North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 51

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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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51. Changing the Hunting Ground

The blast of a Bronze Horn Trumpet cut through the air behind them.
Aelak didn’t pull back on the reins. The horse was already thundering forward at full gallop. Any command to go faster now would be a death sentence.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
Six horses raced southward.
Hooves kicked up dry earth in great clouds. Dust rose like blood across the Wasteland, then settled again. The setting sun streaked long and red across the barren land.

The trumpet sound drew closer behind them.
Short, short, short again.
The sound grew nearer. Their pursuers’ horses were faster than theirs.
“The sound has closed by another layer.”
Taikan spoke while gripping the reins.
This man was spare with words. That he’d volunteered this observation meant the gap had narrowed considerably—that he felt the pressure.
Aelak didn’t turn his head.
“I know.”
Harkoo glanced back over his shoulder.
“Damn, they’re closing fast. Their mounts are definitely in better condition than ours.”
“Of course they are.”
Garkan answered. His fingers twisted tighter around the reins, the grip shifting from pinky to thumb. Veins stood out in his knuckles.
“Those men ride at full speed even in the North Sea. When it comes to Horsemanship alone, they’re clearly a cut above us—and they left the Main Force with properly fed mounts. We stole these horses off corpses.”
“Which makes it interesting. Starving mounts outrunning well-fed ones—that’s the real test.”
Harkoo showed his teeth in a grin.
But the laughter trailed into ragged breathing—not the exhalation of a man who’d felled thirty with Twin Halberd Swords, but of someone who’d ridden without rest for two days and nights.
Arko lowered his voice from behind.
“We have two handfuls of Poison Powder left. That’s enough to account for two hundred mounted warriors.”
He shook the pouch at his waist and pushed the powder into one corner. Then he peered inside carefully.
“Two handfuls is enough.”
“But… you’re not asking us to stop two hundred with just two handfuls, are you, Chief?”
The mounted force pursuing them numbered roughly a thousand—kill and kill and kill again, and the number wouldn’t dwindle even if they fought all day.
“We won’t even need two handfuls. One will do. The rest, the blade handles.”
Serian lifted her head.
“We’re going to fight them? Here?”
“Not here.”
Aelak looked south.
The Wasteland stretched flat and featureless. Not a single tree, not even a ridge to break the wind. Meeting a thousand mounted warriors on open ground meant becoming six pieces of meat.
So they would leave the flatland.
Aelak turned the reins. The horse’s head swung northwest.
Garkan’s eyes widened.
“Chief, the Central Plains are to the south.”
“I know.”
“But northwest—”
“Garkan.”
Aelak cut him off sharply. Three syllables, weighted with command.
Grey eyes looked northwest first. Then his mouth opened.
“We’re changing the Hunting Ground.”
At those words, the rhythm of all five riders behind him shifted at once.
The reins trembled lightly in their hands.
Garkan’s jaw went slack. It took a moment for him to understand what Aelak meant. And when understanding came, his face drained of color before flushing red again.
His grip on the reins loosened, then tightened again.
Harkoo let out a dry laugh.
“Wait, wait, Chief. We’re being chased right now… and you’re saying we’re changing the Hunting Ground? Does that mean we become the hunters instead of the hunted?”
“Both.”
“Ha! If it was your kind of people saying that, I’d know what it meant. But that’s the worst possible thing to hear, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Aelak pointed toward the northwestern horizon.
A black line against the crimson horizon’s end.
It seemed like cloud, but it was stone. A rocky ridge to the north.
Cold air leaked from the crevices between boulders, bending the Wasteland’s heat before that line.
“So you truly mean it. That you intend to hunt.”
Heat flared in the corners of Harkoo’s eyes.

