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[Translator - Pot]
[Proofreader - Kawaii]
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Chapter 179. So That’s How I Died
Ulbhild used me as a training dummy to demonstrate every technique of the Flowing Cloud Thunder Fist.
"If you lock the neck like this and wrap your legs around the opponent’s lower body, there’s absolutely no escape."
Flat on the ground with Ulbhild on my back, I barely managed to mutter:
"I’m sorry, but if you put even a little more pressure here, I think I’ll stop breathing."
"If you feel that kind of pressure, it means the technique is properly applied."
Ulbhild pushed off my back and stood up.
"Now, you try it."
"Yes."
I answered immediately.
"Good. Barclava? Come here."
"Damn it."
Barclava approached with a face like he’d eaten shit.
"Cough! Cough! I surrender!"
"You’re exaggerating after just one touch."
"I can’t breathe, damn it!"
"Call me ‘Brother,’ and I’ll go easy on you."
"Brother!"
Finally freed, Barclava glared at me with a venomous expression.
"Damn it, let’s switch."
"Sure, whatever."
Not that it changed anything. How couldBarclav a’s clumsy chokehold possibly restrain this Allenvert?
"Lock the lower body! If you just squeeze the jaw and tuck the shoulder, you leave room to breathe!"
"Damn it!"
"See? Watch—if I twist my waist like this and turn—"
In an instant, I flipped Barclava over, reversing our positions.
"Like this."
"What are you, an eel?"
"It’s technique, technique. You really lack finesse in using your body."
"You’re just too damn quick, Brother."
Wow, why does hearing ‘Brother’ from him make me cringe so much?
"Get up."
Barclava took my hand and stood, dusting the dirt off his clothes.
"Hmm, you two. There’s still quite a gap in your understanding of martial arts."
At Ulbhild’s words, Barclava’s face darkened.
"I’ll work harder."
"I’m not scolding you."
"Yes."
I asked Ulbhild.
"Sister, wouldn’t it be amazing if we combined this with the Scarlet Cloud Ghost Path’s footwork?"
"Correct. You’d be able to evade and redirect enemy attacks much more smoothly."
Ulbhild seemed curious about my thoughts.
"And then? After combining the two martial arts, how would you develop them further?"
"The Flowing Cloud Thunder Fist itself lacks techniques for emitting fist energy—it’s far more basic compared to the Azure Sea Moon Shadow Swordsmanship—"
I answered.
"But if you master an advanced martial art specializing in mana control, or fist energy emission, you’d essentially create an invincible fist technique with no range limitations."
"Like the Ink Soul Sacred Shadow Technique you chose?"
Ulbhild chuckled.
"Even if not that, combining it with martial arts like the Snow Blossom Sword Technique you’ve mastered or the Solar Flare Sword Style that eldest brother Karl uses could allow you to mix cold energy into your strikes, diversifying offense and defense."
Ulbhild nodded.
"You’ve got a sharp eye. If you choose an advanced martial art like the Fierce Tiger Divine Fist, it’s not impossible for you to one day be called the Fist King. In fact, among our ancestors, there was one hailed as the greatest fist fighter in the Litvaleur Kingdom..."
"Ah, I see."
Ulbhild really was a martial arts fanatic. She was casually talking about a fist fighter from generations ago, not even the previous one.
"Anyway, you’ve learned the basics. Let’s move on to advanced training. If you land a single hit on Chase’s face today, you can go home."
"I’ll go first."
I raised my hand—
"Gah!"
And succeeded in exactly ten seconds.
"I’ll head home now."
"...Alright, go ahead."
Barclava watched me with envy as Chase, blood dripping from his nose, gripped his shoulder tightly.
"Young Master Barclava."
Chase spoke solemnly.
"I’ll spar with you until dawn. Give it your all."
"...How generous of you."
***
After receiving the letter from Svaltalfar, the executives of the Bisakino Brotherhood erupted into heated debate during dinner.
"This was all Huten overstepping his bounds. Why should we all pay the price? Handing him over should be enough."
"Enough of this madness. No matter how powerful Svaltalfar is, we can’t tolerate such arrogance."
