Chapter 389: Let’s Have Some Real Fun (5)

Bo Yeol was in the middle of the smoke. Thick, choking smoke.

"Damn bastards. How much of this crap did they burn? My throat’s burning."

Bo Yeol was an early-stage Hwakyung master. But poison arts masters were typically judged to be a level below their actual cultivation stage— because the higher one’s level, the less effective poison became.

And look. An early-stage Hwakyung expert locked up in such a pathetic prison, with nothing but some incense to suppress him?

Still, the nature of poison arts was such that if the internal energy scattered, the poison discipline would spiral out of control. Even this minimal measure was enough to force the user to suppress their own insides, leaving them unable to do anything else. So Bo Yeol remained quiet, enduring it all while keeping his poison art in check.

Then it happened. A faint presence stirred within the smoke, and someone stepped forward.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"You... you're the third son from the Yoga clan, aren’t you? What was your name? Yomin?"

"Yes, sir. I'm Yomin."

Bo Yeol’s mind snapped into focus. My witness! My proof has come!

"Your cheek—has your cheek healed? Come here. Let me take a look."

Yomin approached the bars. Bo Yeol grabbed his chin, tilted it left and right, tapped it, checked if it hurt, pulled and prodded—urgently taking his pulse and examining his condition.

The result?

"You're healed. Completely."

He really had healed! After being struck by Minor Demonic Palm, his cheeks should've rotted off to the bone, his teeth bared through decaying flesh. But instead, his skin looked even smoother.

My evidence—! Bo Yeol’s vision went dark.

Oblivious, Yomin asked, "Um, I brought some incense with me... Would this be enough to replace the Dispersing Poison Smoke?"

"Wait. You're helping me?"

"Yes..."

"Why? Did Chief Yeom send you?"

"No, I just... wanted to thank you for checking my pulse."

Bo Yeol felt like he'd been punched.

He’d only shown one of those old man’s whims. A kid getting beat by his father had seemed pitiful, so he’d taken a look at the wound, recognized the Minor Demonic Palm mark, and handed over a gold salve, thinking the cheek would rot anyway, better to spare a little more flesh.

But for a child rejected by his father and crushed by siblings, it had clearly felt like the warmth of a lifetime.

Following Bo Yeol’s instructions, Yomin opened the brazier, replaced the contents, and discreetly lit a different incense in the back.

Soon, the thick Dispersing Poison Smoke would settle, and the new smoke would serve as a decoy.

Once the poison incense was gone, escape would be easy. Recover just enough internal energy to channel aura, break the bars, and walk out.

"Then... I'll be going—"

"Wait. How’d you get in here? Aren’t there guards out front?"

"Yes, but there’s a passageway."

"Hmm. Hey, kid."

Bo Yeol scratched his wrinkled cheek.

"I kept my mouth shut not wanting to meddle in another family’s affairs, but since you’ve done me a favor, I’ll speak. Your father wants you dead. Once the Rooster Forest Sword Sect kills you, he planned to use that as pretext to attack immediately, deadlines be damned."

Yomin’s eyes went wide, then filled with tears.

"But why? What did I do?"

"Even if you stayed in the family, you wouldn’t have lasted long. Would a man trying to found a great clan let a useless collateral line survive? You should leave right away. But still... I'm over eighty now. Might be nice to have someone to look after me."

Yomin's tear-rimmed eyes widened. "Look after" clearly meant become my disciple.

"Me? But I don’t have any talent..."

"That’s exactly who should learn poison arts. If you can endure daily poisoning, you’re good enough. Besides, poison arts have ties to medicine. You could earn your keep."

Yomin fidgeted, bringing his hands together awkwardly. Bo Yeol quickly waved him off.

"Think about it. This old man has nowhere to run. So I’m thinking of joining the Blood Cult. You call me a Blood Cult puppet? Fine. I’ll become one for real. But you’re still young. If you want to mix with those monsters, follow me. If not, walk away and forget all this."

Blood Cult. That heavy word made Yomin gulp.

"But I heard... they eat human flesh..."

"And who the hell doesn’t? They're people too. You think all they eat is flesh? I know a kid from the Blood Cult—better than half the unorthodox sects. Knows how to treat elders. I figure, even among their trash, some probably have their own stories."

That Blood Cult kid would probably go, Huh? Me? if she heard this.

"Still, rumors aren’t all lies. Most of them are garbage. But if you’re okay living among them, come. Otherwise, let’s part ways."

Yomin hesitated a long while, then his eyes hardened slightly. He straightened his back.

"I know I’m worthless. I can’t fight, I have no skills, I don’t even know how I’d survive on my own. But if you’re offering to take me in, I’ll serve you for life, sir."

"Good. A healer never goes completely unappreciated. Even Blood Cult bastards won’t mistreat someone who tends their wounds. I’ve got no official sect, so one bow will do."

Yomin prostrated flat to the ground. Bo Yeol looked down at his first disciple with satisfaction— and then ground his teeth at a thought.

"Still. Before we go... shouldn’t we leave a parting gift for these damn brats? What kind of advice is that anyway? Punks younger than your dad trying to act like they’re old sages."

****

Qing’s lightness skill was peerless. Endorsed by the Best Woman Under Heaven and Shin Tu, it was a talent recognized across Martial World.

Three steps to maximum velocity with Heavenly Demon’s Dominion Stride, the fastest short-to-mid range movement art Piercing Speed Flash, and the long-range prowess of Thousand-League Flight.

