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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Teottry
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“I am the legend—!!” He had declared it boldly, but honestly, he wasn’t feeling so legendary.
He was out of breath, his legs trembling. He had depleted most of his internal energy using the Fudo Myo-o Steps and the Dog Beating Staff Technique in quick succession.
He was reaching his limit.
But he couldn’t show weakness. He had to bluff.
He shouted, projecting an image of strength, sending a clear message to the remaining assassins: Come at me if you want your skulls cracked.
He straightened his back, took a deep breath, and raised his staff once more.
He engaged in psychological warfare.
As the staff rose, the assassins flinched, their bodies tensing.
Despite facing only one opponent, none of them dared to make a move.
They looked like a pack of frightened dogs cowering before their handler.
Though numerous, they were less ferocious than Half Dragon, the descendant of the Dragon King, and less tenacious than the assassin of the Heavenly Demon Sect he had faced before.
They instinctively recoiled from the relentless barrage of his staff, which seemed to target their very flesh and bones.
This confirmed his suspicions. He was tired, weakened, but so were they.
While some of them were still relatively unharmed, having avoided the brunt of his attacks, their spirits had been broken, witnessing the brutal beatdown of their comrades.
They perceived him as a dangerous predator.
It was only a matter of time before the authorities arrived, alerted by the commotion. Surely, they couldn’t ignore such a blatant disturbance. If they did, they were derelict in their duties and deserved to be fired.
‘If they don’t realize I’m weakened, I win!!’ Mancheon thought triumphantly. But then…
Unfortunately, one of the assassins, relatively unscathed and still capable of rational thought, noticed something.
“Hey… his right leg is shaking. Is he tired?”
He glanced down and saw that, despite his attempts to project an image of strength, his body had betrayed him. His right leg was trembling uncontrollably.
His leg always seemed to fail him at the most crucial moments.
But fortunately, while some of the remaining assassins were relatively unharmed, others were… less coherent, having taken too many blows to the head.
“I heard… somewhere… that when a master’s leg trembles… it means they’re really angry… They’re probably preparing a powerful attack…”
‘My leg… has been trembling since I was born…’
Regardless, the assassin’s words had sown seeds of doubt. They exchanged uneasy glances, whispering amongst themselves.
They were divided, torn between the desire to attack, believing he was weakened, and the fear of being killed if they approached.
But the balance… didn’t last long. The tide began to turn in favor of those who believed he was vulnerable.
They were assassins of the Murderous Curtain, after all. They couldn’t afford to be seen cowering before a single opponent. They wouldn’t be able to earn a living as swordsmen.
They tightened their grips on their weapons and closed in.
The assassins waited, watching, ready to pounce, while Mancheon, his back to the stairs, planned to crush their morale by taking out the first one who dared to approach.
The tension escalated, the air crackling with killing intent.
And then, time… seemed to stop.
Like a white crane descending from the heavens, Xiaoshao, dressed in white robes, leaped gracefully from the second-floor balcony, landing on the first floor.
It wasn’t exactly flying, but the landing was so light and effortless, it gave the illusion of flight.
His small frame, his flushed face and unsteady gait, only emphasized his delicate appearance. But none of the assassins dared to approach.
A cold blade, drawn slowly from its sheath, commanded the space around them.
The King’s Sword.
Like subjects before their king, like fish caught in a net, they were frozen, their senses captivated, drawn towards the blade.
Even the wild dogs and the predator paused, silenced by the presence of an overwhelming power.
Mancheon was awestruck by the true power of the King’s Sword, while the assassins were paralyzed, overwhelmed by Xiaoshao’s internal energy, far surpassing that of a typical aspiring young martial artist.
The moment passed, the technique released, a brief display of power that consumed a tremendous amount of internal energy.
Xiaoshao, weakened by the curse and barely able to maintain the technique for even a moment, had still pushed himself, risking his life for Mancheon, who had been fighting for him.
He steadied his trembling body, assumed a fighting stance, and pointed his sword at the assassins.
“Come at me if you wish to die. I am Nangong Xiaoshao, the Sword Dragon.”
He was small in stature, his name implying smallness, but the assassins didn’t underestimate him.
Even after the King’s Sword had faded, they remained frozen, paralyzed by the aura of the small king before them.
As the assassins hesitated, their eyes fixed on the tip of Xiaoshao’s blade, a horn sounded.
It was… the Murderous Curtain’s signal for retreat.
Unsure of why the signal had been given, but grateful for the opportunity to escape, the assassins quickly gathered their injured comrades and fled.
Or rather, they fled from Xiaoshao’s sword.
There were no parting threats, no promises of future vengeance. They simply fled, their silence a testament to their fear of Xiaoshao’s overwhelming power, their bodies moving instinctively, desperate to escape the inn.
