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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Cyno
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“Amitabha….”
Like the endlessly deep waters of the lower Yangtze, the Divine Monk’s thoughts only grew deeper with each passing day.
In the remote depths of Mount Song, where no people ever came, he had built a hermitage and for three years engaged in nothing but meditation.
He neither ate food nor drank water, nor did he sleep in comfort—endless, grueling meditation.
What tormented him so was none other than inner demons.
Though his martial cultivation had reached the realm of the Human Immortal, and he had awakened to the natural order of the world, even so—
the world of men was boundless, and he could not break free from the chains of his inner demons.
—Ah, ahhh…!
In the depths of his mind, the cries of children replayed.
The Divine Monk remembered them. Every face, every scream—he remembered them all.
He also remembered the debates he had shared with Ok-hwa.
—“To repel demons and eradicate evil is the only truth.”
—“How can you not understand the sacrifice of the few for the greater good?”
—“Had we killed all those who fled, abandoning the children, we could have saved many more lives.”
During the Great Blood War, the Divine Monk and Ok-hwa had clashed fiercely in debate.
It had never been a matter of right or wrong, so no clear verdict was ever reached.
But the seeds of the Divine Monk’s inner demons had been planted from that very time.
At first, he had not been swayed by Ok-hwa’s arguments.
He believed that all could be saved, that even villains might be cleansed if their nature was essentially good.
Indeed, there were some—like the current head of Shaolin’s Precepts Court—who truly awakened to repentance.
Those who could not repent could be granted rebirth in paradise.
But the problem did not lie with them.
—“Sp-spare me! Please, spare me!”
—Puuuk!
—“Wahahah! Die! Die! Hm? Y-you… Divine Monk? Why are you he—”
He had believed he could save everyone.
He believed that with his mighty power, if he only pushed himself harder, burning his body as fuel, he could achieve his ideal.
Thus he chose his path.
Whenever conflict broke out with the Demonic Sect, he prioritized protecting the common people and his allies over slaughtering cultists.
He killed as many as he could, yes, but at the very least he would protect those before his eyes.
Even if enemies fled with their limbs intact, he chose to tend the wounded rather than chase them down.
It was the exact opposite path of Ok-hwa.
And yet he believed it was right.
If he only ran until his feet were worn down, if he swung his staff until his hands were dulled, he thought it possible.
To save everyone.
But the Divine Monk was not omnipotent.
The cultists who escaped scattered across the land, wreaking havoc in every corner of the realm.
For every one victim he saved by sparing ten criminals, those ten would go on to create a hundred more victims.
He wanted to stop it. And so he ran, and each time, new scars were carved into his body.
In time, his frame became that of a hardened warrior, impossible to believe it belonged to a monk.
Yet still, victims continued to appear.
And for ten long years, the Divine Monk could do nothing but watch these tragedies unfold before his eyes.
No matter how strong his martial arts, he could not be in Hubei, Henan, and Sichuan all at once.
If only his actions had simply been wrong, he would not have fallen into inner demons.
Unlike Ok-hwa, the Divine Monk never shied from reflecting on his past. In fact, he considered self-examination and correction of faults to be a virtue.
But that only made him all the more lost.
Should he abandon those before him and instead hunt down the cultists?
Or as Ok-hwa said, should he sacrifice the few to slay the cultists and prevent even greater tragedy in the future?
The Divine Monk could not bring himself to a conclusion.
If it were simply a matter of numbers, the latter was clearly superior. But was a person’s worth to be decided by numbers?
As a Buddhist, such a thought was unacceptable to him.
In the end, his inner demons turned into self-hatred.
Why could he not do both?
Why could he not, like the Sword Saint, save everyone before his eyes while also allowing no cultist to escape?
Strength!
It all came down to lack of strength.
For one of the Five Absolutes of the Martial World, who had already reached the realm of transcendence, to crave greater martial power might seem absurd.
Yet in the Divine Monk’s eyes, if he could not save everyone, then his strength was still lacking.
Of course, he knew the circumstances of the Sword Saint. He even knew from where that man’s martial arts originated.
Countless lives, immeasurable time.
The Divine Monk understood, more than anyone save the Sword Saint himself, just how harsh and bitter that path had been.
And yet—
even now, three years after the war had ended, he still clung to regret.
If only he had possessed that power…
If not a tender youth like the Sword Saint with many years yet to live,
but he himself—already close to death—had held the power of regression, perhaps he could have saved far more people, achieving salvation with minimal sacrifice.
Such lingering regret.
Of course, it was nothing but vain fantasy. The Divine Monk faced reality.
