Chapter 1742 - It Cannot Be Seen (2)

Crack. 

The sensation of his fingertips piercing through the skull was disturbingly vivid. 

The brain matter surging out, the face of the one whose life was slipping away, and the blood, reeking as it spread. 

Even as the grim reality clung to him, his mind oddly began to blur. 

'What was it again...?' 

After throwing aside the person who had died, he thrust his left hand into the heart of another who charged at him. The opponent, unable to even scream in agony, feebly swung a sword one last time. The blade grazed his left cheek as it passed. 

Pain spread. He was used to it by now. 

No, was he really used to it? 

Thick blood trickled down his cheek. 

He tried to recall something, but nothing came to mind. It was probably something important. 

Crack! 

The sword aimed at his face collided with the ring on his finger. The sharp clang of metal against metal pierced his ears. 

Thud! 

A heavy punch sank into the middle of the enemy's chest. He caught a glimpse of shattered ribs piercing through the back. 

Shhk! 

In the midst of it all, something slashed his side. 

But he didn't bother to look back. His steps were only focused ahead. 

"Gugh!" 

A muffled groan followed as someone collapsed forward behind him. A quick glance downward showed the dull eyes of the fallen enemy briefly coming into view. 

'Their name...?' 

He couldn't remember. Or maybe he never knew in the first place. He had never paid attention to the people behind him. 

His gaze returned forward. Toward the enemies rushing at him, and beyond them, somewhere far away. 

Where? Or what was it? 

He didn't know. He had forgotten. Perhaps he had never known. 

Yet still, his feet carried him forward. He had to, or he wouldn't be able to endure the rage bubbling up from deep within. 

There was always a stifling flame burning inside him. 

If he stopped walking, he feared that flame would consume even him. An endless hatred towards someone he didn't know, a suffocating thirst so severe it made him want to rip his own throat out. 

Since when had this unknown thirst tormented him? 

Splash. 

He stepped over a pool of blood. The faces of those charging toward him came into view.

He calmly read all their negative emotions. 

Rage and resentment, fear and despair. Some screamed in fury, unable to control their anger, while others suppressed the urge to flee with desperate resolve. 

All those emotions mixed and boiled right in front of him. 

No matter how perfectly or vividly they were captured, a painting could never become reality. It was trapped within its frame. 

Just like everything in front of him felt distant and unreal. 

Boom! 

The attackers flew back in a mass. 

Flesh burst, bones shattered. Intestines spilled from torn bellies, and blood gushed from violently twisted necks. 

Even in the midst of this horrific carnage, everything felt like a hazy dream. 

He saw his hand in his field of vision. 

The pale hand, drenched in blood, was adorned with rings of various colors that didn't match. The wide sleeves of his robe were stained red with the blood of his enemies. 

Strange. 

It was undoubtedly his, yet it felt as though none of it belonged to him. 

The overwhelming sense of wrongness made him nauseous. 

His stomach churned, and his face twisted. 

Boom! 

A massive sword came flying from somewhere and clashed with the blue qi he quickly unleashed. 

The violent pain spreading through his body was intense, but even that didn't restore his sense of reality. 

An old man with disheveled hair, tears of blood streaming from his eyes, attacked again. His white hair fluttered, and his gaze was chillingly fierce. 

Boom! 

But there wasn't a shred of emotion in the fist that blocked the sword. 

Shhk! 

A long gash appeared on his wrist. 

Shhk! 

A horizontal slash across his chest. 

Shhk! 

The blade grazed dangerously close to his neck. 

Through the strikes of the sword, he could sense it. The relentless accumulation of martial skill and the firm pride in it. And even the overflowing, desperate desire. 

Even in his haze, he could clearly feel those emotions. 

He narrowed his eyes and stared past the old man. Most of the enemies had already turned to flee in a panic. 

Something they must protect, even at the cost of their lives... 

But what did it matter? 

Woosh! 

