Chapter 53: North Venerates Shaolin (3)

In his fading consciousness, Cheonjeong saw Soyak’s sword.

It shone until it raised a shimmering haze of radiance.

Was that Sword Qi?

Had she stepped onto the threshold leading into Transcendent Apex?

The sensation in his fingertips and toes dulled more and more.

Maybe his body was cooling—he felt cold.

Every time he took a breath, the blade lodged in him flared with burning pain.

“Head Senior! Get up! I said get up, Head Senior!”

He could hear Cheongak’s voice, too.

You should be helping Soyak—why are you holding on to me?

But the words only circled in his thoughts, never making it out of his mouth.

Then something fell onto his face.

Drop, drop.

Like water droplets.

If it were cold, it would be dew, but this was hot, so...

“...Head Senior. You can’t die.”

Tears.

Cheonjeong struggled to lift his hand and caught Cheongak’s hand.

Then, wringing out every last bit of strength, he forced his mouth to move.

“Take... care... of... Soyak...”

It was because he could feel the end coming.

But at that moment, he heard footsteps.

Not another assassin.

Because with the footsteps came the sound of a wooden gong.

*****

Gong-eop.

A warrior-monk called a junior monk even within a thousand-year Shaolin.

Though their sects differed, you could say he was of the same generation as Mount Hua’s Second Generation disciples.

And within Shaolin, he was a master of the Heart-Intent Grip, a discipline now fading into forgetfulness.

Because of that, he had been granted one special allowance by Shaolin’s Abbot.

He was permitted to carry one Great Supreme Pill at all times.

So long as he remained within Henan while traveling.

Heart-Intent Grip was not an ordinary martial art.

It was a form of qi projection—internal power raised by intent and cast outward.

It existed somewhere between internal method and martial technique.

Because it had no fixed forms or choreographed sequences.

So it had to borrow the “shape” of other arts.

Using Heart-Intent Grip, Gong-eop was a master who could unleash the Tathagata Divine Palm.

And for his internal method, he had mastered the Prajna Great Ability, said to be the most profound in Shaolin.

There was only one reason he had come down from Mount Song into the worldly foothills.

His young disciple had gone on a short errand to the neighboring mountain and hadn’t returned.

Had the child gotten distracted and lost the way?

But then—

At the mountain path, he found another child collapsed, spilling blood.

Beside them lay the corpse of an assassin, shredded apart.

A small girl was drenched in blood, clinging to a boy with a blade embedded in him, tears dripping down.

“What has happened, young patrons? May this humble monk help?”

Hope flared in the eyes of the two children holding the boy with the blade in him.

Without a word, Gong-eop drew out a worn, tiny wooden case from his robes.

“Please step aside for a moment.”

Cheongak and Soyak hesitated.

They didn’t know who he was.

They knew he was from Shaolin, but...

After nearly losing someone precious, how could they trust a stranger?

Instead of wasting words, Gong-eop chose a simple action.

He opened the worn, tiny case.

A clear, pure scent rode the wind and spread in an instant.

A fragrance so unmistakable that even someone ignorant could guess it.

Shaolin’s Great Supreme Pill.

A sacred relic given to him because Shaolin worried a rare talent like him might suffer grave internal injuries.

“Master, that’s...”

Cheongak’s eyes went wide.

But Gong-eop, without the slightest hesitation, pushed it into Cheonjeong’s mouth.

He pressed acupoints to stop the bleeding, then yanked the blade out in one clean motion.

“Endure it, brave patron.”

“KGH— KGHK— HUH...!”

Thankfully, pulling the blade did not cause blood to spurt.

Because he had sealed the blood channels in advance.

“How did it come to this...?”

It wasn’t hard to read the situation.

The reason was unclear, but the three children had been attacked by an assassin.

One of them had thrown himself in.

They had succeeded in driving the assassin off, but he now hovered at death’s edge.

It was a common thing in the martial world.

But it was strange—three children this young traveling together.

They wore swords at their waists, claiming themselves martial people.

Yet they were no more than Third Generation disciples of some sect.

Inside the black outer coat, a snow-white martial uniform showed through.

And faintly, a sweet, fragrant scent of plum blossoms.

They were Mount Hua disciples, without a doubt.

But it was strange that Mount Hua was so far from here.

“...Will Head Senior be all right?”

“I will take him to Shaolin first. He has crossed the brink of death, but it seems he will need a long period of rest.”

“Th-Thank you... thank you...”

Watching Soyak cry, tears falling thick as pebbles, Gong-eop smiled.

To see fellow disciples caring for each other like this...

“So then—what brings Mount Hua’s disciples to Henan?”

*****

“So, Flame-Saber Lord patron took our child and went to Shaolin, yes?”

“That is correct, Master Gong-eop.”

Gong-eop carried Cheonjeong on his back.

Both his sleeves were already gone—torn away and wrapped around Cheonjeong’s wounds.

