Chapter 84 - Sword Dance (2)

Winter.

“Snow is falling.”

Master’s steps were light.

“Two days have already passed since our duel began.”

Lightly, lightly, as though gliding across ice, Master trod the snowfield. A world covered in white. The black hem of her robes flowed like a brushstroke across blank paper.

“How long do you think you can keep running?”

Another brushstroke pursued hers. It was tougher, stronger, more violent than Master’s—a brushstroke pressed down hard, laden with ink.

“I’m no slouch at lightness arts, either.”

With heavy steps, the attendant spirit charged, shattering the ice and bulldozing through the snow.

“I am confident I can flee forever.”

“Even so, there’ll be an end.”

“Do you not know? This world has become an endless snowfield. There may be nowhere to go, but there are infinite places to flee.”

“I won’t let you.”

The attendant spirit kicked off the snowy ground and leaped.

“If you really were in your prime, sure, you might run forever. But this duel is happening now. You have less than one double-hour left to live. The sand is running out. Are you still going to run?”

“Aha, how underhanded.”

“The truth is underhanded.”

The attendant spirit swings his sword.

“Yes, I admit it.”

Master turns her head, easily evading it.

“I have little life left. I cannot keep fleeing.”

“You’ll have to settle this sometime.”

“And there is no reason that sometime should not be now.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“In that case.”

Master grips her sword hilt.

“I shall show you my full strength.”

Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.

First Form.

Flowing Sword of Death by Starvation.

“... Hunger, in its essence, is the gesture of parents who exchange their child for their neighbor’s, then slaughter and eat that child.”

Her blade screams as it cleaves the winter wind.

“Have you heard the tale of the adult who sliced a neighbor’s child into jerky and buried it in the snow? Have you heard the rumors of that village? The tale of a village where, if you dig up the snowy paths in winter, children’s flesh catches on every shovel blade?”

“That’s sad.”

CLANG!

The attendant spirit blocks Master’s blade with his sword.

“Sounds like a crop failure.”

“Yes. Crop failures are like epidemics that may return at any time.”

“But they happen by chance.”

Facing the winter wind, the attendant spirit swings his sword.

“A good harvest comes by chance, and a bad one comes by chance. Nothing in all creation is free of chance. Leader of the Demonic Cult, if you lament chance tragedies, then by the same reasoning, you must smile and find happiness in chance joys.”

“...”

“The depth of a person’s sorrow is surely equal to the height their happiness reaches.”

CLINK!

Two blades cross. Red plum blossoms fall.

“And so, I shall sing of a happy autumn harvest.”

Snowflakes fall like leaves.

“One day, walking down a road, I looked toward the horizon. A golden sea of rice stretched all the way to it. Small children were playing hide-and-seek among rice plants as tall as they were. Their laughter sounded between the stalks, vanished, then sounded again.”

Autumn. The wind blows. The hills and fields turn red with autumn leaves, and the horizon turns yellow with rice.

“You spoke of a child’s flesh buried in the snow? I shall speak of a child’s laughter, playing hide-and-seek beneath the rice.”

In a world where countless red leaves fall, the attendant spirit swings his sword.

“Both are chance events on some chance day. If there’s something among them I should put into my blade, it’s that laughter in the rice. If there’s a scene I should remember last when I die someday, it’s those children playing hide-and-seek. The choice is obvious.”

“Truly.”

Master cuts through an autumn leaf.

“Truly, those are the words of someone spoiled by good fortune!”

Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.

Second Form.

Numbing Sword of Death by Thirst.

“You say both happen by chance? Perhaps so. But happiness does not kill people. The agony of hunger, the agony of thirst kills them! Once they die, it is over forever. It ends.”

The sun beats down.

“I shall sing of the common people who died for want of a single sip of water!”

Summer.

Hot winds cover the world. Mountains, streams, trees, and grasses dry out. Weeds turn yellow. Fruit shrivels, beetles grow sluggish, and the riverbanks are strewn with hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of fish that have dried up and died. A fish flops. Its round eyes hold no moisture.

“Ah.”

Master’s blade grows sticky.

Even when the attendant spirit parries, she does not retreat. Instead, she clings closer. Combat at point-blank range. They are close enough to feel each other’s breath.

CLANG! CLANG!

Their swords weave together so quickly that the sight is dizzying.

“Taking a swim in summer feels fucking refreshing.”

The attendant spirit parried every one of Master’s swift strikes.

“You’re teaching Gongja wrong.”

“... What?”

“Sorry, that was a little harsh. Rather than teaching him wrong, you’re teaching him too soon.”

