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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: cyno
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Cough, cough.
Jin Woo-yong’s soul coughed incessantly.
He had forcibly transferred his memories, even exhausting his spiritual energy in the process.
‘Are you alright?’
Byeolak, who had returned to his own mindscape, asked him.
“Do I look alright? I feel so dizzy I might drop dead.”
Snapping back irritably, Jin Woo-yong immediately collapsed as if falling flat.
Memories are a person’s history.
And that history—especially two full days’ worth, which was by no means short—had been forcibly implanted.
It wasn’t as severe as violating the divine law of Cheonkinuseol (Divine Secrets Revealed), but Inseonsauseol (Mortal Affairs Revealed) was never something to be taken lightly.
Because of this, faint wisps of smoke were rising from Jin Woo-yong’s spiritual body as he lay there.
Seeing how visibly unwell he looked, Byeolak felt a pang of guilt and thought:
‘Please rest well.’
“Hey, punk, I’m not dying.”
‘Once you take a nap, you’ll feel better.’
“Yeah… I should sleep.”
Jin Woo-yong flashed a defiant smirk before his expression withered again, and he quietly closed his eyes.
“At least I’m not suffocating anymore. That’s a relief. No regrets.”
He was sinking into a deep, creeping slumber.
A sleep so profound it plunged into the unconscious.
A white canvas where crimson waves surged, where heaven and earth flipped over and over.
A fantastical sight so absurd that anyone who saw it would dismiss it as a dreamlike delusion.
And that very sight was unfolding within Okhwa’s mind.
Like a master painter had brushed vivid colors onto it, she couldn’t tear her eyes away even if she wanted to.
“Grrk…! Sword Saint, you bastard…!!!”
In the canvas, a red-haired woman screamed.
Though Okhwa had never seen her before, she knew exactly who she was without needing to think deeply.
The Blood Cult’s Vice-Leader—the one the Sword Saint had once mentioned.
“Haah… Haah… To think someone like you served under the Blood Demon… I can hardly believe it.”
“Shut your mouth!! Who served under whom?! If that vile bitch had faced me head-on, I would never have lost!”
“Calling her ‘vile’ seems unfair… You don’t seem so innocent yourself. At least I fought the Blood Demon with pure martial skill—”
The Sword Saint trailed off, gesturing to his torn-open chest.
His exposed flesh was marred by blackened skin and gruesome scars.
“Hah! If I hadn’t already been injured, I wouldn’t have resorted to poison and demonic arts!”
“…Is that so? Quite the confidence. But what will you do now?”
Drip—
Squelch—
A trickle of blood spilled from the Sword Saint’s lips.
At the same time, his hand was tracing a crescent arc with a gleaming, translucent sword.
Okhwa focused on the characters engraved on the blade: Radiant Light Treasure Sword). The very sword the Sword Saint had cherished since the Jeonghyeol Daejeon era.
That Cheonggwang Bogum transformed into a familiar stance.
“Emperor’s Sword Form.”
The greatest martial art of the Murim, ranked among the Jungwon Samjeol (Three Peaks of the Central Plains).
“ Emperor’s Sword Rectifies Heaven.”
Among them, the most arrogant yet righteous, the most rigid yet supreme sword technique—one that claimed to correct heaven itself with the Emperor’s blade.
“It’s been a while since I’ve used this… Three thousand years, perhaps.”
The Cheonggwang Bogum flashed like lightning.
A sword technique so profound Okhwa couldn’t even dream of comprehending—one that surpassed all mortal limits—rained down upon the red-haired woman.
Though, to be precise, it wasn’t just aimed at her. The sheer force of the strike was enough to obliterate the entire landscape around her.
“Y-You madman…!! Where the hell did a monster like you come from?! Two hundred years ago, I’d never even heard of someone like you…!!”
Crackle—!
The gale born from the torn atmosphere howled in all directions.
Though Okhwa was merely an observer, she felt as if she had been possessed by the memory itself.
‘P-Possessed…?’
No, this was beyond mere possession or hallucination.
Rustle—
The hair on her real body swayed faintly.
Not from any real wind—but from the storm within the memory.
