Sparks flew as Chimma’s hands clashed with the Blood Threads, as if two torrents of qi collided between them.

Chiiiiiik.

Since the fight had begun, the Blood King had never been more shocked.

He hadn’t expected Chimma to grab the Blood Threads with his bare hands. And that wasn’t all.

Jjjiiiiik.

Chimma seized the Blood Threads with both hands and tore them apart.

"Aaaagh!"

Chimma let out a scream soaked in agony. But even so, he didn’t release his grip.

At the very peak of his howl—

Snap!

The Blood Thread, which could slice through steel with a mere touch, snapped.

As it broke, it was the Blood King who now let out a short, involuntary cry.

"Ugh!"

Right now, the Blood King had his true energy directly connected to the Powdered Blood Web in order to amplify his power. That move had been meant to kill Chimma in a single stroke.

But with the Blood Thread severed, the shock rebounded through his meridians that were channeling the energy.

The Blood King clenched his teeth and endured.

'He wouldn’t… snap another one… would he?'

But the drunken Chimma was beyond reason. He had already forgotten the pain he had just suffered, and like grabbing a clothesline, he reached for the second Blood Thread with a wild lunge.

"Aaaaaargh!"

A scream of pain, but just as powerful in force.

Snap!

He ripped it apart too.

"Ugh!"

As the second Blood Thread snapped, the Blood King let out an even louder scream. This time the damage was worse—his meridians twisted from the blow.

At last, the Blood King could no longer hold out. He abandoned his stance and released the technique.

Ssssst.

The web of Blood Threads that had been woven through the air vanished.

At that exact moment, Chimma charged the Blood King.

It wasn’t light footwork to execute martial techniques.

Chimma dashed like an enraged bull, spraying drunken madness in every direction.

Ordinarily, the Blood King would block flying sword qi and force with a blink. But now, for the first time, fear stirred in him. He was afraid of Chimma, who had ripped the Blood Threads with his bare hands and was charging at him.

'Not now!'

He had drunk Bloodbrew and torn the Blood Threads. In other words, if he got caught by that drunken frenzy now, he might be the one torn to shreds.

Still, this overwhelming strength wouldn’t last forever.

'There’s only one way!'

Just as Chimma lunged forward to swing his fist—

Fwoooosh.

Like wings unfurling, a curtain of energy spread from the Blood King’s body and swallowed Chimma.

It was the secret technique of Ten Thousand Blood Arts: Blood-Sealing Curtain.

Inside it, Chimma thrashed around.

"Let me go, you bastard! If I get out, you’re dead!"

He shouted and cursed like a drunk throwing a fit.

Then, just when the thrashing inside the curtain seemed to quiet—

Screeeech.

Chimma ripped open the Blood Curtain and stuck his head out.

"You’re dead, you bastard!"

Without hesitation, the Blood King unleashed a forceful strike of energy at Chimma.

Slaaaash.

Thud!

Chimma, struck squarely by the Blood King’s blow, was thrown back with his head still halfway out of the curtain.

The Blood Curtain rolled across the ground. It didn’t move again, and for a moment, it seemed he might be dead.

But then, Chimma began crawling out like a grub.

The Blood King leapt high into the air and fired off waves of blood energy one after another.

Boom! Kwaaang! Boom boom!

The earth cracked open as dust billowed. He poured in his blood energy with the intent to obliterate everything in that area.

Only after the wave of attacks ended and the dust began to settle—

Came the sound of heavy breathing from within.

As the dust cleared, Chimma stood among the gouged-out craters. He had already escaped the Blood Curtain and withstood the deluge of blood energy.

Even so, the Blood King smiled. The plan had worked.

Earlier, when Chimma tore through the Blood Threads, the energy surrounding his body had been black. But now it had returned to purple.

The final technique of the Drunken God Art—Drunken God’s Possession—had worn {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} off.

That last technique required an immense amount of internal energy, one never used except in the face of death.

Panting, Chimma noticed a liquor bottle near his feet that hadn’t shattered. He walked toward it.

Broken glass sliced his sole and blood seeped out, but he paid it no mind.

That was one of the reasons the Blood King didn’t charge recklessly. Chimma was still drunk—still shrouded in madness. Chimma picked up the bottle and guzzled it down.

From the beginning, he had lined this whole place with dozens of bottles. When fighting the North Blood Sect’s martial artists, he had preserved the liquor even while dodging sword attacks. But now most had been drunk or shattered, with only a few remaining.

When the Blood King first heard that Chimma had arrived with the Young Cult Master, he had secretly looked down on him. He had thought the Drunken Demon was the weakest among the Eight Palmar Lords.

But now, he couldn’t say Chimma fell short of any of them in real strength.

And, critically, their martial arts were poorly matched.