The attendant spirit’s sword flowed on like water.

“Singing of the world’s pain is good. Looking at other people’s suffering is good, too. But you can’t keep that shit up forever.”

“Why not?”

“Because you simply wear yourself out.”

CLANG!

Red spider-lily petals fade and fall.

“This kid Gongja hasn’t tasted enough of the world’s joys yet.”

Before long, offense and defense switch sides.

“He should taste the finest delicacies. Only then can he grieve more deeply for people who will never eat them in their lives. He should swim in summer. Only then can he weep for people withering for lack of water. The human heart is a candlewick. If all it does is burn, someday it’ll burn out.”

“...”

“Did you know, Cult Leader? This kid’s never even loved anyone. Isn’t that ridiculous? He’s never even been in a relationship!”

Sword strikes pour down like a waterfall.

“And yet he’s already putting on an act like he’s shouldering all the pain and sorrow in the world! Ha! I’d tell him not to even dream of it. Your Cult’s teachings are far, far too early for him!”

They pour down like rain.

“I’m going to teach this kid ways to find joy.”

Rain pours down.

“I’m going to teach him to laugh without a trace of hypocrisy. To put his arm around someone’s shoulders. He needs to be so happy in someone’s company that he can’t help himself. Only then can he grieve without end!”

“You...”

Rain falls on the parched earth. Rainwater wets the river. The corpses of fish wash away in its current. Morning glories open their purple tongues to drink the raindrops.

Frogs croak.

“You intend to play master to my disciple!”

Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.

Third Form.

Brimming Sword of Death by Drowning.

“Yes!”

“How dare you!”

Like unceasing rain, sword strikes fall again and again.

“How dare you covet my sole true inheritor!”

Midsummer.

The monsoon floods the land. Tens of thousands of red roses flow down the river.

“What a joke! I planned to be his master in the first place!”

A reservoir gives way, submerging a village. The water rises to the foot of the mountain. Master and the attendant spirit kick off its risen surface.

SPLASH! SPLOSH!

Ripples bloom wherever their feet touch the water.

“I’m the one who taught him how to cut off an orc’s head! I’m the one who taught him to use aura! I cajoled and coaxed that bastard with no fucking talent for martial arts until I finally made him useful! And then some evil cult’s boss butts in!”

“What? An evil cult?”

“Yeah! What else is the Demonic Cult?”

The two glide over the water. One is pursued. Ripples splash into bloom beneath each step. One pursues. Rose petals are gently trodden beneath their toes. Their shadows fall across the ripples and petals.

“Swinging a sword is fun!”

The scent of water on a rainy day. The air is thick with flowers’ fragrance.

“The Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven is too early for Gongja! A sword that swings pain, through pain, by pain! What the hell is that? It’s far too demonic! There’s barely enough time to sing of the pleasure of smelling flowers, of the joy of feeling summer rain on your bare skin!”

“Gongja! My disciple! Is a child born to become our Cult’s next leader!”

“That way of thinking is what makes you an evil cultist! You heretical cult leader!”

Hundreds of millions of roses.

Before they know it, the flooded river is no longer visible. Neither is its surface. Roses and petals have covered all the water. The world turns red, a field of flowers.

“■■■■, ■■■. ■■■■.”

“■■■, ■■, ■■■■. ■■■!”

Spring.

Flowers flow. Red peonies in lavish bloom drift through the sky.

“... I shall gouge out your cervical point with Tangled Flurry of Swords, the sixth move of the Chaotic Peony Sword.”

CLANG!

Two petals, sliced by a blade, crumble away.

“I evade two steps with Orchid Steps in Snow.”

I can see.

“... I shall send you flying with the Beating Sword of Death by Cudgel, the seventh move of the Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.”

I can hear.

“I counter with Falling Moon Strike on an Autumn Night, the fourth move of the Brimming Strikes of Sea Flowers.”

I can see their swords. I can see the peony they tread firmly underfoot. A red peony, crushed to release its fragrance.

“...”

Only now that I can see do I understand.

Master—the Heavenly Demon, leader of the Demonic Cult—is losing.

“... I shall resist with the Linked Sword of Death by Burning, the eighth move of the Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.”

Under a sky filled with peonies, Master bleeds. She is covered in blood.

The difference in skill between Master and the attendant spirit is clear. However much she flees to draw out the battle, she cannot shake his pursuit. As the price of attempting the impossible, Master sheds red blood from her arms, legs, and shoulders.

“Hmm.”

The attendant spirit takes his stance.