Though divided into factions, they were now split between those advocating a hardline response and those arguing for Huten’s punishment.
"So what do you suggest? Should we declare war?"
"At the very least, shouldn’t we bare our fangs once? If we cower like dogs, our reputation will be ruined."
Coincidentally, many of the hardliners were from Huten’s faction.
"I agree. Their demands are outright disrespectful. They tried to assassinate our executive, failed, and now they want revenge?"
"Honestly, this is beyond ridiculous. What kind of logic is this?"
"Exactly. Is this even justified?"
Watching the hardliners echo each other, the moderates frowned.
"Sorry, but that’s not for us to decide. It’s all about power—"
"Honestly, whose side are you on?"
"Are you mocking us now?"
"It’s not mockery. Look at how things are."
While the executives argued, the Godfather silently continued his meal.
"..."
Like a strict father watching his children quarrel without immediate reprimand.
"Svaltalfar’s true strength lies in their main clan. The late Luktum was nothing compared to them."
"And your point is?"
"If their main clan’s assassins target Huten, our losses will be severe."
"Are you saying we should sacrifice our pride just to avoid damage? Are you insane?"
The executives kept glancing at the Godfather while hurling sharp words like daggers at each other.
"If the organization’s dignity matters so much, why don’t you and your faction handle it?"
"What did you say?"
"Svaltalfar doesn’t retaliate just because a branch member failed and died. They don’t seek revenge for every little thing."
A moderate sneered at a hardliner.
"But what did Huten do? He didn’t just kill—he decapitated the target and sent the head as a taunt."
"..."
"Given that, their response is actually restrained. Handing Huten over wouldn’t damage our dignity."
Huten had provoked this himself.
"Everyone knows Huten went too far. Because of him, we’ve angered Count Agrippa’s clan and even disrespected the Third Young master of Grunewald."
The moderate raised his voice.
"Is this really for the organization’s sake? One misstep, and we could face the wrath of both ducal and comital clans. This city is Grunewald’s from the very name, isn’t it?"
"..."
The hardliners—specifically Huten’s faction—grew agitated at the pointed remarks.
"Oh, so now you’re pinning everything on us?"
"You’re the ones who schemed and dragged the Black Night Society into it. Wasn’t it your idea to set up that gambling den targeting the young masters—"
"Enough."
The Godfather wiped his mouth elegantly with a napkin and spoke softly.
Immediately, the executives fell silent like scolded children.
"Both sides are being too loud. Is this how you behave at dinner?"
"Forgive me, Godfather."
"My apologies."
The Godfather pointed at the two most vocal—one hardliner, one moderate.
"Wait outside."
"Yes."
"Understood."
As the two left without another word, the Godfather scanned the room.
"How many years has Huten been with us?"
"Six years."
"Six. It’s been that long already."
It had started when the Godfather personally recruited the young man who’d made a name in Grunewald’s underworld.
In that time—long or short—Huten had repeatedly taken radical actions, leveraging his skill, political acumen, and unfathomable combat prowess.
‘Quietly, yet surely, he built his own faction.’
Now, the organization was split so sharply that even in front of the Godfather, they stood divided.
‘To run an organization, you need driven, aggressive men like Huten.’
That’s why he’d turned a blind eye—until now.
‘But his head’s grown too big.’
Perhaps it was time to cut it off.
"Summon Huten."
He drove his knife into the table with a soft, smooth motion, sinking it to the hilt as if slicing cheese.
"...I’ll personally reprimand him."
"!"
The faces of Huten’s faction paled.
Reprimand.
If he answered wrong, Huten could lose a finger—or be cast out entirely.
***
Huten’s plan was, in some ways, going completely off the rails.
"Young master Somerset, what the hell is this?"
The man, who had been almost completely mentally enslaved, suddenly cut off contact and started resisting.
"He was like a puppet before. Why now?"
After pushing away even his own mother under their control, what could have caused this change? It made no sense.
‘Did the Duke intervene personally?’
If so, it wouldn’t be impossible to understand.
‘Or did someone from Agrippa’s faction pull some strings?’
