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Translator: uly
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Prologue
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(1) Prologue
My age: one year old.
My "father" said,
You've survived over a year without dying, so now I'll give you a name—other families throw a first birthday party if you make it that far.
From this day forward, you are Ak Muyoo.
My age: three years old.
For some reason, my arm was broken. Maybe other parts were too.
That was when "Father" said,
You're plenty grown now, so go out and earn some money.
He dressed me in filthy rags that were little better than scraps and set my broken arm in a splint before sitting me down in the marketplace.
In front of me sat a single broken gourd.
That was when my Iron Face Divine Art reached completion.
My age: five years old.
"That bastard" said,
Those who don't work don't eat.
And sold me to a workshop. I drifted from slaughterhouse to shit carrier, water carrier, woodcutter, farmhand—doing every menial job there was—and built up a sturdy body. Astonishingly, even a five-year-old had work to do. I bounced between brothels and gambling dens, learning the harshness of life. The ones who taught me humanity's cruelty weren't the gamblers who lost everything and bet their last good arm, ending up one-handed, or the girls sold by worthless parents.
It was that bastard.
That bastard...
Never gave me a single coin from the money I earned unleashing my Iron Face Divine Art.
Not since I was three.
My age: eight years old.
"That fucking scum" said,
You're an adult now, so get out on your own.
I was kicked out with nothing to my name.
My age... hmm...
Anyway, Ak Muyoo said,
Father! Don't ever let me set eyes on you.
Never...
Crunch!
Stagnant Water
A gust of wind kicked up a cloud of sand that rose like drifting fog. It was a dry cloud of dust, like flakes of dead skin.
Tension seeped through the brittle dust cloud, sharp as a needle's point—poised to burst at the slightest touch. Urgency prickled from every direction.
Someone swallowed dryly.
Harsh breaths escaped like sighs, tense and subdued. Anxiety, foreboding, and fear floated like debris in the air.
This was...
A battlefield.
The order to "charge" would come any moment, and they'd rush the enemy lines.
The instant they reached the foe, life or death would be decided. Those who dodged arrows and spears would live; those who couldn't would skip lunch or dinner.
Great Desert Blood Wolf Clan.
The strongest force of Great Desert Wolf Heaven—one of the Eight Desolate Vassal Heavens—tougher even than the empire's soldiers. Two thousand strong, with thousands of great desert blood wolves under their command.
No one knew how many would survive this battle. The living would eat lunch or dinner and prepare for tomorrow.
Another war.
A massive man stood with hands clasped behind his back, staring at the enemy lines. At six feet three inches tall—about 190 centimeters—he towered a full head above the rest.
His attire was black from head to toe, his shoulder-length hair tied in a topknot.
Behind the topknot hung a shield-shaped leather hood. Faded from long use.
The brim was flat like a shield, designed purely to block the sun rather than for style—it barely looked like a hat without the slot for his head.
The hood was black, like his clothes.
He wore gauntlets covering the backs of his hands.
At his waist hung a halberd twice as long as most others'.
Unlike the anxious faces around him, his was calm. Black Wind, they called him—Thousand Commander of the Wind Corps.
The Thousand Commander also led the entire Wind Corps.
The Wind Corps was a special unit of ronin.
As the war dragged on and casualties mounted, the empire recruited ronin for the fight.
No regard for gender or status.
As long as you could swing a halberd and had sturdy legs to run, you were in. Those needing money, change in life, or a new identity flocked to it. Initial recruits numbered ten thousand.
Black Wind had been among the first wave.
By rank, a private.
He'd joined purely for the pay.
Independent from his masters the moment he came of age, he'd done every job under the sun. But scraping by was no easy feat.
Then he'd seen the recruitment notice and impulsively signed up. Never dreaming he'd spend a decade on the battlefield.
He'd risen from the ranks: private, Ten Commander, Hundred Commander, Thousand Commander, even Wind Corps Commander of Ten Thousand. Then demoted back to Thousand Commander.
Not for lack of skill or botched missions. The unit had thinned as members died, leaving gaps. They'd once filled vacancies, but not for years now. Down to a thousand, the Wind Corps always led the imperial vanguard.
This battle might end with him demoted to Hundred Commander.
"Black Wind!"
He turned his head.
Black Wind had a gentle, boyish face. The man calling him was so short his halberd looked oversized by comparison.
He sported a scraggly mustache and goatee—like weeds in a wasteland. His small stature, narrow shoulders, and slight build made his head seem enormous. Big Head Little Wind—Ten Commander of the Eighteen-Man Guard.
The Eighteen-Man Guard protected the Thousand Commander.
Little Wind had seven years under his belt—a battlefield veteran.
"What're you doing after discharge?"
Little Wind asked.
The Wind Corps had ranks like Thousand Commander, Hundred Commander, Ten Commander—but no formalities. Everyone spoke bluntly, age be damned.
"Discharge?"
"Yeah."
"Ronin like us don't get discharged. We just disband."
Ronin was another term for Wind Corps members.
"Leaving the army's discharge either way."
This time, a woman's voice came from the right. Black Wind turned. A woman with her face painted black grinned, her teeth stark white against the dark.
Here, they called her Bewitching Wind. She too was a seven-year veteran.
"But will the war ever end?"
Black Wind asked.
"Rumors say negotiations are underway."
Little Wind replied.
"Looks like it's finally over."
Black Wind smiled faintly.
