White Wolf Captain Baekhon
Among the generals of the Demonic Cult, he was a very peculiar one.
Unlike Red Wolf Captain Geotap, he did not particularly enjoy stepping forward.
Though he always stood at the front of the White Wolf Troop when charging toward the enemy, when the actual clash occurred, he would at some point issue orders to attack from behind instead.
There were endless whispers that he was far too passive for someone of his rank.
Up until ten years ago, there was hardly any difference in martial ability between him and Geotap, but from some point on, Geotap had surged far ahead.
Even the White Wolf Troop members themselves often cursed their own captain, Baekhon, behind his back.
But Baekhon let those words pass in one ear and out the other.
"It is not the strong who survive, but the survivors who are strong."
That common saying was Baekhon's iron rule and his most important value.
He also knew his own strengths well. In his youth within the Demonic Cult, he had received assassin training.
He was one of the rare cases of an assassin being raised into a warrior.
Thus, rather than stepping forward, he preferred to strike from behind at his opponent's openings.
It was very safe, and the chances of success were high.
Baekhon had grown sick and tired of watching masters who relied only on their martial prowess strut arrogantly, only to vanish in vain.
Had not Geotap himself died such a ridiculous death not long ago?
That was why Baekhon trusted in his strength and hid his body among his White Wolf Troop subordinates.
And now, his gaze was locked onto his target.
The Invincible Sword, Han Chugwang.
Watching the footwork Han Chugwang displayed, Baekhon let out a breath of relief. Earlier, when his subordinates had been slaughtered too easily in the forest, he had, in a fit of anger, challenged Han Chugwang to a duel.
Though he had claimed it was out of anger, in truth it had been a calculated move.
Knowing that the Invincible Sword carried grave wounds from his bloody battle with the Black Wolf Captain, he had judged it a good opportunity to display his strength in single combat.
But now, seeing Han Chugwang's martial display, he realized he might have been in grave danger had he been careless.
He calmly waited for the right moment. This time too, he had no doubt that when his blade thrust forward, it would pierce his opponent's heart.
Flarrr.
Han Chugwang's trousers fluttered in the wind. The sword in his hand ceaselessly tore through the air.
Yet the most striking of all was his movement technique, which weaved through the perilous front lines.
The Eight Forms of the Soaring Dragon.
He appeared to advance forward, then split left and right, at times retreating several zhang in the blink of an eye.
He moved where the defensive line of Kunlun was at its weakest, slipping in and out between sabers and swords.
The Invincible Sword, Han Chugwang.
He did not charge deep into the enemy ranks recklessly. Yet paradoxically, he was fighting in an even more dangerous place.
Then… Han Chugwang's eyes shifted. They were no longer the eyes of someone who should retreat—his gaze blazed with an intensity ready to explode.
"He's different!"
Han Chugwang felt ecstasy amid the blades pouring down upon him, or those he crashed into head-on.
He was now experiencing with his body a new realm of the Eight Forms of the Soaring Dragon.
Kunlun Sect's pride: swift and dazzling movement techniques.
Until now, Han Chugwang had always used the Eight Forms to move forward and sideways only.
An aggressive man like him had never needed to retreat.
But now, in order to prevent collapses occurring here and there along the front, he had to retreat often as well.
It should have been more dangerous—but instead, the expanded range of motion of the Eight Forms revealed its hidden true value.
The places where one could move were not limited to ground and air. People and weapons could become footholds as well. There was nowhere one could not go.
Like now.
Slash!
A smooth blade targeted Han Chugwang's waist.
In the past, he would have dodged sideways or dashed forward to strike back at his opponent's blade.
But this time, the sword was exploiting a precise weakness of time and space.
Spears and blades of Kunlun and the White Wolf Troop crossed from left and right.
Behind him, a Kunlun disciple stumbled, losing balance for a split second.
Ahead, another enemy was ready to intercept if Han Chugwang attacked forward.
Had he been surrounded on all sides by foes, he could have squeezed through the weakest gap.
But now, such was not the case.
Yet a smile curled on Han Chugwang's lips.
"I can do it!"
Thwack!
His foot lightly struck the ground, and his body soared into the air.
The blade that had aimed for his waist cut through empty space.
But another blade had lain in wait, predicting this very move.
White Wolf Captain, Baekhon.
He had thoroughly calculated Han Chugwang's movements until now.
Thus, he had already foreseen that Han Chugwang would leap into the air at this moment.
"Got him!"
A thick smile spread across Baekhon's lips.
To prepare for the slim chance that his foe twisted midair, he gripped a dagger in his left hand.
He had heard from the Sichuan Branch that Kunlun's Eight Forms allowed movement and even momentary suspension in midair. It was why Elder Hyeoljul had perished so vainly.
"...!"
Baekhon's pupils rippled. His eyes twitched violently.
The sword he had thrust toward the sky…
Han Chugwang should have had no choice but to turn sideways—that was the only path to life.
Yet instead, in midair, Han Chugwang spun his body and alighted upon Baekhon's outstretched sword, like a butterfly.
