261 - Murim Login

Chapter 261 Gulp. The white hair mingling with his beard became tainted with blood. The middle-aged monk let out a strained voice. "D-Devil. You are a devil." A calm voice infiltrated his ears. "They say Shakyamuni thwarted the temptation of the devil and gained enlightenment under the Bodhi tree. However..." Screech. A hand, as cold and blue as steel, withdrew from the monk's chest. The gaping wound had already frozen, and frost-covered drops of blood turned into ice shards, falling to the ground. "No enlightenment can withstand the inevitability of death." The monk shivered from the overwhelming chill that enveloped his body. Whether it was due to the extreme cold technique that froze even his organs or the imminent aura of death creeping upon him, he could not discern. No, he couldn't possibly know. Slide, thud. The elder, 음귀 (Yin Ghost) Han Soo, looked down at the dead monk with wide eyes as his own eyes sank deeply. 'That was close. It was more than I expected.' He surveyed his surroundings. At the entrance of the collapsed meditation cave lay four bodies, including the fallen middle-aged monk. 'The Four Heavenly Kings (四大金剛)' Even within Shaolin, they were revered as highly skilled martial monks; each was a master with formidable skills. Particularly, the last monk had reached the threshold of pinnacle mastery. If he hadn't sacrificed flesh to take bone, he might have lost his life to the combined techniques of the Four Heavenly Kings. 'Cursed monks. Somehow, they manage to persist.' Shaolin had suffered near-catastrophic losses during the last major war between good and evil. The magnitude of their losses was so immense that it was incomparable to their past reputation as the best in the world, yet the millennia-old resilience of Shaolin still lingered. 'But that ends today.' Everything is going according to plan. Following the death of Dharma King Gongdo, the Four Heavenly Kings have perished, and Gongcheon will soon meet his end at Yeomho's hands. Hundreds of manipulated revenants will drench Mount Song with blood and burn the scrolls of the Sutra Pavilion before withdrawing. If Shaolin loses its core masters and martial arts, its downfall is certain. And there was a mission that took precedence over everything else. 'The Jade Buddha's Palm.' Why Shaolin’s sacred object held such importance was beyond his guess, but it had to be done. It was an order from the Celestial Lord (天主)—the reason why 'he,' entrusted with absolute confidence, had come along, wasn't it? 'Gongdo is mine, Shaolin is yours. Should you fail to find the Jade Buddha's Palm... imagine the consequences yourself.' Recalling the last thing 'he' said, Han Soo's face hardened. There can be no margin for error. If he fails, he will pay dearly. Boom! As Han Soo flicked his sleeve, the blocked entrance of the meditation cave revealed itself. Even the massive stone door that emerged could not halt his footsteps. Rumble! With a thunderous noise, the stone door crumbled. Through the rising clouds of dust and stone powder, a pair of eyes glinting with resolve emerged. "What brings you here, benefactor?" As the young monk, 무명 (Nameless), uncoiled his crossed legs and stood slowly, Han Soo's lips curled. "Are you a disciple of Gongdo?" "What if I am?" "I've come to collect an item." "There’s nothing here for you." "Then let's be clear. I’m here to take it forcibly." "I wouldn’t let someone who reeks of blood take even a grain of rice." "No need to fret. I'll be taking your life as well." "Amitabha." With his sacred beads clutched between his hands, Nameless’s eyes gleamed with determination. "It won’t be so easy." Gongcheon and Yeomho. The battle between the two masters who had reached the epitome of martial arts was fierce. Swoosh! Boom! Every thrust, swing, and kick pulsated with immense power. The battle was at a pinnacle that no one dared to intrude upon, a clash between beings who had stepped into the exalted realm of absolute mastery. But as time passed, the scales of victory began to tip. Bam! As two fists enveloped in energy collided, blood trickled from one man's mouth. "Cough." The gray kṣa (袈裟) worn by the monks became stained with crimson. As Gongcheon, who looked like he had been swept away by an invisible wind, staggered back a dozen steps, Yeomho bared his yellowed teeth. "Whelp. When you were still suckling, I wielded power in the southern lands. You're thirty years too early." Gongcheon wiped his mouth with a sleeve. Despite his pale complexion, the old monk’s eyes blazed intensely. "You’re an old monster, indeed. How about heading to the coffin now?" "Even when the orthodox factions cast a net, they couldn't catch me. A young monk like you stands no chance." Facing Yeomho’s increasingly fierce momentum, Gongcheon bit his lip. He realized that Yeomho’s words were not mere bravado but the plain truth. 'What kind of monster can still move like that at such an age?' During the last Great War between good and evil, the Yin-Yang Twin Ghosts were already in their sixties. Yet, even at an age far beyond a hundred, he showed no sign of exhaustion. With boundless power and experience amassed through numerous slaughters, even his only potential weakness, aging, seemed to have evaded Yeomho, leaving Gongcheon at a loss. 