with cold gray eyes. As if the battle ahead were none of his concern, as if he meant only to observe.
“Garkan.”
“Yes.”
“This one’s yours.”
“…Understood.”
Garkan’s Ice Chain rattled with a sharp, clear sound. Cold steel struck steel, the noise carrying through the wind.
“Taikan, Harku, Arko!”
“Ready.”
“We’ve been waiting for this.”
“If any of those dogs so much as breathes on our chief, you die. Understood?”
“Brother, are you saying that to us or to them?”
“Both.”
“Ah, got it.”
Four warriors formed a wall before Airak.
Snow swirled violently at their backs, but not one of them so much as blinked.

The man at the head of the column was massive—so enormous that even on horseback, he loomed like a mountain.
“The vanguard commander of Majeon—Kutor!”
“Kutor? That Kutor?”
“You know him?”
“He’s the one who killed seven masters of the Ice Palace.”
“With a Crescent Moon Blade alone, they say he cut down a thousand men.”
“A thousand? Isn’t that an exaggeration?”
“Who knows. But looking at that frame, it seems possible.”
A war hero who had slain seven masters of the Ice Palace. A man who had cut his way through thirty years of the Northern Sea’s blizzards. His forearms were thicker than Serian’s thighs. His eyes were bloodshot, and his killing intent poured forth like a tangible thing.
“Make way! You are not my quarry!”
Kutor charged toward Airak.
The horse’s breath misted white in the air, and the Crescent Moon Blade caught the sunlight like a blade of frost.
A deep rumble shook the ground.
The hoofbeats closed the distance. One zhang. Two. Three… In that moment, Garkan threw himself forward.
“Stop!”
The Ice Chain whipped through the air. The metal links writhed like a serpent, wrapping around the horse’s front legs.
Crack!
The horse screamed and went down.
Kutor’s massive frame crashed into the snowfield. Snow exploded in all directions.
“You bastard!”
Kutor surged to his feet and brought the Crescent Moon Blade down hard. The snow split open, and dust rose in its wake.
Bang!
Garkan blocked with the Ice Chain, but his arm trembled. Kutor was heavier than the rumors suggested. His strength was formidable.
“Step back! I told you—my fight isn’t with you!”
“Tell that to the dogs.”
“What?”
“Let me show you what happens when a wild dog snaps at a wolf.”
Kutor’s eyes flooded with blood.
“You? A wolf? That’s rich!”
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re just a slave at heart!”
“A slave?”
“That’s right—slaves! Mangy dogs crawling beneath the heels of the Northern Sea Warriors!”
Garkan’s jaw clenched.
“We follow the Chieftain not because he’s strong.”
“What?”
“Because he treats us as warriors. You wouldn’t understand—not someone like you.”
“Shut your mouth!”
Kutor swung the Crescent Moon Blade in rapid succession.
Crude but sharp—his style was to crush with raw power rather than exploit weakness.
A grunt of effort.
Even Garkan, strong as he was, was driven back. His feet carved furrows through the snow as he skidded. Yet he did not yield. Airak stood behind him. To retreat here would be to abandon his name as a warrior.
Then an arrow whistled past and grazed Kutor’s helm.
“Brother, look left!”
Taikan. In that instant, Garkan seized the opening and created distance.
“Thanks!”
“Damn rats!”

Thunder of hooves—rapid, relentless.
The cavalry descended.
Taikan drew his bowstring. Five arrows in a single breath—neck, eye, wrist, the horse’s legs. He aimed only for the vital points. One arrow, one horse fell. One rider crashed into the snow.
“Shields up!”
Shields plated with iron rose as one. Arrows struck and pinged against them.
“We’ve stopped them!”
“Not yet.”
Taikan read the wind’s direction.
With a single breath, he adjusted the arrows’ trajectory. They curved around the shields and pierced skulls from behind.
“What—what is that?”
“The arrows are bending! It’s sorcery!”
“Not sorcery. Wind Reading.”
When his arrows ran dry, he hurled the bow itself. As it drove into a cavalry soldier’s face, he rushed forward and wrapped the bowstring around the man’s throat, drawing it tight.
A sickening snap.
“Seven. Still not enough.”
Not an archer—an assassin. Taikan’s hands were stained with blood.

Harku bounded into the thick of the cavalry.
“Hahahaha! Now this is war!”
The Twin Blades spun. Both swords rotated in tandem as he carved through the mounted soldiers.
The blades caught the sunlight, tracing silver arcs.
Slash! Slash!
Blood erupted in a whirlwind. Crimson petals bloomed across empty air and stained the snow field scarlet. Then,
Whoosh!
Someone’s spear grazed his shoulder. Blood spilled.
“Damn it! That hurt!”
Harku gritted his teeth and spun around.
His Twin Blades grew swifter with each wound. The more blood painted his eyes, the stronger he became.
“Stay back from him! He’s insane!”
“Insane?”
Harku laughed. His lips, slick with blood, parted wide.
“That’s right. I’m insane. So what?”
“You crazy bastard—”
“Don’t you know better than to mess with a madman?”
The Twin Blades spun again with savage, exquisite grace. Two horsemen’s heads fell simultaneously.
“That’s fourteen! I need twenty!”
Blood streamed from Harku’s forehead into his eyes. He didn’t wipe it away. The more crimson flooded his vision, the simpler the Twin Blades’ movements became.
Thought vanished. The blade moved first. He loved that.