Even amid the chaos of battle, everyone froze, jaws agape at the absurd sight.
A man standing atop the blade thrust forth by the White Wolf Captain—a first-rate master, though not yet at the pinnacle.
The Invincible Sword, Han Chugwang.
Baekhon tried to hurriedly withdraw his sword. But strangely, Han Chugwang's foot would not separate from the blade.
Han Chugwang's mouth opened.
"This is Kunlun's Eight Forms of the Soaring Dragon."
"..."
"Do not forget it, even in death."
Baekhon thought he had to release his sword.
But the stronger the master, the greater their obsession with their weapon.
A habit of never letting go, even in death.
That habit made him hesitate for but a heartbeat.
Shhh.
Han Chugwang slid down the blade like lightning.
Then his foot smashed into Baekhon's face.
Crunch!
Baekhon's body toppled backward, his skull slamming into the ground.
"Wooooooah!"
The Kunlun warriors roared in exultation at Han Chugwang's display of overwhelming might.
Whirr!
Landing, Han Chugwang spun his sword.
The limbs of surrounding White Wolf Troop members were severed, blood spraying in all directions.
"Gyaaaah!"
"Aaaaargh!"
At last, screams burst forth from the White Wolf Troop.
The collapse of the front lines began not from Kunlun, but from the White Wolf Troop.
But beneath Han Chugwang's armor, blood dripped steadily.
The wounds on his chest and abdomen had begun to reopen.
Meanwhile, Noeakcheon and the leadership had not witnessed Han Chugwang's display.
Their attention was caught by a scout charging toward them.
Only belatedly did they realize the man's condition was far from normal.
He was drenched in blood.
And though skilled in light footwork, his speed was sluggish, and he seemed to limp.
The other two scouts sent with him were almost certainly dead.
"Spare me!"
Now only twenty zhang remained between him and the leaders.
But glancing back, he suddenly screamed in desperation, begging for rescue.
Only then did the leaders strain their vision to look behind him.
In the darkness, a faint black shadow could be seen.
Blood Priest spoke.
"One man. Fast."
Noeakcheon responded.
"Is he also a scout? Perhaps he seeks to assess the battle here and report back."
Everyone nodded at his words.
But then, several of them suddenly widened their eyes.
Something was flying through the dark. Clearly, the bloodied scout had thrown it.
But the speed—it was unbelievable.
Noeakcheon shouted in alarm.
"Dodge!"
Startled, the demonic scout turned his head.
Shhh! Crack!
A flagpole hurled by Bang Yacheol struck his back.
The shaft pierced through his chest and impaled into the ground.
"Grrrk."
The scout gurgled blood in disbelief as he died instantly.
Flutter.
The flag fluttered in the night wind.
On golden cloth, a white tiger embroidered in silver thread.
It was the banner of the White Tiger Troop of the Martial Alliance.
At that moment, from the battlefield where Kunlun and the White Wolf Troop clashed, a massive roar arose.
It was Han Chugwang who had struck down Baekhon.
As word spread through both Kunlun and the White Wolf Troop that their captain had fallen, the faces of the Demonic Cult's leadership hardened.
Elder Monghyeolbi clutched the back of his neck and cursed.
"Damn fool! To think he couldn't handle the Invincible Sword, who only just suffered grievous wounds!"
Elder Hwangmagek gnashed his teeth.
"Baekhon never had the disposition of a general to begin with. He had many achievements, yes—but the process was always filthy."
Blood Priest raised his hand, silencing their grumbling and rage.
"Elder Monghyeolbi, Elder Hwangmagek. Take fifteen men each and reinforce the White Wolf Troop."
"Yes."
"It shall be done."
Noeakcheon added, addressing the two peak masters.
"You must end it swiftly. Before the White Tiger Troop arrives, we need things somewhat settled."
Blood Priest quickly turned to Ma Bul and Sa Hyeolgang.
"You two, take the remaining fifteen and sweep through the Dokgo Clan."
Ma Bul readily agreed, since his subordinate disciples of the Small Shadow Hall were already over there. But Sa Hyeolgang shook his head.
"I will face that man."
His finger pointed toward the one still running forward—the man who had thrown the flag. Noeakcheon frowned in disbelief.
"A scout should just glance around and run back to report…"
Sa Hyeolgang cut him off.
"He is no mere scout. Do you really think he is skilled only in light footwork?"
Indeed, he was the one who had skewered a fleeing scout clean through from that distance.
Drawing the curved saber from his back, Sa Hyeolgang spoke.
"He is the man the vagabonds of the Central Plains idolize as their champion—the Vagabond King."
Noeakcheon narrowed his eyes.
"He was famous in the past, but isn't he long past his prime? And yet… you speak as if you know him."
"I crossed blades with him once, twenty years ago."
"Oh? And you never settled the score, I take it?"
Sa Hyeolgang gave a strange smile and fell silent. Noeakcheon shrugged and continued.
"Very well. Then Vice Lord Ma Bul and I shall move toward the Dokgo Clan."
That left only the Blood Priest, the Supreme Elder.
