North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 69

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

69. Karani

About five horse-lengths beyond the gates of Gocheon Mun, Aelak eased back on the reins.
They’d left the grassland behind, then circled back into it again.
Where hooves had pressed the grass, the scent rose sharp and green.
‘Hah.’
Serian exhaled lightly from the saddle.
In one hand she held the Cheongwol Bang Bronze Badge; in the other, a small slip of paper from the information broker, unfolded. The edges were worn soft where her fingers had gripped it.
“This is as far as we go.”
The words came short from her lips—not trailing away, but absolute.
“Beyond Gocheon Mun is not territory we know.”
She’d gathered intelligence from every source available—Cheongwol Bang, Ha-seo Pyo-guk, information brokers across the land. But there was nothing on the man who’d gone north to the North Sea two months ago.
They were destroying sects wherever they went, but was it working? No one would talk, and all they were doing was piling up corpses.
How much longer would they have to rampage through this vast Central Plains like this?
Aelak’s gray eyes turned upward to the sky. He did not answer her words. Yet his silence was one of assent.
That he did not ask about the next path meant he already had one in mind.
Garkan turned his horse’s head aside and asked curtly.
“The next path.”
“There is no next path. Without information, there’s no way forward but to push through like you say. Central Plains people have too much pride. If we kill our way through, the backlash will be severe.”
Serian folded the paper and tucked it away.
She understood the weight of that word—backlash—more deeply than anyone.
The Central Plains was thick with masters, countless as grains of sand.
Masters that Aelak had to face directly, that kept his four warriors scrambling—experts of the caliber of Hanbingsamsoo and others. They simply hadn’t appeared yet.
Until now.
Aelak spoke.
“We head for the heart of the Central Plains.”

As they traveled, a small village came into view.
At the entrance to the road, on a bench in front of a tavern, two men sat chatting.
One had the look of a wanderer with a leather dagger; the other, a traveling swordsman in plain robes. Both carried weapons but didn’t rise from their seats.
The party passed by them.
Their eyes swept across the group and looked away. That was all—they showed no sign of reaching for their weapons.
Had they gone five paces past the bench when one man’s voice, tinged with mockery, drifted out. Low enough for only his companion to hear.
“Those are them, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they insane? How the hell do they think they’ll find a man who went to the North Sea two months ago?”
The other man twisted his mouth and answered.
“Shhh! One wrong step and you’re dead.”
“My mouth might be crooked, but I speak straight. So what—they came and reported to us before heading out?”
The first man paused, then replied.
“It’s like… an assassin goes to the North Sea and kills someone, and then he goes around asking who that assassin was. Does that make any sense?”
There was no malice in their voices—just the idle grumbling of men drinking together. Yet that grumbling pierced the ears of the party like a blade.
Garkan brought his horse to a halt.
His hand moved to the wrist bound with the Bing Cheol-sae. The clan leader didn’t joke. When he was angry, his hands moved first.
Were those men desperate to die?
Then Aelak spoke without even turning around.
“Move on.”
Harku opened his mouth from beside him, then caught sight of Garkan’s expression and closed it again.
Aelak kept his eyes forward and urged his horse on.
He’d heard rough words, but his pace did not slow.

Had he not heard what they said? It seemed so. For he showed no trace of disturbance despite hearing such words.
Yet there was a micro-pause in Aelak’s movement—because what they spoke was something he’d already been thinking, a truth they’d struck right at.
This way of doing things seemed like it would never find the enemy. He had to find some other method. No matter what rumors spread, the ones behind this wouldn’t step forward.
The village fell a horse-length behind them.
The grassland stretched on without end.
Aelak finally turned his head to the side.
Garkan shook the horse’s head and let out a short breath.
“For a complaint, that was remarkably accurate.”
Aelak did not answer.
Garkan’s brief words spoke for Aelak instead. The captain had sensed what the clan leader was thinking and voiced it before Aelak could.
“Brother, those two people from earlier.”
Harku spoke while gazing across the grassland.
“They were carrying weapons, but when they saw us, they didn’t even think of drawing them.”
“I saw.”
“The rumor seems to be working well, doesn’t it? Stay out of the way, and we won’t cut you down.”
Harku twisted the corner of his mouth lightly.
Serian remained lost in thought the entire journey. She recalled everything she had learned from the Huku Clan. Was there any way to buy information?
No. If it was an incident involving the death of Bing Gong-ju of the North Sea, there would be no leads at all.
The sun touched the far edge of the grassland.
The party stopped their horses beside a small stream.
They unloaded the packs from the horses’ backs and took out dried provisions and leather water skins.
Aelak spoke briefly.
“Rest well. Do nothing.”
‘What about the clan leader?’
Garkan reflexively swallowed the words that had nearly burst from his lips. When the clan leader spoke like that, it meant he wanted time alone. And yet—
“Rest well?”
Harku, oblivious to the tension, dismounted and repeated the words. There was bewilderment in his tone as well.
“I was never taught how to rest like that.”
“If you’ve never learned, then learn today.”
Garkan pressed the youngest’s shoulder with one hand and sat him down on the grass beside the saddle.
“That’s an order from the clan leader.”
“Do you know how to rest, brother?”
“I intend to learn today.”
“They say a person who never rests will die if they suddenly do.”
“That’s only for you. Why don’t you practice forms instead.”
Garkan had the final word.
Taikan loosened his bow from his back and spoke.
“I’ll sleep off the accumulated fatigue. Wake me when the crickets stop.”
“No. You rest well too. Today, don’t wake even if the crickets stop.”
Garkan accepted that instruction.
Garkan’s gaze briefly drifted past the fire to the grass beyond. Aelak’s place was empty.
Garkan loosened the Bing Cheol-sae from his wrist and set it down on the grass. Usually he kept it wrapped around his wrist at all times. The chain settled lightly onto the grass, finding its place.
‘Today I’ll let this one cool as well.’
It was the instinct of a warrior loosening his guard. Aelak’s orders usually put something into his hands, but tonight they took something from them.
Serian kindled a campfire.
A handful of dry branches, flint.
Small sparks took hold on the grass. She circled the flames and checked the positions of all five members. Once her inspection was complete, her eyes settled on one empty place in the grass beyond the fire.
It seemed strange that Aelak’s place was empty. Usually he would sit on the grass a horse’s length from the fire, lost in thought.