“Serian.”
“Yes.”
“That gap between the rocks is very narrow. No hesitation entering it—but we cannot turn a horse around. We must go straight. Correct?”
Serian narrowed her eyes.
She was of the Fukoo Clan, and a Fukoo woman’s feet read the grain of wind and stone first. Her feet, honed by countless trials, read the stone ridge’s secrets.
Serian rose up in her stirrups, seeking a longer view.
“…Yes. You’re right.”
Serian steadied her breathing.
“Inside there, it’s barely wide enough for two to pass. Three or more cannot ride abreast. The path forks into three branches. The center one is a dead end.”
“A dead end has its uses.”
“Which way should we take?”
Garkan asked.
Serian gripped her stirrup again with the tips of her toes.
“The right path, in the shadow. The slope is gentlest there. If we’re to escape with the horses, that’s the only way.”
Then Aelak spoke, brief and hard.
“We do not move. We hold this place.”
“…My lord.”
Serian looked up at Aelak. Even from her horse, her head barely reached his level.
“That means we’re drawing them inside? All of them?”
“Yes.”
“A thousand men?”
“We need not draw all a thousand. Only the vanguard.”
Serian drew in a breath. The breath came out as white mist between her lips. One side of her cheek went pale.
She adjusted her grip on the reins.
Her fingers did not tremble. Not even facing a battle of one thousand against six.
Fukoo women train to die beneath an enemy’s blade. They do this so that when their husband—the North Sea warrior—faces peril, they may offer their lives without hesitation. This resolve is seared into their bones through training from childhood.
In any circumstance, they do not tremble.
“…Understood. I’ll take the lead and read the path.”

Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The horses bolted toward the northwestern rocky ridge.
The horses’ pace had changed markedly. This was not mere flight—this was the speed of purpose. Swift and eager. Tired legs extended with full force.
Then from behind, the Bronze Horn Trumpet’s cry carved through the air.
Whoooooo!
The sound rang out in three short bursts.
Aelak understood without turning to look back.
‘They’ve seen us. That we’ve left the southern path.’

Taikan lowered his bow from his shoulder.
“I have twelve arrows left. I’ll account for the first twelve of their vanguard.”
“Your position?”
“That high rock there. The high ground belongs to the victor, as they say.”
Taikan added further.
“Of those twelve arrows, I’ll hold one back. That one is for their vanguard commander. I don’t yet know which man will receive it.”
Aelak glanced at him once.
“Granted.”

Garkan gripped the Bing Chul Swae, wrapping it as before—from little finger toward thumb. The chain wound cool and smooth against his palm.
“I’ll position myself at the mouth of the gap. If I sever the legs of the vanguard’s lead horse, things will become interesting.”
A horse with severed legs falls. The horse behind treads upon it. In an instant, chaos blooms, and the entrance becomes choked with flesh and ruin.
“Good.”
Aelak nodded.

Arko spoke.
“Poison Powder needs the wind to carry it. The wind direction is crucial….”
Aelak gazed toward the northwestern horizon.
Red light painted the western face of the rock crevice. The sun was in the west, which meant the wind came from that direction.
The sunset was like pigment drawing the path of the wind.
“The wind blows from west to east. Release your Poison Powder from the western rocks toward the east. It’ll blind and choke anyone entering through that pass.”
“Understood.”
The hem of Aelak’s cloak swept eastward. A single strand of Serian’s hair drifted the same way.

Harkoo unslung the Twin Halberd Swords and settled them across his shoulders.
“So where will I be positioned?”
“At my side.”
“Ah, the best spot.”
“The first place to die.”
“Even better.”
Harkoo laughed.
This time it was a laugh with strength behind it—the breath of the Twin Halberd Swords warrior facing battle.
Aelak ran his fingers along the hilt of the Beokryeongdo.
Hum—
The Beokryeongdo sang low within its sheath. A signal that its master’s killing intent was beginning to rise.

