Wortenia Senki (LN) - Volume 10 - Chapter Pr

Prologue

It was early morning. A chill breeze brushed against the skin. Though, perhaps morning wasn’t quite accurate since the sun hadn’t even begun to peek above the horizon. Night would still reign for another hour. The only illumination in the area was the faint light of the lamps the watchmen of Liu Daijin’s estate were holding and the twinkling stars.

But one shadow crept through the darkness. A white mist issued from his lips and faded into the air. His heavy breathing wasn’t surprising, though; he’d spent an hour performing the Rituzenn breathing technique.

The technique was, and in of itself, quite simple. Banal, even. One would spread their legs shoulder-length apart and lower their waist. Then they would hold out their arms in front of their chest, forming a ring. The important part was to bring the fingers of both hands together to form a smaller ring.

It was rather like sitting on an invisible chair. Maintaining this posture for any amount of time appeared to put a great deal of pressure on one’s lower half, but that was only how it looked from the side. A similar exercise was used for muscle training, but this one had another purpose that wasn’t immediately obvious.

“Mm. It seems to be working well. I’ve gotten used to this,” Zheng Motoku uttered, satisfied to see that the Neigong training Liu Daijin passed on to him was working effectively.

Emblazoned upon Zheng’s flesh, from his back down to his flank, was a tattoo of nine dragons. A famous artisan had branded him with this tattoo after he left the People’s Liberation Army and started working for the Hong Kong mafia as a professional assassin. It was fashioned after Shi Jin, one of the heroes of the Water Margin, who was said to have a similar tattoo.

The ink dragons undulated with every breath as he continued to practice. Countless beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, dripping down to the ground below and forming a large, visible stain. Despite holding this posture for hours, Zheng had maintained his breathing. The sheer endurance required to retain this posture was quite staggering, yet he remained perfectly still. His face betrayed neither displeasure nor pain; he simply smiled.

Any resident of this estate would be surprised by this smile. Zheng was, as a matter of principle, a man of few words and little emotional expression. He was always clad in a perfectly tailored tailcoat, his hair styled to perfection. His eyes were always as clear and cold as a wintery lake.

A man as cold as ice and as firm as steel. A human embodiment of loyalty to one’s master.

That was the impression most of the estate’s residents held of Zheng. But this smile proved that he was by no means a doll, nor was he some kind of monster. For Zheng, this training was his sole pleasure in life—the one thing he could call a pastime. Practicing Chinese martial arts was, to him, the one calling he had outside of his duties.

Such training could be divided into two sorts: external and internal. External training focused on one’s flesh and muscles. Internal training focused on one’s internal organs, breathing, and consciousness. Zheng, sweating profusely, was currently practicing an extremely taxing and effective internal training technique known as Qigong.

Popular media in Rearth often portrayed Qigong as a way of developing supernatural power, but it was no such thing. It was the way the human body naturally and unconsciously regulated breathing, consciousness, and muscle movement. All of those were controlled at once to produce the appropriate strength at any given moment.

Imagine a person lifting a heavy object. They would momentarily hold their breath, close their mouths, and clench their teeth. If they didn’t do this, their body would fail to muster the strength needed to complete the task.

The purpose of Qigong was to apply this proper, natural use of the body to Chinese martial arts. By employing a special breathing method, one could guide their consciousness to the inside of the body, allowing them to control and understand the tension directing their body’s movements.

The common person might call it gathering the energy within one’s body, but it was nowhere near that simple. Muscle training took a great deal of effort to master, but internal training took even more.

And furthermore, one needed a skilled master to keep a cautious watch over their training. This wasn’t to say self-taught training was a bad idea. The old masters who developed the martial arts had no teachers to rely on, after all, so a teacher wasn’t absolutely necessary. But there was still a level that was difficult, if not impossible, to achieve without the aid of a teacher. The teachings of one’s predecessors were an accumulation of history, and each individual life was short. Using one’s limited time in this world on trial and error was inefficient. Standing on the shoulders of the giants who came before you was much more productive.

