WeTried Translations

Translator: Joy

Editor: Joy

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◈ Damned Transmigration

Chapter 20

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Introduction

He was impatient.

It was the only reason he'd shown up a day early.

The Seven Thunders grimoire meant nothing; it was merely the price of entry for the Fist of the Rending Cloud.

He left his lodgings in a rush. Though he didn't know Marigold's address, he knew the way to the Dersia Mage Tower.

It was enough.

Would a sudden visit be rude? The thought never occurred to him. That was the way of Fist Wolf Bakerd.

At the tower, he asked for Marigold, stated his purpose, and followed her home.

‘I’ll just run him through the basics and be done with it,’ he thought.

That had been the plan, right up until he stepped through the gates.

On the way, Marigold had offered a short introduction to this “Yuri.”

A guy who had never trained properly. A novice who had only managed to open his dantian yesterday, and that with a second-rate heart technique called the Art of the Untainted Heart.

A lucky brat, really. He had swallowed one of the Namgung Family’s Azure Heaven Pills and gotten his hands on the Fist of the Rending Cloud, all because he had a generous childhood friend.

The boy's luck was an insult to his lack of skill. Bakerd disliked him already. Luck had never been his ally.

Born the illegitimate son of the Raspion Family's head, he was never acknowledged.

The story was common enough to be a cliché: a young heir, a tavern girl. The child they have is not a blessing, but a burden. Money is offered; tears are shed; the problem is sent away.

Bakerd grew up outside the family, forbidden even to use the Raspion name.

Denied their famed sword style, he took up a spear in defiance. Rather than beg for scraps, he joined the Sairan city guard.

‘I have nothing to do with the Raspions.’

The creed carried him for years, living his own life, staying away from the estate.

Then, twenty years ago, it all ended overnight.

The Raspion Family, once the pride of Sairan, was wiped out. The main house burned, its dozens of members cut down.

Servants, knights, retainers; over a hundred lives lost in one night.

The sole survivor was the one who didn't even bear the name: Bakerd.

As a guardsman, he saw the carnage firsthand.

The killer had not been alone; sword, spear, and magic had all left their bloody marks. Even the patriarch, his father, had been struck down by all three.

Bakerd carried the corpses out himself.

A mangled child in his arms. His father's body, clawed free from the rubble with his own bare hands.

He remembered meeting his father, just once.

A man in a deep hood had come to the tavern one night, long after it had grown more prosperous.

He drank until late, spoke at length with the tavern owner, then called over the drowsy boy slumped at a table.

“Do not take up the sword.”

“Do not come to the estate.”

“But… if the time ever comes when you are truly in need of help…”

That was when Bakerd received the Raspion family crest.

He honoured the command of the father he had met only once.

He never touched the sword, never set foot on the estate. A time when he needed help? That moment never came. Even if it had, he doubted he would have turned to them.

His father’s words had faded, unfinished.

They laid the broken bodies to rest in the family cemetery.

On that day, Bakerd pressed the crest, kept buried in a drawer all those years, tight against his chest.

When he stepped into the cemetery, the crest vibrated. That night, visiting alone, he followed its pull and uncovered a hidden room.

Inside were letters filled with pitiful apologies. And money. A fortune’s worth.

The patriarch had not foreseen his death. He had simply wondered if, one day, his illegitimate son might visit his grave.

The hidden room was nothing but an excuse, a salve for a guilty conscience.

Who had destroyed the Raspions? He never found out. But he knew their secret sword techniques were gone.

That was the day he left the city guard.

He put away the spear, his tool of rebellion. The irony of his family being skewered by such weapons was a truth too bitter to ignore.

Even then, he refused the Raspion name. But if he ever met the monsters behind the massacre, he wanted to introduce himself as Bakerd Raspion.

For twenty years, he wandered, chasing vengeance for a family he had never claimed. Even now, he could not explain why he still pursued it. But those years of roaming as the Fist Wolf had hardened into obsession.

That was his life. A life that could hardly be called fortunate.

No wonder he disliked the boy. Yuri had no fire, no obsession.

Whatever he had been before, now he lived in Rutlan, enjoying luxuries well above his station, thanks only to a childhood friend.

