Return to Jangan
Jang Cheon hadn't laid eyes on Jangan's grand walls in ages—not counting the time he'd spent locked away in the Cheon Family Manor's secret blood chamber. He'd left the city vowing revenge, returned to burn down the Seomun Family manor, only to be chased out again by a Qingcheng elder. And he'd never been able to come back.
"That black sword of yours brings only calamity. Have you reached the Transformation Realm without grasping its principles?"
The Drunken Swordsman, they'd said, was a good man. Qingcheng was a Daoist sect, one that cultivated both mind and sword. Every time he descended from his mountain home, he performed acts of kindness. He helped those in need and personally subdued demonic cultivators who rampaged on brute martial strength alone.
"The laws beneath heaven are solemn and absolute. I shall end your demonic nature with my sword."
"How laughable. Are you trying to decide life and death with your tongue instead of your blade?"
His swordsmanship flowed like drifting clouds, majestic as a sunset. It was the first Transformation Realm expert Jang Cheon had ever faced. He couldn't even clearly remember how he'd won. He only knew that he was the one left standing at the end.
The death of a revered figure stirred many consequences.
"Sohyang-ah."
"Yes?"
The girl walking toward the distant walls turned back to him. He wasn't sure if "girl" still fit anymore. Calling such a tall woman a girl might even be rude. Yet her face and expressions still held a youthful innocence.
Jang Cheon murmured offhandedly, "Have you never found the things I teach you strange?"
"Nope!"
Qingcheng had declared Jang Cheon their lifelong enemy. They swore not to relent in their pursuit until their mountain gates crumbled. So he'd cut them down. The Drunken Swordsman, his disciples who followed, his master, the elders dispatched by that master in turn—until he grew sick of killing and wandered aimlessly through Shaanxi and Hubei, fleeing until escape was all he knew.
"Because I want to be a good adult like you, ajusshi."
Cheon Sohyang spun around with a grin, beaming. What made her so happy?
"I see."
Jang Cheon opened his mouth, then closed it. He still lacked the confidence to speak. Maybe he didn't want to admit it deep down, or perhaps he simply couldn't say such things to her. That he'd never truly practiced the teachings he gave her with any sincerity.
"Um, but once we get into Jangan, where should we go first? I didn't get to sightsee much last time! You must have favorite spots—famous landmarks or inns?"
"Hm."
Jang Cheon looked a bit troubled. He had no choice.
"Let's take it slow and see what's left. At least some of it should still be standing."
Not many shops could stay in business for three hundred years. But surely one inn for tonight remained.
*
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Jangan.
There stood a shabby inn that didn't draw much attention. Small but storied, its history stretched back over three hundred years. Even as clans declined and customers dwindled, the stubborn family kept it going—until today, when its legacy met its end.
"......"
The innkeeper lay collapsed on the cold floor. In his final resentment, he hadn't even closed his eyes. Late spring afternoon light filtered faintly through the window. A fishy metallic scent of fresh blood rose from the spotless floorboards.
A young man gazed silently down at the corpse.
"Five. That's the last."
"You've... accomplished it splendidly."
Clang. The youth tossed his sword carelessly to the floor. The clear ring of metal echoed oddly, and the monk standing nearby swiftly picked it up.
It was a bizarre blade. Half its edge was snapped off, and the material gleamed black and unnatural.
"I've carried out our agreement. Wasn't exactly to my taste."
"No doubt... five targets, at the specified locations... by the specified methods. The Life and Death Emperor truly understands the gravity of action..."
The monk's parched voice echoed. The youth regarded him impassively. He considered drawing a bone fragment from his pocket but hesitated. Killing the man here would be pointless murder—the kind of thing scum like the Namgung Family indulged in. The very thing he despised most.
"This should satisfy even your precious sword, right?"
"Of course... please wait a moment."
The monk produced his prepared ritual tools: a primitive stone knife, a mirror, a bell. And several chunks of crimson wood from who-knows-where. Right before the youth's eyes, the monk began his grotesque rite.
He placed the small mirror on the floor and slashed at his own body with the stone knife.
"......!"
The monk trembled, eyes shut. Was it pain or ecstasy? The youth found the sight repulsive. Regrettably, he'd soon have to perform something similar himself. He needed power today.
"......Hng! Hngh!"
The stone knife's cuts delved deeper. Not mere ritual scratches on the skin, but savage gashes threatening veins, muscles, even meridians.
