Interlude 1: A Place Called Home
It was dawn.
Jang Cheon staggered absently as he walked. A light dizziness.
"Hm."
Turning back, he saw the manor ablaze in the distance. Retainers of the Sima family had fled from their sleep, scattering in all directions. Most were busy dousing the main house with water, while a few collapsed on the streets, wailing in grief. They must have sensed it instinctively. A Transformation Realm expert couldn't possibly still be asleep, nor trapped in the flames.
Jang Cheon glanced at his ankle. Through the rags that were once his martial robes, blackened dead blood oozed out.
The Sima family head had been fairly strong. For someone ambushed in his sleep, he'd held out a long time. In his final moment, eyes rolled back, he'd hurled a dagger.
You bastard! Die! I'll drag you with me!
The dagger, coated in deadly poison, had curved in a bizarre arc toward Jang Cheon's foot. Even after drawing his blade, the venom lingered stubbornly.
What a strange poison.
Jang Cheon endured the pain impassively. The ground where the black blood dripped turned dark and sizzled, corroding away. Sizzle. Nearly half a shichen had passed, yet the wound still hissed viciously. It felt like it was both burning the flesh and devouring it.
A poison rivaling Heuk-yo's regenerative power. Did the Dang family's Poison Scripture have something like this? Or was this, too—
The meddling of those outer gods?
Jang Cheon frowned. The fire at the main house wouldn't go out easily. It was the Samadhi Truefire he'd ignited—nothing like ordinary flames. It had likely achieved its purpose. Every record tying to the Demon Extermination Group's deeds had been piled up and burned. Now, Cheon Sohyang was merely a survivor of the Demon Extermination Blood Tribulation.
I should go home.
He muttered as he rose. A long day had passed, and he was tired. Then, suddenly, it hit him.
He had just called Cheon Sohyang's home home.
"......"
Jang Cheon froze. He thought it over again. Retraced his words. No mistake. He had said he needed to go home—toward Cheon Sohyang's dwelling.
He stood there motionless for a long while. Staring at the hazy dawn with sunken eyes, then cupping his face in his hands, slowly, very slowly.
Family head! Family head, escape! At least you must survive!
Don't waste our lives in vain! Family head!
He drew the half-sword from his waist. Having drunk another's blood all night, it was badly chipped. The serrated edge gleamed ominously in the dawn light.
Jang Cheon gazed at the blade, then thrust it deep into his own chest. No expression crossed his face. No sign of pain.
He was the creator of the Immortal Heavenly Spirit Art, intimately familiar with the body's structure. He knew better than anyone the most agonizing spots.
"......!"
Nerves twisted. Tiny threads regenerated, were severed, regenerated again, tormenting him endlessly. The pain was almost welcome. It let him focus on his body's agony.
".......Urgh!"
He yanked the sword from his spine and collapsed to his knees. Slumping by the roadside, he stabbed himself again. But sadly, this time the sword couldn't hold. The Azure Frost Sword, which had endured fierce battle, snapped with a crack inside his flesh.
Jang Cheon tossed the useless blade into the brush.
If only it had been Heuk-yo. She surely would have hurt him even now.
He couldn't rise. Two sets of memories assailed him.
Grandpa, come back safe. Oh! The kid's saying hello? Full of energy, too.
Don't worry too much, ajussi. I'll come back.
Old memories and new ones mingled, echoing ceaselessly in his ears, rebuking him.
Jang Cheon forced out the words with effort.
"Enough."
On his knees, he plunged his hand into his flesh. The broken blade was deep; it had to come out. Trembling, he rummaged through his nerves. Sharp sensations throbbed. But such pain couldn't ease this torment.
".......Please, enough."
His mind knew. He understood all too well. Too much time had passed. Cheon Sohyang couldn't have been involved. Neither her father nor grandfather had gained a single coin from his family's massacre. Three hundred years had flowed by like three hundred thousand. Nothing remained. Buried only in Jang Cheon's heart.
Yet.
"What must I do......"
