Prologue
Coming up with an opening line has always been the hardest part of writing. Once I nail that first sentence, the rest flows like water from the brush—but even that's a luxury I don't always get. I've crumpled and tossed dozens of ruined sheets. It was frustrating enough not finding a line I liked; the stares drilling into the tip of my brush made it unbearable. I'd wasted a full half-hour just agonizing over it.
"...How long do you plan on watching?"
In the end, I hadn't written a single character. I set down my brush. These weren't people I could handle.
Who would've thought the renowned elders of the murim would show up at my little bookstore? It was infuriating.
"Amitabha. Don't mind us, patron."
"Muryangsubu. You're far too sensitive, Dao-friend."
A refined old Taoist with an otherworldly air that screamed immortal wind and Daoist bone, and a high monk with a prominent Buddhist mark on his forehead. No one in the jianghu wouldn't know them: clearly heavyweights from Wudang and Shaolin. To me right now, though, they were just obstacles keeping me from writing.
My head throbbed. My words came out sharper than intended.
"Am I the sensitive one?"
I'm just an ordinary bookstore owner with not a scrap of neigong to my name. If there's anything special about me, it's that I'm not originally from this world—but even that doesn't make me anything more than a bottom-feeder in the jianghu, incomparable to the giants before me. All I want is a quiet life far from the murim, yet here come Wudang and Shaolin masters crashing my peace. So much for ordinary.
"Heh heh..."
"Ahem, ahem."
"If you keep staring like that, it'll only delay the writing even more."
The monk and Taoist's eyebrows twitched at my words.
"Ahem! Well, we can't have that. Indeed. If we've made you uncomfortable, we'll take our leave."
"Amitabha. Dao-friend Mujin, shall we go?"
The moment the Taoist called Mujin and the monk stepped out, I slammed the door shut.
All I want is to write in peace, sell books, and live quietly. Why do these murim folk keep swarming me?
"...This is maddening."
Writing a novel with Wudang and Shaolin as the backdrop had drawn these jianghu intruders straight to my door. Dealing with them was no small burden—enough to make me question writing the next one altogether.
I gathered my thoughts and sat back down at the desk. No matter what anyone says, I love writing. Especially wuxia tales like the ones I devoured back home. If that impulsive novel of mine hadn't caught the murim's eye, it'd have been perfect.
"Haa."
With them gone, I finally felt at ease. They seemed to think I was some hidden murim recluse, but as I said, martial arts are beyond me. More than distant—they have nothing to do with me. I'm no jianghu man. Certainly not some hermit master.
"...Still no title, huh."
Beyond Wudang and Shaolin, the protagonist of my third work hails from distant Tianshan. If any descendants of Tianshan read this and come looking... I scrawled across the blank cover of the untouched book.
Tianshan Martial Emperor.
"That'll do as a solid title."
I dipped my brush heavy with ink and began the opening of the first page.
My name is Baek Su-gyeong. A modern man who fell into the Central Plains.