Episode 56. Live Without the Mask
Daenachal sat not on a mere sect platform but as though upon a throne itself. His gaze lingered on me before he lifted a hand. “Come closer.”
Thinking of the late Jeoksa, I greeted him politely. “Master, how’s your back these days?”
Daenachal nodded. “Not bad.”
“And your legs? No trouble walking?”
“They ache, but a man accepts such things with age. Oddly enough, they stop hurting when I fight, so don’t concern yourself.”
“That’s good to hear. You’re sleeping well, I hope? Life in the martial world drains the mind—adequate rest is important.”
He nodded again, approving. “Sleep shortens with age. When I die, I’ll sleep long enough. You needn’t worry so much. Tell me—who did you kill this time?”
He was speaking to me as if I truly were Jeoksa.
“A few worthless fools who ran about without purpose,” I said calmly.
Daenachal sighed. “My cherished disciples are dead. I suppose I must now avenge them.”
“Of course, Master should.”
“How did Jeoksa die?”
“He fought a wall—and lost. Smashed his own head in. Likely queuing for Hell’s gates right about now.”
“A pity. He was the one I valued most.”
I took the chance to ask what had long intrigued me. “Master, I’ve always wondered something. May I ask?”
“Ask freely.”
“Why do we wear these masks? Jeoksa seemed obsessed with that question to the very end.”
Daenachal bared his teeth in a grin. “Curious. So curious.”
“…”
“None of my disciples ever asked that before—not truly. It’s simple. When you hide behind a mask, evil deeds feel more natural. You forget whether it’s you committing them, or the mask. The boundary blurs.”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Only those chosen by me may wear one. Add rank to that, and they’ll do anything to climb higher. Such is human nature—the folly of the simple-minded.”
Daenachal’s grin widened. “Besides, it’s tradition. My master’s master once performed in mask plays. He could only eat by wearing one. But he never mastered the art of switching masks swiftly, and was cast out. The man who was cast out became my master.”
“I see,” I murmured.
Wrath born of weakness—how easily it spreads, birthing men like this.
Daenachal chuckled. “Now that you know the secret, show me your face. One of us will die anyway—what harm in that?”
“Ah… my face.”
I touched Jeoksa’s mask. “I’m about to do something wicked, Master. Better to keep it on.”
We both laughed then—the beetle-faced man, the dead disciple somewhere in hell, and I. Laughter shared between two who already knew how this would end.
Daenachal rose. “You should have been my disciple.”
“Even if I were, I’d have run off to be a tavern boy.”
“Why stoop to such filth?”
“Work doesn’t matter. While wiping tables, I’d think of my wretched master. Eventually, I’d train myself, come back, and kill him. Then I’d ask why he ever put a mask on me.”
Daenachal nodded slowly. “A man should live that way.”
He stepped down from the dais, his empty sleeve fluttering in the wind. As he drew near, I watched it carefully. He was closing the distance on purpose—confidence, and a touch of psychological warfare. If I retreated, he’d seize the initiative.
He was shorter than I was. And ugly—though I’ve known uglier. Still, beauty and ugliness rarely decide worth. I was handsome enough myself, yet women never seemed to care. A flicker of irritation stirred in me.
Daenachal smiled faintly. “What will you fight with—palms, fists, blade, sword, inner force? I’ll yield the choice. My years give me the advantage.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“At my age? Inner power. But that would be unfair to you—choose something else.”
He smiled, testing my composure. I nodded. “Then let’s start with inner power.”
My pulse quickened at the thought.
Daenachal laughed heartily and extended his left hand. “If you won’t regret it, place your palm on mine.”
An inner power duel—something only top-tier madmen attempt. No soldier or sane fighter chooses to clash like this. Only lunatics trust their internal strength enough to gamble their lives on it.
Watching his expression, I slowly raised my right hand. At such close distance, either of us could’ve struck first—but neither did. Our palms met.
His was as hard as a beetle’s shell.
We both fell silent, feeding energy into our joined palms, gradually increasing the pressure as if wordlessly agreeing on the rules of engagement.
