North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 32

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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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32. Land Where Snow Melts

Blood dotted the snow.
One red speck, then another. The wound in Garkan’s side wept a trail with each footfall.
No one spoke. Only the crunch of snow beneath their feet broke the silence.
Crunch. Crunch.
They were taking a mountain path to circle around Ma-jeon’s main force. Taikan’s left arm hung limp, and with each step came the sound of teeth gritted against pain—but no one asked them to stop.
Harku stumbled.
Garkan offered his shoulder without a word.
Harku leaned against him and murmured weakly.
“…Thank you.”
“Shut up. You’re heavy.”
“But you’re bleeding too, and—”
“My blood, my problem.”
Hoofbeats echoed in the distance.
All of them stopped and turned. The sound grew closer, then faded in another direction—a scout from the main force, moving past without finding them.
They resumed walking.
Ailak took the lead. Not a drop of blood clung to him, yet his pace was slower than usual. The cost of using Binghohnja repeatedly. Only Serian seemed to notice.
“Clan Chief.”
Taikan called out softly.
“There.”
Darkness showed between the rocks. A cave.

Narrow, but wide enough for six of them to hide.
Save for the entrance, the interior was pitch-black, and cold air seeping from the stone touched their skin. But for people of the Northern Sea, the temperature felt almost welcome.
Deep within the cave, ice crystals glimmered faintly.
Only their breathing filled the silence.
Occasionally a water droplet fell from the ceiling and struck the floor with a sound that echoed in the confined space. A fishy smell hung thick in the narrow air.
Harku reached for his flint, then asked.
“We can’t light a fire?”
“We can’t.”
Garkan shook his head.
“There’s nowhere for the smoke to escape.”
“So we just sit in the dark?”
“Does a child of the Northern Sea fear darkness?”
Harku laughed sheepishly.
“…No.”
So they settled to rest in the darkness, in the cold—as people of the Northern Sea would.

Serian began to move.
Ice crystals on the cave wall flickered once. The others’ breathing synchronized in response. As Garkan leaned his back against the stone, the wound at his side stuck to the cloth with a wet sound. He made no complaint. Taikan laid his broken bow across his knees.
Serian drew a small medicine bottle and a strip of cloth from her bag. She meant to treat each of them in turn.
Blood still seeped from the gash in Garkan’s side. When he reached for a needle to stitch the wound himself, Serian stopped him.
“Let me do it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Hold still.”
Serian crushed medicinal herbs and spread them across the wound. Her touch was gentle.
Garkan lowered his head awkwardly.
“…Thank you.”
“We’re companions, aren’t we?”
Taikan stared at his broken bow and sighed. The weapon, snapped in two, had been with him for thirty years.
“Without a bow…”
“A broken bone comes first.”
Serian stepped in and took hold of his left arm. The wound from the blade ran deep—deep enough that bone showed through.
“We’ll find you another bow later. You only have one arm.”
She wrapped the wound with cloth as she spoke. Taikan nodded.
“Brother, what do we do without a bow?”
Harku asked, his voice tight with worry.
“I have a blade.”
“Your swordwork is…”
“Hey.”
“…Sorry.”
Harku laughed, forcing bravado into the words.
“I’m fine. This much is— Agh!”
A cry tore from his lips when Serian touched the wound.
“This much is hardly an injury?”
“…Well, it does hurt.”
Harku grinned sheepishly.
Serian sighed and applied medicinal herbs to the gash.
Arko sat in the corner, tallying his remaining poison darts.
“Only half left. Damn it. The wastage was brutal…”
“Use this.”
Serian handed him a small vial.
“It’s from the Fukutribe Secret Formula. Mix it with poison and the effect doubles.”
Arko’s eyes widened.
“Something this precious…”
“What good is hoarding it? We need to survive first.”
Serian smiled dryly.
The rough men expressed their gratitude in awkward ways — bowing their heads, clearing their throats, gazing elsewhere.

Deep in the cave.
Ailak sat alone.
He rested the Bukmeongdo across his knees and ran his fingers along the blade’s spine. It was still trembling faintly — the lingering echo of the Binghohnja technique. The blade had drunk too deeply from its master’s inner power and had not yet settled.
“…Give it a moment.”
He murmured the words low and swept his hand along the steel.
The black light gradually steadied.
A Ming blade feeds on its master’s heart. That this blade was weeping meant Ailak’s own spirit was turbulent.
He closed his eyes.
A face glimpsed in the chaos of battle. When he saw blood flowing from Serian’s arm, another visage overlaid it in that instant.
Silver hair.
Eyes cold as winter.
Yet eyes that looked only at him with warmth.
As the day of revenge drew near, his fingertips grew numb. As though remembering her warmth.

Memories flickered like shards of glass.
Silver hair caught in moonlight and that singular fragrance of plum blossoms that was hers alone. A hand cradling his cheek — ice cold. Her fingertips were as frigid as winter itself. Yet his heart had burned. Everywhere her touch fell, heat bloomed.
A paradox: the coldest woman in the Northern Sea, yet to him alone she was warmth itself.
“You have to come back.”
Karani’s voice echoed in his ears.
“However long it takes, I don’t care. I’ll wait. I promise.”
The moment their hands joined — eyes fighting back tears. The way she bit her lip to keep from weeping.
“Even in Jeuk-eum Land… you must survive, no matter what. Do you understand?”
“…I understand.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear.”
She had smiled then. A smile like spring snow melting. The warmest sight he had ever seen in the Northern Sea.
“Then that’s enough. I’ll believe in you.”
Karani’s fingertips brushed his cheek.
He had never understood why her cold hand felt so warm. The ache of that moment when her touch withdrew — even thirty years later, even now, it left a chill in the corner of his heart.

