Chapter 62 Black Dragon Hall (1)

Chapter 62 Black Dragon Hall (1)

“Guhk, grrr.”

A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of Baek Dong-il’s mouth. It was right after a fierce battle anyway.

In that state, he encountered a formidable swordsman. How could his body possibly hold out?

Baek Dong-il spat out another mouthful of congealed blood.

The internal injuries from that single exchange were severe, but he had also learned much.

‘A swordsman from the Huashan Sect…’

When their blades clashed, he’d glimpsed the Plum Blossom Sword—though it seemed shaken by passion, its tip pierced him with precise precision.

Baek Dong-il suddenly recalled Gu Yang-jeok.

Could this man also be a disciple of the same generation? Curiosity struck Baek Dong-il, and he took a step back.

“I am Baek Dong-il, the Black Dragon Sect’s Demon Sword Ghost. What is your name?“

At those words, the Taoist shot him a look that seemed to say he must be mad.

It was far too polite, absurdly ridiculous, for a sworn enemy who had slain a fellow disciple to utter.

The Taoist asked angrily.

”What meaning does that have!“

”I must know who slays me before I report to Yama.”

Baek Dong-il’s words were too calm, almost serene. It seemed as if he had no will to fight at all.

Moreover, his appearance and condition looked wretched. He seemed barely able to swing a sword.

Baek Dong-il spoke as if pleading.

“Unlike me, who has enemies in the heretical sect, you are a Taoist, aren’t you?”

Only then did the Taoist spit out the words as if coughing up blood.

“Yes, I am Heon Yang, the third disciple of the Hwasan Sect!”

Simultaneously, his sword sliced through the air.

At its tip, the sword energy, bound by the Jaha Jinqi, glowed faintly.

At a glance, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties, his skill level seemingly close to first-rate.

Realizing his opponent was not a master, Baek Dong-il smiled faintly.

‘Gu Yangjeok and Yu Jangmyeong must be the exceptional ones, after all.’

Whoosh! Clang!

Baek Dong-il’s swinging blade collided with Heon Yang’s, illuminating the surroundings.

The power emanating from Heon Yang felt heavy, but it wasn’t the overwhelming gap he’d felt against Gu Yangjeok.

‘Does this mean only Baek Dan-hyeon’s disciples are exceptionally strong?’

Baek Dong-il felt a small sense of relief.

Not all members of the Huashan Sect are monsters.

Then, I can win.

Squeak.

Baek Dong-il’s foot crushed Huashan’s robe.

Heon-yang’s eyes sharpened. His sword, as if speaking for him, held a deep, murderous intent.

It felt as if it could cleave him in two at any moment, a viciousness that made his skin tingle.

Baek Dong-il felt a great jolt and forcibly pulled himself up from the sensation of heavy blood loss.

Loose joints, sagging muscles.

He countered it all with sheer willpower.

Baek Dong-il straightened his entire body, which threatened to collapse.

Inadequate skill, shoddy sword technique?

He pushed such thoughts aside. His focus was solely on the killing intent emanating from his opponent and the presence of the enemy.

His spirit was heightened to its peak, ready to explode.

Thud!

Baek Dong-il slammed his fist into the ground. It wasn’t for a charge.

Sand, swollen and heavy with moisture, splashed onto Heon Yang.

Heon Yang’s voice cracked.

“Coward!”

Heon-yang swatted at the clumps of sand with his wide-sleeved robe. But some stuck to his clothes.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have felt their weight.

But now, he felt it acutely. Damp moisture clung to one arm.

Yet what sent chills down his spine even more was…

Clang! Clang!

The sword swung with sheer determination—Baek Dong-il’s presence.

He clearly possessed neither inner strength nor stamina, yet he fought solely through sheer will.

Feeling that momentum, Heon-yang swallowed hard.

But he did not stop his sword.

Clang, clang!

Dozens of seconds had passed.

Certainly, Heon-yang was not a martial artist of the lofty realm like Gu Yang-jeok or Yu Jang-myeong.

He was neither a genius nor a prodigy.

He was simply diligent, faithfully mastering sword techniques with steadfast dedication.

Yet the Plum Blossom Sword he wielded was no easy feat.

Sssshhh…

Baek Dong-il’s wrist trembled violently. His sword likewise drooped downward.

He could no longer prevail. Compared to his opponent’s skill, his own was utterly wretched.

‘Still, one more time.’

Clang, clang!

Swords clashed. Then, a cut appeared on his forearm. The mistake had been lowering the tip of his sword just now.

His ears rang, his vision blurred.

The cut seemed deep; he couldn’t put much strength into his arm.

‘Is this even holding a sword, or just leaning on it? ’

A faint sneer touched Baek Dong-il’s face.

It was directed at himself.

‘If only I’d trained harder, following my elder brother’s example.’

