Reincarnation of the Blood Demon - Chapter 3

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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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Blood Demon Reincarnation
Chapter 3
Come Here
Jeok Unhui made his way down the hillside at a leisurely pace, his thoughts falling into order.
The ceremony had taken place on a low, wooded hill—removed from the town center, so it would take time to reach his destination.
The matter was urgent, but haste had never solved anything.
The situation he found himself in was such a mess that there was plenty to think about.
The first thing that came to mind was the radically transformed state of the Blood Cult.
‘The sect has become an undeniable pseudo-religion, and I, its founder, have been remade into a legendary demon lord.’
The Blood Heaven Scripture, which the congregation revered as their holy text, contained his recorded sayings and deeds, and he was venerated as if he were a god.
So much so that he was called something beyond even “blood demon”—he was known as Blood Heaven itself.
Of course, he himself was no stranger to distortion.
Between countless slanders and outright fabrications unrelated to anything he’d actually done, the figure described in the Blood Heaven Scripture was nothing short of history’s greatest demon lord.
“So that’s why they say the brush is mightier than the sword.”
It was only because time had passed that he could think of it calmly now; when he’d first learned of it, curses had poured from his lips unbidden.
Yet among all those fabrications, there was one teaching that had been transmitted with some accuracy.
None other than the principle of Survival of the Fittest.
—Blood Heaven spoke thus: the weak are destined to perish, and therefore all disciples must diligently cultivate themselves.
This was the passage that opened the Blood Heaven Scripture, and it was the root cause of the Blood Cult’s corruption.
By fostering obsession with nothing but growing stronger, it had robbed them of the ability to uphold even the most basic moral standards.
‘I said countless times that there is no shortcut to true strength.’
If they had actually grown stronger, it might have been one thing, but it seemed they hadn’t managed even that much.
‘The martial artists of Jeok Sabang were all pathetically incompetent.’
Any normal warrior would never have been slaughtered one-sidedly by an invalid like himself in that situation.
No matter how much he was the resurrected Blood Heaven, there were limits to what one could do—yet the warriors he’d faced directly were nothing but a rabble.
They seemed merely paralyzed by fear, incapable of rational thought or judgment.
And beyond all that…
“These insane bastards. I never said any such thing.”
The very passage that opened the Blood Heaven Scripture—that absurd line—had never come from his mouth in the first place.
It was attributed to Blood Heaven’s words, but no matter how hard he tried to recall, he’d never spoken anything so ridiculously ill-omened.
The only memory that came to mind was…
—If you don’t like it, why don’t you become the cult leader? Are you better at fighting than me?
Just that one phrase.
It seemed it had been distorted and twisted until it spawned this catastrophe.
Countless people had been harmed as a result.
‘Third Lord is the most obvious witness to it all.’
Born as the illegitimate child of a maidservant, not the heir to some great demonic noble house.
His mother had died after bearing him, and Third Lord himself had inherited a cursed constitution—a Limited Lifespan.
Though he was already renowned as a genius in martial arts and commanded considerable power, his half-brothers were so far his superior in backing and ability that he had nothing whatsoever to boast of.
So he bore only the name of a lord in title, receiving nothing but contempt from all quarters—a failure among failures.
The life he’d lived was less a life than a hell.
‘So in the end, it was my fault, wasn’t it.’
Whether intentional or not, he was the origin of this great evil.
If he hadn’t left those words behind, the Blood Cult would never have overstepped its bounds in pursuit of power.
He paused for a moment in thought, then let out a snort of dismissal.
“Nonsense.”
This was all the fault of his incompetent descendants who had twisted his meaning—how could it possibly be his responsibility?
He folded away the shame that rose unbidden and reaffirmed his resolve to do his utmost to salvage the situation, since responsibility did lie with him in some measure.
After that, his thoughts cascaded one into another in an endless chain.
His past life, his present life, the decline of Blood Cult martial arts against the development of demonic arts, the petty schemes of Jeok Sabang and the mysterious identities of Ju Igyeom and those unknown watchers…
Then his thoughts circled back to the beginning.
‘Where could Jeok Sabang-ju be?’
First, he needed to see the face of the man who had orchestrated this ridiculous ceremony.
‘Once the sun goes down, he drinks himself stupid at the pleasure houses, or so I’ve heard.’
Though today was the day of an important ceremony, so perhaps things would be different, it couldn’t hurt to check Jeok Sabang-ju’s usual haunt.
“We greet Third Lord.”
Though he walked without speaking, not a few people recognized Jeok Unhui.
It was only natural—he was Third Lord of the Blood Cult, and especially so here in Namhwa Prefecture.
‘In my time, there was no city as fine as this, but it’s developed well enough.’
Currently, the structure of the Blood Cult was roughly as follows.
At the center of the Blood Cult lay the main temple, and from that point, four prefectures spread out to the east, west, south, and north. By tradition, the Cult Leader would dispatch one of his children or another figure of comparable importance to oversee each.
Beyond these four, there were also forces commanded by the Blood Cult’s seven elders.
