Chapter 515
The chaos in the marketplace had yet to spread to the ferry terminal.
If it had, there wouldn’t have been such loud cheers ringing out.
“Taewon Jin Clan! The Taewon Jin Clan is here!”
“Waaaaah!”
Though the main road was quite a distance from the ferry terminal, no one present failed to hear the excited cries echoing from afar.
Among them was none other than Sama Pyo, the Black Dragon Blade.
‘Taewon Jin Clan…’
His gaze darkened.
The Taewon Jin Clan. A new powerhouse that had rapidly risen within the past two years.
No—perhaps the term “new” wasn’t entirely fitting. After all, it had a deep-rooted history of over three hundred years.
And the one who had revived the once-fading noble house was a single individual.
‘Blazing Fire Dragon, Jin Taekyung.’
Once just a budding sprout, the young man had planted himself firmly in the soil of Murim and grown into a towering tree.
And the branches extending from him were sturdy and lush.
The Fire King, Jeok Cheon-Gang.
The Mount Hua Divine Dragon, Cheongpung.
His master, the Sword Saint Ma Jong-hak.
The powerful Mount Hua Sect, counted among the strongest of the Nine Great Schools.
Even Shaolin, the undisputed pillar of Murim, was among those intertwined with him.
A voice broke Sama Pyo’s thoughts.
“I was wondering who the esteemed guest was, considering that even the esteemed Master of Shaolin himself came to greet them. Now I understand.”
“Amitabha. This monk is not so idle.”
The stern-faced Zheng Ho fixed Sama Pyo with an unwavering gaze.
“Nor am I so leisurely as to overlook someone stirring up unnecessary trouble.”
“…Ah.”
Sama Pyo’s hand, which had unconsciously rested on the hilt of his blade, withdrew as he smiled faintly.
“My apologies. It’s merely a habit.”
“For your sake, I hope that is true.”
“I am a man of law myself. Do you truly think I would entertain irreverent thoughts toward Shaolin?”
“Amitabha. It is best to avoid actions that could cause misunderstandings, Sama Pyo.”
“I suppose so. However…”
The vague smile on his lips sharpened once more.
Sama Pyo glanced between Zheng Ho and the mysterious monk wearing a deeply pressed bamboo hat.
“For such a devout master to speak so harshly, you must hold this individual in high regard.”
The title of Precepts Hall Master alone signified Zheng Ho’s high standing within Shaolin.
His teacher had been the late Law King, Hongdo, one of the three direct disciples of the former Shaolin Abbot.
Judging by his rank and lineage, Zheng Ho was undeniably a central figure in Shaolin.
Sama Pyo deduced that Zheng Ho’s open hostility stemmed less from his personality and more from the presence of this enigmatic monk.
“I had heard that the Master had yet to take in a disciple.”
“…You have keen ears.”
“As you can see, I also have sharp eyes.”
Zheng Ho furrowed his brows.
“Amitabha. Enough wordplay. Let us continue this conversation another time. I must go greet an unexpected guest who arrived earlier than scheduled.”
“Ah, I see. Have you taken in a new disciple?”
“You there, mind your words.”
Wooong.
A deep, resonant hum echoed from the meditation staff in Zheng Ho’s grip.
At that moment, the mysterious monk, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally spoke.
“It is fine, [Sa-jil].”
(T/N: A term meaning “martial nephew”, referring to the disciple of one’s junior or equal in the sect hierarchy.)
A rough, metallic voice, like steel scraping against stone, emerged from beneath the bamboo hat, suffocating the surrounding air.
Shaolin monks, including Zheng Ho, shuddered at the overwhelming force carried in that voice.
Even the towering, eight-foot giant beside Sama Pyo widened his eyes in shock.
Yet, what truly surprised Sama Pyo wasn’t just the monk’s presence.
‘Sa-jil? He called me Sa-jil?’
For a brief moment, he stiffened.
The monk beneath the bamboo hat spoke once more.
“Return the sword to its rightful owner. Here, in Henan, no disturbances will be tolerated.”
“…Then, until we meet again.”
With those final words, the bamboo-hatted monk turned away.
As if the wind itself carried him away, he disappeared into the distance.
Sama Pyo watched in silence as the Shaolin monks followed after him.
A slow, halting voice broke the moment.
“Sect Leader… Who was that monk? I… cannot defeat him.”
“He doesn’t think much, but his skill is real. Incredibly strong.”
Sama Pyo didn’t answer.
Instead, he muttered as he recalled the faint yet piercing gaze that had peeked from beneath the bamboo hat.
“The Precepts Hall Master’s young senior…”
It had only been a brief encounter, but it was enough to gauge his age.
The face beneath the bamboo hat was far too young.
And yet…
“Sect Leader?”
“…Yeah, I’m listening, you fool.”
Snapping out of his thoughts, Sama Pyo clicked his tongue.
He tossed his sword toward a merchant trembling in the corner and stretched his arms lazily toward the sky.
“Let’s go. I need a drink.”
“Tavern! Tavern!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The sky remained a deep blue, and the warriors of Murim continued to gather in Henan.
Far in the distance, the cheers of the crowd at the ferry terminal still rang out, chanting the name Taewon Jin Clan over and over again.
“Apologies for the trouble, Sa-suk.”
As they hurried toward the ferry terminal, Zheng Ho spoke, stepping closer to the bamboo-hatted monk.
The monk shook his head.
“This was not Zheng Ho Sa-jil’s fault.”
“No. It was my responsibility to end it before it escalated. I never expected that young man to act so boldly…”
Zheng Ho’s displeasure remained visible on his face.
Even now, he couldn’t shake his irritation at Sama Pyo’s behavior.
