Blood Demon ― Please Tell Me This Is Just a Dream (1)
Several more days had passed since Cheon-yo left Daewoon Temple.
Late one night, as he and Baek Sang-ah sat by a campfire to rest, Cheon-yo broke the silence.
“We’ll reach our destination tomorrow. Just one more night of this.”
“Destination?”
“That’s right. We can’t camp outside in this bitter cold forever. It’s a place we can stay for a while. Our first stop, you could say.”
“And where is that?”
“Sichuan Province. A place called Seokcheon.”
Cheon-yo’s tone was calm, but the moment the words left his mouth, someone stepped out of the shadows—Jeok-ha, who had been silently listening until now.
Her expression twisted.
“Seokcheon, you say?”
“Mm.”
“Don’t tell me… we’re headed to the Blood Demon Palace?”
“That’s exactly it. Why?”
“Why? Have you lost your mind?”
—About ten years ago.
The righteous sects and demonic factions had formed an alliance to battle against the Demon King, Hyeol Murin, the lord of the Demonic Cult. At his command were eight forces, each led by a supreme demonic master.
Together, they were known as the Eight Heavens—the Eight Heavenly Demons.
Their power under Hyeol Murin had swept through the martial world like a storm. Yet in the end, Hyeol Murin was struck down by the combined forces of the righteous and demonic sects, and the Eight Heavenly Demons’ influence splintered apart.
Since then, those once under the banner of the Eight had gone their own way, carving out territories and building separate factions.
And among those… stood the Blood Demon Palace.
It was a gathering place of cultists, led not by one of the original Eight Heavenly Demons, but by a different figure entirely—the Blood Demon.
During Hyeol Murin’s reign, the Blood Demon had been an utter nobody. A third-rate martial artist. A mere servant who laid out the Demon King’s bedding.
His fate changed one peculiar day. Perhaps it was simply Hyeol Murin’s whim, when he was in unusually good spirits:
— This bedding pleases me today.
— Th-thank you, my lord!
— Take this.
What he tossed him was a martial arts manual—Blood Net Skill (Hyeolragong).
Though powerful, it was not a peerless art that could shake the world. Yet the Blood Demon clung to it obsessively, training with relentless fervor. He mastered its essence, elevated it to heights far beyond its limits, and through it alone reached the pinnacle of martial skill.
He became living proof of the saying: If you pursue any art to its ultimate extreme, it can rival the greatest of skills.
Thus, the once-nameless servant rose to be recognized as a formidable master.
The Blood Demon Palace itself was founded only after Hyeol Murin’s fall, when the former servant finally carved out his place in the world.
And yet, the Blood Demon never tired of declaring:
“It is not the Eight Heavens, but the Nine. Not Eight Heavenly Demons, but Nine.”
He sought to claim his seat among them, to be recognized as one of the great demonic lords.
Whatever else could be said, the Blood Demon had once served under Hyeol Murin.
So when Cheon-yo announced he was heading for the Blood Demon Palace, Jeok-ha’s disbelief was only natural.
Cheon-yo met her worried gaze.
“Don’t worry. I know the man who leads that place.”
“But he was one of Hyeol Murin’s men. Walking into his den is no different from sticking your head into a tiger’s jaws!”
“Which is precisely why it’s the perfect place.”
“…What do you mean?”
“Who would ever suspect that the child carrying the Demon King inside him would willingly walk into the Blood Demon Palace?”
“Well… that’s true, but—”
“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to follow me. That’d make things easier for me, actually.”
“…I’ll follow.”
“Then quit complaining and keep up.”
With that, Cheon-yo lay down on the ground, staring up at the dark night sky. His voice drifted softly into the firelight.
“Bong-pal… wonder how he’s doing.”
“Lulu~”
Humming cheerfully, a man in his late thirties lifted a chicken drumstick.
The lavish chamber glittered with ornaments and treasures that screamed of wealth.
