SSS-Class Sui**de Hunter - Chapter 84

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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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84. Blade Dance (2)
Winter.
“Snow falls.”
My master’s steps were light.
“Two days have already passed since the duel began.”
Gliding across ice as though weightless, weightless still, my master trod upon the Snow Field.
A world buried beneath white.
The black hem of my master’s robe flowed like brushstrokes upon blank paper.
—How long can you flee?
But there was another brushstroke pursuing that brushstroke.
Heavier than my master’s stroke, more forceful, more violent—a brushstroke laden with ink, pressed down with terrible weight.
—If it comes to Lightness Technique, I am no inferior.
Backhoe Spirit charged forward with ponderous strides, shattering ice beneath his feet, shouldering the snow aside like a bulldozer.
“I have full confidence I can flee forever.”
—Still, it will end.
“Do you not see? This world has become an endless Snow Field. There may be no destination, but the paths of escape are infinite.”
—I will not let you go.
Backhoe Spirit kicked against the snowbank and launched himself forward.
—If you were truly at your prime, yes, perhaps you could flee forever. But this is a duel happening now. The time remaining in your life—less than an hour remains. The sand falls through the glass. Still you choose to flee?
“Ah, how callous.”
—Truth has a way of being callous.
Backhoe Spirit swings his sword.
“Yes, I concede the point.”
My master turns his head, evading the strike with ease.
“My life draws short. I cannot continue fleeing forever.”
—Sooner or later, we must settle this.
“And there is no reason that moment cannot be now.”
—You speak sense.
“Then.”
My master grasps his blade.
“I shall show you my full strength.”
Demonic Heavenly Divine Art.
First form.
Starvation Flow Sword.
“…To be famished is to be the parent who exchanges his own child for the neighbor’s, and devours him.”
The blade cuts through winter wind, shrieking.
“Have you not heard the tale of that adult who stripped the neighbor’s child to jerky and buried him in the snow? Have you heard the rumors of that village? In winter, when you dig through the snow of that town with a shovel, they say you find children’s flesh caught on the blade’s edge with each stroke. Have you heard such stories?”
—How sorrowful.
Ching!
Backhoe Spirit blocks my master’s blade with his sword.
—A poor harvest, it seems.
“Yes. Famine returns like a recurring plague, again and again.”
—Yet it is mere chance.
Backhoe Spirit swings his blade, facing the winter wind.
—Chance brings abundance, chance brings scarcity. In all creation, nothing exists but chance. If you, teacher of your sect, weep over accidental tragedy, then by the same logic you must laugh and rejoice at accidental happiness.
“…….”
—The depth of one person’s sorrow is surely equal to the height of that same person’s happiness.
Ting!
Two blades cross.
Red petals fall.
—Therefore, I sing of autumn’s joyful harvest.
Snow descends like falling leaves.
—There was a day I walked a road and saw the Horizon. It was a day when a golden sea of grain stretched all the way to that distant line. Between stalks of rice tall as myself, small children played hide-and-seek. Their laughter rose through the gaps in the grain, then vanished, then rose again.
Autumn.
Wind blows.
The wild grasses turn crimson with autumn color, and the Horizon glows golden with grain.
—You spoke of children’s flesh buried in snow. I speak instead of children’s laughter echoing beneath the stalks of grain.
In a world where red leaves fall without number.
Backhoe Spirit swings his sword.
—Either way, both are mere chance on some forgotten day. If there is something I must forge into my blade, it is the laughter of the grain field. And if there is one image I must hold in my heart when at last I die, it is surely the sight of those children playing in the harvest. A simple choice, is it not?
“Truly.”
My master cuts through a maple leaf.
“What a blessed thing to say!”
Demonic Heavenly Divine Art.
Second Form.
Thirst Death Numbness Sword.
“You said it was all mere chance. Perhaps so. But happiness does not kill a person. It is the agony of hunger, the torment of thirst that destroys us! When we die, it ends forever. Everything ceases.”
The sun bears down.
“I sing of the common folk who perished unable to drink a single mouthful of water!”
Summer.
A scorching wind smothers the world.
Mountains and rivers, grass and wood—all wither.
Weeds turn sallow. Fruit shrivels, beetles move sluggishly, and along the riverbank lie hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of fish corpses. Flop. The round eyes of the fish hold no moisture.
—Ah.
My master’s blade grows sticky.
Even as Backhoe Spirit parries, my master does not retreat. Instead, he presses closer. Close-quarters combat. So near that each can feel the other’s breath. Clang! Chang! Sword strikes sword in rapid succession, the world spinning.
—Bathing in summer heat—nothing beats it.
Backhoe Spirit received every swift stroke of my master’s blade.
—You’re teaching Gongja wrong.
“What did you say?”
—My apologies; that was harsh. Not wrong exactly, but far too early.
Backhoe Spirit’s sword flowed like water.
—Singing of the world’s suffering is fine. Turning your eyes to others’ pain is fine. But you cannot sustain such things forever.
“Why not?”
—Simple: you will grow weary.
