North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 47

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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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47. Hibiscus

The blade cleaved through empty space.
Light and swift. Soundless, as if shearing wind itself. The sword point traced a perfect line without tremor.
Cheok Ha-rin drew back her blade and exhaled.
“Father, how was that?”
A man sitting in the shade of the pavilion nodded.
He set down his teacup and studied his daughter’s sword. Early fifties. Black hair threaded with white, yet his gaze held the keenness of a young swordmaster.
Cheok Un-hui.
The Foremost Sword of the Central Plains. The one called greatest master under heaven.
“Better. Your hip rotation is much more natural now.”
“Really? It’s all thanks to the Seol-ryeon-gwa. My body feels light as a feather.”
“Don’t overreach yourself.”
“Yes, Father.”
Cheok Ha-rin lifted her blade again. She executed another sequence, this time faster.
The Yeon-hwan Sam-geom.
Three strikes wove into one seamless whole. The second began before the first ended, the third launched before the second was finished. Continuous, unbroken.
Cheok Un-hui’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That’s excessive.”
“Pardon?”
“Move with restraint. You’re not fully recovered yet.”
Cheok Ha-rin lowered her blade and bowed her head.
“Yes, Father.”
Yet she lifted it at once. A smile bloomed across her lips.
“Don’t worry. I’m truly fine now.”
She laughed, radiant and whole.
Like a hibiscus flowering. Color rose to her face, banishing the pallor of sickness. Her eyes curved like crescent moons, her cheeks flushed rose-pink. A young woman in her early twenties. Daughter of the Foremost Sword of the Central Plains, and lady of Cheon Geom Mun.
Cheok Un-hui gazed quietly at his daughter’s face.
Three years.
Three years since he had seen such a smile on her face. Han-seo-ji-byeong. A cold that carved through flesh and gnawed bone. For three years his daughter had been dying by degrees.
Had it not been for the Seol-ryeon-gwa.
Cheok Un-hui’s gaze drifted into the distance.
A woman’s face rose before his eyes. Silver hair. Eyes like winter. An expression unmarred by even the faintest surprise, until the very end.
Bing Gong-ju.
The moment his blade pierced her heart blazed clear.
There had been no resistance. Rather, he had allowed her none. The Jeol-hwi Il-geom, cutting through a thousand-pound stone in utter silence. And seven hands to rival even that technique—before such power, Bing Gong-ju had been helpless.
Cheok Un-hui closed his eyes.
He felt no regret.
His daughter’s smile was proof enough. Had he not brought the Seol-ryeon-gwa, she would have died. Had he not killed Bing Gong-ju, he could never have obtained it.
One death to save one life.
Such was the way of the martial world.
“Father?”
Cheok Un-hui opened his eyes at the sound of his daughter’s voice.
“Why are you troubled? Your face has grown dark.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you… worried about me?”
Cheok Ha-rin approached and took his hand.
“I’m well now, truly. I’m completely recovered thanks to the Seol-ryeon-gwa you brought me.”
Cheok Un-hui gazed at his daughter’s hand. Three years ago it had been cold as ice. Now it was warm.
“I understand.”
“Please don’t worry anymore. Soon my swordsmanship will be fully restored. Strong enough to inherit your techniques.”
“That’s premature yet.”
“Father, you’re too cautious. Look how well I’m doing.”
Cheok Ha-rin laughed, teasing.
Cheok Un-hui rose from his seat.
“Rest for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Cheok Ha-rin broke into a full smile again. The smile of a Bu-yong-hwa blossom.
Cheok Un-hui turned and left the pavilion without looking back.