Arko hurled a Poison Needle. It struck the horseman’s throat—but he didn’t fall.
Arko’s eyes narrowed.
Majeon had prepared well against a Poison Art master.
“…They’ve taken an antidote.”
“So what will you do?”
“Three should do it.”
Arko drove three Poison Needles at once. Triple concentration—no antidote could match it. The foundation of Poison Art was dosage.
“Urgh…!”
The horseman vomited black blood and collapsed. His entire body convulsed, limbs contorting grotesquely.
Another rushed forward. Arko gripped a Poison Needle and drove it in directly. He aimed for the eye—the fastest point of entry, and the most exquisite agony.
Puncture!
“Aaaaagh!”
“Did you think a Poison Art master couldn’t fight?”
Arko shook the blood from his hand.
“You were mistaken.”

Serian was surrounded by three horsemen.
“She’s just a woman!”
“Grab her! We’ll get good money if we sell her! Wait—she’s beautiful. I’ll keep her for myself.”
“…What did you say?”
Serian’s eyes turned cold as stone.
“What did you just say?”
“What? Scared? A woman wielding a blade—what good is that?”
“I’m not scared. I’m furious.”
Ice Needles bloomed between her fingers.
Cold air crystallized into frozen needles. The secret technique of the Fuku Tribe. The power inherited from her mother.
Whistle!
Three Ice Needles flew at once, piercing throat, eye, and chest.
“What—what is—!”
All three collapsed simultaneously.
This was the true strength of a tribal heir candidate.
More horsemen surged forward. Serian unfastened the Leather Belt at her waist—a leather strap studded with metal ornaments, the weapon of Fuku Tribe women.
Crack!
The Leather Belt lashed through the air like a whip. Two horsemen’s faces split open, blood spraying. Their screams erupted afterward—the screams came slower than the Belt Technique itself.
“They underestimated a woman of the Fuku Tribe.”
She knew Airak was watching. Because of it, she fought with savage desperation.
She had to show that she was no lesser than any Airak Tribe warrior. Her breath came ragged, her arms trembled, but she didn’t stop.
Silver Snow curved through the spaces between lives, carving its path. The metal ornaments of the Belt sang out with crystalline clarity.
Serian didn’t look back. His gaze upon her back was enough. The moment that gaze shifted, his interest would shift as well. She had learned—her body knew first—that she must keep his attention fixed on her.

At the heart of the battlefield.
Garkan was being driven back by Kutor.
The Crescent Moon Blade bit into Garkan’s shoulder. Blood spray crossed his vision, a red line drawn upon pristine white.
“Get out of the way!” I said.
“No,” I said.
Garkan spat blood and pushed himself to his feet.
“Is this all you’ve got? Are the Northern Sea Warrior’s subordinates really worth nothing more than this?”
“Shut your mouth.”
Garkan gripped the Ice Chain again. The handle was slick. He couldn’t tell if it was his own blood or his enemy’s.
“This isn’t over.”
“It is. For you.”
In that instant, Kutor shoved Garkan aside and charged toward Airak. A full sprint. His massive frame tore through the air.
“Let me show you what a Northern Sea Warrior can do!”
Garkan reached out, but his hand fell short.
“Chief!”

Taikan’s arrow flew toward Kutor, but Kutor paid it no mind. The shaft lodged in his armor and stopped nothing. He raised the Crescent Moon Blade high overhead.
“Die!”
Kutor’s Crescent Moon Blade came crashing down toward Airak’s skull.
Airak didn’t move.
He didn’t even draw his sword. He stood there with his arms folded, eyes unblinking.
“Coward! Has the Northern Sea Warrior lost his nerve?”
Kutor sneered and poured more force into the blade.
One span. Half a span. Three feet.
Just as the blade was about to cleave through Airak’s crown, his eyes grew cold for the first time, gleaming with an otherworldly light.
From the depths of those gray irises, killing intent rose like a tide. Like a wolf baring its fangs, a sharp and frigid aura swept across the snowy field. The temperature plummeted. Breath froze white in the air.
His hand touched the hilt of the Buk-myeong Blade.
“That’s enough.”
A cutting cold consumed the snowy field.
The blizzard seemed to stop. In fact, it did. The air itself froze solid around Airak.
Kutor’s Crescent Moon Blade stopped.
Three feet above. Not because it couldn’t strike — because it couldn’t descend. An invisible wall had arrested the blade.
“What…?”
Kutor’s eyes widened. His arm trembled. Against his will, the sword would not move.
“What… what is this…!”
Airak’s hand glided across the hilt of the Buk-myeong Blade.
A cool light seeped from the scabbard.

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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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