The Battered Scion
"What in the world...?"
Experienced as the Heavenly Demon was, having weathered a century and a half of Jianghu bloodshed and turmoil, his current predicament left him utterly bewildered. He moved to sit up, but a dull, throbbing ache flared violently through every inch of his flesh.
Is this the backlash from trying to force a breakthrough into the next realm?
Yet that made little sense. His desperate gamble had been to detonate his vast sea of internal energy all at once, seeking enlightenment at the razor's edge between life and death as his very flesh tore apart. Even if heaven had granted him the miraculous fortune of survival, his eight extraordinary meridians should have been shredded to ribbons on the inside, while on the outside, his flesh and bone ought to have been reduced to a mangled pulp. It could not possibly have ended in mere bruised soreness like this.
More to the point... this feels like the aftermath of a thorough beating.
It had been so many decades since he had last tasted a pummeling that he had been slow to recognize the sensation.
So it isn't a backlash from my cultivation, then.
Pushing through the stiffness, he sat up fully and surveyed his surroundings. The room was appointed with understated opulence. From the elegant wooden furniture arranged with meticulous care to the silk bedding draped over him, everything spoke of immense wealth and high standing. Naturally, none of it existed in his memory.
Just as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed to get a better grasp of the situation—
"Ugh!"
He clutched his head as a sharp, piercing jolt lanced through his brain. And when the blinding pain finally receded, it left behind something utterly bizarre: the memories of a boy he did not know.
This is absurd.
Even he—the peerless sovereign of the martial world—found himself struck dumb by a phenomenon that defied all earthly reason. He raised his hands before his eyes. They were fair, youthful hands. Though dotted with a smattering of calluses from sword practice, they were an eternity away from the withered, age-worn hands he had possessed for over a century. They belonged to someone else entirely.
He turned the situation over in his mind, examining every angle, but only a single conclusion remained.
My soul has inhabited this child's body.
The Central Plains was a vast land where bizarre, unexplainable marvels unfolded every day, yet in all his years, he had never once heard of an art or ancient legend where one person's spirit possessed another living being's body. Naturally, he had no idea why or how such a thing had happened. He suspected his suicidal final cultivation might have triggered the anomaly, but speculation without a shred of evidence was no better than wild delusion. He promptly brushed the thought aside.
Instead, he reached into the newly acquired fragments of memory—remnants of the soul whose vessel he now occupied. There was not much there, but it was enough to piece together the boy's basic identity.
His name was Namgung Yun.
A brat from the Namgung Clan?
Among the myriad sects of the Orthodox faction, the paramount pillars of prestige were the Nine Factions and One Sect and the Five Great Clans. And among those Five Great Clans stood the noble Namgung Clan. More remarkably, Namgung Yun was not just an ordinary clansman; he was the direct son of the Patriarch himself.
Then why on earth was a scion like him beaten half to death?
Yun pulled back the silk collar of his robes and inspected his torso. Deep, livid bruises—so dark they were practically black—mottled his chest, ribs, and abdomen. These were not the clean abrasions or strain tears of martial training.
Someone deliberately laid into him with malicious intent.
Just then, footsteps stirred beyond the sliding door.
"Young Master, are you awake?"
As he weighed how best to answer, another sharp migraine stabbed behind his temples, and a few more disjointed memories surfaced in his mind.
"He does not seem to be awake yet. Please, step inside."
Before he could organize the fresh recollections, the door slid open, admitting two men into the chamber. One was unmistakably a servant of the household, a youth he recognized from the memories that had just slotted into place.
Eun-sam.
He was Yun's personal attendant, responsible for attending to the young master's daily needs and chores. The man accompanying him, however, was a complete stranger.
"Ah! You are awake, Young Master!"
Drawing upon the sparse impressions of how the original Namgung Yun spoke to his servant, he opened his mouth.
"Yes. And who might that gentleman be?"
"This is Physician Seo Won-gil from Won'am Clinic. I brought him here specifically to tend to your injuries."
"I am Seo Won-gil," the physician said, bowing respectfully.
"I am Namgung Yun."
Introducing himself with an unfamiliar name, he inclined his head in return. To some, bowing so easily might have seemed unthinkable for someone who, until moments ago, had reigned as the supreme Heavenly Demon and Cult Leader of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult. But neither he nor the Divine Cult were so unhinged as to bark arrogant commands without first grasping the situation.
...Well, the rest of the zealots in the cult might be that mindless, but certainly not me.