He stepped into the study to find someone already waiting.
Jin Hwa-sang, deputy master of Cheon Geom Mun. Cheok Un-hui’s right hand, the one who handled intelligence.
“Master. I have something to report.”
“What is it?”
Cheok Un-hui took his seat.
Jin Hwa-sang drew a letter from his robes.
“Word has come from Okmun Gwan.”
“Tell me.”
Jin Hwa-sang paused, his expression clouded with reluctance.
“The North Sea warrior has breached Okmun Gwan.”
Cheok Un-hui’s eyes flickered.
“Breached?”
“Yes. He cut through two thousand defenders and entered the Central Plains.”
“Alone?”
Jin Hwa-sang nodded.
“Nearly so. He had five subordinates, but the battle against two thousand—that was him alone. Commander Ho Yeon-gak and some three hundred guards were killed or wounded.”
Cheok Un-hui took the letter and read it slowly.
It contained a detailed account of the breach: how he’d cut through three hundred spearmen single-handedly, how he’d severed Ho Yeon-gak—master of the Flame Sword—in the first exchange, how he’d leapt over the gate and vanished into the distance.
He set the letter down.
“The North Sea warrior.”
The words escaped as a low murmur.
This name had become a splinter lodged beneath his skin, constantly gnawing at his attention.
Aelak. Betrothed to Bing Gong-ju. The strongest martial master of the North Sea. The legend spoke of him enduring thirty years in the Geuk-eum-ji—yet showing no signs of aging, appearing barely in his twenties. Tales that seemed almost myth.
When Cheok Un-hui had gone to the North Sea, there had been no chance to meet him. He had killed Bing Gong-ju and taken the Seol-ryeon-gwa while the man was away. Good fortune or bad luck—he couldn’t say.
And now that man was coming.
A faint smile crossed Cheok Un-hui’s lips.
“A challenge.”
“Sir?”
“He cut through two thousand alone. That’s a challenge. Sent to me.”
“To you, Master?”
“Yes. If there exists a man in the Central Plains who can cut through two thousand alone, then let us fight. That’s what he means.”
Jin Hwa-sang fell silent for a moment.
“That may well be his intention.”
Cheok Un-hui rose from his seat and gazed at the sword hanging on the wall.
The Jeol-hwi Geom.
A blade forged from melted Cheong-gang-seok. The only sword of its kind in the world.
“He cut through two thousand alone, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Could I do the same?”
Jin Hwa-sang bowed his head.
“With you as Master, it would surely be possible. Who in the world could stand against you?”
“Indeed.”
Cheok Un-hui grasped the sword.
He drew it in one fluid motion. The blade caught the light, gleaming blue—the cold peculiar to Cheong-gang-seok chilled the study air.
He raised the blade slowly.
The first form of Jeol-hwi Il-geom: Wu-eum, the Soundless.
The sword rent the void.
There was no sound.
Where the blade had passed, heat shimmer rose. The air split and friction kindled—yet no sound came. The sword moved too fast; even the air’s cry fell behind.
Cold sweat rolled down Jin Hwa-sang’s back.
No matter how many times he witnessed it, the technique never ceased to unsettle him. A sword that cleaved a thousand pounds of iron in silence. Before such a blade, how many in the world could hope to survive?
Cheok Un-hui sheathed the sword.
“A man who broke through two thousand.”
He spoke softly to himself.
“Just what manner of strength does he possess?”
A blue light flickered once across the Jeol-hwi Geom’s blade, then faded.
Cheok Un-hui’s fingers slowly loosened his grip on the sword hilt.
A single candle in the study flickered, though there was no breach through which wind could enter.

Days passed.
Reports arrived in succession.
“Aelak’s party launched an assault on Ha-seo Pyo-guk. The lord Mak Yi-seong sustained grave injuries, and dozens of the couriers were killed or wounded.”
Cheok Un-hui nodded slowly.
“Why did they attack?”
“One of their companions was struck by a poison arrow. They demanded the antidote, and when refused, they attacked.”
“And then?”
“They seized the antidote, treated their companion, and left. They spared Mak Yi-seong’s life.”
Cheok Un-hui’s eyes narrowed.
“They spared him?”
“Yes. They could have killed him, but they didn’t.”
“Intriguing. A cautious one, it seems.”

The next day.
“Gwak Seong, sworn brother to Mak Yi-seong, led fifty mounted warriors in pursuit of vengeance. But they were caught in an ambush at the Narrow Gorge and annihilated.”
“Annihilated?”
“Over thirty were killed, and Gwak Seong became a prisoner before eventually being released.”
Cheok Un-hui accepted the letter and read it.
Ambush at the Narrow Gorge. Tactics employing terrain. Cavalry drawn into a confined space and crushed piecemeal.
“One who knows how to use his mind.”
Not merely a killer. He understood tactics, could read terrain, and identified the enemy’s vulnerabilities.