Clang!
Red spider lily petals scatter into dusk.
—This fool has yet to taste the world’s joy.
The tide of combat shifts.
—He must savor delicacies and rare fare. Only after tasting such things can he truly grieve for those who will never eat them. He must bathe in summer waters. Only after experiencing that can he weep for those who wither without water. The human heart is a candle wick. Burn it long enough, and one day it burns away entirely.
“…….”
—Do you know, Sect Lord? This fool has never even loved. Laughable! He has no experience of romance whatsoever!
Sword strikes rain down like a waterfall.
—Yet he already postures as though he bears the weight of all the world’s pain and sorrow. Unbelievable! Stop dreaming such things. Your sect’s teachings come too soon, far too soon!
The rain pours.
—I will teach this boy how to find joy.
Rain falls.
—I will teach him to laugh without a shred of falsehood. To lean his shoulder against another’s. To become so happy in someone’s company that he cannot help himself. Only then can he truly bear endless sorrow!
“You dare…….”
Rain falls on parched earth. The river swells with rainwater. Fish corpses drift and vanish in the current. Morning glories open their purple tongues to drink the falling drops.
The cry of frogs.
“You think to serve as master to my only direct disciple!”
Demonic Heavenly Divine Art.
Third Form.
Drowning Death Full Sword.
—Yes, I do!
“Dare you!”
Like rain that does not cease.
Blade strikes fall and fall again.
“How dare you covet my sole direct disciple!”
Midsummer.
The monsoon rains flood.
Down the river flow tens of thousands of crimson roses.
—This is madness! Originally, I planned to take his master’s seat myself!
A reservoir bursts; villages sink beneath the water. The floodline rises to the mountainsides. Upon the churning surface, my master and Backhoe Spirit dash. Splash. Plunge! Where their feet touch the water, ripples bloom.
—I was the one who taught him to slay orc lords! I awakened him to the use of Aura! A wretch with no talent for martial arts whatsoever—and yet I coaxed and encouraged him until he became barely worth using! And now a heretical sect leader dares to interfere!
“Heretical sect? What heretical sect?”
—Yes! Is the Demonic Sect not a heretical sect!
The two of them slide across the water’s surface.
Pursued.
With each step, waves ripple and bloom.
The pursuit continues.
Beneath his feet, rose petals press softly into the earth.
Two shadows stretch across the water and flowers.
-Wielding a blade is a joy!
On a rainy day, the scent of water.
The fragrance of flowers hangs thick in the air.
-The Demonic Heavenly Divine Art—tell Gongja this! A sword wielded by suffering, through suffering, as suffering itself! What kind of technique is that? It’s far too demonic! When there’s so much beauty in smelling flowers, such rapture in feeling summer rain against bare skin, we should be singing of that instead!
“Gongja! My disciple! Born to become the next leader of this sect!”
-That’s precisely why you’re called a heretic! Heretical sect master!
Tens of millions of roses.
The flooded river vanishes from sight. The water’s surface disappears beneath a layer of petals—the roses, the blooms, have swallowed it whole.
The world stains crimson with flowers.
“■■■■, ■■■. ■■■■.”
-■■■, ■■, ■■■■. ■■■!
Spring.
Flowers pour forth.
Crimson peonies scatter wildly into the sky.
“…The sixth form of the Peony Chaotic Sword—the Chaotic Chaos Strike—will carve through your four neck meridians.”
Clang!
Two petals fall severed from the blade’s edge.
-Evading two paces with the Snow-in-Orchid Step.
It shows.
“…The seventh form of the Demonic Heavenly Divine Art—the Staff Death Beating Sword—I shall unleash upon you.”
It rings out.
-Countering with the fourth form of the Sea Flower Full Strike: the Autumn Night Falling Moon Strike.
Both blades become visible.
Both feet press down hard on the peonies—they show.
Red peonies crushed underfoot, their fragrance bursting forth.
“…….”
Only now, seeing it, can I understand.
Master is.
The Demonic Sect’s leader, the Heavenly Demon, is losing.
“…With the eighth form of the Demonic Heavenly Divine Art—the Burning Death Consecutive Sword—I shall resist.”
Beneath the scattered peony sky, Master bleeds.
Soaked in blood.
The gap in power between Master and Backhoe Spirit is unmistakable. No matter how he fled seeking a prolonged battle, shaking off Backhoe Spirit’s pursuit is impossible. As payment for attempting the impossible, Master bleeds from his arms, legs, and shoulders—a steady crimson flow.
-Mm.
Backhoe Spirit assumes a stance.
-The first form of the Falling Sun Falling Flower Sword: the Moonlit Night Coming Sword.
“…….”
Master’s breathing grows shallow.
His Inner Energy is depleted.
To gamble on Mutual Destruction by expending True Energy would be greed beyond measure.
“I…….”
Master’s lips part.
“I never completed the final form of the Demonic Heavenly Divine Art. The reason is singular. The death rooted in my heart since childhood is freezing—death by frost. Abandoned by my mother, left alone on the Snow Field to freeze and perish. That was the end I have always deemed my death to be.”