Bakerd still did not like him.

That thought evaporated the moment he saw Yuri’s fists.

No internal energy ran through them, yet he could not dismiss them as shallow.

‘That footwork…’

It was the reason he had pursued the Fist of the Rending Cloud.

Whirlwind Cloud Steps: the footwork of Yang Il-su, the Prism Fist, creator of the technique.

Bakerd had obtained the footwork twenty years ago, but never the fists that matched it.

‘There’s no way he knows it.’

The boy had only started martial arts yesterday. And yet, as he performed the Fist of the Rending Cloud, he moved his feet.

Clumsy, more shuffling than stepping, but unmistakably the instinct of proper footwork.

‘He made that up? On instinct alone?’

Absurd.

‘Could he be a transmigrator…?’

The suspicion flared, only to die just as quickly. The God of Chaos gifted transmigrators with affinity for mana, not martial talent.

True, some had climbed high in the martial world.

Among the Revered stood Chuk-sin-doo, the Moonlit Reveller, and Elleia Yudel, the Cruel Mayhem, both confirmed transmigrators. The Tide of Carnage and the Zenith Star were widely suspected.

But all four shared the same path.

Masters of Ganggi Arts, they wielded internal energy like magic, their talents for mana indispensable.

Even without Ganggi, their skills were monstrous, befitting the “Four Perils.”

But this boy wasn't one of them.

A fledgling who'd barely reached the First Circle, and only after absorbing half an Azure Heaven Pill. He couldn't be a transmigrator.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow. Why are you here?”

Yuri leaned heavily on Elena for support. His legs trembled and his body felt drained, with no strength left from his shoulders to his fingertips.

That was the backlash from throwing punches for so long.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but since Elena, who usually spent her days at the Mage Tower, was already back, it couldn’t have been short.

“Why I’m here isn’t important,” Bakerd said, lips set in a stern line.

“Your name is Yuri, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Yuri. What were you just doing?”

‘He watched the whole thing, so why ask?’

“I was practising the first form of the Fist of the Rending Cloud.”

“The first form, you say. Its name?”

“Drifting Cloud.”

Bakerd’s eyes narrowed. “The manual only contained fist techniques. Why were your feet moving?”

Yuri blinked. His memory of the latter half of practice was hazy, he had been lost in a trance, but yes, he remembered moving his feet.

‘Right… that’s when it started.’

He hadn’t been satisfied.

Something was missing, just out of reach. Then, as if a puzzle piece had snapped into place, his fists, his legs, his whole body moved as one.

The missing piece had been his feet.

Yuri considered it, then offered a simple answer. "A fist technique is for hitting people, isn't it?"

“All martial arts are.”

“Well, the other person isn’t going to stand still. Wouldn’t it be stupid if I just planted myself in one spot and kept swinging?”

“…That is true.”

“So I moved my legs. Standing still felt unnatural.”

Bakerd studied him closely.

The boy’s words were simple, obvious, yet countless practitioners failed to grasp something so obvious.

“It’s foolish to cling to form for its own sake. A man who thrusts simply because thrusting is his speciality, when he should be slashing, dies quickly.”

“….”

“You are no such fool. As you said, a fist technique is for hitting people, and people don’t wait politely to be hit. Even if your opponent is a fool who does, you still need to move to reach him.”

“Are you… complimenting me?”

“I am. Heavenly Thunder Orca recognised you, and I can see why.”

As a fellow martial artist, Bakerd acknowledged Yuri’s instinct.

“But right now, that talent’s wasted. Your body can’t keep up with your skill.”

“I’ve been training my external arts diligently.”

“Diligence isn’t enough. You must train until your muscles tear and your bones crack.”

Bakerd stepped forward, seized Yuri by the shoulders, and lifted him out of Elena’s grasp like a doll.

"A man like you shouldn't be this light."

“I don’t think I’m that light…” Yuri muttered, embarrassed.

He wasn’t bulky, but he’d been in brawls since childhood and even run with a gang. He was in decent shape.

But compared to Bakerd, he indeed looked frail. The man’s forearm was as thick as Yuri’s thigh.