“I knock it aside with the Sword That Comes on a Moonlit Night, the first move of the Setting Sun, Falling Blossom Sword.”

“...”

Master’s breathing grows a little fainter. Her internal energy runs dry. Attempting to use her vital energy to take him down with her would be asking too much.

“I...”

Master’s lips part.

“I had never completed the final sword path of the Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven. There was one reason. The death rooted in my heart since childhood was death by freezing. Abandoned by my mother, left alone on a snowfield to freeze to death. That was the ending I understood as death.”

Master raises her sword high.

“However.”

Its tip points to the center of the sky like the hour hand at noon.

“Paradoxically, once the world had ended, I could complete the ninth sword of the Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.”

“...”

“Above heaven and below heaven, I alone am supreme.”

Above heaven and below heaven, I alone am supreme.

“Whether I look above heaven or walk beneath it, only I exist. Baraya. Baraya. Agabaraya. The world is winter, and a single candle gutters out. The song I sing alone is the song of all under heaven, and my death is the death of heaven and earth. White, growing white, and white again.”

The sword cleaves the sky.

“My Demonic Heaven cries its last words across the snowfield.”

Divine Art of the Demonic Heaven.

Ninth Form.

Solitary Sword of the Sole Survivor.

“...”

Winter cuts spring.

The sky, red with petals, splits. Through the fissure, white winter whirls. It whirls down. Petals become snow, hundreds of millions of peonies become hundreds of millions of snowflakes, freezing the world.

A solitary sword. A strike singing of the Heavenly Demon’s solitary death.

“I see.”

The attendant spirit quietly looks up at the torrent of winter bearing down on him.

“Death alone. Is that the manner of death the leader of the Demonic Cult has chosen? Yes, I acknowledge it. A strike perfectly suited to the last martial artist of a ruined world.”

A lonely smile rests on his lips.

“But I know more about solitude than you do.”

The attendant spirit grips his sword hilt.

“How long did you endure in a world where you were left alone? Three years? Two? No. You never endured even a single day. Because that man, the Murim Alliance Leader, was always by your side. When he died, you lost your mind and went mad.”

The sword’s tip moves.

“Sorry, but...”

And then.

“I endured a hundred and thirty years alone.”

Martial Art.

No Form.

One Sword.

Peonies.

Winter, spring, summer, autumn,

Autumn, winter, spring, summer,

Summer, autumn, winter, spring,

Spring, summer, autumn, winter,

Plum blossoms and peonies and roses and spider lilies.

Spider lilies and plum blossoms and peonies and roses.

Petals, as petals, petals, because they are petals.

Red, and red, so red, because they are red.

Winter.

Turns red.

And again winter.

Winter.

My breath.

Grows short, and.

“...”

I regained my breath.

“... Ugh!”

I could not see. I could not hear. I could not possibly comprehend that last strike.

“Hah, ugh, ngh...! Hah, ah...”

But right now, something matters a little more than understanding the sword.

“Mas...ter.”

“...”

“Master, are you all right...? Are you...are you feeling all right?”

Master was silently gazing up at the winter sky. Her eyes were unfocused. My heart thudded. I fumbled for her hand. After fumbling several times, I found her pulse.

It was beating. She was alive. She was still alive.

“Master.”

“...”

Master slowly parted her lips.

“So that is it.”

So that is it, Master said.

“So that was it.”

Saying so that was it, she looked into my eyes.

“Disciple.”

Ink-black eyes.

“My disciple. From the beginning, all you intended was to help me.”

“...”

“You said you came from beyond the borders out of admiration for my fame... A lie. An utter lie. Why did I not realize it sooner? My disciple is not a child who would cross worlds, seduced by fame...”

Her voice. Master’s voice grew ever softer.

“Thank you.”

“...”

“Disciple, were you happy to have met me?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

“Could you remember me as a single flower petal?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I would like to know what flower.”

“A peony...”

I embraced her.

“I will remember you as a red peony, Master.”

“Ah.”

Master smiled.

“How beautiful.”

She stroked my cheek.

“How beautiful...”

And then, with her other hand, Master gestured toward the sky. A gesture as frail and light as the fluttering wings of a newly hatched bird.

“My disciple...”

Without a sound. Without a single sound, the snow-covered mountain was cut.

Split in two, it stood there quietly, as though it had always been that way.

Master breathed a white breath. Perhaps she was about to dream a white dream.

“Master...”

I buried my face in her shoulder. In the breathing that had ceased. In time. In the person born bearing the fragrance of snow.

“Winter has been cut. Master...winter has been cut.”

That day, the winter of a world was cleaved.