Chapter 77
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: Correction
-----------------------------------------------------------------
White rice, unmixed with barley or sand.
Just how many years had it been since they last ate rice? At least twenty, no doubt.
Ever since crossing into the Central Plains and taking up the role of assassins, they could have eaten it whenever they wanted, but they hadn't.
But how could they? Their homeland's kin were reduced to chewing dirt, without even tree roots to gnaw on.
The asceticism born from that rising guilt—what greater sin than dragging an innocent child into such self-denial?
The assassins squeezed their eyes shut and scooped a spoonful of the perfectly mounded white rice into their mouths.
"Hoo, heuh... "
In an instant, their mouths filled with a savory aroma, fluffy yet sticky grains that released a subtle sweetness with every chew...
Rice. Delicious rice that drove them mad.
Part of it was surely due to not having touched it in so long, but no matter how they racked their brains, they couldn't recall ever eating rice this good before.
Just one spoonful, and the assassins' vision blurred, their hands going limp.
"Eh? W-Why are you all like this?"
Suddenly, all the adults stared blankly into space in this bizarre scene, leaving Number One flustered, his mouth smeared with sauce and rice bits.
"...No, it's nothing."
Their original purpose was to teach the child table manners. The assassins shook their heads, shaking off the shock.
"Now, let me show you how to hold your utensils."
How to grip the spoon to scoop soup and rice, how to use chopsticks to pick up food.
Things even slaves and butchers knew, yet they had never taught their child.
"Got it, like this? Understood!"
A genius who had pierced the Third Realm of the Body at thirteen, reaching Peak Mastery by the age of learning.
Even if they had fed him all the clan's custom elixirs—hard to refund, tailored to bloodline—to solve his internal energy issues, digesting that massive medicinal potency was no ordinary feat.
Born with innate talent for controlling his body, he mastered it in an instant.
Number One quickly grasped the method, internalized it, and joyfully devoured his food. Watching him, the assassins' expressions crumbled further.
"Something this simple... why didn't we do it? Why...!"
Just showing him once should have sufficed. How could they have let the child eat like a beast by neglecting something so easy?
They bit their lips until blood welled, closing their bloodshot eyes to forcibly calm themselves.
Still clumsy, he splattered broth here and there. The assassins gently wiped his mouth clean.
"...Eat slowly. No one's going to take it away."
An assassin's meal had to be short, simple, and swift. It must be a habit picked up from imitating them.
Number One's eyes widened in wonder.
They wiped the smudges from his cheeks. Scooped rice and topped it with sides. Corrected his posture, taught him etiquette.
The adults were different from usual.
They never hit or mistreated him, of course, but they always seemed chased by something, distracted, never sparing him a glance.
But now, they looked at him fully. Cared for him. Just like when he was not yet five.
Overjoyed, he let out a wild laugh.
"Ehehehe..."
As if surprised it slipped out, Number One clapped a hand over his mouth.
An assassin must not show emotion. Voicing pleasure or disgust was taboo.
Like a frightened cat, he peeked at the adults' faces.
Would they get angry?
"Kid—"
Of course, the assassins hadn't imposed their code so harshly on Number One. Especially not during peacetime, away from missions.
But they themselves had lived so blankly, so colorlessly.
What had the child seen and learned from?
When had it started?
Ten years ago, it had been less so.
Twenty years ago, memories of laughter and chatter remained.
At some point, they lacked even the strength or leisure, living like the dead without showing a hint of feeling.
A child in the prime age for play and make-believe mimicked corpses amid corpses.
"This is delicious too! Try some!"
Guilt stabbing his heart, he started to bow his head again—then looked at the spoon offered with a beaming smile.
"...Yes, thank you."
Now was the time for action, not self-recrimination.
Not regretting lost years, but focusing on giving the child bright experiences ahead.
Focus returning to the assassins' eyes, they accepted and ate from Number One's spoon.
"Ah..."
Rice soaked in cabbage soybean paste soup, topped with fresh kimchi—eating it, even the guilt faded as the assassin let out a dumb sound.
The hearty, salty depth of the paste; the refreshing broth with cabbage; crisp kimchi over perfectly cooked rice...
Not some fancy gourmet dish, but incomparable emotion.
A rough, heartfelt spoonful warm with nostalgia.
Before Geomui Island reached the peninsula, the meals his mother prepared in childhood.
Painfully missed, irrecoverable memories flooded his mind vividly.
"Hic, M-Mother... Mother...!"
The lump of noodles from a village feast.
"Really, just like back then..."
The ecstasy of pork boiled at a noble's banquet, stumbled into by chance.
"Kuhuhu, I started learning martial arts to taste that again..."
Looking back, those beautiful, happy, hazy past memories filled his mind, tears flowing naturally.
The table instantly became a sea of tears. Number One flailed in panic.
"...!! Why are you all suddenly crying? Did the food have poison...!"
"No, no. These are tears because the food is too delicious. No problem at all."
"Huh? Why cry over delicious food?"
"You'll understand someday."
"...Hmm, hard to grasp."
The tear-filled table gradually bloomed with laughter.
Digging up forgotten or buried emotions, fully enjoying joy—they seemed to turn from corpses to humans, their complexions brightening.
"...Thank you, White Lotus Sword Hero."
"No big deal—I'm doing it because I want to. I brought bulgogi too; want some?"
