WeTried Translations

Translator: Joy

Editor: Joy

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◈ Damned Transmigration

Chapter 32

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Game

He took a mental inventory of his arsenal.

The Heavenly Art of Annihilating Evil. The Sacred Flame Release. The Art of the Violet Lightning Flash. The Fist of the Rending Cloud. The Whirlwind Cloud Steps.

‘And the Art of the Untainted Heart.’

Choice and focus.

In the world of Seronis, skill slots were a hard limit. Here, there was no such restriction, but that freedom was its own kind of trap. A warrior who tried to master everything mastered nothing. For Yuri, the phrase was more than just a proverb; it was a matter of survival.

‘My core will be the Heavenly Art of Annihilating Evil.’

The choice was brutally simple. The Heavenly Art was a self-consuming inferno, a demonic power that threatened to incinerate its wielder along with his foes, leaving nothing but ash. Despite that apocalyptic danger, it was unequivocally a divine technique.

In his mind, Yuri still categorised the world through the lens of Seronis: Common, Rare, Unique, and Epic. Exclusive skills dropped by named monsters level 80 or higher earned the Epic tag.

If level 80 was roughly equivalent to the 7th Circle, then the Heavenly Art of Annihilating Evil was indisputably an Epic-grade skill. By that same logic, the Sacred Flame Release he’d inherited from Lorelia was also Epic.

‘The Art of the Untainted Heart... is Rare at best, I suppose?’

It made far more sense to focus on the Heavenly Art, with its sky-high potential, than to rely on the Untainted Heart, whose only real virtue was its stability. The risk of Qi deviation was a worthy price for power.

‘Still, it’s not as if it’s a penalty skill.’

Penalty skills existed outside the normal hierarchy.

The Art of the Empty Fist, which had famously sealed UrMumSpammer’s equipment slots and forced him to run through dungeons in his underwear, was a prime example.

These skills came with massive, crippling drawbacks, but if you could build around them, their performance eclipsed even Epic-tier abilities. They were all like that: fatally flawed, but possessing exceptional raw power.

When the Hall of Honour first opened, any amateur could stumble into the top ranks. But once the meta solidified, a standard build couldn’t even dream of the summit.

The game evolved. Every top-tier build began to incorporate a penalty skill, and the true test of a player was how creatively they could negate its weakness.

‘Penalty skills...’

A prime example from the martial arts tree was the Celibate Arts.

The name said it all. Only a virgin could learn it, and once learned, you were locked in for life. It was a horrifying restriction, but it guaranteed a growth rate that no divine technique could match.

Life, however, was unpredictable. Yuri had never entertained the thought of learning such a thing, and had long since dismissed the idea of penalty skills for himself.

‘Unless I get truly desperate down the line, I suppose.’

This world had its own versions, methods of amplifying power by imposing vows or making sacrifices.

The paladins of the Sect of Order were rumoured to gain their strength by swearing oaths to their gods. If he were poor and desperate, he might have been forced down such a path, but for now, Yuri was fortunate enough not to need to.

For now.

While the Heavenly Art of Annihilating Evil hadn't existed in the game, he remembered the Fist of the Rending Cloud clearly.

‘Unique.’

Was Whirlwind Cloud Steps a separate Unique-grade skill, or was it bundled as part of a single package? The Art of the Violet Lightning Flash was more ambiguous.

Heavenly Thunder Orca had used it as a reference; it couldn't be a low-grade technique.

‘Probably not Epic, so Unique as well?’

Two Epic skills. Two Unique skills. One Rare.

To start the game with two Epics and two reliable, bread-and-butter Uniques? Even in his best runs, he’d rarely seen such a lucky hand.

‘The problem is, this isn't a game.’

Yuri suppressed a sigh and looked down at the two manuals.

Whirlwind Cloud Steps and the Art of the Violet Lightning Flash. He had read them both. Understanding the text didn't grant him instant mastery, but he now grasped their nature.

The Whirlwind Cloud Steps felt familiar.

In practising the Fist of the Rending Cloud, he was already using the foundational footwork. The new technique was simply a more advanced application of the same principles. Since his progress with the Fist was already well underway, mastering its corresponding footwork shouldn't be too difficult.