Cheongak and Soyak walked on either side of Gong-eop.

Seeing Soyak’s reddened eyes, Cheongak found himself thinking, just for a moment—

If I got hurt, would she cry like that for me?

“Something is certainly strange.”

“In what way, Master?”

“I’m curious what kind of person you are, that someone would dare lay hands on a Shaolin disciple.”

Gong-eop lowered his gaze to Soyak.

His feet never stopped moving, but...

There was unmistakable doubt and suspicion in his eyes.

To kill this child, they had even reached into Shaolin.

And since they struck the moment the Roaming Pillar Journey began, it was someone with information.

The Roaming Pillar Journey had been decided the instant the One-Branch Gathering ended.

And at the One-Branch Gathering, Namgung had lost.

In Gong-eop’s mind, one hypothesis after another took shape.

“You said he used the Assassin Organization’s martial arts?”

“Yes. Flame-Saber Lord Ak Jupae... the great hero testified.”

Soyak barely endured the way his name refused to come easily off her tongue.

Cheongak, knowing he wasn’t particularly polite by nature, simply followed in silence.

“Instant-Kill Certain-Death Palm... and from what you say, the killing sword and Extreme-Night Full-Shadow Steps as well. It is certainly Assassin Organization martial arts.”

“But there is one strange thing.”

“What is it, young patron?”

“...How was I able to beat him?”

Soyak quietly replayed the fight.

He had been an assassin who had reached Transcendent Apex.

Most martial artists trained the art of their sect or clan all the way to its end.

Meaning they did not learn something else midway.

Yet he had seemed more accustomed to swordplay than to ambush.

If he was truly an assassin, he could have sprung from the brush and planted a blade in her throat—that would be all.

In that case, there was no need to drive the Flame-Saber Lord into danger like this, even dragging Shaolin into it.

The moment he killed her, mission complete—whether he lived or died.

“Indeed... if it was an assassin who had reached Transcendent Apex...”

Gong-eop’s thoughts were the same.

Against three young Mount Hua Third Generation disciples...

A “real” assassin of the Assassin Organization could kill them all even if their realm was only First-Rate.

Of course, they would have to accept dying in the process.

But what was so strange about that?

Assassins originally treated themselves as expendable.

What was strange was this—crafting a scheme, forcing a frontal fight, luring things out.

“We would already be dead. I have not seen the Assassin Organization with my own eyes, but I have heard from my father.”

“Then your father must have played a role in purging the Demonic Cult.”

“...A small, unworthy merit.”

Soyak lowered her eyes.

Even though it was her father, she deflected and humbled it.

Gong-eop realized his misstep and quickly changed the subject.

“For your Head Senior’s sake, you will need to remain at Shaolin for at least a month. How does that sound?”

“...I don’t know.”

It was a failure.

*****

Mount Song in Henan.

The true homeland of a thousand-year Shaolin.

The mountain that takes the center among the Five Great Peaks of the Central Plains.

The spiritual root of all Central Plains martial arts.

And up that mountain, the Flame-Saber Lord was charging as if trampling it underfoot.

Disciples who had burst out thinking it was an attack stepped aside at once when they saw the enormous great saber strapped to his back—and the young monk in his arms.

Because they could guess why he was running like this.

He reached the summit of Mount Song in a true instant.

And by the time he arrived, Shaolin’s great masters were already waiting—summoned by disciples who had carried the news even faster than he could run.

“It’s the Assassin Organization! He was struck by the Assassin Organization’s martial art!”

At that single shout, Shaolin went cold.

The Assassin Organization—what was it, if not the assassination sect that had ravaged the Central Plains alongside the Demonic Cult?

“Everyone, calm yourselves.”

Shaolin’s Abbot, Master Gwanggyeong, opened the doors of Hyegwang Hall and descended.

Flame-Saber Lord Ak Jupae carefully laid the child on the ground, then greeted the Abbot with a clasped-fist salute.

“There is no need for pleasantries. I truly thank you. From here, Shaolin will take charge of this child.”

“No. It was only what I should have done. I’m glad it helped Shaolin.”

“Is there anything we can do for you, Flame-Saber Lord?”

Master Gwanggyeong asked with a gentle smile.

Ak Jupae hesitated, then spoke.

“Soon, three young Mount Hua disciples will arrive here.”

“The Flame-Saber Lord traveling with Mount Hua disciples. A curious thing, indeed.”

“They said they were leaving on a Roaming Pillar Journey to the Shandong Ak Family, so I accompanied them. If you could let them rest here for a few days, I would be grateful.”

The child he had brought was Seon-geung.

A young monk called a junior monk—Gong-eop’s disciple.

And Gong-eop, in turn, was also Ak Jupae’s grand-disciple.

The debt of gratitude was more than enough.

“How could it be only a few days. Let them rest a month, two months—however long they need.”