In the meantime, So-hyang had brought dozens of pots bubbling with marinated beef and vegetables.
"...Hoo, this is incredibly delicious too."
"More's coming, so look forward to it?"
With three hundred to feed, preparing it all at once would cool it and ruin the taste.
Plenty of ingredients left; new dishes would come gradually.
Skewered meat and veggies battered and fried into savory pancakes.
Hearty chicken broth simmered to perfection.
Green onion pancakes fried crisp to golden-brown, soaked in batter.
Pale milky rice liquor bought outside.
Deep seafood stew from dried fish.
Large-batch dishes for three hundred mouths, varied endlessly, placed before the assassins without end.
"Phew, can't remember the last time I ate this full."
Guilt rose thinking of homeland kin, yet the vivid fullness in their bellies brought utter happiness.
The mind is slave to the body; desire, the essence of humanity.
Treacherously, bliss enough to forget their nation's decline enveloped them.
"Oh, all done? I have rice cakes too..."
Plenty of So-hyang's rice remained; she ground it into cakes.
Grinding sackfuls by pestle wouldn't suffice, so she used her arts.
Lifted the rice with telekinesis, drew spiritual gang energy to mill it.
Careful not to overheat and vaporize it entirely; precise control required.
With that massive rice flour, she made dough—then steamed it all at once by embedding samadhi true fire.
Regulating heat to avoid burning, using penetration meridian arts for even cooking inside out.
Tricky control; without insights from sparring Wudang's Pure River Sect Leader, it would've been tough.
"Made a bit; have a taste."
"A bit... you say?"
The assassins gawked upward, more baffled by "a bit" than grinding rice with qi into cakes.
Mounds of various rice cakes piled on vast trays like mountains—how could that be "a bit"?
Even for three hundred, excessive—like building with cakes.
"...Shall we try."
Grabbing a corner of the huge steamed cake, stretching and tearing a piece.
Freshly steamed, steam rising softly.
"Hoo, killer..."
Dusted with bean powder, nutty sweetness wafting; chewy yet tender, warming the mouth.
Belly bursting, yet unstoppable—utterly addictive.
Cylinder cakes, skewered sweets, sliced rounds—endless varieties tormented the assassins.
"Hooo... can't eat more..."
Too satisfying, but bellies truly at limit. Habit of sparse eating kept them lean; this was much.
"Ah, just a bit of fruit now."
"...Pardon?"
Apples, pears, watermelon, grapes, dragon fruit—So-hyang swept the market clean.
Cut to bite-size, neatly arrayed before them.
"...L-Lotus Hero, really at limit now—"
"Come on, dessert belly's separate, right? Try it; might change your mind?"
No, on the verge of regurgitation—how change mind?
"...Yes, I'll try."
But unable to withstand the pure white eyes of a supreme expert, they picked fruit.
Taste? There.
Perfectly ripe, full sweetness; all crisp, tangy-sweet.
Tasty, sure, but...
When finish all this?
"Here, sweet rice punch too! Not fully fermented, but drinkable!"
Even iced sweet punch added.
"...Heavens."
"Groooan... b-belly's bursting..."
Black-clad assassins sprawled like laundry on floor and chairs, desperately holding back reflux.
Astoundingly, three hundred devoured the monstrous feast entirely.
A human epic, heroic victory.
But reaching exact capacity limit by coincidence...?
So-hyang's milky white eyes curved like crescent moons, softly glowing.
"Omnomnom..."
Her gaze turned to the sole survivor among assassins: Number One.
Amid the storm, she retained appetite, devouring endlessly.
"H-Hero, could I... have one more bowl of rice...?"
Even asking for more.
That tiny mouth packing away so earnestly and greedily—adorable; an irrepressible smile formed on So-hyang's lips.
"Of course, here."
Number One, merely fifteen, stunted by meager meals; development poor.
Wrists a mere handful, height only to So-hyang's chest.
Wonder how such a frame loosed those heavy arrows.
"Hehe, yummy."
Like possessed, inhaling food defying physics somewhat—heartwarming smile.
"Hweee..."
Then, suddenly sated, beaming, succumbed to first post-meal drowsiness without resistance, collapsing into sleep.
Flopped spread-eagled, limbs splayed, bloated belly skyward.
Steady snores; no issue apparent, but checked pulse just in case.
First binge ever—might choke or upset stomach?
"Mm, all good."
Perfectly fine, robust health.
Untouched by reflux or esophagitis; just stroked his head gently, let him sleep.
Amid the chaotic feast, one hadn't eaten much.
Palace Arrow Sect's leader elder, Lee Chun.
Not that homeland thoughts blocked food entirely.
So-hyang hadn't pressed him either.
From cracked lips, a bitter sound leaked.
"A shame. If I could, I'd join them..."
"That body'd revolt on such food. Want porridge? I'll make some."
"...May I? Craving real food after so long."
"Sure, chicken porridge okay?"
"Perfect. Grateful for the kindness..."
Lee Chun, Palace Arrow Sect leader.
Currently too frail to draw bow, commanding underlings via sorcery.
Once the finest archer worthy of leadership, pinnacle martial artist.
Back when Palace Arrow Sect was Jeonju Lee Clan stronghold.
The famed bowman who severed a black dragon's breath with one arrow now simmered chicken porridge with feeble arms.
"...Exquisite taste."