Jegeom Gyocheonjeong—a technique so transcendent it could even rectify dimensions and space—had slightly severed the boundary between memory and reality.
‘This… is human martial arts…?’
Even as she reeled in disbelief, the memory continued unfolding.
“……?!”
“Kuh-huk! Gahk… Ugh…”
Shockingly, the Sword Saint’s overwhelming sword technique—one that had even affected reality—
Psssh—
Dissipated without leaving a trace in the memory’s world.
The Sword Saint, clutching his stomach as if his dantian had been damaged, coughed up a revolting black liquid.
The red-haired woman looked down at him and burst into laughter.
“Hahaha! So even you’re not invincible!”
“Tch… After my thousandth life, I neglected to cultivate complete poison immunity. And now it’s come back to bite me.”
“Hah… I’ll admit it. You were a formidable opponent, Sword Saint. More impressive than when I fought the Blood Demon two hundred years ago. Now, just die.”
“Haha…”
The red-haired woman smirked viciously as she approached the kneeling Sword Saint.
In one hand, she conjured a sinister crimson orb brimming with malevolent energy.
But just as she closed within three paces of him—
Thud—
“Kuh-huk…!! D-Damn it!! It was quiet until now, why…?!”
The woman suddenly coughed up blood, hastily dispersing the crimson orb.
Her face was deathly pale.
“Haha… Seems you’re not in great shape either.”
“Damn it…! If not for my injuries…!! Screw this! Sword Saint, heaven must favor you!”
“…If only I had died. Maybe this hellish life would’ve ended.”
After the brief but intense exchange, the red-haired woman vanished with a curse.
Her limping gait suggested she had suffered injuries too severe to recover from easily.
But that wasn’t what held Okhwa’s attention.
Her gaze was fixed on the Sword Saint—Namgoong Cheolbin, Byeolak, Baek Dogaek—
“Ugh…”
Grunting in pain, he slowly rose to his feet.
“Maybe if I die here… I won’t have to hear those damned accusations anymore…”
He hesitated, nearly collapsing again, but—
“No. This peace was hard-won. I must live.”
Clutching his will to survive, he stood once more.
“Yes. I must live, no matter what.”
“……!”
The sight was so pitiful, so agonizing to behold.
“S-Sword Saint…”
It overlapped with the image of the broken man who had come to her—the shell of a man he had been.
“If I go to Kunlun… I can heal. Okhwa wouldn’t cast me out… She wouldn’t…”
Okhwa felt herself crumbling.
“Okhwa is… my ‘friend’…”
The Sword Saint’s words stabbed into her heart.
As if they were meant to tear her apart.
“F-Friend…? I… I…”
Contrary to the Sword Saint’s hopes, she had cast him out.
She had held a blade to his throat, driven him to the brink of death.
A ‘friend’—no, a comrade who had fought alongside her, who had come to her after battling the ‘evil’ threatening the world.
“S-Sword Saint… I… I…”
Tears streamed down her face, drenching her cheeks.
She had finally overcome her fear.
The guilt she should have felt long ago—the guilt she had denied—now consumed her.
“Okhwa, lift your head.”
Byeolak’s rough voice made her slowly raise her gaze.
When she did, what she saw was—
“Ah… Ahh…”
Hair that had turned completely white—whiter than in the memory.
“Sword Saint, Sword Saint, Sword Saint…!”
Eyes that, though still emotionless, had lost the righteousness they once held.
“W-What have I done…?”
“Hah. Your face is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen, even when contorted with regret.”
“……!!”
That coarse voice—the one she hadn’t paid much mind to when she first met ‘Baek Dogaek.’
And then—
“That scar… Could it be…?”
A single, straight scar running from Byeolak’s right cheek down to his nape.
Like a nail driven into her conscience, it hammered into her heart.
“At last, you’ve stopped turning away from the truth.”
“Sword Saint… I… What have I done to you…?”
“Save that for later. First, admit it.”
“…Admit?”
Byeolak wore a faint smile.
A slightly sinister one—though if one didn’t look closely, it might just seem bitter.
Blinded by tears, Okhwa only saw the bitterness.
“Admit that until now, you’ve been committing evil, not good.”
“……!!”
