North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 73

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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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73. A Rescue Gone Awry

In the courtyard outside the Inn.
Arko and Harku stood back-to-back on the stone path, with fourteen swordsmen closing the distance before them.
Dried grass pushed through the cracks between the stones.
It was trampled sideways beneath the swordsmen’s feet.
Crunch!
Seven of them brought their blade tips together in unison, while eight supported from behind.
The formation had been woven tight once more.
“Damn brats. Maddening. They look identical, but they shift the moment they attack.”
Harku’s hand rested on his flank, his lips twisting. The usual snicker couldn’t rise past the weight of pain.
Blood seeped warm across his palm. That warmth, oddly, only irritated him more.
“It seems so straightforward I ought to break it in a heartbeat, but I can’t. So is that simple appearance a decoy meant to catch us off guard?”
Arko’s gaze tracked the formation.
It was a formation where hands and feet synchronized perfectly. Seven moved as one body. But the final movement—when the blades descended—changed.
Sharp. Seamless.
The Chieftain would meet it head-on. He’d still win. He has absolute destructive power. But anyone else… this sword formation was designed so that ordinary martial artists couldn’t withstand a direct confrontation.
Arko adjusted his grip on the Dokbi.
The handle—the shank made from bear bone—drank in his sweat.
“Split them.”
Arko’s eyes flicked to Harku for an instant, then back to the enemy.
“Divide into two. You take the right side.”
“So from now on, we each fend for ourselves? Let’s do it!”
Boom!
Harku bolted forward first. To the right!
Dust rose before his feet in the courtyard. Thirty of them total… they had to cleave this mass in two. If the fight dragged on, the two of them would crumble first.
Clang-clang-clang-clang!
The swordsmen’s blades began to cage both of them in.
Seven thrust in synchronized rhythm, eight covered the gaps.
The Ssang-ado found no room to swing.
The Dokbi found no opening to slip in.
Rip!
Harku’s flank split again. Blood soaked his robe. Both Ssang-ado blades cut sharp, brief arcs through the air.
“Damn… that really hurts.”
……
No one answered. Arko had peeled away to the left and couldn’t hear him. Too many blades raining down for him to spare any breath for banter.
“If this drags on much longer, I’m the one who falls first.”
The words leaked through his teeth. In place of a snicker, a brief prayer filled the gaps.
“Nar Bol Kurgan, …Karak Haira.”
(Nar Bol Kurgan, Karak Haira.)
— Cold Wind Spirit, with blood.
It was Harku’s favorite prayer.
Who had taught it to him? Words whispered at his bedside when he was small—he’d forgotten most of them. Only one line remained in memory.
Now was the time to fight, drenched in the blood pooling at his own flank.
“Good!”
Harku bolted straight toward the right.
The formation scattered to chase them both. Fifteen clung to Arko, the remaining fifteen to Harku. Dust rose in two separate plumes.

Garkan’s hand never left his flank.
Ready to unleash the Bing Chol-sae at any moment… his preparations were complete. The instant the Chieftain gave the word, he’d charge in.
Taikan kept his hand on the bowstring, watching the two fighters.
“Foolish bastard. So much blood.”
Garkan muttered, eyes fixed on Harku.
“That one always has his mouth running ahead. No wonder his body gets wounded before his blade does.”
“The formation is formidable. It seems they were caught off guard—they’ve never seen a pattern like this before. If they split like this… it will grow even more disadvantageous for them.”
Taikan murmured as though in passing.
His fingers had already selected an arrow and nocked it to the bowstring. He was poised to shoot the moment the Chieftain gave the word.
……
Aelak fell silent. Then,
“Should we not intervene?”
Taikan’s tone was resolute. Courteous, but unyielding.
Aelak’s grey eyes scanned the two figures beyond the stone wall. After a moment, he answered curtly.
“They will win.”
That was all.
Taikan lowered his bow. His grey eyes returned to the space beyond the wall. When such a pronouncement fell from the Chieftain’s lips, it required nothing more.
If the Chieftain said they would win, they would win.
It was the most binding promise within the tribe.