The man himself looked ordinary—tall, somewhat youthful for his age, but otherwise unremarkable. He could vanish into any crowd.
His attire, however, was gaudy to the point of absurdity, topped with a crown of solid gold.
Holding the chicken leg delicately between thumb and forefinger, he took a bite, savoring the taste.
Slurp, chomp.
This man—who called himself one of the Nine Heavenly Demons—was none other than the Blood Demon.
Leaning back in satisfaction, he let out a groan of delight.
“Ahhh, paradise.”
A life of fine food and wine, free of worry. Truly the pinnacle of existence.
After wiping his greasy hands on silk, he rose and strolled to an endless row of hanging garments. He hummed as he browsed.
“Now then, what shall I wear today?”
The wardrobe was overflowing, enough to make anyone dizzy with envy. His eyes lit up just gazing upon it.
Finally, he plucked out a robe of blue and white.
“Yes, you’ll do nicely.”
He grinned, shrugging out of his top, when a voice shattered his calm.
“Blood Demon-nim!”
“Good heavens!”
Startled, he snapped around, glaring at the intruder. It was Sado-wol, his most trusted lieutenant.
Irritated, the Blood Demon snatched another chicken leg from the table and hurled it.
Whack!
“Ugh!”
Sado-wol staggered, clutching his eye.
“How many times have I told you,” the Blood Demon growled, tugging on his new robe, “announce yourself before barging in!”
He smoothed the garment over his shoulders, his voice turning leisurely once more.
“Well? What is it?”
“S-someone has come to see you. Claims to be… an acquaintance.”
“And who might that be?”
“They… refused to give their name.”
The Blood Demon snorted.
“Idiot. Anyone can claim to be an acquaintance. Do you have any idea how many beg to see me? Toss them out.”
Ambitious as he was, he longed to be acknowledged among the Nine Heavenly Demons. Though weaker than the original Eight, his Blood Demon Palace had grown too influential to ignore. Countless opportunists sought him out, hoping to attach themselves to his power.
“Send him away. I can’t be bothered.”
“…Except,” Sado-wol ventured cautiously, “this one… called you Bong-pal.”
The Blood Demon froze. His eyes bulged, veins pulsing with fury.
Bong-pal. His true name. The name he despised, buried, wished forgotten. A name so rustic and humiliating that he would kill to erase it from memory.
And now someone had dared to speak it. Here, in his palace.
Sado-wol added carefully, “You did say, my lord… anyone who dares call you Bong-pal must be brought straight to you. So… I’ve had him detained in the Golden Hall.”
Crack.
Something snapped inside the Blood Demon.
His face twisted, and he roared.
“I’ll kill him! I’ll tear apart the wretch who dared spit out that name! Where is he?”
“I… I placed him in the Golden Hall…”
“Then to the Golden Hall it is!”
Seizing a club from nearby, half-dressed in only his new robe, the Blood Demon stormed out.
His underlings scrambled to bow as he thundered past, but he saw none of them.
“I’ll kill him! I’ll grind him into paste!”
Sado-wol trailed behind, sighing inwardly.
Pity the fool… whoever he is, today’s his funeral.
The Golden Hall was some distance away, but rage lent the Blood Demon wings. He tore across the palace like a storm, bursting into the hall.
The guards snapped to attention.
“The visitor is inside, my lord!”
“Out of my way!”
He shoved them aside, flinging the doors open with a crash.
“Which bastard is it! Who dares call me Bong—”
The words died in his throat.
Three figures stood within.
A small child, face hidden beneath a wide traveling hat. A stunning woman in crimson robes, beauty enough to steal breath.
But the Blood Demon saw only the man standing between them.
Recognition struck like lightning.
Thud.
The club slipped from his hand. Rage evaporated, replaced by cold clarity.
His lips trembled as he muttered:
“…Damn it. I’m screwed.”
The man raised his hand in greeting, a faint smile on his lips.
“Long time no see, Bong-pal.”
It was Cheon-yo.