‘Or if I’d grabbed any Black Dragon Sect member and studied their sword techniques.’

At least he wouldn’t have stopped at second-rate. He wouldn’t have suffered this cut now.

All regrets, all ‘what ifs’. Nothing but fantasies, different from reality.

If he’d known it would come to this, wouldn’t it have been better to die at the hands of Gu Yangjie when they met in Chang’an?

He gave a bitter laugh.

“Haaah!”

Blood spurted from the wound. His muscles throbbed so violently they felt like they would tear apart.

One of Baek Dong-il’s eyes turned completely red. Even as the pain tried to break his will, he did not close his eyes.

He swung his sword without hesitation at Heonyang approaching.

Clang!

It burned his soul.

He grabbed the hair of his nearly broken will and pulled himself up. He recalled the dead Baek Cheong-il.

Swoosh, clang!

Overpowered in the struggle, Baek Dong-il’s body slid backward. Heonyang, who had been charging, faltered momentarily.

‘…Did I cut him?’

The dobok below his knee was sliced open, fluttering in the wind. Had the cut been just a little deeper, he would have been left dragging one leg.

‘Is this truly the will of a desperate man?’

Heon-yang revised his thought that Baek Dong-il was an easy opponent.

For Baek Dong-il, that was misfortune. It was the despair that he could no longer win by sheer luck.

But Baek Dong-il was looking elsewhere.

‘I must deal with this one quickly, regroup, and block the next person.’

Even now, Hwasan and Jongnam were approaching. The Martial Arts Alliance, known for its sluggishness, was also stirring.

Perhaps the Black Dragon Sect had become the catalyst for the martial arts clans of Gangbuk to unite.

If so, who was the one who orchestrated this?

Baek Dong-il recalled Gu Yang-jeok’s piercing gaze. He remembered the hand that had seemed ready to take his life at any moment.

“It’s okay.”

Baek Dong-il murmured the words, laced with relief.

Wasn’t it at least more hopeful than back then?

If they kept killing the scouts here, at least the Black Dragon Sect Leader would be able to escape.

Baek Dong-il held back a bitter smile.

” “I am the Black Dragon Sect’s Demon Sword Ghost.”

He clenched his molars, sharpening his focus. His dead eyes slowly ignited.

Hyeonyang sensed the change and tensed. The Plum Blossom Sword, which had relentlessly attacked Baek Dong-il’s openings, retreated momentarily to catch its breath.

Baek Dong-il advanced, exploiting that pause. Straight, purely upright sword techniques.

Baek Dong-il possessed neither the learned techniques nor the sufficient inner strength to display anything else.

Above all, wasn’t this the sword technique closest to taking Heon Yang’s life?

‘Before this breath reaches the tip of my throat, before I die.’

His obsession became a poison. The sheer force of it momentarily stunned even Heon Yang, consumed by vengeance.

Clang, clang, clang.

Though momentarily flustered, Heonyang’s Plum Blossom Sword—mastered through half a lifetime of study—honestly blocked Baek Dong-il.

His short breaths and explosive power, limited to single strikes, were within Heonyang’s expectations.

This far was Baek’s limit.

That Baek Dong-il, who looked half-dead, had fought this hard was nothing short of a miracle.

Knowing this, Heonyang briefly acknowledged him.

“You are the enemy of Hwasan, yet you are a warrior worthy of respect.”

“Huh, huff, huff.”

“It’s time to finish this.”

Whoosh.

As Heonyang drew up his internal energy, his collar began to flutter.

Clang.

A bead of sweat trickled down Baek Dong-il’s forehead. His arms were already trembling uncontrollably.

Was this the end?

Baek Dong-il couldn’t muster even a shred of internal energy.

All he possessed was stubbornness, obstinacy. Words unworthy of victory or resolution, dishonorable terms.

Heon Yang, seemingly sensing victory, murmured softly.

“A life that chased wealth and honor is now losing its light.”

“…Kuh.”

At those words, Baek Dong-il laughed purely. Wrong. That Taoist’s words were surely false.

Because Baek Dong-il had never desired any wealth or honor in his life.

His sole purpose was to live a peaceful life and die.

Perhaps even his closeness with Baek Cheong-il wasn’t born of brotherly affection, but merely to achieve his goal.

A self-mocking tone slipped out.

His reddened vision continued to bring despair.

‘You want to fight when you can’t even see your enemy properly?’

And what of the incessant ringing in his ears?

An unpredictable wind howled, pounding his eardrums.

At this rate, he wouldn’t even notice someone approaching from behind.

“Haah.”

Heon Yang was charging toward him. His sword carried so much internal energy it could be materialized, even without proper form.

There was no way he could block it. Baek Dong-il rolled across the ground.

A tearing sound echoed as his clothes ripped, and his skin was bruised and battered by the rocks.

‘Just one more time.’

