The Execution of Villains (1)
—”Light the incense burner at the summit of Sword Peak Mountain before the Dano Festival. Do not be late. Absolutely not!”
Tap! Tap!
Blood dripping from his hands soaked the flint, preventing sparks from flying properly.
Sword Peak Mountain, towering ten thousand feet high with sheer cliffs and razor-sharp rocks scattered throughout, was far too treacherous for an eight-year-old boy to climb.
Yet, the boy climbed it anyway.
“Stay calm. There’s still time.”
He stopped striking the flint and took a deep breath.
A glance at the night sky contradicted his muttered reassurance—the day was already slipping away.
He struck the flint again.
Yellow sparks scattered onto the tinder, eventually igniting a small flame. The boy carefully placed dry leaves over it.
After running a thousand li and climbing Sword Peak Mountain, his entire body was covered in wounds, his breath ragged with exhaustion, and time was running out. Yet, he refused to rush—knowing that the more urgent the situation, the calmer one must be.
A wisdom rare in an eight-year-old.
The precarious flame finally caught onto the leaves. The boy piled on more leaves and twigs.
From the three-foot-tall, two-foot-wide bronze incense burner, rusted blue with age, smoke began to rise alongside the flames.
“Haa…”
With a sigh of relief, the boy collapsed backward. The cold rock beneath him did nothing to keep his consciousness from slipping away.
“Grandfather… I kept my promise.”
When the boy awoke, it might have been from pain—or from a nightmare.
He jolted awake, still shrouded in the darkness of the mountain peak. Four figures, cloaked in that darkness, entered his blurred vision.
The shadows made it impossible to discern their faces as they loomed over him.
“Who are you?”
“Geom Woo-bin.”
“Why did you light the incense burner?”
“Grandfather… Grandfather Hwajeoksan…”
Though he couldn’t see their faces, he could feel their shock ripple through the air.
“Did you just say… Hwajeoksan?”
A woman’s voice, cold as frost settling on skin.
“Yes. Just now… just now…”
Woo-bin wet his parched throat with saliva before continuing.
“He’s imprisoned in the underground prison of the White Forest Sect. Grandfather Hwajeoksan told me to deliver this message.”
The cold-voiced woman pressed further.
“How do you know this…?”
Her words were cut off by a gentler male voice.
“This isn’t the time for questions. We need to hurry and save our Sect Leader.”
“But we must verify if this child is telling the truth.”
“Who else besides us would know the Sect Leader’s title?”
A man, a head taller than the other three, nodded.
“True. Aside from us, only the Sect Leader himself would know his own name.”
One of them, who had remained silent until now, suddenly vanished before Woo-bin’s eyes.
At least, that’s how it seemed to the boy.
“The impatient one has already left.”
The word “left” echoed faintly from a distance, as if spoken from far away.
“Twenty years… We’ve finally found the Sect Leader.”
The large man departed as well. Only the woman remained.
“Do you know Hwangchang County?”
“Yes. It’s a village just a short walk down the mountain.”
“There’s an inn called Seoun Tavern. Stay there.”
Clink!
A pouch of silver coins landed beside Woo-bin’s ear—but the woman was already gone.
For a long while, the boy lay there, staring at the stars that seemed close enough to touch.
“The White Forest Sect… is a terrifying place…”
Wang Do-seok, leader of the White Forest Sect, looked down at the body of his subordinate, Gwak Chun-su, who had been sent flying dozens of feet before landing at his feet.
The caved-in chest left no doubt—Gwak Chun-su was dead.
“Stop them! There are only four of them!”
Wang Do-seok’s eldest son, Wang Chae-myung, rallied the disciples with the enemy’s small number, but the White Forest Sect was already overwhelmed by just one of those four.
The “Four Bloodstorm Executioners” of the martial world:
“Fist King, Poison Emperor” Jang Man-dok
“Heavenly Sound Ghost” Seo Seok-san
“Shadowless Blade” Do Pyeong-su
“Five Hidden Weapons, Ten Deaths” Mina-chal Yeon Geum-hong
Sixty years ago, these five became a legend in the martial world—a warning never to earn their enmity.
And now, four of them had appeared at the White Forest Sect.
No—five.
Because the reason they had come, the reason they were painting the sect in blood, was their master—the “Demon Monarch,” imprisoned in the underground dungeon.
“Greed brings ruin.”