“You’re slender, but your frame is good. Your muscles are firm, flexible. It’s an excellent body for martial arts, just undertrained.”

“Are you saying I should bulk up like you, Sir Bakerd?”

“No. There’s no need for that. The Diamond-Shattering Fist I practise relies on weight and dominance. I shaped my body for it.”

He set Yuri back on his feet.

“The Fist of the Rending Cloud is different. It embodies softness, speed, variation. A technique like that doesn’t need bulk.”

Yuri repeated the words slowly. “Softness… speed… variation…”

Bakerd narrowed his eyes.

“What are you muttering about?”

“Nothing.” Yuri snapped his mouth shut.

Bakerd tilted his head but let it pass.

“Softness and speed are difficult to reconcile. But as you showed, the Fist of the Rending Cloud is fundamentally a two-handed technique.”

“I’ve never seen the manual myself, but in my search for it, I heard stories of the Prism Fist. They say his left fist flowed soft and graceful, creating variations, while his right was fast enough to slice through light.”

Bakerd folded his arms, towering over Yuri.

“You said you built your body for your own martial art,” Yuri asked carefully.

“Then… is it alright for you to learn the Fist of the Rending Cloud?”

“It’s true that my strength lies in weight and dominance,” Bakerd sneered, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t do other things. The reason I want to learn the Fist of the Rending Cloud is to combine it with my Diamond-Shattering Fist and forge a new technique.”

“That’s incredible. By any chance… will you be teaching me the Diamond-Shattering Fist as well?”

“And why would I do that?”

“Well,” Yuri said, his expression perfectly straight, “if you create a brand-new fist technique and only ever use that one, won’t the Diamond-Shattering Fist feel… left out?”

Bakerd blinked. For once, words failed him.

His expression began to twist, so Yuri hurriedly added, “If you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

Behind his back, Yuri wiggled his fingers desperately at Elena. She stared, baffled, but in the end walked over; she couldn’t ignore the silent plea.

“I think I need to rest,” Yuri said at once, seizing her arm for support.

“R-right,” Elena stammered, startled.

She glanced down at their linked arms, composed herself quickly, and added, “He’s exhausted today.”

“…I see.”

Yuri had expected more pushback. Bakerd had been too impatient to wait even a single day; surely he would insist. Yet, to Yuri’s surprise, the man simply nodded.

“I’ll come every day at noon. For the next month.”

“A… month?” Yuri blurted. He had thought a week at most. A month was on a different level.

Yesterday at the auction house, Bakerd’s expression had all but screamed reluctance. Now his face brimmed with resolve.

Originally, he'd planned to give Yuri a crash course and be done with it. But after witnessing the boy’s talent, a genuine desire to teach him took hold.

And he had his own reasons. The greatest danger in learning a new martial art was being trapped by the perspective of your old one.

By teaching a novice like Yuri, Bakerd could focus entirely on the Fist of the Rending Cloud. Using Yuri as a medium to refine his own mastery wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Does a month seem too short to you?”

“No, it’s not that. I just feel bad you’re spending so much time on me.”

“Don’t think of it that way. I would’ve stayed in this city for a long while anyway.”

“Do you have an appointment here?”

“An appointment…” Bakerd let out a short, bitter laugh.

“I doubt he’d call it that. But yes.”

The reason Bakerd had come to Rutlan wasn’t only because of the rumour that the Fist of the Rending Cloud would be sold.

“Do you know who the Moonlit Reveller is?”

“Y-yes.”

“I wanted to face his Full Moon Killing Kick. I requested duels with him countless times, but he never accepted. Then last year, at a gathering of the Righteous Heavenly Alliance, I finally met him in person.”

“…”

“He thought of me as a nuisance. But when I pleaded sincerely, he finally relented. He said he had business in Rutlan in a year’s time, and if he hadn’t forgotten, he’d grant me that duel.”

Yuri stared, speechless.

“I don’t know exactly when he’ll arrive,” Bakerd continued, “but I’ll remain in this city until he does.”

With that, he turned to leave.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Rest well.”

“Yes…”

Yuri could only watch him go, his thoughts reeling.

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