Should he kill the child? He could do it now. No sword needed. Why use even a half-blade to kill a Super First Rate? Before the morning sun rose, slip into her room quietly, press her death point. No pain. She'd go peacefully, as if asleep.
Since we care, make it painless. All at once. Got it?
Just as that child had asked.
But.
Could he resolve to do it? Go to the Cheon family manor this way, kill his disciple—who knew nothing, slept soundly—with his master's own hand? The child he'd reunited with after years, who had tugged his chains to set him free—could he slaughter her himself?
"......I cannot."
Jang Cheon completed the sentence very slowly. The truth was so plain, so agonizing, so hateful. And yet nothing changed. He sat slumped there long after sunrise before he could finally move.
*
When he returned to the dwelling, Cheon Sohyang was in a rather peculiar spot. Asleep at the door. Leaning quietly against a pillar.
"I'm back."
Even his words didn't wake her. He should at least let her know. Examining her sleeping face, Jang Cheon pondered, then found a solution. He quietly flicked a finger, sending a puff of wind.
The gentle breeze brushed her hair, and the girl jolted awake in a fluster.
"Eek! Ah! Ajussi!"
"What if I were an assassin? Waking so carelessly."
"Y-Yeah, you're right."
"......"
In truth, his puff of wind held no killing intent. Cheon Sohyang had the skill to shake off the Sima family's pursuit even during her long flight. Had it been a real ambush, she wouldn't have shown such vulnerability.
"Had breakfast?"
"No incidents. I'm tired and want to rest."
Jang Cheon passed her. He feigned exhaustion, hoping she'd leave him be. But her clear voice rang out as expected.
"You're not hurt, right?"
A voice asking out of pure worry, knowing nothing.
So Jang Cheon couldn't ignore her and enter.
"Me?"
"Yeah... You were gone a few days."
He thought back. Fighting Myeong Yeon, his arm had been deeply gashed. He'd taken a palm strike to a vital point; his head nearly severed. Then straight to the Sima manor. Two Transformation Realm foes in succession, stabbed in the leg by a final desperate attack.
Jang Cheon fell silent, then answered shortly, concisely.
"Thy master is Jang Cheon of the Black Arrow Eight Methods. No one in the world can threaten me."
She seemed satisfied. Feeling a swell in his chest, he moved to enter his room for real, but Cheon Sohyang asked timidly.
"Your martial robes are torn..."
"Bah! So they are. But I wasn't hurt at all! Just snagged on a branch on the way."
"Okay."
Now he really needed sleep. To eat dinner after waking at evening, he had to rest now. Jang Cheon fled into his room and closed his eyes.
*
Even with the Sima manor burning, the city went on. Black-and-White Sword Ghost posters everywhere, the Murim Alliance branding him a demonic cultist—yet he was just a masked man whose martial arts no one could guess.
So the Black-and-White Sword Ghost walked Seongdo's streets openly.
"What is this?"
"Tanghulu. Want to try?"
The vendor's treat wafted a sweet scent. Jang Cheon eyed it curiously.
In his era, sugar was rare. Candied fruit was for palaces only. Now even clan children ate it?
"......Hm."
"Tasty, right?"
One bite, and yes. But Jang Cheon didn't want to show it, keeping his face impassive.
"Too sweet for my taste. Eating much would harm one's martial arts."
"Hope you eat lots. When I was little, trying this was my dream."
"Hm."
So it was. Recalling her childhood, he remembered it too. They surely couldn't afford much of this. She'd eaten the same prison slop as him underground.
But.
"Let's go there."
Jang Cheon pointed to a clothing shop in Seongdo. Wandering lately, he'd learned it was upscale, patronized by prestigious families.
"Huh? But we can't afford that."
"A family head must know how to flaunt prestige. Have I not said I'd teach thee?"
Clans needed people. People weren't moved by reason or morals alone. Good clothes and goods sharpened the eye, preventing disdain and earning due respect. The world's laws had their vulgar sides.
"How can a disciple refuse her master's lesson? Come."
He didn't know a fallen clan's daughter's heart. Nor how to convey such feelings well. But the gold pouch from Geumjeoksan overflowed.
Sometimes, that alone sufficed.