"Stagnant Water, got plans?"
Bewitching Wind asked.
Black Wind was called Stagnant Water by his first-generation Wind Corps comrades.
Twenty "Stagnant Waters" in the unit—all but him were said to be martial artists. Their survival wasn't unusual.
The odd one out was Black Wind: no martial arts, yet a decade alive, having climbed from private to Commander of Ten Thousand.
"I'm staying."
He shook his head.
"Sticking to the battlefield?"
"War ends, right? Then I pat my belly and coast in some cushy job."
"They'll hire you?"
Little Wind asked.
"After all my hard work? Sure."
"Your hardest work was killing people."
"That's the job on the battlefield, man."
"Charge!"
The imperial general's advance order rang out.
"First Hundred, Tenth Hundred—charge!"
Black Wind bellowed.
"Yes, sir!"
"Waaaaah!"
"Uwaaaaaah!"
They bantered casually but obeyed orders to a tee. At his command, two hundred from left and right charged with roars.
"Second Hundred, Ninth Hundred—charge!"
Black Wind roared again.
"Waaaaaaaah!"
Another two hundred surged forward with cries. Thick sand clouds soon obscured the view.
"Third Hundred, Eighth Hundred—advance!"
"Waaaaaaaah!"
"Uwaaaaaaaaah!"
Two hundred more dashed out.
"Fourth Hundred, Seventh Hundred—charge!"
The Wind Corps advanced in waves.
Outliers first, center last—forming a natural inverted triangle.
Called the Wing Formation, it was an assault array for when allies outnumbered the foe.
"Still, bragging about kills ain't right."
Bewitching Wind said, eyes forward.
"What're you on about?"
"You said killing's just the job on the battlefield."
"No one's killed more than you."
Black Wind shot back.
"I'd need ages to catch up to you."
Everyone had charged ahead; only the Eighteen-Man Guard and Black Wind remained.
"What I'm saying is, you killed enemies, sure—but you really lived hard."
The imperial general's shout cut in.
"What the hell's the Eighteen doing?"
"Told you not to curse!"
Black Wind barked.
"Move your asses! You gonna space out as commander? And half-mouthed like that again, I'll kill you!"
"Guy never changes his lines. Thinks he hates me or something?"
Black Wind glanced at Little Wind.
"You just figuring that out?"
"Kid thinks he made my life or something..."
Black Wind turned to the general.
"Eighteen, hurry it up!"
"Yes, sir! Just say Eighteen Guard straight—gotta split it as Fucking Eighteen."
Black Wind grumbled.
"You're next for demotion, punk."
"Got it, I'm going. Happy?"
Black Wind started walking.
Little Wind, Bewitching Wind, and the other eight followed. He tugged the cord dangling from his left jawline, hooking it over his left ear. Attached was a face covering for nose and mouth—a Sand-Proof Mask to block sand and dust.
After securing it, he donned the black hood hanging at his nape.
"What the hell's Eighteen doing?"
The general yelled again.
"I'm going—move!"
Black Wind quickened his pace.
As he walked, he drew his sheathless halberd from his waist. A leather thong dangled from the hilt. He gripped it first, then wrapped and tied the thong tightly.
"What's with the politeness today?"
A broad-shouldered short man asked.
Shoulder Gangster was Big Wind. He'd earned the name after his first-day bath with comrades. The Eighteenth gave newbies names on arrival—all who'd bathed with him nominated Big Thing... no, Big Wind.
Black Wind bound his halberd; the others followed suit. They reached back with left hands, drawing odd weapons midway between sickle and hoe.
Demon Hooks, they were called.
Shaped like sickles but with a broad hoe-like body. The tip was sharp, and blades edged both sides.
The design suited the desert's harsh clime. Days scorching enough to choke you, nights plunging cold. To survive nights, you dug into the sand. Demon Hooks did that—and doubled for battle.
"Killing Squad Formation..."
Black Wind murmured as they advanced.
The squad formed a diamond. Black Wind at the front point, Little Wind left corner, Bewitching Wind right, Big Wind rear.
Clang! Clang-clang! Clang-clang-clang! Clang!
"Gaaak!"
"Uwaaak!"
"Aaaak!"
Roooaaar!
Roaar!
Weapons clashed, screams mixed with beast roars—close combat underway. The thickening stench of blood seeped into nostrils.
"Huuuph!"
Black Wind inhaled deeply. Sand and blood filled his lungs.
Boom-boom-boom! Boom-boom-boom-boom! Boom-boom-boom!
Battle drew near; blood reek intensified. His heart pounded wildly.
Something inexplicable erupted in his mind.
"Raaaaaaaah!"
Black Wind raised his halberd high and roared.
"Raaaaah!"
"Kyaaaaaaaah!"
The rest echoed him.
"Quick march!"
Black Wind sped up; sand puffed with each step.
Ching! Ching! Ching! Ching!
Sharp sounds emanated from his body—weapons deploying from six spots.
First, the gauntlets: a sword sprang from over his middle finger—one chi long.
Then elbows, toes, heels, knees, both shoulders—swords protruding.
Elbow blades: one chi each. The rest half-chi—fifteen centimeters.
A few uses and they'd break, but for his weak arts, perfect aids.
"Battle pace!"
Killing intent surged through Black Wind's frame.
"Raaaaaaaah!"
"Kyaaaaaaaah!"
The Eighteenth roared, charging full tilt.