The next day.
“Martial artists who discovered a wanted poster at a tavern attacked Aelak’s party. Eight of the twelve were killed, and four suffered grave wounds.”
“And his side?”
“They departed without a scratch.”
The day after that.
“Rogue warriors seeking the bounty attacked. Twenty of them were all slain.”
“Again without loss?”
“Yes. They left unharmed.”
The reports continued.
Some spoke of common folk killed. Others claimed he was indiscriminately crushing every martial artist he encountered.
And yet he kept posing the same question wherever he went.
Was there a man who traveled to the North Sea a month ago? Do you know of him?
Cheok Un-hui’s eyes changed.
“What exactly did he ask?”
“Who was the Central Plains master who went to the North Sea? An exceptionally skilled one—skilled enough to contend for the title of supreme master under heaven. Your people traveled there and returned. Do you know that fact? He keeps asking such questions.”
Jin Hwa-sang’s voice grew quiet.
“Master… could it be…”
Cheok Un-hui raised his hand, cutting him off.
He gazed out the window.
In the garden, Cheok Ha-rin was wielding her sword, smiling brilliantly like a flowering lotus.
Three years ago.
The journey to Bing Gong had not been made by Cheok Un-hui alone. Seven had gone together. The purpose was singular: to obtain the Seol-ryeon-gwa. Bing Gong-ju was someone Cheok Un-hui could have handled by himself, but entering the icy palace of the North Sea in silence and slipping away without a trace required coordinated hands and feet.
For that, he had needed people to move in concert with him, and he had led them himself.
It was Cheok Un-hui who had killed Bing Gong-ju. Everyone had used their hands for the “instant suppression,” but the killing blow had come from his. And everyone knew that truth.
They all kept their silence. But now.
Aelak is asking questions? About which Central Plains master traveled to the North Sea?
“He already knows.”
Cheok Un-hui murmured to himself.
“He doesn’t know who went, but he knows our martial arts. The confidence that he can identify us from technique alone…”
Jin Hwa-sang asked carefully.
“What will you do?”
“What can I do? Wait.”
“Sir?”
“He’ll come looking. Soon.”
He gazed at the Jeol-hwi Geom hanging on the wall.
An omen of dread settled over him. No—not an omen. A certainty. The warrior from the North Sea would come for him soon. Looking for the one who had killed Bing Gong-ju.
A smile spread across Cheok Un-hui’s lips.
“Good.”
He drew his sword.
“When he comes… I’ll meet him.”

That night.
Cheok Un-hui stood alone in the training ground.
Moonlight caught the blade. Cold light. The Jeol-hwi Geom shimmered with a pale blue glow. Night wind swept in. The whisper of leaves stirred.
Slowly, he raised his sword.
Jeol-hwi Il-geom.
The first form, Soundless.
The blade carved through empty air. Without a sound.
The second form, Formless.
The sword vanished and reappeared. A speed even moonlight could not follow.
The third form, Selfless.
Sword and swordsman became one. There was no distinction—no knowing where the blade ended and the man began.
Thirty years of honing. Thirty years of refinement.
A blade technique in which he harbored no equal beneath heaven.
Cheok Un-hui sheathed his sword.
His breathing remained steady. Not a drop of sweat fell. The movements were second nature now, repeated ten thousand times over.
The warrior from the North Sea.
The man who had cut through two thousand alone.
The man seeking vengeance for his murdered wife.
Could such a man truly withstand this blade?
Cheok Un-hui’s eyes gleamed.
He felt anticipation.
It had been so long. So long since his heart had raced like this.
Dew clung to the stone floor of the training ground. Cheok Un-hui was barefoot. With each degree the cold stone beneath his feet grew colder, his breathing deepened.
The same temperature as the night, thirty years ago, when he first gripped the Jeol-hwi Geom.

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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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