But what mattered now were those four prefectures.
‘Among them, Namhwa Prefecture was supposedly the domain ruled by the Third Son.’
Because the Third Son had been known to venture out so rarely in life, many people failed to recognize him. Yet still, a fair number approached to pay their respects first.
Though, of course, it was all mere formality.
‘Look at the way they eye you.’
Their courtesies were impeccable on the surface, but their gazes held the barren, pitying quality of those regarding a dying man.
It was a response the Third Son had endured like clockwork for the past ten years, all throughout the Cult Leader’s silence.
But it was no concern of his, so he paid it no mind and continued forward with long, easy strides.
And so a little time passed…….
* * *
Huihong House—the preferred haunt of Jeok Sabang-ju.
The gatekeeper, stationed at the entrance, bowed respectfully and spoke.
“Third Son, I bid you welcome. What brings you here today?”
“A man comes to a tavern for drink. Is there need for another reason?”
“Ah, yes. Please, do come in. Allow me to show you the way.”
“No need. I can find my own path.”
Jeok Unhui made to pass, then, as though suddenly remembering, he turned back to the gatekeeper with a question.
“Is Jeok Sabang-ju here today as well?”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
“Impressive fellow. Very well.”
With a nod, Jeok Unhui moved forward, his figure receding into the depths of the establishment. The gatekeeper watched his departing back with visible confusion.
‘He never drinks. I’ve never seen him touch it.’
Sickly as he was, one wrong meal could spell disaster for a body as fragile as his.
Yet here he was, visiting a pleasure house.
And something in his gait, in the tone of his voice—it differed from what the gatekeeper had always known. There was an unexpected vigor to it.
‘Is this the end, then?’
The saying went that a man who does something uncharacteristic dies soon after.
As far as the gatekeeper could tell, the Third Son’s final hour was not far distant.
The gatekeeper scratched his head and turned away.
Jeok Unhui ascended to the topmost floor of the establishment, where Jeok Sabang-ju kept his quarters, a bottle of Strong Spirits clutched in his hand—procured from somewhere along the way.
“Excellent.”
A single sip sent fire coursing down his throat and into his stomach, a sensation that pleased him immensely.
Whatever else might be said, one advantage of jumping back five hundred years was the advancement in the art of distillation.
Unlike the thin, watered-down spirits of his former era, this was deliciously potent, and it suited his palate.
After another sip, he fixed his gaze on the door to the top floor.
‘He forces me into human sacrifice, yet here he sits, guzzling wine. This won’t do.’
He felt a cold certainty settle over him—this could not stand.
Another swallow of Strong Spirits, and he drew his Inner Force to the surface.
Tap, tap, tap.
With his index finger, he struck the vital points along his meridians in swift succession. In that instant, the fumes of the spirits rippled through him like his own Qi, suffusing his entire body.
A sensation bloomed like anesthesia, a floating numbness.
When he opened his eyes, the pain that had dogged every moment since his resurrection was simply… gone.
‘Intoxicated Dream Finger.’
A technique he’d toyed with for amusement in his past life. He’d never imagined using it like this.
But he didn’t stop there. With all five fingers of his right hand, he pressed hard against the vital point over his heart.
And then…….
Thump—!
With a strange, violent percussion, a fierce vitality surged through his crippled body—a power wholly incongruous with the frame of an invalid.
‘Blood Burst Thunder.’
A forbidden technique that forcibly unlocked the body’s latent potential, awakening a temporary surge of vigor.
It was the secret that had allowed him to overwhelm the warriors of Jeok Sabang.
Because it drew upon hidden reserves, it came with considerable backlash—exhaustion, and worse. But as he was now, little more than a corpse, he had no choice.
‘Using this at all leaves a sour taste…….’
Yet carelessness had never been his way.
The moment his preparations were complete, he gathered his strength and kicked the door clean off its hinges.
Bang!
“Come here.”
The door swung open to reveal, within, a hulking brute of a man—looking every inch a bandit—bracketed by two courtesans, happily guzzling wine. It was Jeok Sabang-ju.
“What?”
“An uninvited guest, you idiot.”
Jeok Sabang-ju, recognizing the intruder, started in surprise.
“……What brings you here, sir? Has the matter been handled?”
“No. Something’s gone wrong, so I came to lodge a complaint.”
“A complaint, sir?”
“You performed human sacrifice in the name of a rejuvenation ritual—are you insane? Do you not know that’s a capital offense?”
“……!”
At the sharp, dagger-like accusation hurled without preamble, Jeok Sabang-ju’s face went rigid.
He glanced sidelong at the courtesans flanking him and toward the open door, then asked with an expression of disbelief.
“That’s absurd…… There’s no way that could be true, is there?”
Rather than flare into anger, he attempted to slip free of the situation with calculated composure.
Despite his menacing appearance, Jeok Sabang-ju was ordinarily a meticulous man—but this was no ordinary situation for such tactics to avail him.
“In the first place, wretches like you have no business claiming you could reform anyone’s constitution.”