Blue qi surged from his fingertips. Two rings slid off his fingers and absorbed the qi as if swallowing blue flames. 

Swoosh! 

Two blue lines cut through the air. 

At that moment, the sword swinging with all its might paused for just an instant. It was only a brief hesitation, but in a life-or-death battle, even that moment was not too short. 

After a brief hesitation, the sword tried to block the rings flying toward it. 

Boom! 

The sword collided with the rings and bounced back. At the same time, a pale hand pierced through the old man's chest like lightning. 

The old man's eyes widened in shock, despair, and regret. 

His only thought was, 'Disgusting.' 

To feel regret, even now. 

Yes, perhaps at first, he had tried to protect it, even at the cost of his life. He had likely steeled his resolve. 

But in the crucial moment, hesitation always crept in. Somehow, he faltered. 

And that brief hesitation would cost him everything, not only what he tried to protect but his own life as well. 

A bitter smile escaped his lips. 

At the most intense moment, when everything collided, the world revealed its hidden core. That core was always filled with things so revolting no one wanted to face them. 

Boom! 

The old man's white-haired head shattered. Brain matter and broken bones scattered. 

The sound of heavy breathing filled his ears. 

It was faint, increasingly blurry. Even as the blood poured down on his skin, even as the killing intent stabbed at his body, even as his breath became ragged, it all felt the same. 

Only the flame inside him grew sharper and clearer. 

The smoldering resentment like he had swallowed burning coals, and hatred for something he couldn't identify. 

But he did not cry out in agony. There was no point; nothing would change. He simply staggered forward, mocking everything he saw. 

'What was it again?' 

He didn't know. Maybe it never existed in the first place. Now, it didn't matter anymore. 

His step crushed the remains of a corpse beneath him. 

In the end, everyone reached the same, equal conclusion. 

His gaze lifted upward. 

The blazing sun was staring down at him. No matter how far he reached or how loud he shouted, he would never touch it in his lifetime. Yet his hand stretched out toward the sun on its own. 

As his sleeve fell back, numerous scars were revealed. And then he saw it. The blood staining his clothes wasn't his enemy's—it was his own. 

A wave of extreme dizziness and nausea surged over him. 

But instead of collapsing, he forced strength into his legs. He reached further, grasping at the sky. Desperately, as if it were his last hope. 

Through his hazy vision, he could no longer bear the burning thirst and opened his mouth... 

"..."

His blurry vision gradually cleared. Slowly, he looked from left to right, surveying his surroundings. The inside of the tent, despite its lavish decorations, could not completely hide the ruggedness of the battlefield.

After remaining motionless for a long time, he slowly lifted his hand. The soft blanket covering him slid away, revealing his bare torso, void of even a single thread. His body was etched with scars of various sizes, crisscrossing like a chaotic pattern. The wounds from his dreams had now faded into scars, engraved deeply onto his body, serving as a reminder that all those events had long passed.

Jang Ilso gently caressed the scars on his body with his pale fingertips. There was no feeling, no emotion. It didn't matter. After all, everyone only saw the elegant robes he wore. Who would care about the state of the body underneath?

The tent door, which hadn't been fully closed, was slightly ajar. Through the crack, he could see the sun already high in the sky. Just as in his dream, he slowly reached out toward the sun. No matter how hard he tried, he knew he couldn't reach it, but that's precisely why it was worth stretching his hand out.

Perhaps... back then, he had said the same thing.

Feeling a thirst much greater than before, he opened his mouth and spoke.

"It's a fine day."

A soft smile appeared on Jang Ilso's face.

* * *

"They're being noisy..."

Long fingers tapped near red lips.

"The Wudang Sect, you say?"

"Yes."

Jang Ilso asked, his voice trailing off in a hum.

"Hmm. And the reason?"

"We haven't figured it out yet."

Since the enemies were gathered there, they naturally kept an eye on Wudang Mountain. However, getting inside to learn the exact cause was another matter.

"I'll find out."

