North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 37

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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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37. The Melting Wolf

The fourth day.
His flesh was melting.
Ailak felt it as he walked.
The cold energy accumulated over thirty years in the Extremely Dark Place was seeping out as sweat. The essence of the Bing Jeong Sin Gong drained down his skin. His vision wavered. His internal energy churned.
Yet his expression did not change.
The underside of his robes clung damp against his skin—a sensation he had never known in the Northern Sea. Salt pooled at the tip of his tongue, the taste of his own sweat trickling down his throat.
Everything felt alien. Disagreeably so.
A groan came from behind. Arko had collapsed again, clutching his belly as his knees buckled to the earth.
“Ugh…”
The Central Plains food had not agreed with him. The dysentery had not stopped for four days. His face had turned a sickly yellow.
Taikan looked ashen as well. His breathing was shallow and labored—the heat had robbed him of proper sleep.
The wound on Garkan’s body had begun to reek. It was festering. The humid air of the Central Plains was making it rot.
Only Harku remained unaffected, lying sprawled beside Arko and snoring contentedly.
Garkan kicked him in the ribs.
“Wake up, you pig.”
“Huh…?”
Harku rubbed his eyes and sat up.
“What? Why is everyone so listless?”
“Because you’re a pig, so you’re fine.”
“What? I’m suffering too.”
“Look at Arko. He’s practically dying.”
“I’m suffering too. I’m starving.”
Harku rubbed his belly.
“When do we eat? I threw up everything from yesterday.”
“You’re hungry after throwing up?”
“Of course. My stomach’s empty.”
Garkan clenched his teeth. He wanted to slap him, but he lacked even the strength for that.
Serian pointed ahead.
“There’s a village.”
A small village—a dozen or so thatched-roof cottages clustered together.
“I’ll go. I’ll find medicine and provisions.”
“You’ll be all right on your own?”
Garkan asked.
“Yes. You rest here.”
“Be careful. Don’t trust these Central Plains people.”
“I understand.”
Ailak merely nodded, as if conserving even the effort of speech.
Serian walked toward the village.

Bing Palace, Bingshimjeon Hall.
A messenger knelt.
“My lady, Okmunan… has fallen.”
Mukara rose from her throne.
“What?”
“The Northern Sea warriors have crossed into the Central Plains.”
The blood drained from Mukara’s face. Her hands trembled.
The promise with Chi Yunhui.
Before this affair began, she had sworn an oath: that not a single soul from the Northern Sea would set foot on Central Plains soil because of it. Should the oath be broken, the blades of Cheon Geommun would turn toward the Northern Sea.
Chi Yunhui—the strongest martial artist Mukara had ever encountered.
The oath with her was broken.
“It’s over…”
Blood surged upward. Internal energy reversed its flow, twisting her meridian channels. Crimson blood poured from her mouth.
“My lady!”
Hyungdangju rushed toward her.
Mukara collapsed. Convulsions seized her body. Her fingernails scraped across the ice floor.
“Ailak… you… took everything…”
Her eyes rolled back. Consciousness slipped away.
Blood pooled across the ice, spreading in dark tendrils.
Hyungdangju rushed to press cloth against the wound, but the blood seeped sideways before it could freeze.
The sharp air of Bingshimjeon carried with it a smell.
The reek of blood beginning to rot.

Serian entered the village.
She had changed into threadbare clothes, but her gait remained that of a Martial Artist—light, precise, without flaw.
She stopped before a medicine shop.
As she moved to enter, the owner waved her back.
“Hold on.”
A middle-aged man, narrow-eyed and thin-lipped.
“You’re a Martial Artist, aren’t you? Which sect do you belong to?”
“A sect?”
“Can’t answer, so you’ve got no affiliation.”
The owner looked her up and down.
“You have an Identity Tablet?”
“What’s an Identity Tablet?”
“The Murim League issues them. A tablet proving you’re a legitimate Martial Artist.”
Serian shook her head.
“What happens if I don’t have one?”
The owner snorted.
“Then you’re Heterodox—or Outlaw. Which is it? Either way, if you drop dead in the street, nobody lifts a finger.”
“Still sells goods though, doesn’t it?”
“If you have money, everything else is negotiable.”
Serian’s eyes turned cold. She swallowed her anger by force.
This, then, was how the Central Plains worked.
She withdrew silver coins.
“I need several things. Medicine for stomach ailments, salve for wounds, rice for making congee.”
The owner’s expression shifted. The glint of silver caught his eye, and his mouth curved upward.
“Five silver taels.”
Serian raised an eyebrow.
“Three will do.”
“What? An Outlaw haggling with me?”
“Then I’ll buy elsewhere.”
Serian turned to leave.
“Wait! Four. Four taels.”
Serian tossed four silver coins onto the counter.
She gathered the herbs and provisions—medicinal plants for stomach trouble, salve for wounds, rice for cooking congee.
As she left the village, Serian reflected.
That the Murim League issued Identity Tablets, that anyone without affiliation to a sect was barely human in their eyes, that Heterodox and Outlaw could be killed without consequence.