Especially in times like these—on a busy street, with countless eyes watching—not only had he slain an opponent using Blood Soul, but he had also dared to provoke the authority of Shaolin.
“I had heard that the influence of the Black Dragon Demon Sect in Gansu was considerable, but I didn’t expect them to be this brazen.”
“Is that so?”
Though the voice that responded was rough, the speaker’s demeanor was remarkably calm.
As he walked, the monk wearing a bamboo hat continued,
“My knowledge is still lacking, so there is much I do not yet understand. However, from what I have heard, the forces of the Heretical and Demonic Sects are not particularly strong.”
“That is true.
But not all unorthodox sects are the same.”
“The Black Dragon Demon Sect must be one of the exceptions, then.”
“Yes. Among the unorthodox sects in the Central Plains, they are undoubtedly one of the top three. No, perhaps they are even the greatest unifying force.”
“What do you mean by ‘unifying force,’ Sa-jil?”
“Symbolism, [Sa-suk].”
(T/N: A term meaning “martial uncle”, referring to a senior disciple of one’s master within the same sect. It signifies respect for an elder in the martial hierarchy, even if they are not a direct teacher.)
“Symbolism…”
“The Black Dragon Demon Sect is the most historically significant among the heretical sects. At one point, they were even one of the Twelve Branches of the Demonic Cult.”
“Did they betray them?”
“Amitabha. It would be more appropriate to call it a compromise.”
The Black Dragon Demon Sect’s compromise had been successful.
When the long and brutal war finally ended in the righteous sects’ favor, the Black Dragon Demon Sect gathered the scattered remnants of the unorthodox sects and rebuilt their strength.
“But for the Gate Leader of the Black Dragon Demon Sect to act so arrogantly… This is nothing short of disregarding Shaolin, after all the suffering we endured during the Bloody History—”
Zheng Ho, consumed by anger, was about to continue when he suddenly closed his mouth.
As if reading his thoughts, the bamboo-hatted monk beside him spoke in a low voice.
“It is fine, Zheng Ho Sa-jil.”
“…Sa-suk.”
“All of Shaolin bears deep wounds. Some lost their brothers, their mentors, or their disciples. I am no different.”
Their footsteps grew faster, the rough voice continuing beneath the bamboo hat.
“I… I was overwhelmed with sorrow. But even if he has set out on a journey from which he cannot return, his will does not simply vanish.”
Zheng Ho and the Shaolin monks clenched their lips together.
How could they forget that day?
How could they not understand the grief he carried?
They all remembered.
They all knew.
“I have resolved to carry on his will. That thought alone helped me endure my time in the Cave of Repentance.”
The skin that occasionally peeked from beneath the bamboo hat was as rough as his voice, littered with countless scars.
For someone, the past three months had been nothing short of hell.
Every day had been a cycle of pain, healing, and training. Those who had heard the screams from the Cave of Repentance had shed tears, unable to endure the agony he bore.
Three months of torment and anguish.
Yet he had endured.
Bearing the sorrow of his master’s death, and the hatred for those who had desecrated Shaolin, he continued forward without pause.
At the end of it all, a single ray of enlightenment had shone through.
“Zheng Ho Sa-jil.”
“Yes, Sa-suk?”
“My master used to say this often: Every great movement begins with a single person. If one is not enough, then two. If two still struggle, then three must rise. In this way, even that which has fallen can be rebuilt, and the path forward can be reclaimed.”
His master—who had departed on an unreturnable journey—had loved wine and meat.
He would lie on the rocks, dozing through the day, only waking when the twilight deepened.
And when his disciple, who had come to wake him, inevitably fell asleep at his side, he would shake the boy’s shoulder and point to the sky stretched high above them.
“Look, you are up there as well.”
The boy, rubbing his sleepy eyes, would always ask,
“Why do you call that star your disciple?”
“Because when I first brought you here, I followed that very star.”
“But… it’s too small and dim.”
“That is why it is good.”
“Huh?”
“The brightest and most dazzling stars burn out the fastest. But your star… it will shine there for a very, very long time.”
Even now, the disciple remembered his master’s words.
Long after time had passed.
Even after the sky’s fate had warped, and a new star had risen somewhere in the north.
Even after his master left this world, and Shaolin’s temple grounds were stained red with blood.
The disciple still remembered.
Even now, he lingered in that moment, unable to move forward.
“Master, where is my star now? Are you watching over me from the heavens?”
His steps came to a halt.
Standing atop the hill that overlooked the ferry terminal, he lifted his head toward the sky.
The clear, blue sky stretched endlessly before him.
But there were no stars in sight.
And even when night fell, he knew he would never find his star.
Nor his master’s.
Even if he opened his eyes as wide as possible, all he would see were the two ships docked at the ferry terminal and the lines of people disembarking.
Even if he listened intently, all he would hear were the deafening cheers of the crowd gathered at the pier.
“Master… where are you?”
He slowly closed his eyes.
But even in the darkness, no stars appeared.
No matter how widely he opened his ears, his master’s voice did not reach him.
In the end, today was no different.
Just as he was about to open his eyes once more, resigned to reality—
Splash!
“Somebody fell into the river! A man was running on water, and then—he just plunged in!”
“Holy—! That’s our junior!”
Screams.
Shouts.
And then, a familiar, desperate voice rang out.
“Goddammit, don’t just stand there screaming! Get a rope! Throw a damn rope!”
For a moment, amidst the darkness that had long clouded his vision, light flickered.
A new star rising from the north.
A trace of his master.
“So, you’ve arrived.”
A smile formed on the once-rigid lips of the bamboo-hatted monk, Nameless.