Besides, in his pursuit of chivalry and righteousness, had he not relentlessly badgered Lee Geuk, the Leader of the Murim Alliance, forcing the man to lecture him on orthodox virtue and propriety? A polite greeting was hardly a blow to his pride. More than anything, he had awakened in the body of a boy he did not know under utterly bizarre circumstances. Assessing his present reality took precedence over all else.
Yet Seo Won-gil was staring at him with widened eyes, visibly startled.
Was my greeting really that astonishing? Even if this Namgung Yun is a scion of a noble lineage, wouldn't he naturally show basic courtesy to an elder?
He was a child of the Orthodox faction—and the prestigious Namgung Clan, no less.
Or was this boy such an insufferable brat that he never even bowed to anyone?
"Physician Seo also examined you when you were carried back unconscious, Young Master," Eun-sam quickly added. "He is renowned as a miracle worker in these parts, so you may rest easy under his care."
Yun nodded. If the famed Namgung Clan had called upon him, the man was unlikely to be a run-of-the-mill charlatan. Even so, a doubt prickled at his mind.
"What of the clan's own physicians?"
Whatever righteous ideals they espoused, martial clans ultimately lived and died by the blade. Injuries trailed their disciples like shadows that never faded. Consequently, any sect or family of modest standing retained a permanent retinue of dedicated physicians, and the Namgung Clan would naturally be no exception.
While clan physicians might lag behind in treating exotic illnesses, they were peerless specialists when it came to the occupational hazards of the Jianghu—contusions, lacerations, puncture wounds, and internal energy backlashes. Yet they had bypassed their own internal experts to summon a practitioner from outside the manor?
Such an arrangement was reserved for cases that exceeded the capabilities of clan doctors, when legendary healers from across the realm were beseeched for aid. To call an outside physician for simple, albeit severe, contusions made no sense whatsoever.
"Ah... that is... the clan physicians are rather busy at the moment..."
Eun-sam stammered, his eyes darting evasively. It was painfully obvious that he was grasping at excuses. Was it a clan secret he could not divulge before an outsider, or simply an uncomfortable truth he dared not speak to his master?
I'll pry the details out of him later.
"Then I entrust my care to your capable hands," Yun said politely.
"I shall do my utmost."
And with that, the examination began.
Though the bruising was severe, contusions were straightforward enough to treat, and Seo Won-gil's remedies were simple and deft.
"I shall see you at your next treatment, Young Master."
Seo Won-gil offered a polite bow and excused himself. Eun-sam stepped out to see the physician off at the courtyard gate before scuttling back into the room.
"Young Master, how are you feeling?"
"I am fine."
In the Divine Cult, scratches and bruises of this magnitude wouldn't even count as real wounds.
"That is a relief. Please, rest well."
"Wait."
Yun halted the servant as the boy turned to leave.
"You claimed the clan physicians were busy. What occupies them so? Has some grave crisis befallen the family?"
"Well... that is..."
Eun-sam clamped his lips shut, fidgeting uncomfortably.
"Enough hesitating. Speak."
Yun pitched his voice with a touch of stern authority. Eun-sam visibly flinched, color draining from his face. Evidently, the original Namgung Yun had never pressed him with such commanding force.
"...The Patriarch ordered that no clan physician be assigned to you, Young Master."
"What?"
Though he had entertained a dozen plausible theories, he certainly had not anticipated this.
"Why?"
"He said... that dispatching clan physicians to attend to you would be a waste of resources..."
And that reasoning was even more staggering than the edict itself.
After dismissing the servant, he sat quietly and chewed over what he had just learned. Yet no matter how many times he turned the words in his head, the sheer absurdity of it boggled the mind.
A waste of clan resources? To treat a direct descendant bearing the Namgung name—the son of the Patriarch himself?
And the order had come straight from his own biological father. It defied every shred of common sense.
Could this boy be illegitimate? Not even his father's blood?
The suspicion was outrageous, but under the circumstances, entirely warranted. For now, the only concrete fact he possessed was that Namgung Yun was treated with utter disdain within his own clan.
I have far too little information.
Waking up in the body of an unfamiliar child was headache enough, but the clan's bizarre hostility made the situation downright baffling. The trickle of memories resurfacing in his head amounted to mere scattered fragments, useless for deciphering the larger picture.
Soon, however, he let out a soft exhale and ceased fretting.
Brooding over it won't change a thing.
From the look of things, he would have to live on as Namgung Yun for the foreseeable future. What mattered now was deciding how to spend this bonus round of existence. And that, truly, required no deliberation at all. For even if his vessel had changed, the singular purpose of his life remained entirely unaltered.