The Art of the Violet Lightning Flash, however, was alien.

It was a manual for converting the energy in his dantian to the lightning attribute, a guide for wielding it with efficiency and power. It should have felt impossibly complex… but it didn't.

He felt the same strange, intuitive connection he had when reading the common magic book from Polar Point Arsen Lucionell, the sensation of a formula being forcibly carved into the architecture of his mind.

‘I could probably use it once my Circle is high enough, but it’s impossible for now.’

He would shelve the Violet Lightning Flash until after he reached the 4th Circle.

His focus for now had to be the Heavenly Art, the Fist of the Rending Cloud, the Whirlwind Cloud Steps, and his external conditioning.

“…”

A profound sense of wrongness settled over him.

A question he had been deliberately pushing into the dark corners of his mind now forced its way into the light.

‘Why is this so easy for me?’

At first, he’d credited it to Lorelia’s training. The Fell Saint, one of the Two Saints of the Revered of the Martial Pinnacle.

In a way, she was Lee Su-hyeok's first master. She had taught him how to throw a punch, how to truly fight. He’d assumed those instincts had carried over, allowing him to kill the Oh Brothers and survive against Namgung Jin.

But was that really all it was?

Orca had told him he had a talent for martial arts. Bakerd had been floored when he’d demonstrated the Fist of the Rending Cloud. Even the Moonlit Reveller had acknowledged it.

‘This makes no sense.’

Yuri possessed the memories of two lives.

The ‘real’ Yuri, the orphan from Oldor, the pickpocket, the grunt for the Black Snake Gang, was no prodigy. He was scrappy, adept at dirty fighting, but he possessed no true ‘talent’.

His victories were won with grit and venom, not skill. After joining the gang, his senior Jang-sam had taught him how to use a dagger, and his performance had been serviceable at best.

And then there was Lee Su-hyeok, a man whose only physical gift was the ability to sit in front of a computer for twenty hours straight.

Yet now, the Master of the Dersia Mage Tower, a 6th-Circle warrior, and one of the Four Perils of the Martial Pinnacle had all praised his innate martial genius. And Yuri knew they weren’t exaggerating.

He remembered the spar between Bakerd and the Reveller, the way the martial arts had deconstructed and reassembled themselves in his mind.

That wasn't normal. The current Yuri possessed a talent that neither of his past selves ever had.

‘Where did this come from?’

It was different from the baseline gifts of a transmigrator. But he was certain it was a product of his transmigration. There was no other explanation. What set Lee Su-hyeok apart from every other transmigrator?

‘My clear time.’

The Hall of Honour ranked players by their speed. The record Lee Su-hyeok had set as UrMumSpammer was so dominant that, in this world's time, it would likely stand for a century.

Could it be? Was there a bonus granted for performance?

The soul of a transmigrator already possessed a special power, awakening a blessed affinity for mana and comprehension upon inhabiting a new body. This awakening was unlikely to be a gift from the God of Chaos.

Was it possible, then, that the Goddess of Order bestowed additional boons based on one's achievements?

It was a question without an answer.

The Goddess was in a deep slumber, and the Sect of Order was in seclusion. They weren't people he could simply look up and ask. Yuri’s hand went to his neck, to the spot where the Veil of Deception was hidden.

‘There are too many secrets.’

He let out a deep sigh and sat cross-legged.

A lack of talent was a problem; an excess of it rarely was. This world ran on the logic of power, where the weak were culled and the strong survived. Fortunately, his talent wasn't the kind that screamed 'transmigrator’. But he knew he would be exposed someday.

Until then, he had to build his strength.

‘I am the fire that enacts heavenly punishment, the asura that annihilates evil, the apostle that sets right the principles of heaven…'

Fwoosh.

As his consciousness sank into meditation, he could almost hear the crackle of a phantom flame.

* * *

Bakerd appeared at the mansion four days later, his body completely free of bandages.

“It’s really healed…” Yuri marvelled.

“Do internal injuries mend faster the higher a warrior’s Circle?”

“It depends on the injury.”

“What about minor illnesses? Can you sleep outdoors without a blanket and not catch a cold?”

“I don’t get sick easily, but even I use a sleeping bag.”

