North Sea Martial Arts Warrior - Chapter 98

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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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98. Five Exchanges

The final strike of the Cheongi Myeoljulson aimed true at Aelak’s throat.
With the fan ribs aligned into one, they hung a mere inch from his neck—above, below, left, right, every escape sealed off. An inescapable speed, an inescapable angle.
Yet in that final inch of space, Aelak’s foot slipped like a serpent. In an instant, he had already shifted half a span diagonally.
Slice!
The fan ribs cut through empty air, hollow as a sigh.
A movement that left no afterimage.
Only a single strand of hair was severed by the edge; his throat remained unmarked.
Aelak’s hand still rested nowhere near the sword hilt. He had endured all five exchanges of the Cheongi Myeoljulson as promised.

“…He dodged it.”
The nephew watching from afar gasped, muttering to himself.
“My uncle’s fifth exchange… his final killing strike missed.”
It had never been a trajectory a human could slip through. Yet this grey-eyed monster had escaped that snare with a single flick of his foot.
As if he had known beforehand that the half-span of space would be empty when Jegal Chan swung the fan—so natural, so perfectly timed.

Jegal Chan’s fan hardened in the empty air.
A secret art cultivated over a lifetime, the Cheongi Dunap—never once revealed to the world.
He had poured it all out, striking seven phantom walls at once, yet the man had not drawn his blade. He showed no sign of strain.
For the first time, all color drained from the patriarch’s weathered face.

“Now it begins.”
Garkan spat the words.
“From his side? Must be infuriating.”
Harkoo tapped the Twin Halberd Swords with his fingertips, snickering.
Not a shred of sympathy tainted that mockery.
The one who had murdered Bing Gong-ju.
The coward who had orchestrated eight men to strike together.
He deserved their scorn, whatever his station in the Central Plains.
“He had to take the head within five exchanges—the old fool knows it. How can he manage this now? It’s finished.”

The arrogant chatter of the northerners reached Jegal Chan’s ears.
Still, he fought to maintain composure.
He pressed the shame of five exchanges made mockery, the shock of a killing strike gone astray, deep into the abyss.
The dying gasps of a man who had chosen to see forbearance not as insult but as time—he still possessed one final chance.
The sixth exchange… this time, Aelak too would counter. So he had to truly give everything. No regrets.
Whomp! Bang!
The seven dispersed shadow clones writhed like serpents, coalescing into one. A preparatory motion for the most explosive killing strike.
Blast!
The fan spread again, and the old body split grotesquely into seven.
Seven demons of murder bore down, sealing every exit.
The first exchange began anew. Three of them drove inward simultaneously—one toward his throat, one toward his heart, one toward his ribs.
Aelak shifted his weight with a single step, so subtle it was barely perceptible, letting the three killing intents flow past like water.
Rip!
The hem of his robe tore and fluttered away. But not a single hair on his skin was scratched. His hand still had not touched the sword hilt.

“Stubborn bastard. Really won’t draw.”
Harkoo clicked his tongue.
“Five exchanges already satisfied… what’s he waiting for?”
Garkan muttered between chews of hardtack.

The second exchange descended on Aelak’s ribs like a serpent burrowing.
Jegal Chan’s fan harbored no excess.
A killing strike honed by the resolve of a lifetime.
Aelak regarded the fan ribs with a parched, dispassionate gaze.
This was the hand movement that tore through Karani.
Seven blades converging into a single point—a horrifying form.
The Third Exchange pressed forward, rending the space between them.
Seven shadow clones fanned outward like a folded fan, crushing every angle of escape. A killing move designed so that no matter which way he dodged, his skull would shatter in the next flurry.
This technique—the second time. Yet it had already become familiar to his eyes.
Aelak dropped low like a beast, slipping through the gap between shadow clones—no wider than a palm—like a ghost.
Even Jegal Chan had never dreamed his formation held such a blind spot.
“…He’s insane. Dodging the Third Exchange as if it were nothing.”
Taikan murmured, releasing the tension from his bowstring.
“Everything else is sealed—except for one needle’s eye that’s open. The patriarch slipped through there. He’s showing this head of the family exactly where the blind spot lies.”
“This is maddening. How cruel. Why not finish him quickly?”
“Karani met a crueler end than this.”
Garkan cut the conversation short.

Cold sweat traced down Joka’s spine.
It was a grotesque choreography of slaughter no human eye could follow—yet those northern barbarians were counting it like a child’s numbers game.
‘The head of the family… is becoming a plaything. Ah!’
Joka’s face drained of color.
The boy’s most revered hero, the man he believed to be the strongest in all the world—being toyed with like this.
Could they take revenge on those people?
Tears streamed down the boy’s face. Pure rage.

