North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 40

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

40. We Do Not Rescue

The next morning, the party set out the moment dawn broke.
A mountain path wound through dense brush, narrow and twisting, while birds whose names they did not know sang from every direction. In the Northern Sea, they had never heard such sounds. There, birdsong meant death was near.
Garkan walked with a hand pressed to his ribs. The wound was festering, infection spreading, but he gave no sign of it.
“Does it hurt badly?”
Harku asked.
“Silence.”
“I’m only concerned for you.”
“Keep your eyes open instead of your mouth.”
Taikan interjected, his gaze constantly sweeping the distance.
“Harku, stop talking and walk.”
“Why? I’m bored.”
“Noise draws enemies.”
“Then we kill them.”
“…Damn fool.”
Only Arko’s face bore the sallow pallor of Central Plains fever eating away at him.
Serian opened her mouth as she followed Airak.
“Airak.”
He did not answer.
“What was Karani like?”
Airak’s pace did not break. Only his back was visible. A long silence stretched out, and Serian was beginning to regret the question.
“She was strong.”
Garkan answered in his stead.
“She refused the position of Ice Palace master, and yet the previous master forced it upon her anyway. It was without precedent in the history of the Northern Sea.”
Serian turned to look at him. Garkan’s eyes were fixed on something distant, his expression tracing old memories.
“And she liked to help others.”
Garkan continued.
“She distributed food to hungry tribespeople and treated wounded warriors with her own hands.”
“With her own hands?”
“Yes. Everyone was moved, seeing someone of such rank tend their wounds herself.”
“So the stories I heard were true.”
Serian’s eyes brightened.
“My grandmother said so. Karani was the warmest of all the generation leaders.”
“That’s right. That’s why everyone followed her.”
Garkan nodded.
“Both the Ice Palace Martial Artists and the refugees of the Northern Sea. They believed that as long as she lived, the Northern Sea would endure.”
Airak remained silent. The worn wolf hide cloak fluttered in the wind.
“But.”
Garkan’s voice grew quiet.
“Why did someone so good have to pass like that…”
“Enough.”
Airak cut him off. His voice was cold and final.
“The past doesn’t matter.”
Garkan closed his mouth. Serian dared not ask more.

Where the mountain path crested a ridge, a scream pierced the air.
A sharp, anguished cry—not a single voice, but many screams tangled together, echoing across the mountain.
Taikan narrowed his eyes, peering over the ridge. Eyes like a raptor’s pulled the landscape dozens of paces distant into sharp focus.
“A merchant caravan. About ten of them.”
“Enemies?”
“Bandits. Around thirty.”
Airak did not slow his pace.
Serian moved to rush forward.
“We have to help them!”
“It’s not our concern.”
“But those people are dying!”
“I know.”
“Thirty of them — you could handle them alone…”
“So what?”
Serian fell silent.
Another scream pierced the air—a woman’s voice. Then came the wail of a child.
Garkan and Harku remained unmoved. Neither of them so much as broke stride.
“This is tedious.”
Harku muttered under his breath.
“What is?”
“Blood all over the place, and we don’t even get to watch.”
“Keep your mouth shut.”
“Thirty or so, you say. Nothing remarkable.”
Taikan counted the bandits under his breath.
“Nothing remarkable? To them it is!”
Serian’s voice rose.
“It matters to them!”
“It’s not our business. I already told you that.”
Airak spoke again.
“Why not?”
“Why, you ask.”
“Why isn’t it our business? We can help them!”
“And what do we gain from it?”
Serian closed her mouth.
“Nothing. It’s just wasted time.”
Airak spoke flatly.
“And you think they’ll be grateful when they see us?”
Serian had no answer. The memory of yesterday’s village came rushing back—the child hurling stones, the tavern keeper slamming the door shut, the word “Barbarian” carved into a corpse.
“…Still.”
Serian clenched her teeth.
“Even if it’s just me.”
She bolted forward, but Airak’s hand seized her wrist. His grip was cold—as if the Northern Sea’s chill had seeped into his very flesh.
“You want to die?”
……
“Look at their movements. These aren’t common brigands. They’re Martial Artists. And strong ones too. All thirty of them. You can’t hold off ten alone.”
“But still…”
“Still what.”
Airak cut her off.
“If you’re going to block my path, turn back. From the start, your joining me was a mistake. I don’t need women on my journey.”
Desperation flickered across Serian’s eyes.
“If it were Karani, you would have saved them.”
Airak’s footsteps ceased.
He did not turn. Only his back was visible—and Serian caught the subtle rigidity that seized his shoulders.
“Karani is dead.”
His voice dropped low.
“She died helping others.”
He released her wrist. Serian’s hand hung suspended in empty air.
“Go.”
Airak spoke.
“But if you die out there, I won’t be retrieving your body.”