In his forties, Wang Do-seok had been a man consumed by ambition.
He wanted to elevate the White Forest Sect to rival the Five Great Families. No—to surpass even the Nine Great Sects and make it the greatest in the world.
That was why he had captured the Demon Monarch.
If he could steal the martial arts of the man acknowledged as the strongest in the world, regardless of faction, he could achieve his dream.
With the “Mountain-Crushing Poison” capable of subduing even the “Invincible Poison King”, the “Jamon Powder” that could put 500 bulls to sleep, and 30 jars of “Mudaeju liquor, Wang Do-seok’s plan had succeeded.
He had six more methods prepared, but they weren’t even needed.
Though the ease of the capture was surprising, the joy of having the Demon Monarch in his grasp drowned out any doubts.
But that was as far as the White Forest Sect’s plan went.
For twenty years, Wang Do-seok failed to extract even a sliver of the Demon Monarch’s martial arts.
Despite employing every known torture method and severing his limbs’ meridians, the Demon Monarch never yielded.
The sporadic screams had long since ceased.
In Wang Do-seok’s vision, only the Bloodstorm Executioners remained standing.
Sixteen halls that had stood for a century lay in ruins. Four hundred disciples, once extensions of his will, were now corpses.
Not a single one survived.
The Bloodstorm Executioners did not even allow escape.
The only survivors of the White Forest Sect were women and children—and one other.
His only son, Wang Chae-myung, held by the throat in Seo Seok-san’s grip.
Alive—but barely.
Both arms broken, blood gushing from his stomach.
Though his heart ached, anger did not rise.
Anger requires the spark of hope to ignite—and hope had abandoned him the moment the Bloodstorm Executioners appeared.
Five shadows slowly approached Wang Do-seok.
The shadow of Wang Chae-myung, dangling from Seo Seok-san’s grip, swayed like a macabre puppet.
“We heard our Sect Leader is in your underground prison.”
Though half his hair had fallen out and his face was covered in age spots, Seo Seok-san’s voice remained youthful, like a man in his twenties.
His hands, too, were unblemished.
When Wang Do-seok didn’t answer, Seo Seok-san continued.
“Tell us the entrance to the dungeon, and we’ll spare this one. His martial arts are gone, but at least his lineage can continue.”
“Really?”
“Do you think we can’t find it ourselves? We’re just saving time—his worthless life isn’t worth our delay.”
The dungeon’s entrance was hidden, but they would find it eventually. Dragging it out wouldn’t save his son.
“Lift the straw mat in the storage room—”
Thud!
Wang Do-seok’s pointing finger twitched as Wang Chae-myung’s head exploded like a rotten melon.
“Jang Man-dok! Warn me before you do that!”
Seo Seok-san flicked brain matter off his pristine sleeves in disgust.
Rage surged despite the absence of hope.
Sometimes, anger ignites on its own—though such flames burn out just as quickly.
Jang Man-dok, the most impatient, struck first.
Wang Do-seok, once renowned as Zhejiang’s greatest fist fighter, faced the incoming strike head-on.
Crunch!
“Guh—!”
The difference in power was stark—Wang Do-seok’s arms shattered in a single blow.
Do Pyeong-su’s blade severed them completely. Yeon Geum-hong’s hidden weapons buried themselves in his eyes.
Seo Seok-san, wiping blood from his hands onto Wang Chae-myung’s robes, clicked his tongue.
“If you’re going to kill, do it cleanly.”
But he didn’t finish Wang Do-seok off either. Instead, he followed the others toward the storage room.
In the now-dead White Forest Sect, Wang Do-seok’s screams echoed for a long, long time.
Even past a hundred years of age, he had retained the vigor of middle age and a face that made women’s hearts flutter.
But twenty years of torture had stripped the Demon Monarch of all his former majesty. Now, he was a withered old man, his eyes jaundiced, like a dried fish dressed in rags.
The Bloodstorm Executioners bowed to Hwajeoksan, seated on a rock, then knelt.
Rubbing his dim eyes, Hwajeoksan studied them one by one.
His gaze lingered on Yeon Geum-hong.
“I recognize the others, but who… are you?”
“Huh? Sect Leader! It’s me! Geum-hong!”
“What? You’re Han Seon-ja Yeon Geum-hong? Wait… If Geum-hong is forty-two years younger than me, she should be ninety now—but you look twenty-six at most… Your rejuvenation art is impressive. Stop using it now.”
