The Heavenly Demon Copies Martial Arts - Episode 125
There were times in this world when a person still hoped, even knowing full well how futile hope could be.
I may not know myself as well as I should, but I had long decided I was the sort who leaned on realism rather than fantasy.
Even so, it would be a lie to say I had not felt a flicker of hope the moment I heard that word—if only for an instant.
To me, that word carried a weight like no other.
It was a word every person in this world heard at least once in their life—and one I had never once heard from the man who was supposed to be my father.
"Aigoo, this old man. He was fine a moment ago and now he's off again. Sorry about that, young fellow."
Before me stood a middle-aged woman clicking her tongue as she wiped a wine bottle with a dry rag. Beside her sat an old man shelling peanuts, grinning from ear to ear.
"Son, eat this."
The old man shelled a peanut and set it in front of me.
"...How long has he been like this?"
"It's been about a year now since the dementia set in and his mind started wandering."
The proprietress of the inn said, clicking her tongue.
"That old fellow lost his only son in last year's floods.... Ever since, any young man with a good build, he calls him his son. He's getting on in years, so I suppose that's why."
Dementia, no doubt.
She trailed off with a bitter look. The old man, as if he had no idea they were talking about him, just kept grinning and shelling peanuts.
Clack.
The innkeeper swept the pile of peanuts aside and set a wine cup in front of me.
"Our village is so out of the way we don't get many young people. You know how it is—kids chase even the thinnest thread of ambition and head for the capital. And a fine-looking man like you is a rare sight in a backwater like this."
"Ah, I don't drink."
I pushed the cup aside with my index finger.
In its place I pulled the peanuts the old man had shelled back toward me. The innkeeper's eyes went wide.
"A young man who doesn't drink? My, my, you're a rare one. My second boy left for Shaanxi to make his fortune, but he used to say a real hero needed a strong stomach for liquor and drank like a fish."
"I'm sure the day will come when I drink, too."
I said after a beat.
"Someday."
"That's right. Take your time learning to drink. No good comes of rushing into something that does nothing but harm. Well then, what should I get you? It's not every day we get an outsider in our village."
The village as a whole was bright and cheerful. What struck me most was the way the villagers greeted one another even when they didn't know each other.
"Good morning."
"Looks like the weather's finally turning."
Behind me, peaceful voices of residents chatting about the same ordinary days as yesterday drifted past.
"You're headed for the capital too, aren't you? Looking for work. Times are so hard these days, all the young folk seem to be heading for the cities."
I nodded.
"Yes. I'm looking for work as well."
"Well, you look steady and solid—the kind of face a superior would trust."
The innkeeper's words faded away at the edge of my hearing.
"There's a young fellow named Gamryeong from the next village over—not long ago he got himself selected as a soldier for the Jegal Clan in Shaanxi, you know the one? Apparently he was friends with their escort captain. He came back loaded with gifts just the other day...."
This world...
...felt like a different world entirely from the one I had been thrashing through.
So this is how other people live...
It was a world utterly unlike the one filled with the clash of blades and screams.
Noon came. Through the open window of the inn, a warm midday wind, heavy with the scent of spring, drifted in.
A man who looked about my age caught my eye. His hands bore the calluses of farm work. A woman walked beside him, their hands joined. They were laughing, clearly sharing some happy conversation.
In the street a fist-sized puppy yapped as it chased a ball. On the still-half-frozen ice by the roadside, a village child spun a wooden top, striking it again and again with a whip. Around him, children with cotton-stuffed scarves wound thick around their necks watched as if spellbound, sniffling clear runny noses.
I picked up a peanut. I spun it. It toppled over before it could complete more than a few turns. The peanut did not rise again.
I tried to pick it up and spin it once more.
Crunch.
The fragile peanut shattered between my roughly trained fingertips. I stared blankly at my fingertips. I ran a thumb over a hand that had had its nails torn out more than ten times in training.
I felt a cold winter wind push in along the window. I poured hot tea from the pot into a cup. I cupped both hands around it and held still. White steam bloomed over my face, bringing a damp warmth all at once.
I looked at the old man beside me. Judging by his frame, he must have been a large man in his youth. Now he had shrunk completely; all that remained was an endlessly small back. Beneath worn, frayed clothes, a scrawny wrist showed. That hand was a testament to a hard life, covered in rough calluses and scars. His sagging brow was mapped with wrinkles, and his sparse white hair was tangled.
"Don't you like the peanuts? I picked out the good ones for you...."
The old man looked at the crushed peanut in front of me with a worried expression.
"...Peanuts."
The innkeeper was dozing under the warm sunlight, chin propped on her hand. She was not the sort of innkeeper who cleaned with any particular zeal. The table was dirty, dust lying thick and white.
I swept the peanut dust into my palm along with the grit.
"I like them."
I put them in my mouth and chewed. I tasted dirt and grit; sand crunched between my teeth. I swallowed.
"...I really do like them."
"Mm. That's my boy. Ever since you were five you've loved peanuts that much. And look at you—big like your old man."
The old man said with a broad smile.