“What about questionable food? Can you eat strange plants or meat that’s a bit off and not get an upset stomach?”

“What, exactly, do you think a martial fighter is?”

Bakerd asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Just curious.”

A moment of silence passed between them before Bakerd asked, his tone suddenly serious, “Are you planning on leaving?”

It was a direct question that deserved a direct answer.

“Yes.”

Bakerd stared at his face for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the grand mansion behind him.

“It’s a fine house,” he began, his voice low.

“You won’t want for comfort here. If you need anything, Marigold will provide it. Is there really any reason for you to leave?”

“I can’t live off her charity forever.”

“Is it shame? Being indebted to her?”

“That’s not it.”

“A wanderer’s life is not an easy one,” Bakerd said, gesturing with the worn bag slung over his shoulder. He chuckled softly.

“But I suppose you have your reasons. I won’t press you.”

“It’s nothing grand. No great secret.”

“Then why?”

“Because I realised,” Yuri said, meeting his gaze, “I can’t get any stronger by staying here.”

At that, Bakerd let out a low, appreciative laugh.

“True enough. And I should admit, I misjudged you from the start.”

“What was your first impression?”

“I thought you were Marigold’s kept man.”

“I can see why you’d think that, but it’s not like that between us.”

“I know,” Bakerd said.

He’d been here almost every day for a month. Though he’d barely seen the mansion’s owner, he could tell their relationship was not what he’d assumed.

“Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided. I thought I’d just go where my feet take me.”

“The world outside the city is not a peaceful place. It is filled with danger.”

“I know.”

Bakerd studied Yuri’s face again. There was no hesitation there, only resolve. His mind was set.

‘Should I ask him to come with me?’

The thought arose, but the deliberation was brief.

He had already drawn a line. Revenge was his burden, his alone as the sole survivor of the Raspion Family. He had not taken Yuri as a disciple precisely because he refused to share that poisonous weight.

“Don’t die,” Bakerd said at last, extending a calloused hand with a warm, gruff smile.

“I won’t.”

Yuri smiled back, gripping the hand firmly.

As he watched Bakerd’s retreating back, a strange feeling settled over him. In the end, Yuri had not become a disciple, and Bakerd had not become a master. And yet, for the past month, they had been exactly that.

‘Will we meet again?’

Bakerd had spoken of revenge, but never the reason for it.

It wasn't that Yuri didn't want to follow him. He couldn’t. The secret of his transmigration was a wall between them, and beyond that wall lay the simple truth of his own weakness. Even if he used their bond as an excuse, he would only be a hindrance.

He watched until the warrior’s back was a small speck in the distance.

He thought of FS, the player on the forums who had made the best use of the Raspion sword style.

‘Could FS be the one who massacred the Raspion Family?’

There were supposedly three culprits. Perhaps FS was one of them… but it felt wrong.

In his own way, FS was just as unhinged as Chuk-sin-doo.

Come to think of it, none of them had been normal. But was FS the type to slaughter a family?

Then again, Yuri himself had killed two men within ten minutes of arriving in this world.

This world made killers of people. And it wasn't as if FS was the only one who had used that skillset. At least ten top-rankers had incorporated it into their builds.

The tragedy happened twenty years ago; the perpetrator would have to be one of the earliest transmigrators. FS had ranked first after Chuk-sin-doo, so… not at the very beginning, but close.

He just didn't know.

“Later,” he murmured to the empty street.

He hoped, genuinely, that Bakerd would find his vengeance. And he hoped, selfishly, that the target of that vengeance wasn't FS. He just wanted it all to end well, for the day to come when they could share a drink and reminisce, just as Bakerd had suggested.

But if… if Bakerd failed.

“Don’t die,” he whispered.

“Let’s see each other again, alive.”

If that couldn't happen…

‘Would I want to get revenge for him?’

He probably would.

***

Bakerd, walking towards the city gate, came to an abrupt halt.

He frowned, a flicker of irritation on his face as he scanned his surroundings. An aura as sharp and pointed as an awl was pricking at his senses. It was a blatant summons.

He turned, his expression a mix of surprise and confusion, and peered down a deep alley between two buildings.

Leaning against a shadowed wall was the Moonlit Reveller.