With a single display of power, he had broken their spirits and driven them away. It was a technique truly befitting the name “King’s Sword.”
Mancheon, having witnessed the true power of the Nangong family’s King’s Sword, narrowed his eyes and looked at his own staff.
His trusty weapon, his partner in battle, suddenly felt inadequate.
He should have begged his master to teach him the King’s Sword, even if it meant clinging to the old man’s leg and wailing like a child. He felt a pang of regret.
He glanced at Xiaoshao.
‘Would he trade the King’s Sword for… the Dog Beating Staff Technique and the Emptiness Illumination Fist?’
As he pondered the possibility, calculating the value of each technique, Xiaoshao sheathed his sword and approached unsteadily.
“I have some ointment in my room. Let’s tend to your wounds.”
He looked as though he was about to collapse, and yet he was concerned about Mancheon’s well-being.
While it was dangerous to remain in the inn, venturing outside risked an ambush, so he allowed Xiaoshao to treat his wounds in Xiaoshao’s room.
He had heard that the ointments used by prestigious families and sects were specially formulated, unlike ordinary ointments, but he couldn’t discern any difference between this ointment and the one used at home.
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Jang Dal, the one-eyed assassin of the Murderous Curtain, blew his horn, signaling the retreat, then, avoiding Jang Sam, he, too, retreated into the shadows.
While Nangong Xiaoshao was a relatively safe target, a victim of internal Nangong family strife, the second son of the Sima family was a different matter.
Regardless of the reason, harming him would have dire consequences. It wasn’t worth the risk.
He rubbed his temples. He couldn’t understand where he had gone wrong.
Mancheon had consumed the cursed tea, and yet, unlike the other young martial artists, he had remained unaffected.
If everyone had been unharmed, he would have assumed it was a simple con, but everyone except Mancheon had been incapacitated.
Which meant… it wasn’t a con.
At least he knew the curse was effective on Nangong Xiaoshao. He would simply have to try again.
He would hire the Curse Merchant again, curse Nangong Xiaoshao, incapacitate him, and then, this time, he would succeed.
As he formulated his new plan, his mind racing, he heard a chilling voice from behind.
“Forgive the intrusion. I’m afraid I must depart this village immediately, so I came to bid you farewell.”
A chilling voice, reminiscent of a fox’s cry. It was Xuan Hu, the Curse Merchant.
He immediately created distance and turned to face the speaker. Xuan Hu, the fox-like man with narrow eyes, smiled pleasantly.
“I had intended to simply leave, but considering our brief partnership, I felt obligated to offer you a word of advice.”
“An Advice?”
Jang Dal frowned, his one good eye narrowed in suspicion, and Xuan Hu nodded, his tone friendly.
“I don’t know the specifics of your situation, but there was someone who consumed the cursed tea and remained unaffected.”
“Yes, and I was just about to discuss that with you.”
Eager to take control of the conversation, Jang Dal pushed down his unease and confronted Xuan Hu aggressively.
“Your curse was flawed. One of my targets remained unaffected. How do you intend to take responsibility for this failure?”
“Yes, yes, I was just about to address that matter, so please, hear me out.”
Xuan Hu took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. His face seemed flushed, as if he had a fever.
“There are three possible reasons why someone might be immune to my curses.”
“First, it is ineffective against powerful Daoist priests or Buddhist monks. It’s a matter of counteracting energies. Second, it doesn’t work on those who possess special energies.”
“Special energies?”
“For example… there’s a technique in Esoteric Buddhism called the Immovable Heart Method. Mastering this technique allows one to burn away any afflictions, including curses, making them immune.”
“And the third possibility is that they are already under a more powerful curse. It’s similar to the principle of fighting poison with poison.”
Jang Dal understood what Xuan Hu was implying. If someone was already afflicted by a potent curse, a weaker curse would be ineffective.
“You failed to incapacitate a single target because of a pre-existing curse? Do you have any idea how much I paid you?”
Xuan Hu burst out laughing – or rather, he coughed up blood – at Jang Dal’s furious accusation.
“Cough- cough- hack- haha! My apologies. I seem to have lost control for a moment.”
He wiped the blood and the sweat, now pouring down his face like a waterfall, with his handkerchief.
“Curses are like arrows; someone has to be the target. Forgive my arrogance, but there is no one in the Central Plains more skilled in the art of curses than myself.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“This.”
Xuan Hu slowly raised his right arm, his index finger pointing towards the darkened sky, the moon hidden behind clouds.
“It wasn’t a human curse, but a celestial one. One of your targets was cursed by heaven itself.”
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Deceived by heaven and loved by girls, yeah that’s our MC 😏