The Fourth Exchange. A fan-edge shot toward Aelak’s brow like an arrow.
A different technique than before.
Not a trap for the Fifth Exchange, but sheer obsession to pierce through with overwhelming speed.
Aelak didn’t even tilt his head. He twisted his torso razor-thin like a sheet of paper, letting the fan’s edge graze the bridge of his nose by the breadth of a hair.
A dodge measured in the width of a single strand.
At last, the Fifth Exchange erupted.
Shreeee!
Seven blades of killing intent compressed into a single point, hurtling down to pierce Aelak’s heart.
“This is it.”
Only then did a hollow voice escape Aelak’s lips.
Those horrific fan-marks that had torn open Karani’s back. The original form of that killing strike which had claimed Bing Gong-ju’s life—it was this Five-Move sequence.
Aelak’s gray eyes, for the first time, went dull and heavy.
He had confirmed his enemy, and understood the method that had killed Karani.
Now it was over.
Ironically, Jegal Chan’s mightiest killing strike came with the greatest blind spot. Aelak’s eyes saw it with perfect clarity.
Seven energies crossing, leaving a dead angle empty in their wake,
Suddenly, as if sensing danger, the fan cutting through the void went rigid.
Seven shadow clones collapsed back into the original body.
Even the insects in the field fell silent.
Jegal Chan exhaled like a beast. He had unfolded his secret art—technique perfected over a lifetime, carved from his own bone and flesh—the complete Five Exchanges. All that remained was a torn hem and a single severed strand of hair.

“…Completely exposed.”
Garkan hurled the last of his bread to the ground.
“Now it’s time to collect the debt.”

Aelak’s hand finally came to rest on the pommel of the Beokryeongdo.
Uuuurgh…!
The pure black blade-spirit, nourished by blood and slaughter, howled within its sheath.
Like a malevolent ghost starved for a hundred years finally tasting blood—a chilling cry that froze the field’s dawn mist solid with sound alone.
From that single preparatory motion, Jegal Chan saw his own certain death.
Himself—stripped of his hidden arts. And the monster about to begin its blade dance. But he did not flee. From the moment he confessed to driving his blade into Bing Gong-ju’s back yesterday, there was no path to life.
‘To do my best… I will do my best!’
Jegal Chan, in a final thrash, unfolded seven shadow clones once more. Knowing it would not work… the mist that had not yet cleared filled the space between them, hiding the true form.
The ultimate illusion, meant to paralyze the mind of one who chases with the eyes.
Of course, Aelak’s eyes could not be deceived. He knew. Still, this was his best.

Among the seven shells, only one pulse with life. The rest are crude phantoms woven by fan-wind alone.
Phantoms do not bleed.
Eyes can deceive, but the murderous intent of a beast cannot.
“There’s only one heart beating here.”
Taikan spoke coldly.
“The clan leader scented it long ago. That’s why he dodged so calmly.”

Bang!
A bone-chilling killing intent erupted from Aelak’s feet. The absolute will to draw his blade froze the very air.
Before the dew clinging to the grass blades could fall, it crystallized in mid-air.
In that moment, seven shadow clones rushed at him with the resolve of shattered jade.
Even as Jegal Chan charged forward like a madman, instinct screamed at him.
Too late!
Yes. That monster’s sword draw was a thousand times faster.
Aelak twisted the hilt. Baldo.
Sling!
A single flash of light.
No sound, no afterimage, no wind.
A strike that transcended human perception cleaved the first shadow clone diagonally from shoulder to waist.
The bisected shadow scattered like a phantom, without a drop of blood.
The blade did not stop. As it moved through the second, third, and fourth clones, the sword’s trajectory twisted like a beast’s, changing direction three times.
There was no pause whatsoever.
The illusions burst apart. The fact that the blade drew no blood was unmistakable proof they were false.

“No! I can’t see it.”
Taikan’s pupils trembled.
Even a hunter’s eyes could not follow that true strike.
“I couldn’t either. I have no sense of where the blade went or how.”
“That’s beyond the realm of sight.”
Everyone murmured. They weren’t thinking before speaking—the words spilled out unconsciously, unbidden.

Jegal Chan watched his shadow clones burst apart like flies.
For the first time, his lips trembled.
“North Sea warrior, what in blazes are you….”
Aelak did not answer.
Silent Execution. That was the cruelest reply of all.
The blade mercilessly tore through the fifth and sixth clones.
All six illusions vanished in a single breath. Only one real body remained, heaving and alone.
Jegal Chan’s true form.
Aelak’s ashen eyes fixed on his gasping breath. Then the Beokryeongdo drew its final, pitiless stroke.
Screech!
The blue-green blade passed perfectly through Jegal Chan’s neck.
In his final moment, Jegal Chan did not even feel rage.
Understanding that what cut him was not mere technique but an unstoppable force of nature itself, he slowly closed his eyes.
A scholar and warrior whose life had been devoted to the Heavenly Mechanism—yet even his mind could not calculate this. Absolute violence.
His spine severed.

Jegal Chan’s head parted from his shoulders and shot skyward into the dawn.
The velocity of the severance was so furious that the smell of charred flesh from friction-heat shook through heaven and earth.
Even as the head traced a parabola through the air, the headless body stood grotesquely upright, its knees unbent.
Suffocating silence fell over the camp.
Joka could not bring herself to close her eyes. Instead, she burned that hellish beheading into her mind—the final image of the Jegal Clan before their annihilation.

Before the head hit the dirt.
Blood dripped, patter-patter, onto the grass. The first blood feud.
The first offering sworn to Karani.
Aelak did not sheathe his blade, but gazed down at the bloodstained earth.

“…Done.”
Garkan muttered.
“First of eight.”
Harkoo let out a harsh laugh in reply.
“Seven left now.”
The northerners’ conversation ended there.
Aelak parted his cracked lips. Words in the Northern tongue, meant for no one else—only for Karani.
“Birdur. Karani. Tar urdi.”
(First one. Karani. The oath is kept.)

Seven more beasts remained to be slain.
Whisk!
He shook the blood from the Beokryeongdo.
The creature’s grey eyes gleamed toward the next prey.

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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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