* * *

The Mazeon Vanguard commander stood atop a rocky ridge, looking south.
His name was Lugan.
He had received the order to lead the Vanguard directly from the Wasteland’s demon.
Late thirties. A tanned face with savagery caked onto it thick. One cheek bore a scar that had split the flesh like a blade.
The Mazeon bandits called him Stray Nose—he hunted by scent, like a wild dog.
“South isn’t the direction—”
“Enough.”
Lugan cut off his lieutenant before the sentence was half finished.
“What’s northwest of here?”
“The northwest, but… surely they haven’t abandoned the Central Plains? There’s nowhere to run…”
Lugan narrowed his eyes.
“They haven’t abandoned anything.”
“Sir?”
“Those bastards… fools that they are… they’re choosing their hunting ground.”
The lieutenant stared up at Lugan blankly.
“A hunting ground… do you mean?”
“What’s northwest? What terrain would give them an advantage?”
“Rocky terrain. Very rough—horses can barely enter it…”
“That’s it. Done.”
Lugan bit his lip. Blood welled up, a single drop.
There was a reason the clan lord remained with the Main Force while Stray Nose led the Vanguard.
Six men had decimated a patrol of twenty. Two hundred Mazeon cavalry lay dead, and two hundred more had fled. Those six had done it while shackled in Restraint.
The man in black—the North Sea warrior, Aelak.
Now even the Restraint had been removed. The clan lord commanded overwhelming numbers—a thousand strong—but caution upon caution was all that remained.
And those six were now choosing their hunting ground.
Lugan tasted blood on his tongue again. He didn’t remember biting down, yet his lip was already split. That self-awareness sent ice racing down his spine.
Was the pursuer’s body triggering the hunted’s reaction?
Lugan gestured to the trumpeter.
“Three long blasts.”
“Yes, sir.”
The trumpeter raised the Bronze Horn Trumpet.
Three long notes rang out.
The deep, resonant sound carried across the Wasteland.
‘Reformed Vanguard—three hundred strong, advancing. Main Force of seven hundred, follow in our wake.’
That was the signal.
He had scraped together the two hundred who’d fled that morning and attached the remaining hundred to them.
The three hundred under his command were men who’d already broken once. So he put that two hundred in front. If they bolted again, it would be summary execution.
The three hundred reformed ranks and moved forward.
Lugan mounted his horse.
“Follow them! Capture those bastards and earn your merit! Cut down any who try to flee!”
Three hundred horses erupted in a cloud of dust. Three hundred sets of hooves struck the Wasteland’s surface all at once. The ground trembled.
That tremor carried all the way to the six horses ahead.

* * *

Aelak read the earth’s vibrations from his saddle. His heels, planted in the stirrups, received each tremor. The Beokryeongdo scabbard hanging from his belt quivered faintly.
The pattern of the vibrations was different.
Not a thousand. Around three hundred. The Vanguard had separated ahead and was increasing speed.
“Three hundred in the Vanguard.”
Aelak spoke.
“The Main Force trails behind. What reaches us first is three hundred.”
Garkan opened his mouth.
“If only three hundred come first, that favors us. A thousand pressing at once would shatter the rock crevasse, but three hundred entering first… that’s a number we can cut through.”
“That’s the idea.”
Aelak gazed beyond the rocks.
Dust clouds drew the distance ever shorter.
The western sky deepened in red—a portent of the blood that would spill today.
The mouth of the rock crevasse revealed itself in three distinct passages: the center path a dead end, the left a narrow corridor, the right a long shadowed trail beneath a towering stone.
“I’ll go ahead and wait for them. I need to lure them in. I’ll feint toward the narrowest gap on the left, then draw them all the way to the center passage.”
Serian spoke.
“Taikan, the left side looks higher than the rock you chose. You’ll manage?”
“The left is higher, yes. But when you think about light reflecting off arrowheads, my position is better. An ambush isn’t decided by elevation.”
Taikan answered Garkan’s question.
“Do as you see fit. Arko, and you?”
“On the western rock. I’ll stand on the windward side—can’t have my poison blowing back into my own nose, can I? Hehehehe!”
“I’ll take the left entrance. Just like we planned, I’ll break the legs of any horse that comes through.”
Garkan swung the Bing Chul Swae through the air.
Harkoo stood silently beside Aelak.
While his men exchanged words and shifted into position, Aelak kept his gaze fixed on the approaching horses—as though beneath him to concern himself with details.

