Chapter 299. Youngwoo Strikes Back 23
Another man slipped secretly into the temple kitchen.
He did not care if someone other than the target died.
He approached the jars of seasonings that were used in nearly every meal.
Whether monks died, pilgrims died, or even a child sharing the food died made no difference to him.
As long as there was a chance Youngwoo might eat it, that was enough.
The man took a small paper packet from inside his clothes.
The powder inside was extremely fine.
It looked almost like powdered snow, but there was a sharp, acrid smell when it reached the nose.
After checking his surroundings, he opened the lid of one of the seasoning jars and poured in the poison.
He bent his head to see how much had gone in.
At that moment, the jar rose toward his mouth.
"Agh!"
It was his own hand.
His own hand was clearly holding the jar.
But it was not moving according to his will.
His wrist twisted, his elbow locked, and the mouth of the jar forced its way between his lips.
He tried to pull his hand away.
A powerful force pressed down on the back of it.
The arm was his own, yet the intention moving it was not.
His fingers refused to release the jar.
His shoulder was driven farther forward instead.
He relaxed his grip.
That only made things worse.
Instead of stopping, his loosened hand pushed the jar deeper against his mouth.
The seasoning mixed with poison poured over his tongue and down his throat.
"Aaaagh!"
The scream died inside his throat.
Powder entered his airway.
His throat burned.
He dropped the jar and staggered backward.
But paralysis had already begun spreading through his body.
His lips turned blue and stiff.
His tongue no longer obeyed him.
He struggled toward the door.
It was only a few steps away.
Those few steps became impossibly far.
His knees buckled.
His hands scraped across the floor.
Before he could even reach the kitchen threshold, he pitched forward.
His body lay sprawled in the doorway and went limp.
A faint smell of seasoning and poison drifted from the open jar.
From far away, Youngwoo sensed what had happened and narrowed his eyes.
A man who poisoned food meant for others ought to taste it with his own mouth first.
The kitchen became quiet again.
Only the powder scattered across the floor and the body collapsed at the threshold showed that killing intent had just passed through the room.
4
They called it Silver Thread.
Youngwoo could not tell what it had been made from.
He knew only that it was extremely thin and extraordinarily sharp.
It was closer to thread than cord, yet far too sinister to be called ordinary thread.
When it touched skin, it sliced flesh.
When it touched clothing, it cut cloth.
With enough force behind it, it could even bite through bone.
Several men were installing it along the path leading out from the meditation hall.
One strand was stretched at neck height.
Another at waist height.
A third below the knees.
They had even calculated the places a target might dodge toward.
Step forward and the neck would be cut.
Duck and the strand at the waist would catch.
Move to the side and the arms or ribs would be sliced open.
They wove the lines across the front, rear, left, and right until every route was covered.
Three men finished blocking the upper, middle, lower, left, and right approaches and were just about to withdraw.
At that moment, the first man was hurled into the air.
He flew directly across the Silver Threads he had installed himself.
He did not even have time to scream.
Cloth and flesh split apart together.
The second man was shoved.
He spun around in surprise.
The Silver Thread stretched at waist height swept across his body.
The line, thinner than a blade, cut deep into his side.
He collapsed while clutching his stomach with both hands.
Blood burst between his fingers.
The third man backed away in terror.
His arm was severed first.
He screamed at the sight of it and clamped his remaining hand over the wound.
Then he lost his footing.
As his body fell sideways, another strand stretched close to the ground split open his flank.
The Silver Thread finished its work without a sound.
The very lines they had trusted cut through their own bodies.
One thin, cold strand passed through flesh, clothing, and bone.
Blood sprayed across the snow.
Their broken breaths spread as white vapor into the air.
At the sound of screams, people from the temple came running.
By the time the monks arrived, the three assassins were dying among the Silver Threads they had installed themselves, clutching their severed bodies.
They could no longer move.
Torn pieces of clothing and blood were scattered across the snow.
The threads were almost impossible to see without close inspection.
But now scraps of the assassins' clothing hung from them everywhere.
Ripped sleeves.
Pieces of belts.
Blood-soaked cloth.
Those remnants revealed the positions of the Silver Threads, stopping the approaching monks before they came any closer.
Inside the meditation hall some distance away, Youngwoo felt everything through his sense of qi.
Those who had hung death across another man's path were now dying in the very path they had made.
That was enough.
The monks rushed forward and tried desperately to save them.
But the arteries had been severed, and they could not stop the bleeding.
In the end, all three died.
Chapter 300. Youngwoo Strikes Back 35
It was a simple-looking hidden-weapon launcher.
A thick bamboo tube, slightly longer than a man's forearm.
A thin cord was attached to the rear.
Pull the cord, and the flying needles packed tightly inside would burst out all at once.
Salmak called it a Flying Needle Tube.
At close range, it was a vicious weapon.
The needles would drive into gaps in armor, faces, wrists, and the back of the neck without discrimination.
Their tips were coated in poison.
They did not need to penetrate deeply.
Even a scratch across the skin was enough.
The assassin fastened one of the tubes to a tree at about shoulder height.
Its mouth pointed toward the path leading from the meditation hall.
The cord at the rear was stretched out to a secluded corner.
He had already chosen a hiding place.
When the target appeared, all he had to do was pull the cord from there.
One launcher faced the front.
Another covered the left side.
A third had been set lower.
Even if the target blocked the frontal needles with a shield or cloak, another volley would come from the side.
If he ducked, the lower launcher would rake across his face and neck.
The installation was almost complete.
After checking the long cord, the man bent forward to adjust the direction of the final launcher.
Its mouth was angled slightly too far toward the snowy path.
He leaned in to correct it.
At that moment, the cord snapped taut.
Shweeeek!
Fine needles sliced through the air.