The monk shuddered in agony yet pressed on. Blood spurted. Crimson ichor overlaid the victim's blood. Blood upon blood.
Faint sunlight from the slightly open window illuminated the bizarre ceremony.
"Hngaaaaah!"
And when the monk finally drew Heuk-yo, the youth's pupils flickered. The world turned pitch black for an instant. The moment blood touched the sword, the sunlight vanished. As if something had descended into the room, however briefly.
Then the monk gazed at Heuk-yo with resolute eyes.
"Hraaaaaagh!"
And without hesitation, plunged it into his own heart.
The youth flinched but held still. According to the monk, this was the sword's function.
The monk's eyes rolled back in torment. He collapsed, writhing uncontrollably. The youth could only guess at what transpired. Even with martial arts at the Transformation Realm bolstered by outer god power, it was invisible. He only knew that bundles of something called Heuk-yo now extended through the monk's meridians.
"......."
How much time passed? At last, the monk opened his eyes. Faint sunlight seeped back into the inn. But things had changed. The blood was gone. Not a drop remained—not the monk's, spilled enough to kill from blood loss, nor the innkeeper's, who died with eyes wide in outrage.
The innkeeper's corpse had become like ancient weathered wood.
The monk rose slowly.
"It's... done."
With a stagger, he yanked the sword from his heart. His expression unchanged. No death followed.
He handed the sword casually to the youth.
"The ritual... is complete. Heuk-yo is... exceedingly pleased. Such satisfaction is rare..."
"Whatever. As long as the sword's happy. Outer gods are supposed to be finicky, aren't they?"
"To speak so rudely without punishment... the depth of favor is clear. I'm almost jealous..."
The youth took the sword. It was all the same to him. He had only one concern.
"To approach the Cannibal Young Master's martial prowess, best not delay. How do I meet this outer god?"
"Right outside... she's waiting."
The monk smiled, pointing to the door. A barren clearing stretched beyond, hazy skies visible in the Jangan afternoon. There, somehow, a woman had appeared. She sat idly on a rock, as if awaiting someone.
The youth strode boldly toward her.
"Are you Heuk-yo?"
"......"
"Are you Heuk-yo? I'm your new master. That monk temporarily transferred you to me. Word is, you wanted it that way."
The woman didn't reply. She smiled instead.
For some reason, the youth thought her smile resembled the monk's. No—the monk's smile imitated hers. A flawed, inadequate copy, yet one that shook the beholder's heart: soft, serene.
The youth froze.
Only then did Heuk-yo speak.
"You resemble him."
"......What do you mean?"
"You'll make a fine plaything to show Jang Cheon."
The youth furrowed his brow. He had no time for wordplay. Moreover, Heuk-yo's voice rang unnaturally beautiful, hard to resist.
"Anyway, I'm your master. As the monk said, grant me your power."
"......"
Heuk-yo didn't answer. She merely tilted her head.
The youth pressed her with a steely gaze. He feared no contracted outer god. He knew they couldn't escape the rules of contract. Especially not this Heuk-yo, with her epithet: the Heaven's Eternal Prisoner.
"I demand your power."
"Don't you already have it?"
"What do you mean?"
Heuk-yo stared silently at the youth. Then she said,
"Stab your heart."
The youth—the Life and Death Emperor—froze. Heuk-yo, the black half-sword, gleamed in his hand. Trembling eyes fixed on it.
Then Heuk-yo's whisper came.
"Pierce your heart and liver, then ram the sword into your skull with all your might. Prove your faith. Confirm for yourself that you possess me."
A lover's tickle in his ear, a voice sweet as enchantment. If mind-dominating sorcery existed, it would sound like this.
The youth grew dazed. He slowly raised his hand. Instinctual fear surged, but he rejected it. He had a greater priority.
Revenge for his family, unjustly slaughtered.
Squelch!
The black blade plunged into his heart.
"......"
"......!"
Even the monk watched in silent awe.
Amazement filled the youth as he drew the sword out. He was undoubtedly alive. Breathing. Despite the blade through his heart.
"This is... the power of immortality......"
How could his voice not shake? He realized it now. With this, he could do it. This power would surely make it possible.
"I... can have my revenge. I can kill him."
The loathsome Namgung Family heir. The monster who called himself a hero—he'd sworn to end him with his own hands.
Fingering his bone fragment, the youth pondered his next destination. The next question for Namgung Dan surely lay in Simha, that small village.