“What use is guilt or regret alone? Without acknowledging your sins, there’s no growth—nothing.”
Byeolak was slowly cornering her.
He didn’t fully understand why himself.
His heart simply demanded it.
The more he pushed Okhwa—the one who had betrayed him—the better he felt.
“You’re saying I’m evil.”
“I won’t call you evil for believing false rumors. Disappointing, yes, but that’s just foolish, not wicked.”
“Sword Saint, stop. Please, just stop…”
“But you knew the truth. And you buried it. Why? Because you needed a ‘villain’—someone to satisfy your twisted sense of justice.”
“Stop, just stop. I’ve realized it deeply enough. Please, no more.”
“Realized what? Are you admitting you were ‘evil’?”
“Ugh…”
“You weren’t foolish. You were evil. Wicked. Malicious.”
As one truth surfaced, the lies she had buried began to unravel.
Just as Byeolak said—she had crossed from ‘foolishness’ into ‘evil.’
Of course, she couldn’t accept it easily.
“Or do you still think I’m wrong? That I’m the villain, the demon, the one who deserves condemnation? Is that it?”
“…You’re right…”
Fear was something even willpower couldn’t easily overcome.
“Say it again. Am I the villain? Are you the righteous one?”
“You’re right… You’re right, you’re right! I said you’re right…!!”
“Is that so? Then one last question. Am I righteous? Are you the villain?”
But now, surrendering to that fear was no longer an option.
“…Yes.”
“At least you have a shred of conscience left.”
“…I’m… sorry.”
Okhwa’s guilt toward Byeolak was overwhelming.
Even if acknowledging her corruption destroyed her, she could no longer turn away from him.
Her heart felt like it was being torn apart.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard you apologize.”
“I’m sorry. I… I was wrong.”
“Hmm…”
Thud—
Okhwa collapsed weakly, tears of regret pouring as she clutched Cheolbin’s knees.
“I did terrible things to you. For my own selfishness, I crossed a line I never should have.”
“Okhwa.”
“I know there’s no way to atone. I never should have turned my back on you.”
“Okhwa.”
“I was afraid… That stupid fear made me betray you.”
“Okhwa…”
One by one, her sins spilled from her lips.
Amidst the suffocating sorrow—
“You were righteous. That’s why I thought I could make you the villain without consequences. My subconscious saw you as an easy target—a vessel for my emotions. I shouldn’t have.”
Byeolak watched her coldly, then swallowed bitterly before speaking.
“Okhwa, there’s one thing I want to ask. It’s not that important, but I need to hear it from you.”
Okhwa nodded repeatedly in response.
“Say it. Say anything. Insult me, condemn me. I deserve it. I deserve all the scorn in the world.”
“It’s not that… I’m just curious. Why did you reject me?”
“What…? Didn’t I just say? Because I was ugly, hypocritical—”
“No, no, not that.”
Byeolak seemed intent on pushing her to her limit.
Perhaps even beyond.
“Let me tell you a story about the Divine Monk. The one you always clashed with.”
“The Divine… Monk…?”
“Okhwa, do you know about the current Gyeyul Wonsa (Preceptor of Discipline) of Shaolin?”
“The Gyeyul Wonsa…? The one who enforces discipline among Shaolin monks? No, I don’t.”
“Well, the truth is, the Gyeyul Wonsa of Shaolin is a Blood Cultist. Most don’t know this, but his name and epithet are quite famous. Akgwang Ilma Yoo Hyeong-cheol—one of the Chilma (Seven Demons).”
“……??”
Okhwa’s eyes widened.
The idea that Shaolin’s Gyeyul Wonsa—a pillar of the sect—was the Akgwang Ilma was shocking.
And as Byeolak’s unexpected story continued, she gradually realized why he was telling her this.
“He even killed the Divine Monk’s beloved disciple, Beopryong. Though the Divine Monk has retired now… Back during the war, when he was still Shaolin’s abbot, this tragedy occurred.”
“I’ve heard of that… They say the Divine Monk was grief-stricken, enraged.”
“Yes, he was furious. He scoured the world for Akgwang Ilma for three months.”
“…Three months?”