She returned to the camp.
First she treated Garkan’s wound—cleaning away the infected part, applying salve, wrapping it with fresh cloth.
“Much obliged.”
Garkan spoke quietly.
“How did you manage it?”
“There was a medicine shop in the village.”
“No trouble?”
“…None.”
“You’re lying. Your face is telling me so.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Garkan asked nothing more.
She handed the stomach medicine to Arko and prepared congee for him.
“Eat it slowly. Anything rushed and you’ll vomit again.”
“Thanks, Serian.”
Arko smiled weakly.
“Without you, we’d all be dead.”
“It’s not your time to die yet.”
“Still, I’m truly grateful.”
Arko took a spoonful of the gruel. Warmth slid down his throat.
“How is it?”
“Delicious. Softer than what we ate in the Northern Sea.”
Harku swallowed hard beside him.
“Give me some.”
“You’re perfectly fine.”
“Hunger is a separate matter.”
Serian sighed and ladled out another bowl for him.
“You’re really… remarkable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone else looks like they’re dying, but you’re unaffected.”
“I’ve always been hardy. Nothing upsets my stomach.”
“That’s because you’re a pig.”
Garkan snorted.
“What’s wrong with being a pig? Pigs are sturdy.”
Harku slurped down the gruel.
After finishing the treatment, Serian spoke up.
“The Central Plains are complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t belong to a martial sect recognized by the Murim League, you’re not even treated as human. There’s this thing called an Identity Tablet—without one, they treat you like a heterodox practitioner or an outlaw, and…”
“An outlaw?”
“It means a stray dog or barbarian. Even if you die in the street, no one will care.”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
Garkan’s brow furrowed.
“Since we don’t belong to any martial sect… it means they can kill us and no one will mind.”
Ailak opened his eyes.
Until now, he’d been resting against a boulder with his eyes closed. He’d been listening.
“And?”
“Just… telling you what I learned.”
A smile played at the corner of Ailak’s mouth. Cold.
“Convenient. It means we can kill without restraint.”
“It also means they can kill us without restraint.”
“Fair.”
Garkan laughed sharply.
“If the Central Plains folk heard you call it fair, they’d be terrified.”
“Why?”
“Because they think they have the upper hand. They can’t imagine we’d see it the same way.”
Ailak looked up at the sky.
“Their rules mean nothing to me. I am a wolf of the Northern Sea.”

Southern Northern Sea.
Three thousand cavalry from Majeon were on the march.
Danju rode at the vanguard. His face was rigid. He hadn’t spoken a word in four days.
A messenger galloped up.
“Danju! The advance guard has been annihilated!”
Danju reined in his horse.
“Kutor?”
“He… he fell in battle.”
Silence.
Kutor. A man he’d grown up with since childhood, a brother in all but blood. Majeon’s right arm. Danju’s only friend.
“Kutor…”
Danju’s hand gripped the sword’s hilt. Tendons stood out on the back of his hand.
He drew his blade and thrust it into the earth.
“We pursue. We chase him to the edge of the Central Plains. Until I can lay his head before Kutor’s grave.”
Three thousand cavalry roared.
Southward. Toward Ailak.

The sun set.
The heat had eased somewhat, but for Ailak it remained hell.
The group was resting. Arko had finally fallen asleep. Garkan had closed his eyes. Taikan lay sprawled, exhausted. Harku still snored.
Only Ailak remained awake, his back against the rock.
Sweat streamed down his face.
For a Northern Sea tribesman, sweat is a death knell. The cold energy within his body was draining away. His internal energy had scattered. His vision wavered.
He had to endure.
Footsteps approached. Serian.
She held a cloth soaked in water.
“Place this on your forehead.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
Serian spoke quietly.
“I know. I know you’re suffering more than we are, Chieftain.”
……
“You don’t have to hide it.”
Ailak looked at Serian. His gaze was cold.
Serian didn’t retreat.
“You can’t collapse. We still have work to do.”
Silence hung between them.
Ailak took the cloth but didn’t place it on his forehead—only held it in his hand.
“Go to sleep.”
That was his answer.
Serian said nothing and withdrew without protest. But the corners of her mouth rose slightly—barely perceptible.
A drop of water fell from Ailak’s fingers as he gripped the cloth.
The veins on the back of his hand stood out unnaturally.
In the Northern Sea, those veins had lain hidden beneath the skin, as if buried under ice and cold. But here, in this place… the heat was forcing everything outward.
His body was surrendering piece by piece to the air of the Central Plains.

Night deepened.
The sound of insects filled the darkness—a sound he’d never heard in the Northern Sea. The humid air clung to his skin.
The sound came first.
Footsteps. Many of them. The crunch of fallen leaves drew steadily closer.
Ailak’s eyes snapped open.
Then came the light. Torches ignited in the darkness. One. Two. Four. Ten. More and more. Twenty. Thirty… They were surrounded.
“So the barbarians from the north really did come to the village?”
A voice rang out—savage, rough, hostile. There was no friendliness in it.
“There they are.”
Garkan jolted awake. Pain shot through his wounds, but he rose.
“Chieftain…”
“Enough.”
Ailak raised a hand to silence him.
He assessed the situation.
Garkan’s wounds had reopened—he couldn’t fight properly. Arko couldn’t even rise. Harku was still asleep.
Only Ailak and Serian were capable of combat.
A man carrying a torch stepped forward—clearly the leader. An axe hung in his grip.
“This land belongs to our village. Barbarian dogs don’t get to wander in here.”
“Kill them!”
“Kill the barbarian scum!”
Thirty men, armed with farm tools and weapons. A militia—thugs masquerading as village defenders.
Serian stepped forward.
“Leave. I don’t wish to harm you.”
The leader laughed.
“What’s a little girl got to say?”
He raised his axe.
Ailak’s lips curled upward.
So it comes.
Serian had said it earlier—outside a martial sect, there is no law. No one cares if you kill.
That truth applied to both sides.
“Serian.”
“Yes.”
“Leave it to me.”
Serian’s eyes gleamed.
Torches ringed the encampment. Thirty points of flame trembled in the darkness.
The wolves of the Northern Sea were about to begin their first hunt in the Central Plains.

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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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