'But there's still hope.' Gongcheon’s eyes moved subtly. His gaze fell upon the hundred or so martial monks confronting the masked intruders. The group of precisely one hundred and eight represented Shaolin's pride and face, the One Hundred and Eight Arhats (百八羅漢). As the finest elite chosen through rigorous selection, they wielded staves and whips, pushing back the masked intruders. "They are the vilest of criminals. Show no mercy!" "Open the Gate of Slaughter!" The true value of the One Hundred and Eight Arhats unfolded when executing the Formation of One Hundred and Eight Arhats. Each performed their assigned role flawlessly. They calmly manifested in battle exactly as they’d practiced countless times. Crunch! Swoosh! Like the Buddha's overwhelming palm, the momentum of the One Hundred and Eight Arhats Formation caused the masked intruders to fall one by one, spurt blood. Initially, at a unilateral disadvantage, they now stood equally matched. 'If things continue this way... we might just succeed.' Just a few hours away lies the Wulin Alliance. If reinforcements arrive, it will be the Yin-Yang Twin Ghosts and the masked men who will find themselves on the losing end. As a glimmer of hope crossed Gongcheon's eyes, the moment was abruptly shattered. "Kuhahaha!" "...?" "Your face shows everything you're thinking. You naive monk." Gongcheon's expression stiffened. He sensed something was amiss in Yeomho's demeanor. 'Did he anticipate this all along?' But why? Before his questions could unfold, an ear-splitting roar echoed, the ground quaking violently. Boom! Unconsciously agape, Gongcheon stared at the scene before him. In slow motion, through towering earth mounds, human limbs and a torrent of blood cascaded like rain, as if a massive monster had swallowed a portion of the One Hundred and Eight Arhats formation. "No!" Time resumed with Gongcheon's scream. In the charred space left by the explosion, where over twenty Arhats had been annihilated, the masked men surged like waves. Slash, slash, slash! The Arhats, after all, were only human. Their wide-eyed gaze, frozen in shock, filled with the gleam of flashing swords. A battlefield that allowed no negligence. Hesitation bore a grim price. "Ahhhh!" "Brother!" The once-impenetrable shield of the One Hundred and Eight Arhats crumbled helplessly. A few elder monks rushed to reorganize the formation, but to no avail. They were up against beings more aptly called demons than humans. "The Celestial Lord commands it. Kill the enemies." With a low murmur, red light emanated from the chest of one masked figure. Witnessing such a bizarre phenomenon for the first time, the Arhats widened their eyes in shock. "What is this...?" "Demonic arts! It's demonic arts! Everyone, retreat!" But it was too late. The red light, having expanded to engulf the masked figure's entire body, exploded outward, enveloping dozens of Arhats and several masked men. Boom! The explosion. Deafening noise and screams. Limbs flew through the air, and the rain that fell was crimson. Red veins streaked through Gongcheon's dazed eyes. "How dare you..." Shaolin, Shaolin is falling. Corpses and death overflow in Shaolin, once untouched even in the Great War between good and evil. The young student who greeted him every morning with a smile lay breathless, and the brother he'd forged decades of friendship with was nowhere to be found. In this hellscape, Gongcheon clenched his fists, blood dripping from his hands. "This... this can’t be happening." Hearing his mutterings, Yeomho laughed heartily. "The Exploding Blood Demonic Arts. It's difficult to master due to its complexities, but perfect for situations like these. I brought along two men... more effective than I anticipated." "You dare...!" With a cry of anguish, Gongcheon's figure darted forward. But what awaited him was a fist wrapped in red energy. Boom! His protective aura shattered as powerful blows pummeled Gongcheon’s limbs. With excruciating pain blurring his vision, blood mixed with fragments of his insides expelled from his mouth. "Guhhhh!" From the foggy haze, Yeomho approached with a leisurely gait toward Gongcheon. "You foolish monk. After all those years mastering Shaolin's martial arts, have you forgotten the Unmoving Mind?" "Cough, cough!" A blatant error. No matter what, he should not have lost his composure. He needed to remain calm and composed, regardless of what he witnessed. He was up against a monster once compared to the Ten Kings of the Netherworld during the Great War. His best option was to prolong the stalemate, stretching time. "You bastard..." But Gongcheon rose despite his labored breaths. Not yet. If he fell, Shaolin would fall. He must protect this place till his last breath, allowing even one more person to escape. This was the final duty of an old monk dedicated to Shaolin. "Come forth." Yeomho frowned at the fiery determination in Gongcheon's eyes. "This is why I hate monks. In their last moments, they act with all the airs of saintliness." "What could a demon like you possibly understand?" "Perhaps just one thing." Yeomho laughed maniacally. "That you're about to die." Swish! It was a speed the already injured Gongcheon couldn't match. Yeomho's fist, now inches from Gongcheon, struck his shoulder. Thud! With a heavy sound, the energy in his fist tore through flesh and bone. Gongcheon let out a scream as his shoulder was violently obliterated. "Aghhh!" "You damned monk, dodging my fist? Let's see you dodge this." Yeomho's foot pressed down on Gongcheon's writhing head, suffering from pain and injury. Even with the slightest weight, his head would be crushed like a watermelon. "What do they say in times like this? Ah, yes." Feigning a revelation, Yeomho continued, tapping his forehead theatrically. "Rest in paradise." Creak. The force was slowly increasing. Death loomed in Gongcheon’s vision at that moment. "Remove your filthy foot. Before I turn your wretched spirit to ash." "Bust your balls, will we?" Voices sliced through the air. The first was elderly and gruff, the second young and sharp. Yeomho turned toward the source, his expression hardening. "Fire King..."