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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Prologue: Invincible BB Bullet
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I've lived for one hundred and twenty years.
I witnessed my country's fall. I saw the birth of a new nation, watched as steel and concrete reshaped the mountains and rivers.
I beheld the births and deaths of countless people, sometimes even involving myself directly. I accumulated vast experiences, striving to gain precious knowledge.
Yet still, I never grew truly wise.
After a century of cultivation, all that remained in this old Taoist priest's mind was shame and obsession.
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"Why's that old geezer locked up alone in there? They didn't just shove him in carelessly because he's an old inmate, did they?"
"Yeah, isn't anyone over 65 supposed to be priority level one? Needs special handling..."
"Nah, it's fine. He's got wrinkles for days, but word is he's just barely past sixty."
"Whoa, I thought he was at least seventy."
"Must've had a rough youth. Or maybe he's faking his age. Anyway, he's good solo. In fact, it'd be trouble if he wasn't."
"Trouble how?"
"Back in the day—fifteen years ago, I think—the gangsters he roomed with all got beat down. They threw a fit about suing and filing complaints. He got death threats too, so they gave him a solo three-pyeong room."
"He took them all on by himself?"
"Martial artist. Real deal master."
"You ever seen him use martial arts?"
"Not in person, but I saw it on TV. You probably caught it as a kid too... that guy who terrorized the broadcasting station solo. Ring any bells?"
"Kinda sounds familiar. That him?"
"Yeah, got nabbed after and served six years. Time's flown; might let him out in a year or so."
"Six years?"
"Yep."
"From what I remember, when he stormed that station, everyone from staff to the boss ended up in the hospital. Even a few celebs went down, caused a huge uproar."
"And?"
"There must've been a truckload of dead or crippled. Six years for that?"
"Nobody died or got maimed."
The young guard, skeptical, pulled out his smartphone and searched for news articles.
Even after all these years, plenty came up on the "Martial Master Broadcasting Station Raid."
Reading one, he blinked in surprise.
"Whoa, it's true. No fatalities. How?"
The middle-aged guard grinned.
"Looks like it, but he's a Taoist priest."
The young guard eyed the old martial artist. Taoist priest?
With his short-trimmed beard, he didn't look the part. That face full of pent-up rage didn't scream deep cultivation either...
"Being a Taoist priest doesn't mean he wouldn't kill."
"Taoism's got that no-killing rule or something, like Buddhist precepts. Anyway, no murder charges. Oh, and while we're on him... go brew some porridge."
"Porridge? Didn't he just eat?"
"Not for me. For the priest. Won't touch the bean slop; only eats this."
He got this explanation:
Taoist priests have dietary taboos. For 'Avoiding Grains' practice, no rice, beans, or five grains. No meat, veggies—none of that everyday stuff.
"Rice and sesame on that shelf, pre-portioned for a meal. Boil 'em together..."
"Didn't he just say no rice?"
"That's Sesame Porridge, counts as medicine. I don't know the details—just make the porridge, yeah?"
The young guard muttered curses under his breath as he headed to the kitchen.
Along the way, plenty of martial artists were locked up.
First, bosses and execs from various sects, bonding amiably—probably forming a prison gang. Out in the world, they'd use these connections not for reform, but to ramp up their operations.
Demonic Cultists too.
This one stabbed six guys to death in a bar brawl. Claimed demonic arts flared up, mental fog—hoping for leniency, but got the death sentence anyway. Scum.
Good lord, that cultist was puffing away on contraband smokes banned in prison!
Ignoring the young guard's glare, he puffed defiantly.
Some guard must've smuggled it in—not bribery, just hoping he'd behave.
Figuring no parole, he'd gone rogue, pulling all sorts of stunts.
And the guards bent over backward to appease him. Hard to subdue if he snapped.
The young guard? Wanted to plug him with a bullet first chance.
Damn cowards, guards kowtowing to criminals. No spine?