Aelak rose from where he was.
He crossed the grassland and stepped into the dark forest beyond.
Starlight fell sparsely between the branches. But Aelak’s eyes were brighter than an owl’s. He saw through the darkness with perfect clarity.
Gray eyes fixed on a great tree.
Shring!
His blade sang free, and icy essence flowed along its length.
Whoosh! Crack… Boom!
The great tree fell in a single stroke. As the massive trunk came down, it sent up a harsh roar and a cloud of dust. Leaves scattered in all directions.
Aelak worked with deliberate precision.
He split the fallen trunk and carved out a section roughly the size of a man.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
His blade worked roughly against the wood. Shavings piled up at his feet.
Gradually, the wood took on the shape of a human form.
A woman.
Karani.
One adult arm in length, carved smaller than life-size, sized small enough to be bound to a saddle—yet carved so that a person could recognize her.
He would carve a wooden statue.
Aelak sheathed his sword and drew his short blade. The work of refining details began.
Scritch! Slash!
He carved the first mark. Wood shavings fell onto the grass. His eyes fixed upon the wooden block. His expression remained unchanged from before.
But… his hands carving the wood hesitated.
Outwardly he was unmoved, yet the white crystalline scar across his chest thawed and froze again.
He could not speak of longing, could not speak of sorrow. Yet whenever a feeling rose within him, his hands would still. His jaw clenched tight.
His hands moved again.
Upon the wooden block, Karani’s form gradually emerged. A face glimpsed for the first time in thirty years at the Bing Gong in the North Sea. Silver hair was carved into being.
The grass insects sang.
Above their chorus, the sound of the blade scraping wood drifted thin and clear.
Scritch! Scritch!
Karani’s form was completed as a wooden carved statue.
About the length of a man’s arm.
This was not the end. There remained something to be carved upon the wooden statue.
Eight marks.
There had been eight traces upon Karani’s body. They were not from a single swordsman. Eight attacks had been made, each leaving its own mark.
The first mark. Friction heat. Charring. A slashing wound.
A scar left when flesh is burned as a blade moves too swiftly. That char was burned into his memory. At such speed, it could only be Flash Lightning.
The second mark. Seven Blade Extremes converging at a single point. A sword of remarkable transformations. Yet the focus was intense. In the end, it decided through sheer destructive force.
The third mark. A thick saber wound.
A single saber strike, wider than any sword mark, had crossed Karani’s shoulder.
The fourth mark. The imprint of a crushed palm. Beside it, the shadow of a Step Method. There was a trace where someone had stepped like a shadow.
The fifth mark. A wound with black light.
One who uses poison. A vicious technique. The flesh had been dyed black.
The sixth mark. A strange sword wound.
A sword mark carved by sound waves… a technique Aelak had never seen before. The blade passed first, and the sound of the blade passed above it. The cut flesh bristled with bumps as the sound created ripples.
One who inflicts pain upon flesh through sound.
The seventh mark. Deep.
A deeply embedded scar. Narrower and deeper than a sword wound. The entry and exit marks aligned perfectly. The technique of thrusting and withdrawing was near miraculous.
The eighth mark. A sword wound falling diagonally.
The path of a blade descending at sunset’s angle. A slashing blade—a Rotating Blade.
Aelak carved every mark he had seen upon the Karani figurine without exception. That place, that moment. The wounds that had driven Karani to death.
The figurine was complete.
All eight marks aligned with where they had been on Karani’s body.
Aelak rose, holding the figurine.
Now the method would change. He would not ask who had gone north to the North Sea. He would seek those who could inflict such wounds, those who possessed such martial arts.
He would find people through their martial arts.

Aelak walked toward the fire.
The carefully crafted figurine was laid gently upon the grass.
Garkan’s movements stopped. Harku’s lips parted slightly, then closed. Arko sat up. Taikan gripped the bowstring he had relaxed and froze.
None asked who the figurine was. There was no need to ask. The eight marks carved upon the figurine’s body caught the firelight and cast shadows.

Serian took the figurine in both hands and cradled it to her chest. The small Karani nestled against her.
Eight marks.
Her lips trembled. Tears fell from her grayish-blue eyes onto the figurine’s shoulder. Where they fell, the ash-fire glow flickered briefly.
Serian had never seen Karani. Yet through the mouths of the Huku Clan elders, she had heard of Karani’s marks.
She opened her lips, still cradling the figurine in both hands.
“Karani… sister.”
From her mouth, that title emerged for the first time.
Not the First Fire, not the Palace Mistress. Sister.
“Is this how you died? Like this?”
Two words fell upon the ash-fire.
No one answered. Garkan bowed his head. Somewhere in the grass, a small creature cried. The figurine lay in Serian’s hands.
“Sister.”
From Serian’s lips, that single word flowed again.
“Sister.”
Her calling held no meaning. The eight marks alone spoke of revenge.

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