“This place doesn't suit you,” Bakerd said, his voice flat.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t suit me?”

“Don’t you prefer the bright, flashy stages?”

“I can’t deny it. But even the brightest star enjoys a dip into the darkness now and then. One might even call it brooding. Like a dark knight.”

Bakerd couldn't grasp the man’s true intention.

“I don’t understand you. Why did you call me here?”

“Bakerd Raspion.”

The name landed like a physical blow. Bakerd’s posture went rigid.

“Are you leaving today?” the Reveller asked casually.

“How do you know that name…?”

The words caught in his throat as the realisation dawned, hardening his expression.

“I see. Moonlit Reveller… you’re a transmigrator.”

The pieces fell into place. The beings from another world. The ‘game’.

“Did I exist in that game as well?” Bakerd asked, his voice strained.

“You did.”

“Under the name Bakerd Raspion?”

“No. Your name was just Bakerd in that crappy game, too. But,” the Reveller added, a slight smirk playing on his lips, “even then, you were the illegitimate son of the Raspion Family.”

Bakerd bit his lip, glaring at the man.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“I didn't think it was necessary before.”

“You didn’t think it was necessary? Who are you to decide that?”

“To be honest, Fist Wolf, I’d completely forgotten your name was Bakerd,” the Moonlit Reveller said with a perfectly straight face.

“What… did you say?”

“You simply weren't important enough to remember. We had no connection. You never left an impression.”

The words were a staggering insult. Yet Bakerd didn’t lash out. He just clenched his fists until his knuckles were white.

“But now I know who you are,” the Reveller continued, his tone shifting.

“And I think you’re a man too good to die.”

“What in the hell are you trying to say?”

“Have you seen the path to the 7th Circle?”

Bakerd’s cheek twitched. The spar, the sensations he’d felt… they were still branded into him. A precious gift from the benefactor standing before him.

“I… have.”

“And what did it look like?”

“Distant. Very, very distant.”

“If you’ve seen it, you can reach it,” the Reveller said, his face still utterly serious.

For a man famous for his deadpan jokes, there was not a hint of mockery in him now.

“Put your revenge aside. At least until you reach the 7th Circle.”

“What did you just say?”

“The culprits of the Raspion Tragedy… they are not a group you can handle.”

Bakerd’s eyes widened.

“A group? There was more than one?”

“I have no intention of telling you more.”

“Why?”

“Because if you knew, you would dig, and you would die.”

“I am not so foolish as to seek vengeance without the strength to claim it.”

“Let me repeat myself.”

The Moonlit Reveller’s eyes narrowed.

Whoosh!

An oppressive weight he hadn't revealed in their spar slammed down on Bakerd, pressing the air from his lungs.

“If you want your revenge, you must reach the 7th Circle. At the very least.”

“They… are they transmigrators?”

“I believe I said I wouldn’t tell you.”

“But still—!”

“Find me after you reach the 7th Circle.”

The pressure vanished as quickly as it had come. Bakerd steadied himself, swallowing hard to keep from staggering.

The Reveller simply stared, his silence absolute. Forcing an answer from him was impossible. Bakerd glared for a long moment before letting out a ragged sigh.

“Thank you.”

For twenty years he had sought vengeance and found nothing. The gratitude in his voice was genuine.

He bowed his head.

“The fact that you won’t tell me the truth… it is hard to accept. It infuriates me. But I will accept it.”

“A wise choice.”

“It was a realm I always meant to reach, but now I have another reason why I must.”

Bakerd raised his head, a bitter smile on his face.

“The 7th Circle. I will reach it. And when I do, Moonlit Reveller, I will find you.”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

For the first time, a true grin broke across the Reveller’s face.

“By the way, are you leaving alone? What about that disciple-like fellow?”

“I decided not to take him.”

“Still not your disciple?”

“My burden is too great. If you’re so interested, why don’t you take him in?”

“Me? Hahaha!”

The Reveller threw his head back and laughed.

“A tempting offer, but I am in no position to take a disciple either.”

“Is that so?”

“Well…”

The Moonlit Reveller’s grin returned, sly and enigmatic, as he looked up at the sky.

“I do plan on taking one, someday.”

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