Cursing colleagues, he suddenly felt pathetic himself—off to cater to some martial artist's diet.
The state of the nation was a joke.
Fancy calling 'em martial artists—they're just gangsters.
Hard to stomach thugs strutting around. Even inmates acting like kings? Absurd.
"Why won't this water reduce..."
Fuming, he botched the water level.
The Sesame Porridge looked inedible no matter how you sliced it.
Remake it? Bruised his pride. He brought the sloppy mess to the priest anyway.
"Uh, Priest?"
The priest seemed in meditation, legs crossed, eyes shut.
Now that looked priestly.
The young guard glanced nervously.
"My cooking sucks, so... not sure if it's good. If it's no good, I can redo it..."
Offering the pot, the priest opened his eyes.
Glanced at it, then slurped it down like sweetened rice drink.
Closed his eyes, back to meditating.
So fast, the young guard blanked out, staring at the empty pot before it clicked.
Least he didn't gripe about the cooking.
Back, recounting the feat, the middle-aged guard grinned.
"That's him. Hates wasting time on meals."
"What's to save time on here?"
"Cultivation."
"Cultivation? Yeah, he was meditating when I saw. Pretty dedicated?"
"'Dedicated' doesn't cut it. Cultivates every waking second... You'll see. Blows your mind."
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The middle-aged guard was spot on.
The priest was diligent. Abnormally so.
No sleep in old age? Or just wired that way? He rose earlier than anyone, sat cross-legged for Breathing Exercise—absorbing ambient qi, the usual inner power cultivation.
Nothing special there. Jailed martial artists did it all the time. Guards couldn't tell if it was real or just killing time.
But this priest? Different. When he breathed his special way, the whole corridor's air flow shifted.
Each time, the young guard felt awe.
Sucking in and exhaling all the air around? Even a whale on land couldn't. No human lungs could manage that.
Even a martial arts newbie knew this was phenomenal. Just watching him breathe set him apart from street-corner "Tao masters."
An hour later, breakfast.
He finished in seconds, then proper martial arts training.
Priest-style: famous, common Taijiquan, known even to civilians.
He practiced four straight hours. So slow it looked harder, yet seamless, unending.
Lunch, more Breathing Exercise, back to Taijiquan till dinner, then sleep.
Save mere seconds for meals, his day was all cultivation.
Today too. The young guard watched.
Today: flicking a tiny floor pebble at the wall. The middle-aged guard excitedly chimed in.
"That's the legendary Flicking Finger Divine Skill! Probably trashed the station and underworld crews with it."
Middle-aged guy was a fanboy from way back.
Bragged the priest was a peerless master in the martial world.
And to keep him weaponless, clean his room extra—no stray pebbles.
Thirty pebbles? He'd wipe out every guard here.
"If he goes berserk, guess we'll need guns," the young guard said gravely.
Middle-aged grinned.
"Assuming all guards are armed?"
"Still total wipeout?"
"First cops sent after him all dropped. Special forces finally got him to surrender... Handguns won't cut it. Need assault rifles, body armor."
"Real master, huh..."
The young guard admired purely now—resentment gone.
Brewing daily porridge sucked, but among these inmates, the priest was decent. He'd learned that the hard way.
Other martial artists treated prison like a hotel. Guards didn't correct 'em.
Poor TV signal? They'd bawl out guards, who groveled like hotel staff.
And that damn Demonic Cultist...
The vermin wasn't satisfied with smokes—now demanding opium or meth.
Said he needed drugs to calm his flaring demonic arts. Ridiculous. Guards sourcing narcotics?
Told him no, now he was wrecking havoc. Beating inmates mid-labor. Screaming at night, tormenting everyone.
Young guard rushed in furious, but eye contact froze him—courage vanished.
"What're you lookin' at?"
Bloodshot eyes, vacant like staring ninety meters past you—beastly. Drooling, insane.
Trouble brewing soon.
And bad feelings never miss.
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