The blood energy emitted that overpowering scent of blood, meant to suppress the enemy. But Chimma’s stench of alcohol devoured it completely.

Their temperaments clashed too.

Chimma simply didn’t mesh with him. There should have been fear instilled by Blood Arts—but to this drunk lunatic, it meant nothing.

That’s why things had come to this.

"You want a drink too?"

Chimma slurred, tongue heavy with drunkenness. He looked like he could collapse at any moment, yet his gaze was crystal clear.

The Blood King shook his head.

A drink? Right now, he wanted to kill anyone who drank in front of him. Liquor? He couldn’t stand the smell.

Blood streamed down Chimma’s hand. It was from the wounds he’d sustained ripping through the Blood Threads and the Blood Curtain. No matter how drunk he was, the pain must have reached him. His feet, arms, and side were soaked in blood.

"Why fight this hard?"

If I don’t win, the Young Cult Master will have to fight. I want to finish off someone as disgusting as you myself.

You can’t really know someone without a fight like this. Only when something explodes do you realize just how much someone means to you.

How much do I care about Geom Mugeuk?

Let the Self-Destructive Technique explode—on me!

That’s how I felt. Besides, I was wrapped in the highest-grade Heavenly Silkworm Silk anyway.

"Is it because of the Young Cult Master? Just what the hell did he do for you?"

Chimma started walking slowly, swaying, reeking of alcohol.

"Yeah, tell me about it. He always shows up at the end for me."

But Chimma wasn’t just staggering from drink.

He was exhausted. His internal energy had nearly hit bottom.

Watching Chimma stagger toward him, the Blood King—for the first time in his life—felt he might actually lose to someone.

That fear gave birth to rage.

'I’ll kill him.'

This drunk bastard—I’ll kill him with my own hands! I’ll beat him to death. Let’s see what face your Young Cult Master makes then.

Killing intent erupted from the Blood King’s eyes, stained with blood qi.

Their fight was one of blood and alcohol.

Their battle mirrored that raw, primal stench. It wasn’t logical—it was emotional. Words gave way to curses. Not why they must kill, but that they would.

Fights of blood and booze were destined to be like this.

Both poured the last of their internal energy into their fists. They weren’t fist-fighting experts, but now they fought with fists like true pugilists.

Thud!

The Blood King’s punch struck Chimma square in the chest. But even with the impact, Chimma didn’t budge.

Was he enduring the pain? Or too drunk to feel it?

He didn’t dodge—just threw his fists.

The first punch missed.

But the second hit the Blood King in the face, full force.

His jaw turned and he staggered. A clean hit—but the Blood King didn’t fall.

As Chimma’s next punch flew in, the Blood King dodged and countered. Their fists tangled, and his strike landed on Chimma’s shoulder.

They punched well and dodged well. It looked like wild, drunken brawling, but they were the Drunken Demon and the Blood King. Their fists clashed full of force, testing who would break first—until:

Thud!

Chimma staggered.

The Blood King lunged in, determined not to miss the opportunity—

Smack!

Chimma’s headbutt struck the Blood King square in the face.

A headbutt? The Blood King was so caught off guard he could hardly contain his rage.

Squelch!

The sound of flesh tearing rang out at the same time.

Rubbing his nose and stepping back, the Blood King saw Chimma retreating far away.

Why?

That headbutt had landed cleanly. It should have been his chance to press the attack.

Just then, the Blood King smelled unfamiliar blood.

He slowly looked down at his chest.

His heart was soaked in blood. He could feel the warmth seeping from his chest down to his abdomen.

The Blood King’s eyes widened.

When?

In the moment of the headbutt—Chimma had stabbed his heart with a dagger like lightning.

From the beginning, Chimma had aimed only for that one decisive blow. He had been utterly drunk—but it was his own drunkenness, a controlled madness. He hadn’t charged like a bull toward the Blood King—he had charged toward this exact outcome.

Only now did the Blood King see the dagger in Chimma’s hand. It had sunk in so deep the blade was drenched entirely in blood.

"Didn’t I say earlier? Drunken brawls are this dirty."

He’d seemed unfazed, but the moment he saw the dagger, the Blood King’s legs gave out and he collapsed.

He quickly pressed on his pressure points to stop the bleeding—but it had pierced the heart. Surface pressure alone wouldn’t save him.

I die like this? To that drunken bastard?

But on this battlefield, the stench of alcohol overpowered the smell of blood.

Chimma stood at a distance. Though he had landed a fatal blow—no, because he had—he was cautious.

The Blood King could still use the Self-Destructive Art at any moment.

Their eyes met from across the field. As Chimma stared into his eyes, he instinctively sensed something.

"You mean to tell me—?"

Chimma asked, eyes wide with incredulity.

"You never learned the Self-Destructive Art?"

Like how a fight reveals a man, Chimma had a hunch. And the Blood King’s face confirmed it.