Screech!
Harku’s Ssang-ado blades whirled.
— They will win
The Chieftain’s casually uttered words became thunder, crashing against the eardrums of both fighters. He was saying, as plainly as if he’d spoken it: ‘You are Aelak. How could you lose to such rabble?’
‘To these worms!’
Harku clenched his teeth and drew Cold Qi up from his lower abdomen. He bound the blood vessel along his ribs with cold energy once, staunching the flow. The pain froze in place.
The final Qi Circulation an Aelak warrior summoned before death. This Qi could not sustain him beyond a single Double Hour. Within that span, he had sworn to himself it would be finished.
Power Surge—his true energy erupted savagely. Indifferent to his own survival, he steeled himself: kill them, even if their blades pierced him.
Then… the Formation seemed as thin as toad skin. Parched and brittle, as if one step would shatter it to fragments…
Screech!
Two blades swept forth like a whirlwind.
He shattered the Formation with brute force. An all-out strike. He wrung from himself every last ounce of strength. Seven swordsmen were drawn into the vortex’s heart.
The blade edges cleaved between their swords, raking across shoulder, flank, and neck. Three of the swordsmen flew backward onto the stone path.
The whirlwind did not cease.
The two blades wheeled back, scattering the stance of the remaining four. The acrid stench of dark blood rose briefly across the stone path.
It happened before the eight could mount a proper defense.
Arko’s hands likewise unfurled two Dokbi blades at once.
A barrage unseen by mortal eye.
With each swing, eight to ten wounds opened. The Dokbi traced across wrists, shoulders, throats in succession. One by one he picked them off.
Systematically, methodically.
As the eight staggered back together, two buckled at the knees.
The poison stained flesh black. No—it did not stop but flowed like a living thing. Black threads spread slowly across skin, following every contour.
Arko’s mouth remained closed from first to last. Only his hands spoke, only his body, only his blade. Even his breath was ground against steel.
Blood ran between the stones of the path.

At the same moment, inside the Inn.
An oil lamp toppled onto the wooden floor. Tables and chairs lay shattered, splintered, scattered in every direction. A wine vessel shattered, its reek filling the air.
Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s swordplay was brilliant and vicious.
Where the blade would fly next was impossible to predict. The angle changed with every slash. As the blade edge fell, it seemed like flower petals scattering—and each petal flew toward Seerian’s throat.
The Man-hwa Ryu-hong Sword.
Ten thousand blossoms flowing scarlet.
Seerian’s Eun-seol weaved between the petals. But each time a red petal was cut away, another bloomed in its place.
From Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s hand came another handful of Mi-hon Powder.
A sweetish, cloying smell filled the Inn momentarily.
Breathe the powder and your knees collapse.
Block it with the blade and the powder enters your lungs. Let your feet brush the floor and the grains ride up your sole to lodge in your nostrils.
But… Seerian’s footwork left no prints on the wooden floorboards. Ice Dance Step had transformed into Yin Snow Step.
Her feet leave no trace even upon snow. Faster than wind. The Hu-ku Tribe footwork came alive across the floor.
“Huh!”
Seerian shallowed her breath in sharp gasps.
She sealed her lips nearly shut, keeping the powder from settling in her lungs.
Another handful. Another strike.
Hwa-saek Lang-gun swung his blade, scattered powder, swung again.
Seerian whirled Eun-seol, batting the petals away.
Each time blade met blade, a brief shower of sparks erupted.
Neither could deliver a finishing blow.
Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s lips twisted, as if he were seeing for the first time an opponent upon whom Mi-hon Poison had no effect.
Evenly matched. His hands accelerated. As they quickened, his blade grew wilder still. Sparks scattered across the floorboards.
Seerian stepped back helplessly before the sword’s endless transformations. She could neither follow the changes nor block them, so retreat was her only option.
Yet her gaze remained fixed not on Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s feet, but on his shoulder. A warrior’s shoulder is the first place to betray the drawing of a blade. Watch. Keep watching.
Did Hwa-saek Lang-gun seem like a man to squander such an opening? He pressed forward relentlessly.
In that instant, Seerian’s left hand moved to her waist. The knot of her Yeo-dae came undone.
Whip-snap!
The leather belt curved like a whip, coiling around Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s ankle. At the same moment, Eun-seol, gripped in reverse, struck his shoulder. She’d closed the distance without warning.
Squelch.
The blade sank into Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s shoulder.
“Agh!”
He twisted his body with a strangled cry.
Blood welled from his shoulder, soaking through his robes. He tore free of the Yeo-dae wound around his leg, ripping away flesh. By Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s measure, not having his bones shattered was a stroke of incredible luck.
“We’ll settle this yet!”
He hurled himself through the window, shattering it.
Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s body vanished into the darkness beyond. No cry, no curse, no promise of return—only the desperate scramble of a man in flight.
Within the Inn, only powder residue, shattered window panes, a captain’s severed head sprawled across a chair, and the Mi-hon Poison victims remained.
There was no need to tend to them. Time would purge the toxin.
She wiped the blood from her blade on her sleeve.
Seerian gazed into the darkness beyond the broken window for a moment. Those who fled into shadow seldom returned.