Master raises his blade high.
“And yet.”
The sword’s point aims upward like the hour hand of noon, splitting the sky itself.
“Paradoxically, once the world came to its end, I could finally complete the ninth form of the Demonic Heavenly Divine Art.”
“…….”
“Heaven above and earth below—only I am sovereign.”
Heaven above and earth below, only I am sovereign.
“Whether gazing upward to the heavens or treading the earth beneath, only I exist. I implore. I implore. Blessed be. The world has become winter, and a single candle flickers out. My solitary song is the song of all heaven and earth, and my death is the death of heaven and earth themselves. White, it whitens, and white it remains.”
The blade.
Splits the sky.
“My Heavenly Demon utters its final testament upon the Snow Field.”
Demonic Heavenly Divine Art.
Ninth Form.
Solitary Existence Lonely Sword.
“…….”
Winter.
Cutting spring.
The crimson sky of petals tears open. In the riven gap, white winter comes howling. Howling, descending. Petals turn to snow, hundreds of millions of peonies become hundreds of millions of flurries, freezing the world.
A lonely blade.
A single strike singing the Heavenly Demon’s solitary death.
-Indeed.
The Backhoe Spirit gazes up calmly at the torrent of winter descending upon him.
-Death of Solitude. Is that the manner of death the Demonic Sect’s master has chosen? Yes, I concede it. As the final martial artist of an annihilated world, it is a strike most fitting.
A desolate smile played at the corner of the Backhoe Spirit’s mouth.
-But in matters of solitude, I understand better than you.
The Backhoe Spirit grips the hilt.
-How long did you endure alone in the solitary world? Three years? Two? No. Not even a single day. Because at your side there was always the Martial Alliance Lord. When the Martial Alliance Lord died, you lost your mind and went mad.
The blade’s point moves.
-I’m sorry, but.
And.
-I endured one hundred and thirty years alone.
Martial Art.
Formless Style.
One strike.
The peony flower.
Winter, spring, summer, autumn,
Autumn, winter, spring, summer,
Summer, autumn, winter, spring,
Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Plum blossom and peony and rose and spider lily.
Spider lily and plum blossom and peony and rose.
Petal, as petal, petal, being petal.
Crimson, and crimson, crimson, becoming crimson.
Winter.
Turning crimson.
Winter again.
Winter.
Breath.
Ragged, hastening.
“…….”
I caught my breath.
“…Gasp!”
I could not see it.
I could not hear it.
I could not comprehend that strike at all.
“Hah, gasp, agh……! Hah, ah…….”
But.
There was something more important now than understanding the blade.
“Master.”
“…….”
“Master, are you all right……? Are you all right?”
My master gazed silently up at the winter sky. His eyes had no focus. Thump. My heart pounded. I reached for my master’s hand. I felt for his pulse again and again.
It beats.
He lives.
He is still alive.
“Master.”
“…….”
My master’s lips opened slowly.
“I see.”
I see, my master said.
“So it was.”
So it was, my master said, and looked into my eyes.
“My disciple.”
Ink-black eyes.
“My disciple. From the very beginning, you had only one thought—to aid me.”
……
“You said you came seeking me across the sea, drawn by my renown… but that was a lie. A bald-faced lie. How could I have been so blind? My disciple would never cross the world merely for the sake of a name…….”
A voice.
My master’s voice grew softer and softer.
“Thank you.”
……
“Disciple, have you been happy to meet me?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Can I remain in your memory as a single flower?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you wish to know which flower?”
“A peony…….”
I embraced my master’s body.
“I will remember you as a crimson peony, Master.”
“Ah.”
My master smiled.
“How beautiful.”
My master’s hand brushed my cheek.
“How beautiful…….”
And then.
With the hand that remained, my master gestured toward the sky.
It was a frail and weightless gesture, like the fluttering wings of a newly hatched bird.
“My disciple…….”
Without sound.
Without any sound at all, the Snow Mountain was bisected.
The Snow Mountain, now split into two halves, lay quiet there, as though it had always been that way.
My master drew a white breath.
Dreaming a white dream, I suppose.
“Master…….”
I buried my face in my master’s shoulder. In the breath that had stopped. In time. In the person who was born bearing the fragrance of snow in their eyes.
“Winter has been cut. Master… winter has been cut.”
That day.
The winter of an entire world was severed.
SSS-Rank Hunter: Must Die to Live (serialized)
Author │ Shin Noah
Publisher │ Kim Ju-hyung
Published by │ J Plus Media Co., Ltd.
Marketing │ Han Jae-hyuk
Address │ 204, 288 Digital-ro, Guro-gu, Seoul (Guro-dong, Daelung Post Tower 1st)
Email │ [email protected]
Website │ www.jayplemedia.com
© Shin Noah 2019
※ This work is published by J Plus Media Co., Ltd. under contract with the copyright holder, and no content may be used in any form or manner without permission from the company and author.
Violation of this may result in criminal and civil legal liability.

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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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