Their movements were swift.
Each acted exactly as planned. Serian mounted and rode into the rock crevasse.
Hoofbeats rang narrowly between the stones.
Suddenly, a strange, sharp sound pierced the air.
A horse’s flank scraped the stone wall. A handful of rock dust scattered, grazing her thigh.
She read the path as she went, soothing the horse’s neck. It’s all right, she assured it. The horse didn’t stumble. Despite loose stones underfoot, it picked its way through carefully.
Taikan leaped from his horse.
He found handholds on the left rock and began climbing. Very quickly. His feet moved in a smooth glide.
Arko opened his Poison Powder pouch.
He shook the pouch hard, then opened the mouth. A nose-burning powder smell mixed into the wind and drifted past. Across three people’s faces.
Garkan came into view.
He lay the Bing Chul Swae flat against the ground. The iron chain clattered and settled upon the stone.
He crouched hidden, drawing his breath in slow, measured rhythm.
The chain stretched across the ground would sever one leg at a time.

Harkoo brought his horse to a halt beside Aelak.
“Chieftain.”
“Yes.”
“If this works, it’ll be magnificent. Six against a thousand—a battle the Martial World will remember.”
“It will work.”
Aelak brushed the hilt of the Beokryeongdo once.
“You don’t even entertain the thought of failure, do you? In a situation like this, most would think of escape first.”
Harkoo adjusted his grip on the reins.
“Failure doesn’t exist in my mind.”
Harkoo laughed. Teeth flashed at the edge of his smile. The Beokryeongdo’s hilt trembled faintly in his hand. This tremor lasted longer.

Aelak closed his eyes.
The North Sea Ice-Frost Divine Art flowed down his spine.
The temperature dropped from his feet to the crown of his head. The scorching summer air of the Wasteland cooled by a single layer around him alone.
‘Haah!’
His breath misted white.
A bead of sweat trickling down his cheek froze mid-fall.
The metal scent of the Beokryeongdo turned brittle with ice.
Even the stone beneath Harkoo’s feet crystallized with a thin coating of frost.
Harkoo looked down at his feet, then lifted his head again. A laugh caught in his throat. Instead, only white teeth showed.
Aelak had not used Space Freezing.
Space Freezing—the art that had frozen Binghua and the Snow Maidens in a single breath. But his subordinates stood within the radius. So today, a technique one tier below.
Crack!
He opened his eyes.
His grey gaze held the sunset for an instant, flashing crimson. But the moment he seemed red, it settled back to a deep, murky grey.
Behind him, the sound of horse hooves approached like a downpour.

* * *

“I see them!”
Lugan pulled the reins taut.
A ridge of boulders rose at the end of the Wasteland.
Six shadows moved near its entrance. Five had dismounted; one still sat upon his horse.
The one with the black sword, seated on horseback!
“That’s him.”
Lugan spoke as if chewing the words.
“That bastard with the black sword—he’s the one they call the Warrior. We’ll take the others’ heads later, but first we cut him down…”
Lugan stopped himself mid-sentence. Blood bloomed fresh on his lips.
Could they kill the North Sea Warrior?
The first master of the North Sea. The man who had toppled Han Bing-sam in a single move. No—they could kill him! We are the wolves of the North Sea. We kill!
Lugan clenched his lower jaw.
“Cut down that bastard first! Do it!”

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!
Three hundred mounted warriors poured toward the entrance of the rocky ridge.
The first five riders surged into the narrow gap ahead of all others.
The horses hesitated at the sight of the tight passage.
The leading horse cried out sharply, seized by dread. But two hundred and ninety-five riders pressed from behind. The front five were shoved inside the crevasse.
The ribs of the front-rank riders buckled beneath the weight of the horses behind them.

Lugan opened his mouth.
‘They’re going in.’
He wanted to laugh. But the laugh that had begun to rise stuck in his throat.
Beneath the rock on the left side of the entrance, a shadow crouched low. A chain laid across the ground. He knew. He knew exactly what that chain was.
‘The Bing Chul Swae!’

* * *

Aelak dismounted.
The moment his hand closed around the Beokryeongdo, the blade sang long and clear. Its cry echoed through the crevasse and back out again, resonant in the dying light.
The hooves of the first five riders crossed the threshold of the entrance.
Garkan raised his arm.
In that instant, breath stopped.

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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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