And in reality, what he confronted was only his unresolved guilt and tormenting regrets.
That was why, in the end, he lost faith in his own justice, and before all of the martial world swore a vow of complete retirement, retreating into seclusion.
And then, when the Alliance Leader suddenly came to him and told him the news of the outside world—
It was in that instant that he realized he had committed an irreparable mistake.
***
“You’ve prepared yourself.”
The Divine Monk spoke to Ja-pyung, who had picked up a monk’s satchel and a wooden gong. Ja-pyung looked every inch the wandering mendicant monk.
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
“Then tell me—what conclusion have you reached?”
“I intend first to gather people.”
“People?”
Ja-pyung spoke with burning determination in his eyes.
“I must also find my father, who was expelled from the Namgung Clan… and as I stand now, I have nothing. I need to establish myself within the martial world. That way, when I argue to defend my father, people will listen.”
“A wise thought. Indeed, nothing carries more weight than the word of one with power.”
“Thank you.”
“Good. Then go forth. But how do you intend to build your standing?”
Ja-pyung rose to his feet. The satchel on his back swayed powerfully—it would be his companion on his mendicant journey.
“I intend to undertake the Hundred Duels Journey.”
“…! The Hundred Duels Journey!”
At Ja-pyung’s words, the Divine Monk was visibly shaken.
What was the Hundred Duels Journey?
Some street wanderers fought a few third-rate vagabonds and boasted they had done it—but the true Hundred Duels Journey was something of an entirely different order.
It meant defeating, one by one, the Hundred Great Masters of the Era—of whom only a handful resided in each province.
Throughout the entire history of the martial world, those who had truly completed the Hundred Duels Journey were exceedingly rare. Many men of power might attempt it, but the danger was immense.
Think of it—seeking out and battling a hundred masters without rest. Even circling the Central Plains once would take considerable time.
And during that time, the body would be wracked with fatigue. Duels easily brought injury. Why, then, would anyone subject themselves to such peril?
That was why the Divine Monk was so shocked.
“I can do it. It is possible.”
But for Ja-pyung now, it was necessary.
If he succeeded, the Hundred Duels Journey would bring him immense renown.
Just as the Sword Immortal and the Celestial Star once had, his standing in the martial world would soar, surpassing even the elders and leaders of the orthodox sects.
His father’s deeds, the truth of his unjust disgrace, the strength to support his case—everything could be resolved through success in the Hundred Duels Journey.
How could he not be desperate?
Father… if I search far and wide, I will surely find you. A tiger may hide its body, but it can never conceal itself completely.
Of course, it was no lighthearted undertaking.
Though born of impulse and youthful blood, it was at the same time a solemn and weighty resolve.
It was not the masters he would face that frightened him.
Rather, it was because this was to be his first true step into the martial world—
and because his father’s fate now weighed upon his shoulders.
Crack.
Ja-pyung clenched his fist with fierce resolve. Though he had never fought a real battle, his fists had struck the cave walls tens of thousands of times.
Do not doubt the martial arts of Shaolin. No enemy’s body can be harder than stone.
Arhat Fist, One-Hundred Step Divine Fist, the Five Shaolin Fists, the Hundred-Forge Divine Fist…
For thirteen long years, Ja-pyung had mastered every fist technique Shaolin possessed, and had accumulated more than half a lifetime of inner energy.
Though he did not know how much the martial world had changed in that time, he felt confident he would not lose to anyone.
It was not mere arrogance.
The wind of the world, brushing against his skin, seeping through his pores, his eyes, his breath—
to him, the world felt unbearably soft.
It seemed as though with his two fists, he could strike down anything.
“Then, farewell, Grandmaster.”
“Amitabha… may the grace of Maitreya Buddha shine upon you.”
Ja-pyung bowed with palms together, then walked away from Shaolin.
The Divine Monk gazed quietly upon his broad back. From his withered lips escaped a sigh, little more than a whisper.
“…How pitiful.”
His aged eyes sank into deep reminiscence. A memory at least thirty years old flickered through his mind like a phantom lamp.
“Azure-Sky Sword King… were it not for you, the Sword Saint would not have met with such ruin….”
Bitterness at being able only to watch tragedy unfold.
Sadness for a disciple embarking on a path of hardship.
And a deep resentment toward the one who had sown the seeds of all these disasters.
“If you are watching from the afterlife… I pray you repent, even now. For your karmic debt is being repaid by your son and grandson, who struggle so bitterly.”
Many tangled emotions poured out in the Divine Monk’s solitary murmur.
“Amitabha….”
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