The outer courtyard settled into stillness.
The two sheathed their swords. Half of Hwa-saek Lang-gun’s men lay upon the stone path; the other half had vanished into darkness in pursuit of their leader.
The two did not hunt down the fleeing.
The purpose of this fight was not annihilation. Their aim had been achieved.
When the sound of blades ceased, the Courtyard fell silent.
Grass insects’ calls rose again beyond the stone walls. The dust of the Courtyard settled slowly to earth.
Seerian approached the two siblings.
The Mi-hon Powder would wear off in time. She pressed her fingers to their wrists, feeling their breath. Cheok Ha-rin’s breathing was steady. Cheok Mu-young’s was ragged, though slowly steadying itself.
The sister had endured better than the brother.
Seerian’s eyes narrowed slightly at this realization.
In martial families, sisters are ordinarily raised weaker than their brothers. Yet this one was not. How did she withstand the Mi-hon Poison?
Seerian settled them both upright in chairs. A sickly-sweet smell drifted across the floorboards.

Cheok Mu-young’s eyes opened first.
Even through the dizziness, he straightened his posture and pressed his palms together.
“I am grateful. You have rendered me great service.”
“Your breathing won’t be steady yet. The Mi-hon Powder’s vapors remain in your lungs—rest a moment.”
“Yes. That would be wise.”
“Here is herbal remedy. Drink it slowly, a sip at a time, and the Mi-hon Poison will fade.”
“Understood. And my sister—how does she fare?”
“Don’t worry about her. She has greater resistance to Mi-hon toxins.”
“I see. You have my debt of gratitude.”
“There is no debt. We simply happened to be in the same place.”
“This kindness, I shall repay.”
Seerian handed him the bowl.
Cheok Mu-young accepted it with both hands. His shoulders trembled once. Traces of powder residue clung to his robes.
Steam rose faintly from the bowl’s surface.
The herbal scent slowly pushed back the cloying smell of powder.
Cheok Ha-rin’s eyes opened, following her brother’s.
Her gaze traveled past her brother’s back to rest on Seerian.
“Brother, are you well?”
“I’m fine. And you?”
“I’m well too.”
Seerian offered a brief smile.
Cheok Ha-rin drew her knees together neatly and bowed her head to Seerian.
“I shall repay this debt without fail.”
“Then… would you guide me on my way?”
“How far are you traveling?”
“Far to the south.”
“We’re headed to the Hwa-san Sect—my brother has business to the north.”
“Ah! Then I’ll travel with you only as far as the Hwa-san Sect. I was planning to visit there anyway.”
Seerian spoke with a broad smile.
Her laughter carried the unselfconscious directness of a northern woman. Cheok Ha-rin tilted her head slightly as she met that gaze.

Moments later, Aelak and his company stepped inside the Inn.
Aelak led the way, followed by four subordinates filing in one after another.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath their feet.
Rough men—the air inside the Inn grew heavy in an instant.
Arko bore the marks of defeat, and Harku bled from his side. With them came the smell of earth and dust from the Courtyard outside, drifting in through the door.
In that moment, Cheok Mu-young’s eyes wavered.
He recognized them at once. Northern savages. Targets of the Murim Alliance.
His benefactor—the one who had saved his life—was the very person he had been searching for.
‘So these are the ones!’
He cried out silently.
His father’s command echoed in his mind. Do not meet them. Do not clash. Step aside. But he had already seen them. The meeting was done.
In that instant, Cheok Mu-young’s hand touched the hilt of his sword lightly.
‘These people… they’re dangerous. I cannot travel with them. The Hwa-san Sect will be drenched in blood.’
Cheok Mu-young’s eyes wavered once more.

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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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