Byeolak’s next words sent her into stunned horror—
Horror that soon gave way to crushing regret.
“Akgwang Ilma went to Shaolin himself. He begged the Divine Monk. Said he couldn’t kill anymore, that he couldn’t endure the damnable Blood Arts corroding him. Pleaded for salvation.”
“Salvation…? Y-You don’t mean…!”
“Your guess is right. Astonishingly, the Divine Monk showed mercy to the man who killed his own disciple. He told him to repent at his side, to live the lives of those he had killed.”
“Th-That’s impossible! Once someone learns the Blood Arts, there’s no escape! It’s demonic energy—evil itself! How could a mere human break free from that corruption?!”
“I thought so too. Until the Divine Monk showed me the miracle. In the end, Akgwang Ilma abandoned all bloodlust, renounced the Blood Arts, and started anew with Shaolin’s teachings. With the Divine Monk as his guide, he sought redemption. Eventually, he rose from third-rate to second, then first… Now, he stands as Shaolin’s Gyeyul Wonsa.”
“……!!”
“…Do you understand why I told you this?”
Ripples of shock spread across Okhwa’s face. Her pupils trembled violently.
“Even if you thought me a villain… You could have chosen to save me. As my comrade—no, as my friend—you could have purified the ‘demon Sword Saint’ with Kunlun’s righteous energy.”
“……I’m sorry. I’m… not the Divine Monk.”
Okhwa began apologizing again.
“During the war, many in the alliance spoke ill of you. Said your methods were excessively cruel. Especially when you executed an innocent villager to smoke out a single Blood Cultist hiding among them… Even the elders and the alliance leader debated expelling you from the orthodox factions. You know what that would’ve meant.”
“……I see. I nearly faced death without even realizing it.”
“Only the Divine Monk and I opposed it. We argued that despite your methods, your goal was justice. Because of us, you’re still alive. So why…?”
Suddenly anticipating his next words, Okhwa felt the urge to cover her ears—but instead, she perked them up.
Because she believed she deserved the pain.
“You didn’t embrace me.”
Though Byeolak remembered Okhwa embracing him just weeks ago,
His temperament now was entirely different.
“Is that Kunlun’s teaching? I’ve heard Kunlun embodies righteousness and mercy even more than Shaolin or Namgoong. A sect where semi-immortals transcend personal glory to align with the world’s flow. So tell me—can you, as Kunlun’s leader, truly call yourself righteous?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I have no excuses. I’m sorry.”
“‘I’m sorry’… Haha, you know better than I do that no words can undo the past.”
“I’m… sorry! I’m sorry! I was wrong! I, Dogo—no, I, Okhwa, was wrong!!”
Thud—!
“…….”
Okhwa pressed her face into the snow.
Her tears were so abundant they quickly melted the icy ground.
“I’m sorry! I, Okhwa, apologize like this!! As Kunlun’s leader! As your former comrade!!”
Prostrating herself in shame—a posture that revealed how broken she was.
“So please, curse me. Hate me. Strike me, kill me. If it eases even a fraction of your resentment… I, who abandoned righteousness, deserve death.”
Her plea was utterly despairing.
“Ugh……”
A groan escaped Byeolak’s lips.
He seemed to be wrestling with himself.
“Okhwa.”
Like a soul awaiting Yama’s judgment, Okhwa buried her face deeper into the snow.
“Do you truly… regret it?”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“You regret it to the bone, don’t you?”
Byeolak’s voice sounded lonely.
Almost relieved.
“Honestly, until just now, I didn’t want to let you live. Not out of hatred… I was just so, so angry. Angry enough to want to dispose of a corpse.”
“Turn me into a corpse. If it eases your anger, nothing would make me happier.”
“But seeing you regret so sincerely… It’s oddly calming. Only because you mean it.”
“Are you… letting me go? Don’t. Unless I’m punished, I’ll never sleep again, tormented by guilt.”
“Enough. Just go. A sincere apology has cooled my heart. Just stay out of my sight.”
With those words, Byeolak turned to leave.
Watching his retreating figure, Okhwa thought—
‘Sword Saint, you truly…’
She felt something she could never dare dream of—
Something vast beyond measure.