Ailak opened his eyes.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Barely perceptibly.
Thirty years.
Thirty years endured in Jeuk-eum Land — fighting the frost beasts, fighting the killing cold, fighting solitude. A hollow hope that someday they would meet again. That alone had sustained him.
Yet here they were meeting like this.
Karani’s corpse.
Where her heart should have been, there was only emptiness, and scars from countless blades marked her body.
A cold hand. A hand that would never grow warm again.
Who did this?
Her fingers tensed.
Who made you this way?
Revenge. That alone remained. That alone moved her forward.
But sometimes, in rare moments… when she closed her eyes, her smile surfaced. And each time, a corner of her chest ached. Froze over, hard as ice.
Ailak shook her head.
‘Even this longing is a luxury.’
This was not the time to drown in yearning. Not until revenge was complete.
The Bukmeongdo ceased its trembling. It had felt its master’s resolve harden once more.

Footsteps approached.
“Ailak.”
It was Serian.
“……”
“About Karani’s wound… may I ask about it?”
Ailak regarded Serian.
Each Chief Priestess of the Fukutribe inherited the life of her predecessor through such accounts. Karani was to Serian what an elder sister was—never met, yet impossible not to know.
“You spoke to yourself during the battle earlier.”
Serian knelt before Ailak.
“You said, ‘I must find the blade before it fades from memory.’ What kind of blade was it? Can you tell me?”
Silence hung for a moment.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because she was my sister.”
Serian’s gaze was steady and hard.
“Though I never met her, she is my sister to me. I want to know who her enemy was.”
Ailak studied Serian for a long while. In her eyes, the shadow of Karani flickered.
“…The edges of the wound were charred.”
Ailak spoke flatly.
“The blade was so fast she must have been burned the moment it cut through. Friction heat from the blade parting the air.”
Serian’s eyes widened.
“Such a blade… exists?”
“Yes.”
“There is no one in the Northern Sea who wields a blade like that.”
“I know.”
A cold light gleamed in Ailak’s gray eyes.
“That’s why I’m going to the Central Plains. Whoever killed Karani is not from the Northern Sea. He came from the Central Plains.”
Serian spoke as though remembering something.
“I… heard something about that.”
“What.”
“Before Karani died, there were rumors that someone from the Central Plains came to the Ice Palace.”
A flicker of movement crossed Ailak’s eyes.
“Continue.”
“I don’t know the details. Only that he moved with such secrecy and speed that even the people of the Northern Sea couldn’t find him. Men like that… they wouldn’t be easy. After all, they were the ones your sister couldn’t stop.”
Silence.
The Bukmeongdo began to tremble again at her side. It had sensed the killing intent of its master.
Serian bit her lip slightly.
She now understood the weight that knowing Karani’s enemy carried for Ailak. She understood, too, that this fight would not end until one of them lay dead.
Wind seeped through cracks in the stone and stirred her silver hair.
Ailak did not turn her head.
Even as she caught the scent of her presence, she refused to acknowledge it.

At the cave entrance, Taikan called out softly.
“Clan Leader.”
His eyes were closed, reading the grain of the wind. Cheonriahn—the ability to sense distant sounds and presences.
“I hear hoofbeats in the distance. Two or three riders. A scout patrol. They’re searching for us.”
A shadow on horseback slipped past the gap at the cave’s mouth. Torchlight flickered briefly across the stone wall.
For a heartbeat, time stopped.
But the warriors of the Ailak Clan showed no concern. Their composure was absolute. They were ready to meet any fight at a moment’s notice. Opponents like that meant nothing to them. They rested only because their clan leader had commanded it.
Garkan clutched at his side, muttering to himself.
“That much I could handle alone…”
“Please, stay still.”
Serian held him back. In truth, he needed to rest because of the wound.
Ailak rose to his feet.
“Leave him be. We depart this place before they find us.”
He walked toward the cave entrance and gazed out at the southern sky.
The sun was sinking low. A crimson sunset spread faintly across the pristine Snow Plain.
“One day’s march to Okmunn Gate.”
He knew a thousand soldiers awaited there. But he had no choice but to go.
“We move out when the sun sets.”
“Chief.”
Garkan rose and spoke.
“A thousand men at Okmunn Gate. How do you intend to break through?”
“We break through.”
“The method—”
“If there is none, we forge one.”
Ailak spoke without turning around.
“Since when did we begin looking for methods?”
“Forgive me!”
Garkan prostrated himself at once.
“Rise. Show no weakness. Do not fall. Do not retreat. We are… the Ailak Clan.”
No one answered.
Instead, they rose one by one. Garkan. Taikan. Harku. Arko. And Serian.
The Bukmeongdo sang softly at Ailak’s waist.
When his gaze turned southward, it vibrated with peculiar intensity—as if the blade sensed something. The scent of blood. The aura of formidable foes.
Ailak drew a hand across the blade’s surface, murmuring.
“Wait a moment longer. Soon you’ll feast your fill.”
Darkness settled upon the Snow Plain.
Behind them, twenty-seven hundred wild dogs pursued. Ahead, a gate guarded by a thousand soldiers awaited.

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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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