The Martial Path.
To a true martial artist, pursuing martial mastery was as natural and instinctive as breathing. It was the sole common thread binding all who walked the Jianghu—whether Orthodox, Unorthodox, Demonic, or Outer Realm factions—despite their endless feuds and hatred. The insatiable thirst for martial supremacy! Had he not terrorized the grandmasters of the Central Plains, made a fuss about comprehending chivalry and righteousness, and ultimately undertaken that suicidal madness of a final breakthrough all for the sake of that single pursuit?
Looking at it from that perspective, this strange turn of fate wasn't so terrible after all.
In any case, I've been granted a fresh span of time to cultivate.
Why had he resorted to such suicidal madness in the first place? Because his old, withered body had been running out of time. Of course, the price of that rebirth was the complete loss of the transcendent martial arts he had spent a lifetime accumulating.
No matter. What was lost can be reclaimed.
The supreme enlightenment he had attained remained pristine and intact within his mind. As long as his dantian was intact and his limbs unbroken, he was confident he could swiftly regain his former might, no matter how untalented the flesh might be. And best of all, his new vessel belonged to an elite orthodox clan.
If I wish to master righteousness and chivalry, what better place to study than the heart of a premier orthodox family?
Beyond mere theoretical lectures, daily life itself would be steeped in the virtues of honor and justice.
This time, I will transcend the boundaries I failed to cross as the Heavenly Demon!
Despite the century and a half he had lived, he felt his youthful heart thumping with raw, exhilarating anticipation.
With several days of quiet recuperation, Namgung Yun's body steadily healed. His recovery outpaced that of an ordinary mortal by a remarkable margin.
As expected of a direct scion of the Namgung Clan. His skeletal structure and musculature are exceptionally solid.
Yet his admiration ended right there.
Then why is his actual capability such an utter disaster?
His physical strength was poorly developed, and his martial foundation was shockingly crude.
At least the volume of his internal energy isn't half bad.
For someone of his years, the reserve of qi was quite formidable—especially considering that the internal cultivation arts of the Orthodox faction accumulated power at a notoriously slow, steady pace compared to the shortcuts of the Demonic Path.
So this is orthodox qi.
Unlike the qi cultivated within the Divine Cult, which gathered whatever it could whether pure or tainted, the inner energy dwelling in this vessel was remarkably pure and untainted. Naturally, that purity came at the expense of raw volume relative to the time invested, but the sheer stability and harmony of pure qi more than compensated for the difference.
I purified my own qi extensively in my later years, but it still couldn't entirely match the unblemished clarity of those who cultivated it this way from the very start.
His brief thrill of curiosity and analysis faded as an irritating suspicion crossed his mind, causing his brow to furrow.
Was this brat... a coward?
Such a creature had never existed within the ruthless hierarchy of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult. But he recalled hearing of a certain type of disciple that occasionally cropped up among orthodox sects: those who were too terrified of pain to engage in harsh sparring or practical combat drills, yet too anxious to do nothing, so they spent day and night doing nothing but meditating and circulating their qi.
Such parasites would have been purged within days in the cult. Back then, he had dismissed the rumors with a sneer, scoffing at such pathetic weaklings—and yet here he was, occupying the body of one.
Hm?
As he guided the flow through his meridians, Namgung Yun suddenly detected an alien trace intertwined with his qi.
Poison?
Immediately, he shifted his focus inward, examining his internal landscape with meticulous scrutiny.
So the original Namgung Yun perished from this venom, leaving an empty shell for my soul to claim.
As the body's new master, he could hardly leave a lethal toxin slumbering within his meridians. He initiated a thorough, methodical dissection of the foreign energy. Despite his reputation for overwhelming martial might, his knowledge of poisons and venoms was extraordinarily profound.
It shows no sign of activating immediately.
Extending a slender thread of qi, he gently prodded the foreign substance. Though the energy was not his original cultivation, controlling it with surgical precision was child's play for a grandmaster of his caliber. The poison remained inert, offering no reaction.
A conditional toxin, dormant until a specific catalyst triggers it.
He tested several different approaches before subtly directing his qi to circulate through his primary meridians. The moment the current began to flow, the dormant venom stirred, stealthily disguising itself as harmless qi and trailing along with the stream. When he reeled his inner energy back, the poison seamlessly merged back into the reservoir, hiding its presence once more.
An extraordinarily insidious and elusive toxin. Yet in his centuries of martial lore, Namgung Yun had encountered this exact signature once before.
The Seven-Fold Traceless Poison?