Once, Baek Dong-il had pursued life. Then he saw Baek Cheong-il, slung over Gu Yang-jeok’s shoulder.

Death was something light enough to be carried on someone else’s shoulder.

“What’s the big deal? If I die, I die.”

Why couldn’t he face it? Why did he always just avoid it? Baek Dong-il rolled on the ground again.

“You keep unleashing your descending strikes one after another! How dare you still call yourself a swordsman with that!”

Even as Heon Yang roared in fury, Baek Dong-il gave no reply.

He merely waited calmly for his chance. Now, wounds were no obstacle.

Staying like this meant certain death anyway.

All he needed was enough strength for one final strike.

Then, still lying down, Baek Dong-il thrust his right leg out with tremendous force.

His target was Heon-yang’s ankle, aiming to disrupt his stance.

Heon-yang’s face flushed crimson.

“I thought you might be worth a shred of respect… yet you resort to such alley thug tactics!”

But in another sense, didn’t this mean Baek Dong-il had no other recourse?

Heon-yang’s premonition solidified into certainty. A hint of arrogance mingled with his blade.

“Go!”

The Plum Blossom Sword thrust downward. He intended to slice through Baek Dong-il’s ankle and sever the bone.

At that moment, Baek Dong-il’s eyes flashed. He forced his moving muscles rigid. Because of this, his entire right leg convulsed.

This phenomenon, commonly called a cramp, was a critical condition where muscles contracted, temporarily losing function.

But now, it was a blessing. It conserved his strength.

Thwack!

Heon-yang’s sword sliced through Baek Dong-il’s ankle and cleaved his entire thigh in two.

Blood spurted, embroidering the sky. His entire field of vision instantly turned red.

Even in that moment, Baek Dong-il clenched his teeth. One eye had been red for a long time anyway.

‘If I’m going for victory, it’s right now.’

Baek Dong-il’s blade shot upward. If he could cleave through this curtain of blood and take Hyeon-yang’s life, it would be over.

What happened after that, he didn’t know.

If luck was on his side, he might find a physician nearby and survive, even if it meant living on one leg.

If that happened, he could simply return here. Baek Dong-il summoned every last ounce of his remaining strength.

“Gwaaah!”

He didn’t know if it was a scream of agony or a shout.

He just lunged. It was an action focused entirely on this single movement.

Right then.

A voice sounded from close by.

“Hold on.”

Clack, thud.

Baek Dong-il’s sword snapped in an instant. He was utterly exhausted, yet that strike had clearly contained his full strength.

To block it so effortlessly… just who was this noble stranger?

Baek Dong-il stared blankly at his opponent.

He was pristine. Unlike himself, stained with blood, or Heon-yang, whose dobok was torn, he was not tarnished.

Like a white crane soaring freely through the sky.

Was he some innate genius, a talent chosen by the heavens themselves?

Seeing the sword energy lingering on his blade, Baek Dong-il couldn’t contain his fury.

“Who the hell are you… who the hell are you?!”

“……”

He didn’t answer that either. He merely looked back and forth between Heon Yang and Baek Dong-il.

Then he asked Hyeon-yang.

“Who is this man?”

“He admitted he is Baek Dong-il, the second son of the Black Dragon Sect Leader. But that bastard…”

Hyeon-yang raised a finger, pointing at the corpses of the martial artists. Only then did the man sigh.

“The bloodshed has begun again.”

“Didn’t I ask who you are!”

At Baek Dong-il’s shout, the man laughed.

“What good would it do to know? Even if I were healed, my body is no longer fit to meddle in the affairs of the martial world.”

“I will curse you.”

Baek Dong-il thrust his sword into the ground and forced his upper body upright.

“As long as this body lives, I will curse Hwasan. I will never allow you to prosper…”

“How amusing.”

The man who had cut him off spoke.

“You who recklessly provoked Hwasan and sought to kill the senior master of the sect—how dare you speak of curses? Is that the words of a martial artist?”

Foolish. The man laughed again, looking at Baek Dong-il.

“Rather, isn’t that something you easily utter? The way of the world is to have no favor, only grievance. Yet why focus only on the harm done to yourself?”

“……”

Now Baek Dong-il fell silent.

The man looked at him with pity.

“So your journey isn’t lonely, I’ll tell you one name.”

The man raised his sword.

“I am Yu Zhangming, the third disciple of the venerable Grandmaster Baek Dan-hyeon of the Huashan Sect.”

“……Ah.”

Baek Dong-il stared blankly at the tip of the blade, his mouth agape.

The face of Gu Yang-jeok, whom he had met in Chang’an a month or two ago, flashed before his eyes.

‘That bastard’s senior disciple.’

Then his eyes slowly closed.

Now, he just wanted to rest a little.

Snap.

The tiger skin decoration on Baek Dong-il’s sword snapped off limply.