But depending on the wisdom of one’s forerunners presented one clear problem. Could one truly find the right teacher to instruct them? If training was like mountain climbing, then a teacher was a guide. And if a pupil believed that guide would lead them to the summit, they could choose to become their apprentice.

And yet the question was always whether that teacher truly knew the way. Sadly, as these things often went, there were more teachers who were liars and frauds than there were true masters. An encounter with a true teacher was rare and precious.

Thankfully, Zheng was one of the precious few graced with such luck.

Learning under his tutelage is one of the few blessings this world has granted me...

Zheng smiled softly even as the sweat pouring from his face muddled his vision. He’d been summoned to a world akin to the dark ages, only to be subjected to a hell-like existence, sent onto the battlefield as a slave.

For a time, he’d lived in self-abandonment. He had drowned himself in alcohol, forced himself on women, and lived his days straddling the line between life and death. It was all escapism, though, an attempt to avert his gaze from a life where each day preceded an uncertain tomorrow.

But looking back on it now, coming to this world did bring some good into his life. For the several decades he had lived, he could say that some of his finest days—the crowning jewel of his life, even—were spent in this world.

Nothing could be more impressive than a true master of the arts—or perhaps, a truly skilled warrior. Indeed, when Zheng lived in China, he’d seen a few martial artists of pedigree that called themselves masters of the martial arts. They were talented in their own ways, certainly, but not one of them felt like someone he couldn’t slay. He’d been part of the People’s Liberation Army’s special forces and had the blood of countless many on his hands. To him, those martial artists were weaklings who lived nestled in a cocoon of sugar-coated safety.

True, in terms of mastery, they were without a doubt his superiors at the time. But most of them didn’t learn martial arts for the sake of killing. Self-defense training didn’t anticipate real combat. To some of them, this was only a profession to earn their daily bread. Only the more sophisticated might have learned it out of respect and adherence to the cultural importance of the arts. But most of them echoed slogans that had become accepted among the general public—maintaining one’s health, relieving stress, furthering one’s knowledge, etc. When Zheng had left mainland China for Hong Kong, someone even asked him if he, too, was aiming to become a kung fu movie star.

Was that the essence of martial arts? Zheng doubted it.

Be that as it may, Zheng knew better than to reject these reasons altogether. Some of those very same people might well have achieved true mastery. But in his eyes, they only learned the surface aspects of the art without trying to understand the essence of it. That was something he strongly rejected, and thus the slogans that promoted martial arts as a means to an unrelated end greatly disturbed him.

This feeling was not entirely misplaced. After being summoned to this world, Zheng witnessed the same such martial artists meeting gruesome ends. He’d seen world-famous mixed martial artists and boxers die unceremonious deaths. These were by no means weak people either. They were athletes in every sense of the word. But strength in the realm of sports was not what one would need to survive in this world. It was these experiences that taught Zheng why the heart was the first of the three qualities a warrior must possess.

Except, in this case, that heart must be capable of unflinchingly taking the life of another...

Liu Daijin knew what that heart meant. He knew the essence of martial arts. And studying under him was the greatest fortune Zheng had ever known. Any weapon, no matter how strong, was powerless, meaningless, if it wasn’t put to use when push came to shove.

All right...

Convinced that his training had yielded its results, Zheng took a deep breath and undid his posture. He reached for a towel resting on the gazebo handrail to wipe the sweat off his body.

Now to practice some forms...

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Zheng sensed a fleeting gaze on him. His hands stopped. He focused his senses on his dark surroundings, adjusting his body so no one would notice he was looking around. But that momentary gaze was gone without a trace.

Did I imagine it? No...

Realistically speaking, the most likely possibility was that it was a figment of Zheng’s imagination. Everyone working in Liu Daijin’s estate knew he would be here at this hour, practicing his martial arts. They also knew that martial artists abhorred showing their techniques to others. The only time one could approach him during his training would be a state of emergency, like the one a few days ago, where they suspected they were under attack from another group. But if it was an emergency, a messenger wouldn’t bother obfuscating their presence.

Which leaves...

The most probable option, then, was that an assailant was trying to make an attempt on Liu Daijin’s life.