……It still hadn’t crossed his mind that Allenvert might be the reason.
‘Besides.’
He was also uneasy about how strangely difficult it had been to track down Zizek, a mere low-ranking underling.
‘Could that bastard also be hiding something?’
Just like he was.
“……Hah.”
Though two issues weighed on his mind, the most pressing matter was something else entirely.
“A reprimand? Hah.”
Huten scoffed.
“That oil-bellied old man, enjoying the prosperity I brought him… and now he wants to cut me loose?”
Huten was the one who had elevated the Bisakino Brotherhood—once the weakest of the five major organizations—to a position rivaling the second and third most powerful organization. True infiltration required patience, nurturing prosperity and wealth over years to secure a place at the table.
‘I saved your life twice, Godfather.’
But Huten’s heart was too worn out to feel betrayed.
Wasn’t it always like this? They had merely been using each other from the start.
‘Still.’
What Huten desired lay within Grunewald’s castle walls. There was no way he could back down now.
His grand scheme was unfinished. He still had a role to play. And if that meant staining his hands with blood to stir greater chaos, so be it.
“You’ll need to make a move.”
Huten turned to his true subordinate, who had been silently standing guard.
“What should I do?”
“First…”
Huten grinned.
“Go meet Count Agrippa.”
“……!”
The man bowed without question.
“Good.”
Obeying without hesitation—this was the virtue that set his real faction apart from those rootless upstarts in the underworld.
“Go.”
Black flames flickered in Huten’s pupils.
“Go and ‘shake hands’ with Count Agrippa.”
***
Late Night Musings
After finishing training, I usually slept well.
But tonight, old memories resurfaced.
‘Ivan.’
I thought of that bastard—the right-hand man of the Dark King’s right-hand man, a mere wart on the arm of power.
‘Next to the Dark King, he’s my greatest enemy.’
After all, he was the one who drove me to my death.
‘We weren’t even on bad terms, though.’
Ivan didn’t seem to like me much, yet he’d often drop by to gamble or share drinks.
I never fully trusted him, but I didn’t refuse either. We were the same age, and after working together a few times, we’d come to respect each other’s skills.
Back then, I was stuck at the peak of the 6th tier, unable to break through due to the limits of my mana cultivation techniques and spirit medicines.
“Karzan.”
One day, Ivan brought up something… intriguing.
“Don’t you want a proper martial art? With a real mana cultivation technique, you’d grow much stronger.”
I snorted.
“If I wanted one, I should’ve gotten it as a kid. Trying to learn now would just lead to mana deviation.”
Ivan smiled meaningfully.
“There’s a way.”
“That look on your face tells me it’s shady.”
“Yeah. What some call… demonic arts.”
I laughed.
“Like what you practice?”
“……Yes.”
Those sinister, unfathomable arts—forbidden techniques with depths no one fully understood.
They were the gold that the Dark King and his loyal slaves received in exchange for their shackles.
“It’s the strongest martial art you can’t even imagine. Just learning it could smash through the wall of the 7th tier holding you back. And I know your talent.”
Black flames flickered in Ivan’s eyes. Madness. Obsession.
“Tempting.”
Gold.
Was there anything more alluring to human greed?
“One question. Would mastering this ‘demonic art’ turn me into a slave whose heart explodes if the Dark King orders it?”
“Whether you take it or not, you’re already his slave in the end.”
“What’s this? I’m a contractor. If I don’t like it, I walk. Wasn’t that the deal?”
“……Right. It was.”
For a moment, Ivan’s expression twisted strangely.
“Karzan… do you not want to grow stronger?”
“Who doesn’t?”
I smirked.
“But tell me—if you gain power by becoming someone else’s slave, does that really make you stronger?”
Ivan didn’t laugh.
“So you refuse?”
“Wait, that was the offer?”
I waved him off.
“Get out. I’m tired.”
……
“……Ah.”
Suddenly, my head throbbed.
“Damn it.”
Now I understood.
“……That’s why he killed me.”
My mind went blank.
That was the reason I died?
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[Translator - Pot]
[Proofreader - Kawaii]
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