‘…Are a great man. A man greater than I could ever imagine.’
Why did his receding back seem so towering?
The fact that she—she alone—had reduced such a man to this wretched state—
“Ugh…!”
A sharp pang pierced her chest.
It hurt. Self-loathing, long suppressed, surged up.
“Just… what kind of being are you… Cheolbin…?”
Okhwa slowly shifted her gaze.
At the end of it lay the sword she had intended to use on Byeolak earlier.
A finely honed blade.
Clank—
Slide—
“…….”
She gripped the sword.
Gritting her teeth, she tightened her hold.
As if making a grave resolution.
“Cheolbin… Namgoong Cheolbin…”
She recalled the image of Cheolbin’s face from earlier.
Many memories flashed through her mind, but the most vivid was the long scar running from his right cheek down to his neck.
A scar she herself had carved.
“This won’t atone for what I did to you.”
Slide—
Okhwa slowly brought the blade to her own face, mirroring the scar’s position.
Death terrified her, but now that she had tasted guilt, living on without courage was worse.
“If this can give you even a sliver of satisfaction, then I’ll be content.”
Slide—
Evil must be slain.
She had committed evil.
Thus, she must slay herself.
A simple syllogism—one most could never bring themselves to enact—unfolded in the mind of a woman who worshipped ‘absolute justice’ as her creed.
She would enact justice—just as she had lived for thirty-five years. That was all.
Sssss…
“Ugh.”
A sharp pain ran down her neck. She wanted to feel more pain.
Physical agony to numb the heart’s torment.
But she knew she didn’t deserve that relief. She had to feel both. That was her punishment.
Sssss… Thud—
At that moment—
“Okhwa…?”
The back she thought she’d never see again blocked her sword.
“Don’t tell me… you were trying to… kill yourself…?”
“S-Sword Saint…? Why did you come back…? Let go. You’re bleeding.”
True to her words, blood dripped from Byeolak’s palm, staining the snowy ground red.
“Shut up and answer me…! Were you really going to die? Why…? Why…?”
His voice was laced with anger.
Confused, Okhwa gently pried his hand off her sword and answered.
“To show you I’m sorry. And to punish myself.”
His response was utterly baffling.
“……Why?”
“Huh? What do you mean ‘why’? Didn’t you hear me earlier…? Unless your ears—no, your hearing—are damaged too…? No, that can’t be…!”
As Okhwa spiraled into misplaced guilt—
“Why… does your death atone for anything? Why? Tell me why?”
Byeolak kept questioning her. Sharply, relentlessly.
“Why…? Because…”
“I saved you. I went through hell to save you. And now you’re throwing that away to die for your own peace of mind? Is that it? Am I… that insignificant to you?”
Suddenly, Byeolak grabbed her shoulders.
Her left shoulder was soon stained red from the blood dripping from his wound.
“Why? Why would you… disregard my suffering? My efforts? Even my… wishes? How can you so casually say you’ll die for me? Is that what you think atonement is? Just easing your own guilt, seeking eternal rest?”
“W-Wait, calm down. Sword Saint. You’re too worked up.”
“Calm down?! You’re telling me to calm down?!”
Crunch—!
An irresistible force clamped down on Okhwa’s shoulders.
The pain was unbearable, but what shocked her more was Byeolak’s expression.
“Okhwa.”
Finally, he spoke again.
Like a soul awaiting Yama’s judgment, Okhwa buried her face deeper into the snow.
“Do you truly… regret it?”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“You regret it to the marrow, don’t you?”
Byeolak’s voice was quiet.
Almost relieved.
“Fine. Then live.”
Okhwa’s head snapped up.
“L-Live…?”
“Yes. Live. Suffer. Atone. That’s true repentance.”
Byeolak released her shoulders and stepped back.
“Dying is the easy way out. Living with your guilt—that’s the hard part.”
Okhwa stared at him, stunned.
“But… how…?”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re Kunlun’s leader, aren’t you?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
“And if you ever forget why you’re alive…”
He turned, walking away.
“…Remember the scar you gave me.”
Okhwa clutched her own cheek, tears streaming anew.
This time, not of guilt—but of something else.
Something she hadn’t felt in years.
Hope.
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