"No, leave it. What does it matter what the reason is?"

Jang Ilso chuckled softly.

"The important thing is that a problem is occurring, isn't it? The fact that they're stirring up trouble, even though they know we're watching, means it's serious."

Ho Gakmyung nodded slowly in agreement. Jang Ilso, who had been humming, suddenly asked a question.

"What happens if you keep fighting, over and over, until you're covered in wounds and refuse to stop?"

"You'd become like Ryeonju-nim."

"..."

Jang Ilso, who had been laughing cheerfully, paused and looked at Ho Gakmyung with a discontented expression. It wasn't the answer he was expecting.

"...Am I wrong?"

"Ugh. No, I mean, you're right... but that's not normal. Normally, wounds fester and rot."

Jang Ilso scratched his cheek lightly and let out a low laugh.

"When you're in the heat of the moment, you don't realize how much the cold pus is eating away at you. It's only when the fever in your head subsides that you realize it."

Jang Ilso's lips twisted into a smile.

"By then, the wounds have already rotted beyond repair."

Ho Gakmyung let out a short sigh. There was no mistake in Jang Ilso's words. The damage wasn't just on their side.

Their opponents had been able to endure for so long, not just because they were strong, but because they had been running so fiercely that they couldn't even look back at their own injuries. But now, they would surely know. They would realize that their bodies, too, were covered in grievous wounds—and some wounds, invisible to the eye, were the most fatal of all.

Jang Ilso looked at Ho Gakmyung and asked.

"Gakmyung, what do you think we should do?"

A faint hint of mischief flickered in his eyes. After a moment's thought, Ho Gakmyung replied.

"If it were up to me... I wouldn't let them recover. I'd strike while they're in disarray."

"Hmm."

Jang Ilso smiled, seeming amused. Although it appeared to be a positive reaction, Ho Gakmyung knew better. This wasn't a signal of approval.

"That could be fun. It would certainly be enjoyable. But... wouldn't you like to wait a little longer?"

"Wait for what?"

"If you cut open the wound and drain the pus, it'll heal. But... what if they can't?"

"..."

"Watching them helplessly flounder as their bodies rot... That might be even more entertaining, don't you think?"

Jang Ilso was confident. Whatever the cause of their turmoil, he was sure they wouldn't be able to resolve it. And he was likely right. It was Jang Ilso, after all. Yet Ho Gakmyung couldn't shake a lingering doubt.

"The Plum Blossom Sword Demon... he didn't manage to..."

But he suddenly stopped mid-sentence, a question crossing his mind.

Why had Jang Ilso met with him alone? Was it because he completely trusted Ho Gakmyung's strategy that capturing him would ensure victory in this war? Was that really the only reason?

It might be. But was that truly all?

"...You've confirmed it, haven't you?"

Jang Ilso looked at Ho Gakmyung with an intrigued gaze.

"You've realized that he's not the kind of person who can be defeated. Or rather..."

With a hardened expression, Ho Gakmyung asked.

"Did you ensure he wouldn't be able to fight back?"

Jang Ilso didn't bother answering. Instead, he raised his cup of wine toward his lips, then paused. With a smirk, he slowly extended the cup toward him.

"Everyone has something they can't throw away. Something they can't let go of."

"..."

"And sometimes, that very thing is what drags them into the mud, though they don't realize it."

At that moment, there was another person silently observing this entire conversation from behind Ho Gakmyung.

A swordsman, his face hidden by a black mask. His expression, his identity, impossible to discern.

"What do you think?"

"..."

"Hmm?"

Jang Ilso extended his cup toward the masked figure, but the figure's hand remained motionless. He dared to refuse Jang Ilso's drink.

But Jang Ilso, far from being offended, simply let out a soft laugh.

"Oh dear, you really don't know how to enjoy yourself."

He brought the cup back to himself and drank it down. Watching this, the masked figure's eyes churned with countless emotions, reminiscent of what had been seen in Baek Cheon's eyes.