Typically, an art capable of transforming one’s physical nature requires countless resources and hands.
What the Blood Cult’s central lodge itself could not accomplish would have zero probability of succeeding in a backwater outfit like Jeok Sabang.
The Third Young Master, desperate and with vision narrowed, had merely grasped at straws.
“Yet you deliberately approached me and proceeded with human sacrifice? I can only assume you had another purpose in mind.”
For instance, to position yourself as a shield—a scapegoat who might take the blade in his stead if things went wrong.
“The Third Young Master, mad with death at his door, attempted human sacrifice—believable enough, precisely because it is the Third Young Master. No one would have harbored suspicion.”
Win, and you profit. Fail, and you bear no cost.
And when the ritual required blood kin of a Demonic Cultivator—well, the answer was already determined from the start.
Jeok Unhui finished his words evenly.
“But even so, this is no small matter for someone like you. Who stands behind you?”
Even a rotted bream is still a bream—he remains the Third Young Master of the Blood Cult. You are not the sort of person Jeok Sabang-ju could presume to touch.
There must be someone behind this. Someone bold enough to scheme against the Blood Cult’s own son.
‘I don’t know who it is, but they must have sweetened the pot considerably—or promised you some cushy position.’
Nothing less would have justified making a move on the Third Young Master.
Since this reasoning struck home, Jeok Sabang-ju’s face hardened once more.
“……Human sacrifice, conspirators—you certainly do enjoy spinning fantasies. Who would believe such tales? ──”
Crash!
Mid-sentence, a wine bottle came flying. Jeok Sabang-ju flinched violently and twisted his head aside to evade it.
“Whether you believe me is no concern of mine.”
After all, Jeok Unhui had not come here for debate.
“What are you doing?!”
“Well, I wasn’t entirely certain myself. But your reaction—that confirms it.”
So speaking, Jeok Unhui smiled, lips curling upward.
Jeok Sabang-ju felt sudden heat and touched his cheek. Blood came away on his fingers.
A shard of the shattered bottle had opened a wound across his cheek. The strong spirits had drenched him thoroughly.
Had he not dodged quickly, he might have taken the bottle full in the face.
“You’re mad!”
Jeok Sabang-ju surged to his feet, overcome with fury.
The courtesans, sensing the sudden danger, went perfectly still. Seeing this, Jeok Unhui jerked his head toward the door.
“You women—leave. Unless you want to die.”
“But——!”
The courtesans rose hesitantly, though Jeok Sabang-ju’s glare bore into them.
Clang!
A blade came slashing through the air without warning, forcing him to draw his own Short Blade and block.
“You keep getting distracted.”
“Damn you!”
The courtesans shrieked and fled, while Jeok Unhui and Jeok Sabang-ju exchanged three more blows.
“Hrgh!”
Jeok Sabang-ju put force behind his blade, driving Jeok Unhui back, and cold sweat beaded on his brow.
‘Is this really…… is he truly that Third Young Master?’
The Third Young Master who had never trained in martial arts—whom he’d taken for easy prey.
Right up until he’d accepted the proposal, the Third Young Master had been nothing but a weakling to devour.
Yet what in the world was this?
He was being overwhelmed, utterly outmatched by someone he’d deemed vulnerable.
‘In strength, in speed—I don’t fall short in either, and yet——!’
But all those advantages paled before the overwhelming momentum of the Third Young Master’s assault.
The attack seemed careless enough, yet it set off alarm bells in his mind.
He was certain that one misstep would cost him a limb.
And the technique itself was far from ordinary. The elusive trajectory and movements forced him into pure defense, offering no openings for counterattack.
Yet even that defense was imperfect—caught off guard by the third son’s renewed assault, Jeok Sabang-ju felt his forearm split open.
Crack!
The blade came in like a serpent’s strike, wrapping around his guard with movements too quick to react to.
“Gah—!”
Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but the pain remained dull. The heavy drink coursing through his veins numbed sensation like an anesthetic.
He’d been drinking heavily today—so much that the third son before him seemed to double and blur.
His inner force wouldn’t circulate properly, and the violent exertion made his stomach churn.
‘What sort of state is this…!’
Slash, crack!
One wound, then another. Cuts large and small began to mar Jeok Sabang-ju’s body.
The stench of blood mingled with the sharp reek of spirits, making his head swim.
“Curse it—let’s talk for a moment—!”
“We can discuss that after you lose an arm or so.”
The third son laughed coldly and pressed his attack with renewed ferocity.
Jeok Sabang-ju’s jaw clenched.
‘Of all the damned timing…!’
It was infuriating. Had he not been drinking, he would never have been pushed back so helplessly.
True, his opponent was in such a weakened state that moving at all should have been difficult—but that hardly mattered now.
Then, suddenly—
Thud!
The third son’s knee shot upward like lightning, driving straight into Jeok Sabang-ju’s solar plexus.
“Ugh!”
His back arched involuntarily, his throat exposed and vulnerable. The third son’s short blade, reversed in his grip, rushed forward in one fluid motion.
Shriek!

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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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