The Organization was greater in scope than any country, functioning similarly to an intergovernmental organization. It even had its own military. After all, in this world, violence resolved most issues. The rule of the law was limited to the cities and their surroundings. Most of the land was overrun with monsters, bandits, and thieves. It was similar to the lawlessness that had plagued the American frontier, except this world’s technological achievements were far below that of America at the time. As such, the Organization had to take up arms if it was to protect its authority and assets.

That wasn’t the only reason the Organization had its own armed forces, however. While the stated reason was self-defense, they still boasted the strongest and largest military in the western continent. In fact, even compared to the O’ltormea Empire, the Kingdom of Helnesgoula, and the Holy Qwiltantia Empire—the three strongest powers on the continent—the Organization would still come out on top. And of course, they had the economic prowess to maintain that army.

But this strength and size only meant the Organization had more enemies to contend with. Many of them were bandits, thieves, and smugglers dealing with forbidden contraband. Criminals like them were common everywhere. However, some of those enemies were people with power and money, people who controlled well-known and influential firms. Their antagonism was proof that in this world, even the common man had to be familiar with using violence. Of course, most of them weren’t even remotely a threat to the Organization. Indeed, their greatest opponent was a religious group called the Church of Meneos.

The problem was that by its very nature, the Organization couldn’t operate openly in society. In fact, it couldn’t even operate openly in the underworld. Its existence was a guarded secret. It approached its activities with secrecy no matter who or what it dealt with. That was how the Organization managed to extend across the continent, becoming as large as it had.

On the surface, all one could see was a large number of unconnected firms and mercenary groups. But the Organization kept its strength hidden from the masses. If the royalty and nobility were to learn of its existence, they would act to stop it. They might even form a union that exceeded the borders of any one country to fight against it.

The fact that the Organization masked its existence and hid its true strength was why even small crime organizations were willing to oppose it. They were ignorant. And only at the very last moment, when their groups were purged to the last of their members, would these petty criminals realize the enemy whose wrath they had incurred.

Is that...?

Zheng silently steadied his breathing and focused his nerves. He tried to sense what lay hidden in the darkness. The gaze he’d felt was gone; that much was certain.

Either I imagined it... or perhaps it’s someone skilled enough to completely cloak their presence...

Zheng’s blood boiled with anticipation. It was ten days ago that several dozen enemies attacked this estate. The assailants were after Liu Daijin’s life.

Liu held tremendous influence over the southern parts of Lentencia, a major port town in the Holy Qwiltantia Empire. But despite the importance of their target, the enemy’s assassins were mere thugs. They were Level 2, perhaps Level 3, based on the guild’s ranking. Most adventurers and mercenaries would see them as beginners who had only just graduated from being amateurs.

This meant their fighting style was mostly self-taught, and in the worst way possible. Most people in this world felt experience on the battlefield was more valuable than learning the art of combat from a teacher. This was perhaps unavoidable given the cutthroat nature of this world. Yet most of these people only used the physical strength afforded to them by martial thaumaturgy, thinking that alone put them above and beyond those who couldn’t wield that power. But that meant nothing in terms of true combat.

In that regard, the attackers from the raid ten days ago were pathetically weak. In fact, most of them were dispatched by the estate’s security force. Zheng only disposed of three of them, and that only happened because the security forces made the attackers panic and desperately charge into the estate, where they ran into Zheng.

To Zheng, killing invaders was like slaughtering livestock. But this time, things seemed different.

There it is again. Are they appraising me?

He could faintly feel that gaze, more gentle than a feather brushing against his skin. He definitely sensed someone within the grove stretching ahead of him.

Fascinating.

Zheng’s usual cool-headed attitude slipped away, revealing the expression of a bloodthirsty demon. The next moment, he sprung forward and sprinted into the grove.

Where? Where is he?!

He only had a general idea of where his opponent was, but he knew they were there.

The gaze followed Zheng as he advanced through the grove, but it wasn’t as faint as before. It was now a cold, sharp blade filled with bloodlust. Whoever it was, they gave up on trying to mask their presence.

I see. So you’re raring to go too.

