Episode 88. The Sword Demon, the Lust Demon, and the Mad Demon.
In his past life, the Bright Left Envoy—Mong-rang—entered a secluded house and called out softly,
“Master, I’ve returned.”
It was far too spacious for a man living alone, yet every inch of the courtyard, bench, and well was immaculately kept.
Mong-rang looked disheveled, fully expecting a scolding. Before long, a middle-aged man appeared, and Mong-rang knelt before him.
The man frowned. “What’s with this state, showing up at night half-dressed?”
“I couldn’t return home like this, Master. May I borrow a change of clothes?”
The man stepped into the courtyard. “Change and come out.”
“Yes, Master.”
He sat on the bench, whittling a wooden sword as he waited. After a while, Mong-rang reappeared in a black martial robe, exhaling heavily as he sat down.
“What happened?” his master asked. “Looks like you fought someone. You even smell… peculiar.”
Mong-rang sighed again and again before confessing, “Master, you once said no one of my generation could rival me.”
The man chuckled faintly. “Did I? I think that was your own opinion.”
“Perhaps. But you were right about one thing—until now.”
“So a rival’s appeared, has he? The martial world is vast; hardly surprising. What clan?”
“Just a country bumpkin, I think.”
The man set the wooden sword down. “Not of a noble house?”
“No, sir.”
“And his skill?”
Mong-rang hesitated, recalling their battle. “I couldn’t fully gauge it.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“Unclear. Would you care to meet him? If we cross paths again, I’ll have to fight seriously.”
“Avoid using your Ice Qi in Baek-Eung-Ji. Too many eyes.”
“That’s precisely why I mention it. Without it, I can’t beat him.”
“A disciple of the Three Calamities, perhaps? If he’s a rustic.”
“That’s possible.”
The man pondered for a moment. “Lure him somewhere quiet. Don’t reveal your Ice Qi in public. If that fails, bring him here. I’ll observe.”
“Understood.”
“And Mong-rang.”
“Yes, Master?”
“Is a single rival such a shock? If pride fills your heart already, catching up to the true masters will be harder still. Guard your mind. Go home and rest.”
“Master, shouldn’t I leave the Mong Clan soon?”
“Treat it as a form of training. Observe the people there—understanding human hearts is as vital as mastering martial arts.”
“Yes, sir. How’s your health?”
“Recovering steadily. Unless the Cult Leader himself intervenes, the sect’s elites can do little to me.”
Mong-rang rose and bowed deeply. “I’ll take my leave.”
As his disciple turned away, the master called out, “This opponent you mentioned—should he die, or be recruited?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll test him properly next time.”
“Do so. And… what’s that strange smell?”
“He got me with a laxative.”
The master’s lips twitched—for the first time in years, perhaps—and Mong-rang grimaced awkwardly.
Then the older man composed himself again. “To fall for a rustic’s trick… Remember, your enemies are not only in the Demonic Sect but among all masters under heaven. I’ve told you countless tales of powerful men defeated by carelessness. Don’t repeat their mistake.”
“Yes, Master.”
Only after his disciple left did the master’s shoulders shake slightly with laughter. “Foolish boy. A laxative, of all things. Tsk, tsk.”
Still smiling faintly, he resumed sanding the wooden sword with solemn precision.
I holed up in my inn at Baek-Eung-Ji, replaying the duel in my mind.
That draw—caused by his diarrhea—still irked me. The world rarely goes as one expects. We’d both held back somewhat, but if the Left Envoy truly had a master I didn’t know about, it all made sense.
And if my guess was right, that master was none other than Dugu Geonma—the Sword Demon himself, the man who had once defied the Demon Cult Leader.
I knew his story well; he was the one who’d tried to kill the Cult Leader before I ever did.
What kind of man was he?
A demonic cultivator so respected that even the Martial Alliance Leader once invited him to join the righteous path. Though born of the demonic way, he committed neither slaughter nor cruelty, and no one in the Alliance opposed the invitation.
Of course, he declined—he lived by his own code.
Thanks to the Alliance Leader, he occasionally mingled with righteous masters, and one saying of his became legendary. When asked why he fought the Cult Leader, he replied:
“I merely wished to see who was the truer demon.”
A calm statement from a man who had walked through blood. The idea that such a gentlemanly figure was the teacher of that lustful bastard Mong-rang felt bizarrely mismatched.
Chronologically, news of the Sword Demon faded just before the Lust Demon appeared—there must have been an incident between those times.
He had no faction to call his own, yet his strength alone made him a master among masters. Too demonic for the righteous path, too principled for the demonic one. A paradox of a man—rumored to have slaughtered countless cultists when he left the Demon Sect.
The title “Sword Demon” is not earned lightly. It means one thing: a giant among men.
I thought long and hard, but no brilliant idea came to me. So I settled my resolve in broad strokes.
Whether it’s the Left Envoy or the Sword Demon—
If I can’t bring them into the Hao Sect, I’ll kill them.
Decision made.
Of course, I might die instead. But a man who abandons his purpose out of fear of death—is no man at all.