Serian ran.
Her silver hair streamed behind her in the wind, her breath ragged. As she crested the ridge, the scene below came into view.
A merchant caravan had frozen in place on the road. Three carts laden with cargo sat in a line, their surroundings scattered with corpses. Those still alive huddled behind the baggage, trembling. Half of the ten merchants had already fallen.
The bandits numbered thirty.
Armed with swords and spears, they encircled the merchants, cutting off any escape while tightening the noose with deliberate slowness.
They were not common brigands, as Airak had said. These were Martial Artists—seasoned fighters, judging by the way they wielded their weapons, their tactical spacing, their breathing, their stride. Veterans of actual combat.
She could not face them alone.
Serian understood that. With the Ice Needle, she might topple a few of them, but thirty? Impossible. And dying here would change nothing.
Her fists clenched. Her nails dug into her palms.
Behind them, Airak’s footsteps faded into the distance. Garkan, Harku, Taikan, and Arko followed in his wake.
None of them looked back.
The bandits’ war cries rang out. The clash of metal. Screams. Then silence.
It was over.
Bodies lay scattered across the ground, and the bandits were already gathering their spoils, slipping away with casual ease. Laughter echoed through the mountains.
“Serian.”
Taikan’s voice reached her.
“The chieftain is calling for you.”
Airak’s group had already moved far ahead. Serian started to run after them, then stopped.
She couldn’t simply walk past.
She made her way down the path. Between the corpses she walked—men dressed as merchants, an old man who had been hauling goods, even a child. Their eyes stared open in death. Blood pooled across the dried earth, spreading into dark crimson stains.
She knelt beside the nearest body and gently closed its eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
She whispered the words softly. They were meaningless, but it was all she could offer.
As she rose, something fell from the body’s clothing.
A wooden token, carved from wood.
Serian picked it up. It was the size of a palm—a wooden token with a sword insignia etched on the front and characters from the Central Plains written on the back.
“What is this? I can’t read Central Plains characters very well….”
When she turned, Arko was approaching. The bent-backed man took the token and examined it carefully.
“It appears to be proof of identity. A Martial Sect emblem, perhaps.”
“A Martial Sect?”
“I’ve heard that in the Central Plains, there are groups where martial artists gather. This token might be proof of membership in one such group.”
“But why would a merchant have something like this?”
“He wasn’t a merchant.”
Airak’s voice came from behind. When she turned, he had already drawn close.
“Give it to me.”
Serian handed over the token. Airak examined both sides carefully.
Taikan studied the corpse. He lifted the hand and checked the calluses.
“There are marks on the palm from gripping a sword. This man held a blade for a very long time.”
“Then why was he dressed as a merchant?”
Garkan asked.
“He was hiding.”
Airak answered.
“He was concealing his identity while traveling through this remote path.”
“What about the other bodies?”
“Those ones have no calluses on their hands. They were real merchants. Only this one was different.”
Airak tucked the token away in his clothing.
“It might be useful later.”
“Useful how?”
Serian asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
Airak turned away.
“Why would a martial artist from the Central Plains be disguised as a merchant, traveling this desolate road? The answer doesn’t come. Not yet.”

After walking for some time, Airak finally spoke.
“Karani…”
Serian lifted her head. Airak kept his eyes forward as he walked.
“She loved helping others. As Garkan said.”
His voice remained emotionless, but there was something about it—a faint tremor, barely perceptible.
“She gave food to the hungry, healed the wounded, and offered her hand to the abandoned.”
Serian said nothing. She held her breath and listened.
“That’s why she died.”
His footsteps did not slow.
“Helping others is good in itself, but it breeds carelessness. Over time, every human being begins to look like someone worth helping. And then you turn your back to them, unguarded…”
“…Is that Karani’s fault?”
Serian asked carefully.
“It’s not about fault.”
Airak replied.
“It’s simply the truth.”
…….
“If Karani hadn’t helped him, at least in that moment she wouldn’t have let her guard slip.”
“Even so.”
Serian spoke.
“But wasn’t it precisely because Karani was that kind of person that everyone followed her?”
Airak didn’t answer.
“Isn’t that why you loved her, too?”
A long silence stretched between them.
“Even so, what.”
Airak said quietly.
“What good is being kind? When you’re dead, it’s over.”
Serian closed her mouth.
Garkan passed by Serian’s side and spoke softly.
“Don’t take it too much to heart.”
“…Yes.”
“He’s hurting. He simply can’t find the words to say it.”
Serian lifted her gaze to look at Airak’s back. Beneath the sunlight, his shadow stretched long and dark. The hem of his worn cloak fluttered in the wind.
The scarred lines on his back caught the light, briefly exposed.
Traces of red still marked them.
Serian’s eyes traced those lines. The memory came to her—that her own hands had once wiped those wounds clean.

The sun had begun to descend.
As they left the mountain path, flat ground appeared before them. A small village came into view in the distance.
Airak stopped in his tracks.
“We’ll spend the night there.”
“What if they turn us away again?”
Taikan asked.
“Then we sleep outside.”
He answered matter-of-factly and continued walking.
Serian’s fingers found something in her robe—a small cloth fragment she’d discovered at the waist of the corpse earlier. Characters were written on it. In Central Plains script that she couldn’t read, but someone else could decipher them.
A martial artist disguised as a merchant.
A wooden token bearing a sword insignia.
And this cloth fragment.
Scattered fragments lay apart. Nothing fit together yet.
“Karani.”
Serian murmured softly.
“If it had been her… would she really have saved him?”
The wind blew. Silver hair swept across her face.
No answer came. Far in the distance, a single crow took flight. Its black wings caught the light of the setting sun and glowed red.
The corpses left behind on the road remained unclaimed by anyone.
That was the Central Plains.

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