Two grown men standing there, hands pressed together—it must’ve looked absurd to outsiders. But if they looked closer, they’d see something far worse: two fools wagering their lives.
I kept an eye on his right arm. He could’ve attached a blade to that stump. Soon our joined hands trembled, Daenachal’s smiling face wavering like water. Even my mask quivered.
His eyes flicked toward my left hand; mine to his empty sleeve. The power rose again.
I switched from the Wooden Fowl’s long endurance energy to the Fiery Rooster’s inner flame. My palm flushed red, and Daenachal’s gaze locked on it.
Our hands swelled with pressure, tendons threatening to snap.
Then his right arm moved.
Using one arm during an inner-force duel—he’d been holding back reserves. But so had I.
I twisted my head aside and caught his forearm. A flash of silver cut the air beside my neck—a blade, affixed to the stump beneath the sleeve.
I gripped his wrist and the blade arm both, pouring energy into them. Cunning doesn’t always win battles.
In inner-force duels, depth decides all.
As I infused flame energy into his arm, the sleeve began to char. At last, I saw the mechanism clearly—metal casing over the stump, blade attached on top. A weapon made just for him.
Daenachal met my gaze as I split focus: Fiery Rooster Palm on the right, Absorbing Star Art on the left. Divided Mind Technique—something only fools and masters manage.
From the left, his energy flowed into me; from the right, my flame scorched his arm. A fleeting regret crossed my mind—I’d have liked to master the Ice Arts too. I shifted the techniques—left absorbing, right burning. His sleeve blackened, his robe smoldered. Yes, this was the right rhythm.
His power was deep but not deeper than mine. My dual flow unsettled him, and the missing arm left him crippled. He’d probably won past duels using that hidden blade.
Still, he held on with the strength of a lifetime’s cultivation.
Then—a click from inside his mouth.
Poison, or a hidden dart. Some keep venom capsules where teeth once were.
As he drew a breath to strike, I yanked him forward and slammed my forehead into his face.
Crack! Jeoksa’s mask shattered.
Crack! Baekja’s mask split.
Crack! My bare forehead crushed his nose.
Blood sprayed as I looked down upon him, his front teeth shattered, his face caved in. Never killed a man with headbutts before—but it was worth trying.
I unleashed the Absorbing Star Art through both hands. Daenachal’s mind broke; his energy flooded out of him like a breached dam.
But I had a rule when using this technique: never take all of it.
I let half his strength spill into my inner beast, Cheonok, and released him.
He collapsed instantly, still breathing faintly. His eyes roamed over my face, curiosity at last satisfied.
I looked down at him and spoke solemnly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Ijaha, Master of the Hao Sect.”
He muttered weakly, as if tasting the name. “Ijaha…”
“Had we fought like this from the start, some of your foolish disciples might’ve lived.”
He spat blood and croaked, “Who was your master?”
Beneath those words lay disbelief—too young, too strong. I crouched and met his eyes. “None.”
“You lie…”
“From now on, I’ll take everything you built. Your sect, your disciples, your holdings—all will come under the Hao Sect. You were never fit to lead fools. But as their fallen master, say a word to them.”
“You killed them all. What disciples remain?”
From the corner, Hongshin and Geumhae appeared, faces somber. On the wall above, Baekin, Cheongjin, and Baekyu also revealed themselves. They hadn’t interfered—only listened from afar.
Daenachal exhaled heavily, eyes sweeping over the survivors. “This madman… spared so many. Remarkable.”
His eyes regained a brief spark—the light before death.
Straightening his back, he addressed those still alive.
“My disciples… you’ve suffered much serving a wretched master. From this day, serve the Hao Sect’s lord with your whole heart. And from now on—live without the mask. Better than I…”
His final words trailed off.
Death met him with open eyes.
I stared down at him for a long while. That cruel face now, at last, peaceful. Even so, he’d thought of his disciples in his final breath. I reached out and closed the eyes that had seen too much of this world.
Daenachal’s eyes shut.