That night, I dreamed I was invited to a Martial Alliance banquet, surrounded by the Alliance Leader and the finest masters of the age. In my dream, I secretly laced their drinks with laxatives, laughing hysterically as chaos broke loose—until the Leader caught me and threw me into prison.
Why do my dreams always end miserably?
In the cell, the Alliance Leader himself visited me, bringing food. I ate it… and promptly got diarrhea again. When I finally woke up, dawn had already broken.
“So the theme of the dream was karma, huh?”
I washed my face half-heartedly and returned to the same noodle shop from yesterday.
As I waited for my order, the Left Envoy walked in—clean clothes, smug face.
I instinctively pinched my nose. “You’re ruining my appetite, you filthy bastard.”
He sat across from me, arms folded. “Eat well. It may be your last meal.”
The waiter set my noodles down, then turned to him. “Will you have anything, Young Master Mong?”
“No.”
“Yes, sir.”
The waiter sensed the killing intent between us and wisely backed away.
I drew my throwing dagger and stuck it upright in the table, then began eating calmly.
The Left Envoy broke the silence. “I just have one question.”
I slurped a mouthful of noodles and glared. “What.”
“If that was poison instead of a laxative, I’d be dead. What’s your real goal?”
I answered the same as before. “Can’t tell you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Did I steal a woman from you? If so, I could almost understand.”
“Bullshit.”
“So I did, then. Otherwise you’d have no reason to hate me this much. You even sent that cripple to track me, didn’t you?”
“Sure. Let’s say I did.”
He didn’t attack while I finished eating. At last, I put down my chopsticks and said, “You didn’t use your Ice Qi properly yesterday. Take me somewhere quiet. I’ll show you what real strength looks like.”
“Fine. Follow me.”
We left Baek-Eung-Ji in silence and walked into a tranquil village nearby. He pointed toward a walled house.
“Don’t misunderstand. This is my master’s home. He won’t interfere in a disciples’ duel—but if you’re afraid, I can take you elsewhere.”
I stared at him. Trap or not, curiosity burned stronger than caution.
“Lead the way.”
If it really was the Sword Demon, I’d flee the moment he stepped in. But I doubted a man like him would bother.
Inside, a middle-aged man sat on a bench, calmly carving a wooden sword with a knife.
The Envoy said, “Master, may we spar here?”
The man glanced at me briefly, then answered, “Do as you please.”
I didn’t recognize his face, but his sharp, intelligent eyes and streaked hair gave off a strange mix of warmth and severity. A quiet storm disguised as a craftsman.
He barely acknowledged my presence, as though carving the sword was far more important. Arrogant—or simply beyond worldly courtesy.
When I sighed lightly, the man spoke. “If one of you dies, I’ll not hold it against the other. Fight as you wish.”
At that, I knew without doubt—this was Dugu Geonma, the Sword Demon himself.
He seemed to be looking down on me. I smiled faintly. “This chick can’t entertain me. How about a bout with you, senior?”
The Sword Demon raised an eyebrow. “With me?”
The Envoy snapped coldly. “Are you insane?”
I clasped my hands behind my back. “Shut it, crapper.”
Only then did the Sword Demon fix his gaze on me, as if probing my inner flow. I carefully masked my energy.
He frowned slightly. “What sect are you from? Few schools exist that I do not know.”
“Can’t tell you.”
He nodded, calm yet formidable. “If you train diligently, you might one day cross blades with me. But not now. I too am still recovering from injuries. Reckless sparring would be foolish. If you don’t wish to fight Mong-rang, come sit.”
The Envoy blinked. “Master?”
“He’s fearless,” said the Sword Demon. “You’ll face each other often enough in the future. No need to rush. Bring us some tea. Meanwhile, I’ll try to guess our young guest’s sect.”
Reluctantly, the Envoy bowed. “Yes, Master.”
As I sat, the Sword Demon stroked his rough beard with a faint smile. “Curious. Very curious.”
Curious indeed—what master could possibly discern my sect?
Still, I could tell from his tone, his gaze, and the depth of his aura—this man was a true madman. A philosopher’s calm overlaid on a demon’s chaos. A Daoist of the abyss.
He scratched his forehead. “So, you won’t reveal your sect?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought so.”
I wondered what he saw in me. Meeting the man who had once fought the Demon Cult Leader himself—it was strange, even thrilling.
I never judged people by birth or faction, but by their completeness—and this man, this Sword Demon, was a masterpiece.
Then he said, with disarming calm, “That boy probably tampered with your tea—either a laxative or something similar.”
“Why do you think so?”
He pointed toward the inner room. “It’s taking him too long.”
“A fair point. But when he returns, the cups will be clean.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he’s listening to us right now—and he’ll switch them.”
The Sword Demon nodded. “Correct.”
Moments later, the Left Envoy reappeared, placing the tea set on the table. “No laxatives this time, Master. Drink in peace.”
He pointed at me. “You too. Enjoy.”
I nodded. “Sure. You’ve had a rough couple of days.”
We each took a sip. Ordinary tea, on an ordinary day.
I looked between them, then around the serene courtyard. Three men, sitting together in quiet civility—
The Sword Demon, the Lust Demon, and the Mad Demon.