The assassin's face froze.
He had not pulled the cord.
Yet the Flying Needle Tube he had installed fired first.
"Agh!"
Countless needles poured straight at him.
He tried to cover his face with his cloak.
It made no difference.
The needles punched through the cloth.
Through his sleeves.
They grazed and pierced the backs of his hands, his neck, his cheeks.
They spread like rain across the entire space.
There was nowhere to dodge.
As he tried to retreat, the second launcher went off from the side.
Shwe-shwe-shwe-shwe-shweek!
This volley struck his flank and thighs.
The body he had turned away from the frontal attack was now exposed directly to the needles coming from the side.
He screamed and covered his face with his hands.
Needles drove between his fingers as well.
Then the third cord tightened.
Shwe-shwe-shwe-shwe-shweek!
Shwe-shwe-shwe-shwe-shweek!
The final volley burst from the low-mounted launcher.
The needles aimed below the knees covered his calves and ankles.
He lost his balance and fell into the snow.
Even as he collapsed, several more needles buried themselves beneath his jaw and behind his ears.
His body soon began to stiffen.
His fingertips twisted.
His tongue stopped obeying him.
He tried to crawl toward the place where he had planned to hide, but even his elbows failed him.
Dark red spots spread across the snow.
All three Flying Needle Tubes had fired.
They were devices he had installed to catch someone else.
Block the front and they attacked from the side.
Dodge sideways and the low launcher struck from below.
This time, every one of those routes had opened against him.
He died while still setting the trap.
The cords from the launchers remained stretched between branches and walls.
A faint poisonous smell lingered at the mouths of the tubes.
Snow began falling quietly again, covering the devices one by one.
And those were not the only Flying Needle Tubes.
They had been placed at several points along the routes Youngwoo was likely to take.
Youngwoo traced the hidden assassins through their qi, collected the launchers, and turned each device against the men waiting nearby.
6
It was a large panel.
A thick wooden board had been drilled with countless small holes, and an arrow had been fitted into each one.
There were not dozens.
There were nearly hundreds.
It was a directional weapon designed to sweep an entire area from some distance away.
Once fired, the space in front of it became a field of arrows.
If a man stood there, little of him would remain untouched.
If a mounted rider passed through, horse and rider would collapse together.
It was the kind of weapon one would expect from an army.
Expensive.
Difficult to obtain.
Yet Salmak possessed several.
They installed them in alleys, on embankments, and atop tall buildings.
Every one of them pointed toward the meditation hall where Youngwoo stayed.
There was not just one.
Five or six had been positioned in different places, all aimed at the same point.
The men calculated the angles along which the arrows would fly.
Direction was easy enough to set.
Distance was harder.
Too low and the arrows would bury themselves in the wall.
Too high and they would sail over the roof.
They had to judge the angle by watching the snowfield, the eaves, the walls, and the height of the meditation hall door.
They prepared to fire them all at once.
Long cords ran from the back of every launcher to secluded positions where men could hide and pull them.
It was an absurdly large arrangement for killing one person.
That was how Salmak worked.
They ensured success through excess.
Thirty men for one target.
Weapons fit for a battlefield to strike a single small meditation hall.
One of the men installed a launcher on top of a rise.
He adjusted the angle.
Checked the cord.
Then went behind the embankment to relieve himself before returning.
On his way back, he stopped.
Something was wrong.
The launcher was pointing at him.
He had clearly aimed it toward the meditation hall.
Now the dark mouths of hundreds of arrow holes were staring directly at him.
Who had turned it?
Unable to shout, the man bit his lip.
He hurried forward to turn it back.
At that moment, the launcher shifted slightly.
It slowly followed his movement.
A chill ran down his spine.
The angle he had set was completely gone.
Instead of the distant meditation hall, the launcher now aimed at him standing only a short distance away.
The tips of hundreds of arrows pointed toward his chest, face, and stomach.
"Uh…"
That small sound had barely escaped his mouth when—
Tut-tut-tut-tut-tuk.
Hundreds of arrows burst out at once from close range.
The sound was low and heavy.
Not the twang of bowstrings.
It was the sound of wood, iron, and cords releasing together.
The arrows barely had time to fly before they struck his body.
Chest.
Stomach.
Shoulders.
Neck.
Face.
Dozens pierced straight through him, while the rest buried themselves in the snow and trees behind.
He did not even fall backward.
For a moment he remained upright, his body pinned through by arrows.
Then he toppled sideways like a collapsing stack of firewood.
The same thing happened at five launch positions almost simultaneously.
The device installed above the alley turned toward the men guarding the alley.
The one atop a tall building aimed down at those hiding beneath the roofline.
The launcher on the rise turned toward the men adjusting its mechanism.
The one beyond the wall swung toward the assassins waiting with the firing cord in their hands.
At first, they did not understand what was happening.
By the time they realized that the weapons they had installed had turned around, it was already too late.
Cords tightened.
Wooden panels shuddered.
Arrows poured out like rain.
Tut-tut-tut-tuk.
Tut-tut-tut-tut-tuk.
Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tuk.
Short, heavy sounds erupted from one place after another.
Men collapsed across the snow.
Those hiding beneath the walls were impaled.
Men lying flat on rooftops tumbled down.
Those concealed in alleys were struck in the back by arrows they had no idea were coming.
Youngwoo remained seated inside the meditation hall.
He barely moved a finger.
Through his sense of qi, he identified the direction of each launcher, laid a thin line of qi upon it, and turned it little by little.
The angles the assassins had adjusted so carefully now pointed back at them.
The most expensive weapons Salmak had prepared swept away Salmak's own men.
The killing intent spread around Guangyou Temple had turned upon its masters.
In the stillness of the snow-covered temple, five military-grade launchers completed their work one after another.