Chapter 02 - Three Calls to the Underworld
Igo of the Green Forest was trembling.
It was the exact same feeling he’d had as a child, when he’d gone hunting with his father and brothers and come face to face with a tiger.
That vicious face, that terrifying roar, that overwhelming presence.
While his father and brothers were torn to shreds, Igo had hidden in a burrow, able to do nothing but tremble.
Ever since, Igo had been tormented every night by the sound of his father and brothers calling to him.
‘Igo.’
His father’s voice, calling from outside the brushwood gate.
‘Igo.’
His brothers’ voices, calling from the yard.
‘Igo.’
And the call of something unknown, from beyond the paper-screen door.
Each time, Igo would pull the covers over his head and tremble.
Just like he was doing now.
“Ugh-uh-uh-uh……”
Igo stumbled backward at the sight of the boy walking toward him.
A boy from whom a dark red energy emanated.
He looked like a malevolent god made manifest.
‘Come here.’
‘Come with us.’
‘Why were you the only one to survive?’
His three companions, impaled on the boy’s long spear, were glaring at him.
They all wore the faces of his father and brothers.
Meanwhile.
“……”
Chui.
He was looking at Igo.
“…Three Calls to the Underworld.”
Chui was recalling something from long ago.
“To send an opponent to the Underworld within three calls of their name. It has been a long time.”
It was a memory of the master who had taught him the demonic arts.
* * *
One rainy night.
Chui, who had enlisted as a low-ranking boy soldier, was on a scouting mission at the very front lines of a battlefield.
The path was treacherous, but the area had little strategic value, so his fellow soldiers had dumped the entire scouting mission on Chui, the lowest in rank, and returned.
It was then that Chui discovered something strange.
A place where the path abruptly ended, sheared off like a cliff.
A gorge that gaped open like a tiger’s maw between the mountain slopes.
An old man was leaning there, gasping for breath.
He had red hair, red skin, and red eyes, and the clothes he wore were also a uniform shade of crimson.
Chui knew instinctively.
This was something ‘to be seen, but not acknowledged.’
As he was about to turn away to save his own skin, the old man spoke to him.
‘What will you do with a life lived like that?’
Chui stopped in his tracks.
The old man’s words continued.
‘Your life is one you’ll live and die like an insect anyway. Why not come down and take a gamble?’
There was a truly strange pull to the old man’s voice.
A truly bizarre call that words and reason could not explain.
As Chui had no lingering attachment to life, he chose to descend the cliff.
Up close, the old man’s appearance was slightly different from his first impression.
He had white hair and white skin and wore white clothes; only his pupils were red.
He had only appeared crimson because he was covered head to toe in blood.
The old man asked.
‘What is your name?’
Chui answered.
‘Chui.’
Then the old man asked again.
‘What is your name?’
Chui answered.
‘Chui.’
The old man asked one last time.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Chu—’
This time, he could not answer.
The old man had seized the nape of Chui’s neck just as he was about to open his mouth.
How had the dying old man stood up, and how had he closed such a great distance in the blink of an eye?
While Chui blinked, the old man caught his breath and then gave a sharp, acrid smile.
‘If there is someone you wish to kill, ask their name three times.’
‘…….’
‘Regardless of their answer, you will be able to kill them all.’
The old man told Chui a long story.
Much was omitted, but Chui had no great difficulty understanding.
The old man’s story could be summarized as follows.
One. His name is Hong Gong.
Two. Hong Gong is the leader of a group called the Blood Cult.
Three. Hong Gong is being pursued by a coalition of the Orthodox Faction, the Unorthodox Faction, and the Demonic Way.
Four. The reason Hong Gong is being pursued is that he caused an unprecedented bloodbath in the history of the martial world.
Five. After a long pursuit, Hong Gong fought a battle of attrition against the final masters of the Orthodox, Unorthodox, and Demonic factions. He succeeded in killing them all, but in the aftermath, he lost the use of his lower body.
Six. Hong Gong wants Chui to procure the medicinal herbs to heal his body.
Chui, who had been listening in silence, summed up his position in a single phrase.
‘Kill me.’
Chui does not make promises he cannot keep.
Not out of any particular conviction, but because the concept of a lie did not exist in the tribe where he was born and raised.
The old man, Hong Gong, asked again.
‘Why do you refuse my request? Is it because I am the ‘Blood Demon’?’
‘It is not that. It is because I lack the ability to acquire the herbs.’
Chui spoke honestly.
The barracks in this area did not have the herbs Hong Gong wanted.