He truly hadn’t learned it. He didn’t want to end in a blaze of destruction.

"You… of all people… this is how you go? Not you. You should’ve gone out in a glorious, explosive finale."

He’d blown up his own subordinates with that very technique.

"Remember what I asked you before we fought? Why don’t you want the Young Cult Master to fight us?"

Chimma’s voice turned cold.

"This is why. You and I—we’re just too…"

He began walking toward the Blood King. Gritting his teeth, the Blood King gathered his internal energy.

He hadn’t learned the Self-Destructive Art—but he had one last move.

Bloodborne Venom.

Using it would permanently destroy half his innate energy. It was not a technique to use lightly. But if he was dying anyway, he could take Chimma with him.

Just a little closer. Come a little closer…

But Chimma abruptly backed away.

"You think I’d trust a bastard like you?"

Chimma, attuned to the scent of death when drunk, had sensed it.

He picked up a broken stone lantern from the ground—the very same one that had been split in two earlier during their battle.

Realizing what Chimma was about to do, the Blood King cried out in pain and desperation.

"No! Kill me like a warrior!"

"Nope. This suits you perfectly."

Whoooosh!

With the last of his internal energy, Chimma hurled the stone lantern at him.

Boom!

The lantern crushed the Blood King’s face and upper torso.

Blood flowed out from beneath it. The Blood King’s corpse bled far more than a normal man’s.

Chimma staggered over, slumped down against the stone lantern, and drank.

At last, the life-or-death battle was over.

The blood spilling from beneath him soaked his backside. Chimma silently stared down at the puddle. His face was reflected in the blood.

Fwooooosh.

Boom!

Two people crashed down from the sky.

The one who had slammed the other into the ground was Geom Mugeuk.

The man who lay dead in the crater was the assassin who had killed the innkeeper earlier—the Blood King’s summoned subordinate. He had died without ever laying eyes on his master.

Chimma and Geom Mugeuk locked eyes in midair.

There was so much Chimma wanted to say, but all that came out was—

"You’re late again."

That single sentence stirred a storm of emotion in Geom Mugeuk’s chest. Chimma didn’t know how long he had waited to hear those words again.

Geom Mugeuk walked over and sat beside him.

Without a word, Chimma handed him the bottle of liquor.

Geom Mugeuk took a long drink and passed it back.

"I actually got here a while ago."

Beyond the shattered wall lay the bodies of many men. Just like the last one who had fallen, they were the Blood King’s summoned underlings.

"There were a lot of them."

They had arrived steadily throughout the duel—and Geom Mugeuk had taken care of every last one of them.

Chimma knew. If even a few of those men had intervened during that intense battle, he would have died.

Geom Mugeuk stared straight at him and said—

"You were incredible, hyung."

A smile he couldn’t hide crept onto Chimma’s face.

As the smell of the Blood King’s spilled blood lingered in the air, Chimma finally answered the question the man had asked earlier.

Why fight this hard for the Young Cult Master?

To hear those words.

"You were incredible, hyung."

Chimma lifted the bottle again and winced.

"Aaah… now that it’s over, everything hurts like hell. I need to lie down. Feels like I got beat to a pulp. Wait—I did get beat to a pulp, didn’t I? Ughhhh… trying to look cool is gonna be the death of me."

Groaning, he lay down.

The ground was soaked with blood, but he didn’t care.

"You should’ve come to save me first."

But Geom Mugeuk knew those weren’t his real feelings.

Chimma had truly wanted to be the one to kill the Blood King.

And beyond the subordinates, there was another reason Geom Mugeuk hadn’t joined the fight right away.

He was worried another member of the Twelve Kings might intervene.

Last time, when they fought the Battle King, someone had swooped in to rescue him at the end.

There was a real chance the same thing would happen again—or worse, that someone might interfere directly in the fight.

So he had stood guard outside, prepared for any intrusions. Even while dealing with the Blood King’s men, he had constantly scanned the area.

Was that the reason?

Or was it something else entirely?

This time, no one came.

Then again, things had changed. They were no longer the same as before. And their enemies, too, were likely struggling—losing key figures, failing to gain what they sought.

Grrrrrk.

Chimma had started snoring.

Completely spent from burning through all his internal energy and willpower, he had collapsed into sleep.

Geom Mugeuk moved to lift him from the blood-soaked ground—but stopped.

The sleeping Chimma looked utterly at peace.

He wasn’t lying in a pool of blood.

He looked like he had simply plunged into the lake in front of Pavilion of Drunken Dreams after a night of drinking.

Like he was lying back, gazing up at the stars from the water’s surface.

The blood-soaked ground became his lake.

Geom Mugeuk closed his eyes, remembering the stars they once gazed at together from that lakeside. He took another sip of the remaining liquor.

"Tastes like good stuff."