"Is the gatekeeping work in the capital going well? I told the Cheok family to look after my boy, you know."
"Yes. Of course."
"Even if work keeps you busy, stop by now and then."
It was a smile free of any care or worry. I wet my dry lips. There was only one thing I could say.
"...Yes."
"Come with me a moment. I've been making this and that. I'll show you."
The old man took hold of my wrist and pulled. I stood up.
The old man lived in a hut he had built on a wooded hill near the village.
"I've got this here.... And I made this, too. Candles. Lucky for me, the butcher down there finally came through with the pig fat I'd asked him for."
The old man laid out everything he had made, proudly showing each one. I handled the crude objects carefully, so as not to break them, examining each one.
The hut had not been repaired in a long time. It was falling apart. In one corner sat a half-broken wooden doll. Noticing my gaze, the old man beamed.
"Ah, right. That one—I made it for you when you were seven and said you wanted a doll. So you remember."
Beside it was a crooked picture drawn in charcoal.
"That's from when you scribbled on the wall without asking and got a spanking for it. Remember? At first I thought about wiping it off, but the more I looked at it, the more charm it had. It really suits the feel of our house."
"In a house this old..."
I hesitated, then spoke.
"Wouldn't it be better to go down to the village and live where people can help you? I... I'm in the capital, so I can't come often...."
"Leave? And go where?"
the old man asked.
I said,
"I mean, if circumstances allow, down to the village below.... The innkeeper is kind."
I looked at him. The old man pointed to one place after another as he spoke.
"That table right there is the one where I first met and greeted the woman who became your mother, back when I was still a bachelor. And sitting in this chair, we stayed up all night talking about whether you'd be a boy or a girl when we learned she was carrying you."
"And what about the picture you drew at seven? Those marks on the pillar—I made one every time you grew taller. You barely got enough to eat and still shot up like a weed."
I could say nothing.
"Every memory is held in this place. This is my life. And more than anything—"
The old man smiled.
"—isn't it good to have an old home that can still welcome you whenever you come by?"
I opened my mouth. Then closed it again.
The old man said,
"Heh heh, look at me. My boy finally visits and all I've done is talk instead of feeding him."
He straightened his bent back and lit a fire in the cold, dead hearth.
"Let's see. Still won't match what my late wife could do, but...."
The old man took something from the cupboard and held it out to me.
"You've been eating fancy food in the capital, so it might not sit right. But you still like potatoes, don't you?"
In his withered hands were three shriveled potatoes.
What Mother and I had eaten from the dry winter earth had always been potatoes and sweet potatoes.
"Ha. Haha...."
I didn't know why I was crying.
"Ugh... uhh... uh...."
I crushed my twisting lips with every bit of strength I had to keep from making a sound. With everything I had, I forced the sobs down and smiled.
"Yes. I really like those."
"Honestly, you. All right, son. Just trust your old man."
"No. I'll cook. Sit and rest. I... well."
I pushed back the chair and stood.
"I learned a new recipe in the capital. A young lady from the Namgung Family happened to visit once, you see."
"The Namgung Family? One of the Five Great Families of the martial world?"
The old man's voice was weak, but he opened his drooping eyes as wide as they would go in astonishment.
"Yes. I got friendly with that young lady and we cooked together...."
"That's my boy. Imagine—talking with a scion of one of the Five Great Families. I'm so proud."
The old man clapped his hands, genuinely delighted.
"On such a happy day... and all we have are potatoes. What a shame."
"It's fine. Later I'll feed you potatoes till you burst. They're really good with meat on top."
Embers caught and rose in the hearth. The old man blinked his sunken eyes, clouded by dementia.
"Really...? I can hardly picture it."
"I'll make sure you eat till you burst. I promise."
I began to cook with clumsy hands. The sound of potatoes being sliced carried on as the night grew deep.
To one side, where I had set them aside to cook, lay my martial robes together with the Chiljong-heukjusa-gap and the white arm guards Eun Seollyeong had given me.
Every stitch of thread was exactly as it had been when Eun Seollyeong first gave them to me—unchanged.
Thud.
The woodcutter from Wareung County dropped to the ground.
"W-what is this...."
Unlike usual, he had come a long way to cut wood. Near the village, trees good enough for firewood had long since been stripped bare, so for better timber he had to venture farther and farther out. That was how he had ended up at the mouth of the gorge a full day's walk from the village—a place ordinary people rarely had reason to reach.
He had deliberately left the path and pushed deep into a secluded gorge few ever entered. Near-vertical cliffs, sheer as if they had been cut with a blade, blocked the way; ordinary folk had no reason to come here at all. It was a felling site the woodcutter had kept secret and used often.
Bzzzzz.
A fly that had no business existing at winter's end buzzed past.
Across the cliff face ran a straight track, as if something enormous had dragged and crushed its body along as it went. A deep groove cut in a single straight line. Beside it, maggots writhed in a clump, dying.
As if a massive bulk had crawled on all fours with grim determination, hand- and foot-prints marked the ground at regular intervals.
The trail led in a straight line toward Wareung-chon.