Fallopia multiflora, snow ginseng, inner cores… these were things that could barely be procured even if one were to raid not only the main allied barracks but also the enemy’s storehouses across the river.
Chui was a low-ranking soldier with no power or authority; he didn’t even have ointment to treat his current wounds, let alone herbs for restoring one’s health.
No, forget ointment—he was in a position where he’d be grateful for the one or two barley cakes or potatoes he would be supplied with tomorrow.
…But upon hearing Chui’s answer, Hong Gong merely smiled that acrid smile.
‘Do not worry. If you just do as I say, you will be able to obtain even rarer herbs than those.’
And so, the deal began.
So that Chui could acquire the herbs, Hong Gong passed on his martial arts to him, one by one.
One day, the way to scale a wall without making a sound; another day, the way to kill a giant foe with a single hand movement; another day, the way to cross a river without floating.
With each lesson, Chui grew stronger.
He silently scaled walls to infiltrate the heart of enemy camps, killed enemy commanders, and crossed rivers without being pursued.
To survive, Chui fought on, and so did Hong Gong.
But Chui was lucky, and Hong Gong was not.
One night.
The night Chui returned after killing over thirty enemy soldiers and cutting off their commander’s head.
The hard-won herbs he had stolen were rendered useless; Hong Gong was dead.
Only his head remained.
* * *
*Thud- roll, roll, roll…*
Someone’s head tumbles down the mountainside.
The head of a man—whether he was an escort, a member of the Green Forest, or something else before that, it was impossible to know.
It rolled and rolled along the dirt ground before coming to a stop in one place.
Right at Chui’s feet.
‘It’s clear.’
His mind was as clear as spring water.
He had stabbed dozens of enemies to death with his spear since entering the dark forest, but he hadn't gone on a rampage like before.
The demonic arts passed down from Hong Gong were inherently incomplete.
He had generously bestowed his all upon Chui, but it was not because he was fond of him.
‘…He must have known that if I kept practicing, I would one day become a crippled madman.’
Hong Gong had used Chui.
Once he had procured all the herbs to heal his body, he would have either killed Chui or induced him to run wild as a madman.
But Hong Gong died, and Chui mastered nearly ninety percent of the demonic arts he left behind.
All that time, Chui had to endure immense hardship to suppress the demonic energy that had seeped into his marrow and reached his brain.
There were even times when he went without eating or sleeping for a full ninety days, hunting down and killing the public enemies of the martial world.
When he wasn’t killing, his body and mind felt suffocated, as if trapped in the depths of an abyss.
Only when he killed did his mind clear, allowing him to regain his sense of self.
‘…That’s certainly how it used to be.’
Chui looked down at his blood-soaked hands.
Even when not killing, his mind was as calm as when he was.
This was despite the seed of the demonic arts blooming within his dantian.
‘What happened? The demonic arts are being suppressed.’
To be precise, he could still draw upon the power of the demonic arts, but their side effect, the mental derangement, was not occurring at all.
His martial arts had vanished, but his martial principles remained, so Chui quickly realized the origin of this change.
Breathing.
The breathing technique of the Miao tribe, passed down through his clan for generations.
His body, immediately after regressing, still remembered the breathing technique from his childhood, one he had completely forgotten after enlisting in the army.
Amazingly, as he breathed according to the method of his boyhood, he could feel the side effects of the demonic energy from Hong Gong gradually fading.
To think that a forgotten memory from his youth was the key to preventing the rampages of his prime.
It was a truly strange and ironic coincidence.
*Fushshhhhh…*
The dark red vapor that had been rising from his skin slowly receded back into his body.
Reflecting his face on the spear blade, he saw that his red-tinged pupils had already returned to their black color.
“I see. So I can maintain my sanity while keeping the power. To think such a thing was possible.”
Chui let out a dry laugh.
The face of Hong Gong, who had sworn that he could never return to his right mind until he had fully mastered all ten stages of the demonic arts, was already growing dim.
If he had known this breathing method, could Hong Gong have avoided such a futile death?
Chui set down his bloodied spear and was once again lost in thought.
Just then.
“…Young Hero.”
A voice called to Chui from behind.
Chui broke from his reverie and turned around.
A woman in a black wind-cloak stood there, performing a fist-and-palm salute.
“Thank you for your help in our moment of crisis.”
Behind her, a dozen or so men in the same attire could be seen, also performing the salute.
They were the escorts from the Howling Tiger Escort Agency who had survived the chaotic battle.
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