Given how they erased their presence earlier and only now revealed their bloodlust, Zheng could tell this was someone with an extremely rare level of skill, even by this world’s standards. And therein lay the meaning in fighting him.

Zheng awakened the prana in his body, triggering the Vishuddi chakra in his throat. Of the seven chakras within the human body, the Vishuddi chakra was the fifth one and one of the highest. A very limited number of people in this world were capable of activating it, and those who could among the many kingdoms were those who had reached the rank of general or above.

Zheng wasn’t one of the amateurs who relied on martial thaumaturgy to win battles. He was already as deadly as a dragon, which the guild ranked as the most dangerous of all monsters. He sprinted through the grove, zipping between the trees. The estate’s lights didn’t reach this area, so his surroundings were totally dark. Zheng’s footwork, however, was confident and flawless. He had honed his night vision through years on the battlefield; the faint starlight was enough for him to see.

Found you!

Noticing a figure advancing about ten meters ahead of him, Zheng sped up. Of course, as good as his eyes were at seeing through the dark, he couldn’t see as clearly as he would with, say, a pair of night vision goggles. He’d only seen what looked like a human figure moving. But the only people there were Zheng and the mysterious assailant. Seeing that much was enough.

Without uttering so much as a word of warning, Zheng unleashed a blow with all the might his body could muster—an intense, powerful fist that had claimed the lives of countless opponents so far. The severity of his strike, reinforced by martial thaumaturgy and strengthened by accumulated training, was far greater than the size of his body might suggest. It could easily shatter a boulder to bits.

Eat this!

Zheng stomped down on the earth hard, and the recoil of that movement traveled up from his legs to his waist in a spiral-like motion. The force transmitted from his shoulder to his right fist and then slammed into the figure!

Zheng felt strength surge from his blood vessels, but he didn’t feel his fist hit its mark. The figure held up their palm in Zheng’s direction, softly catching his punch as if stopping a leaf fluttering in the wind.

They didn’t dodge the attack. The figure had caught Zheng’s fist head-on. It was akin to catching an egg without breaking it. Zheng realized just how impressive this feat was.

It can’t be. Was that Haujin?

The name of a certain martial arts technique surfaced in his mind. It was a defensive technique central to certain schools, such as the Tai Chi Chuan. It relied not on canceling out the attack with sheer force but on using a rotation or draining of force to stop or divert the blow.

The technique in and of itself wasn’t all that unusual. Tai Chi Chuan practiced it often, and other types of martial arts employed it as well. Even Japanese Aikido employed techniques similar to it. Despite not knowing of Haujin, many martial arts developed methods of avoiding attacks that were essentially identical to it.

But none of those martial arts would have been able to use Haujin to block a blow reinforced by martial thaumaturgy.

The principle behind it was simple: the attack was simply too powerful to reliably stop. For instance, a human being couldn’t hope to block a flying bullet with their bare hands. At most, a person could hope to dodge the shot successfully.

But that had nothing to do with martial arts. This wasn’t a gun’s bullet. It was Zheng’s fist, which was unleashed with more force and speed than any bullet. Even martial thaumaturgy wouldn’t be enough to divert this attack and remain unharmed. No, it would require a master-level technique. And this level of mastery wasn’t something Zheng could expect out of anyone in a world where strengthening one’s body through thaumaturgy to win battles was seen as the norm.

Faced with this unforeseen outcome, Zheng’s body froze with shock.

“I see. An impressive blow,” said a familiar voice.

At that moment, Zheng realized everything.

So that’s what’s going on...

Zheng knew the owner of this voice. He knew his name, a name lauded within the Organization as a hero. He’d first spoken to him a few days ago. This man served the Organization during its early days and was a sworn friend to Zheng’s master, Liu Daijin. Liu had ordered that this man be treated as a guest of the highest honor.

Because of this, Zheng couldn’t speak to him disrespectfully. Still, he was in charge of this estate’s security, and there was something he had to say, no matter who he was speaking to.

“I apologize if this comes across as disrespectful, but as the one in charge of this estate, I find these games of yours to be quite bothersome, Master Koichiro.”

Zheng bowed his head as the old man before him twirled his mustache with an amused smirk.