After surveying the field, he turned his eyes to Sa Hyeolgang.
"With two peak masters and fifteen masters on each side, this will end swiftly. I doubt I'll be needed. I will stay with Sect Lord Sa and observe this so-called Vagabond King."
Noeakcheon nodded and said in a heavy voice:
"Then let us crush what is before us with all our might. Since we are taking the field ourselves, one short moment will suffice. Once we wipe out the orthodox sects here… at least some shred of honor can be reclaimed."
At his words, everyone bit back bitter smiles.
Meanwhile.
Dang Cheonwi collapsed onto the ground with a thud, tearing at his hair in anguish.
He wanted to run. Gods, how he wanted to run.
But ever since yesterday morning he had run without pause, and now his inner energy, stamina, and very willpower were nearly spent.
He should never have left Tang Sect. He should have remained coiled there under the excuse of guarding the Young Lord of Murim.
But… he couldn't.
Because of his delay, he had nearly caused a catastrophe. Not merely ruining the meal at the end, but nearly dooming the entire sect to annihilation.
So he could not bring himself to withdraw.
How could he say, "While others fought to the death, we only ran for our lives"?
Sighing, Dang Cheonwi looked around at the seventy men sprawled about him.
These were the comrades who had run with him since the afternoon of the previous day.
Like him, their faces bore guilt and shame, heads bowed low.
They had fallen behind, stragglers among the Tang Sect.
It felt like the mark of losers in life itself.
They had run harder than anyone, yet what remained was exhaustion, gloom, and emptiness.
They had rested for half an incense stick—time to rise and run again. Yet looking at their condition, he couldn't bring himself to give the order.
At that moment, the sound of hooves echoed.
Everyone turned with puzzled faces to the path they had come.
Out of the darkness galloped a white horse.
"No way…"
The seventy Tang Sect men swallowed hard.
The white horse.
It was the steed of the Young Lord of Murim, their commander in this battle.
Tradition dictated that no one else rode the commander's horse once the battle began, until it ended.
It was to avoid ill omens.
Even the old Vulture Grandfather, though exhausted, had set out on foot, leaving the white horse behind with Tang Sect.
One man burst out angrily.
"Which lunatic dares ride the commander's horse?"
A comrade tried to calm him.
"If the commander granted it, then it's allowed."
"But the Young Lord of Murim is unconscious right now!"
"Perhaps something urgent has happened?"
At that, everyone fell silent. Had disaster struck their sect? Had something happened to the Young Lord himself?
A thousand ominous thoughts bloomed in their minds.
But when they saw the rider approaching on the white horse, they were shocked into relief.
Murim's Young Lord, Cheon Ryuyeong.
He was riding, whole and unharmed.
The men rubbed their eyes again and again, scarcely believing it.
Dang Cheonwi shouted out.
"Is that truly you, Young Master Cheon?"
Cheon Ryuyeong urged his horse closer and answered.
"Yes. It is I."
A murmur rippled through the Tang Sect ranks. What sorcery was this?
As they struggled to process their astonishment, Cheon Ryuyeong halted before Dang Cheonwi and dismounted.
"So here you are. Was it difficult?"
"T-that is…"
"Even martial men cannot endure endlessly. You've been running since yesterday, without rest. The hardship, the worry—you must have suffered most of all."
The seventy Tang Sect men, including Dang Cheonwi, felt their throats tighten.
They had been late to arrive and suffered glares from all sides. But how their own hearts had burned!
They had run until their thighs quivered uncontrollably.
Yet now, to hear such warm words from their commander… their bitterness melted away like snow.
Dang Cheonwi bit his lip, swearing he would not cry, then asked:
"But… how? You were unconscious."
"The treasured Manek Recovery Pill of my clan. Thanks to it, I awoke early."
"I see. Thank heavens. Truly, thank heavens. We feared the worst."
Cheon Ryuyeong smiled gently, his voice clear.
"The pill played a part, yes, but it was also thanks to all of you worrying so much for me. That is why I could rise."
He looked over the men, nodding as if understanding all they had been through. Then he spoke.
"I have a request."
"Yes? Say the word. What would we not do for the benefactor of our sect? If you tell us to run again… we will run."
"No, not that. Please return to the Tang Sect."
"…What?"
"It is unlikely, but the Black Wolf Troop may turn and attack Tang Sect. We must prepare for even that one-in-ten-thousand chance."
Dang Cheonwi's eyes went wide.
"R-really?"
Cheon Ryuyeong clasped his hand and shook his head.
"I said it is unlikely."
"Then why—?"
"Because the duty of a strategist and a commander is to prepare even for that remote possibility."
Only then did Dang Cheonwi realize—Cheon Ryuyeong was saying this only to let them rest.
"N-no. We cannot retreat while others are fighting."
"Please. The rear must be secure for the front to fight with confidence."
"Young Master Cheon…"
"I ask this favor of you."
"..."
"I cannot command the Young Lord of Tang Sect. So please, just accept this as my request. I will explain to the others on your behalf."
In the end, Dang Cheonwi could no longer hold back—he burst into tears.