Add in the gravity-defying Moon Maiden’s Steps and emergency-escape-specialist Effortless Flowing Step— Qing could vanish in any direction.

So even if she went blood-crazed and plunged into enemy lines, she could snap back the moment she realized it.

But most people weren’t like that. Once you charged in alone, unless you died a heroic death, it was just a dog’s death.

That’s why commanders always emphasized formation and order in battle.

Once they saw Qing return safely, the three top-tier retainers were briefly relieved— but then something felt missing.

"Old Dog!" "Grandpa Old Dog!" "Old Dog!"

Changye, the Gadfly, and the Illiterate Poet shouted.

Qing, fired up, barked back, "Let’s go save him!"

"Miss!" "Miss!" "Miss!"

As Qing charged again, the three pinnacle retainers grabbed their weapons and raced forward to back her up.

Would first-rate fighters stand in their way? The elite four tore through the enemy like a tidal wave.

"Ah! Bear! Wait for me—ack!"

Nayangyeol tried to follow, but one of Prince Deokhyeon’s retainers grabbed her by the collar, her breath catching with a soft squeak as her feet left the ground.

"Miss, please stay with us. Stick to your tier. Trying to wedge in among the top-tier will only trip us up."

"Ugh. Being just ‘high-tier’ sucks."

****

Meanwhile, Old Dog fought brilliantly. His unusual twin weapons, upper spear and upper sword, created sweeping lines of direct, ferocious force.

His arms traced radiant arcs like fan spokes. One after another, unorthodox fighters fell clutching their chests.

Even when pierced, the wounds were tiny—barely pinholes. A ruthless style: tapping vital points precisely enough to ensure death by agony.

Fighters who’d charged in stumbled back. A clear zone opened around Old Dog, where writhing men lay, clutching their hearts.

They were Black Bear Battalion fighters. Jo Gwangang, who fancied himself a tactician, had arranged his men to suffer the least loss by staying in the rear.

So would Jo Gwangang just watch them die? Even if Qing was just a young pinnacle warrior, even a small gap at that level was huge.

He shouted boldly as he entered:

"How dare you harm the brave sons of the Cult Alliance! You, uh—who the hell is this old man!?"

He was sure the Flower Sword had dropped, but now it was nowhere to be seen— only some old man had taken position.

Grnnngh. His men clawed at their chests and throats, but the blood loss seemed minimal. The heart wounds were fatal, but to an outside glance, they looked savable.

Jo Gwangang’s urgency spiked. He stomped forward, shouting to rouse morale.

"Fine! Old man! Today’s your funeral day!"

Old Dog lifted his spear. Brilliant light bloomed across his hand— a flat, radiant star on the ground.

Qi manifestation.

Jo Gwangang, still mid-charge, reversed direction in a miraculous burst of skill. Skreeek! Not a real sound, but one so vivid your eyes heard it.

This was the cult way: strong or weak, back off if they’re stronger. There was no shame in retreating from a superior.

"Uh... may I ask your name, senior?"

"Didn’t you just call me ‘old bastard’?"

"Well... in battle, everyone talks like that."

"Right. And since we met in battle, you’ve got no right to complain about how I fight."

"Dammit! Hiding a master! You hypocrites! You call yourselves righteous? Fight fair and reveal your aces!"

It made you wonder what kind of idiot a cultist thought a righteous martial artist was.

A fat bead of sweat rolled across Jo Gwangang’s face. Bluff and feint! He’d fallen for it.

But he had read his war manuals dozens of times— a self-declared master strategist. His panicked brain now scrambled for the best solution.

"Attack! Black Bear warriors! There’s only one of him! We have numbers! Unleash Infinite Spear Wave!"

Infinite Spear Wave: a group formation attack.

"Kill!" "We are the Black Bears!" "Sacred Sons of the Cult, advance!"

The last shout was so ominous Old Dog’s face twisted. These cult bastards had gone insane!

He decided to punch a hole in their leader’s heart first— but then blinked.

Some of the faster cultists who’d been taking formation suddenly pulled back. So did Jo Gwangang.

His brain had worked perfectly: Strategy No. 36 of the 36 Stratagems—Run away.

If the angles don’t work, don’t cling. Just run.

Give an obvious command, the enemy will anticipate. To the Black Bear elites, Infinite Spear Wave didn’t mean form up—it meant: Throw the small fry and run.

Jo Gwangang shoved through the formation and grabbed Mun Jeongyeok.

"It’s over! We have to run now!"

"What!? What are you—"

"A hidden master! He’s a Hwakyung expert!"

Mun Jeongyeok’s face turned grim.

"One Hwakyung—we can take him three to one—"

"Who’s fighting Kang Suyang!? What about Seo Muncheong, that bitch!?"

"If the peak-levels form up—"

Jo Gwangang beat his own chest.

"Then who’s holding our peaks!?"

"At least send the first-rates—"

"You patching holes with IOUs now!? Going down to third-rate? You trying to get the whole combat unit wiped out? Save the ones you can save!"

Cold, clear Strategy No. 36. In fact, Jo Gwangang’s decision was textbook— proof he hadn’t read all those war manuals for nothing.

If the fight’s unwinnable, losses be damned— you pull out now.

How many commanders, past and future, would freeze under mounting casualties and let their armies die?

Tweet-tweet!

At last, Mun Jeongyeok blew the signal to retreat.