“Sect Leader, you even remember my age… Sniff!”
Tears of emotion welled in Yeon Geum-hong’s eyes.
“But this isn’t rejuvenation art. It’s my real face.”
“Did you take the ‘Half-Step Youth Elixir’?”
“Five years ago.”
“Lucky you. Rejuvenation isn’t just about martial prowess.”
“It’s all fate’s grace.”
Hwajeoksan turned to Seo Seok-san.
“You, on the other hand, haven’t been so fortunate. Why is your hair thinner than mine?”
Seo Seok-san bowed his head in shame as Hwajeoksan shifted his gaze to Do Pyeong-su.
“Well, Pyeong-su. How’s your literacy? Did you finish the ‘Thousand Character Classic’?”
“Uh… I’ve been busy searching for you, Sect Leader…”
“Right. In the martial world, strength is all that matters.”
Finally, Hwajeoksan looked at Jang Man-dok, the farthest left.
“Still as silent as ever. Let’s share a drink to wash the mold off your tongue. You have liquor, don’t you?”
The four each produced a gourd flask from their waists.
A smile touched Hwajeoksan’s lips at the sight.
“If I can drink your liquor, I can die without regrets.”
Seo Seok-san protested.
“Sect Leader, why speak of death? With the liquor we brew, you should live another hundred years!”
Hwajeoksan uncorked the flasks and drank deeply, then half-bowed.
“How about becoming my disciples instead of just followers?”
“D-disciples?”
“What? You don’t want to be my disciples?”
“N-no! It’s our lifelong dream! But you always said you’d never take disciples, so we gave up hope!”
“I thought I’d live a hundred, two hundred years. I wanted to live freely—selfishly. I didn’t want to burden you with the karma of the Demon Sect’s legacy. But in these twenty years of searching for me, you’ve accumulated your own karma. I’m sorry.”
The word “sorry” left Hwajeoksan’s lips.
The most indomitable, strongest man in the world had apologized.
“There’s no need! How could you apologize to us? If anything, we’re the ones who failed to save you sooner… We’re the ones who should beg forgiveness!”
As they prostrated themselves, weeping, Hwajeoksan’s voice fell over them like a blanket.
“For seventy years, though I never formally acknowledged it, you four have always been my disciples. I thought the title ‘Demon Monarch’ was grand, but after twenty years in a cage, I realized it was just an empty name. My foolish self was drunk on vanity. My five disciples must rely on each other, eat well, and live well.”
“We’ll remember—wait, five disciples?”
Do Pyeong-su counted to three before Yeon Geum-hong elbowed him, thinking Hwajeoksan had misspoken.
“Where is that child?”
“Child?”
“Your eldest martial sibling.”
“The boy who told us where you were?”
“Yes. I took him as my disciple a year ago. Though you’ve been my disciples in heart for seventy years, Woo-bin was the first I formally accepted. Naturally, he is your eldest.”
The Bloodstorm Executioners were stunned.
Becoming Hwajeoksan’s disciples was an incomparable joy—but the reality of bowing to an eight-year-old as their senior was undeniably awkward.
“How far is it from the White Forest Sect to Sword Peak Mountain?”
“About a thousand li.”
“How long would it take without using lightness techniques?”
“Pushing hard, about half a month.”
“Ten days ago, I sent Woo-bin to you.”
“What? He traveled a thousand li in ten days, climbed that treacherous mountain, and lit the incense burner?”
“He must have run without eating or sleeping—just to keep his promise to me. You’re all nearing ninety. I know bowing to an eight-year-old as your senior isn’t ideal, but in time, you’ll see. That child is more than worthy of being your eldest.”
As they spoke, the liquor ran dry.
“We’ve drunk, and I’ve formally accepted you as disciples. What more could I ask for? Now, call me ‘Master.'”
Awkward at first, their voices were barely louder than a mosquito’s wings—but soon, they competed to shout “Master!”
“Hahaha! That title… truly warms my heart!”
“Let us perform the nine bows!”
As the Bloodstorm Executioners rose, Hwajeoksan straightened his back.
“Now, I can die without regrets.”
By their fifth bow, Hwajeoksan’s breath had ceased.
They all knew—but they didn’t stop bowing, even as tears streamed down their faces.
And so, they became the formal disciples of the Demon Monarch, as they had always dreamed.
And gained an eight-year-old eldest martial sibling.
