The Second Year of a Murim Life
Cheong had grown up in the modern world before becoming a wanderer in Murim. In other words, she was someone uniquely positioned to compare two entirely different civilizations. Life as a single, blue-collar worker back home meant dealing with constant bullshit from both the job and people, forcing yourself to stay awake when all you wanted was sleep, and slowly grinding your health into dust yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Still, it wasn’t unlivable. When you lived alone, you could more or less eat what you wanted and get by. Most importantly, there was no constant threat to your life.
But this cold, primitive, ancient version of China known as Murim was different. Without strength or money, you simply died. And so it had been for the past year. Cheong’s life had been nothing less than a majestic, continuous struggle just to stay alive.
At the very least, Koreans didn’t draw their blades just because they made eye contact. In Murim, however, bumping shoulders meant one of you had to die. For reference, a duel that only ended when one party was dead was called a life-or-death battle here.
Surviving in this barbaric world with the soft mindset of a modern person was almost impossible. And yet Cheong was still breathing.
Of course, several reasons explained this miracle. First, her body was ridiculously strong. When creating her character back in the modern world, she had dumped all her points into strength and stamina to survive the brutal early game, following a strategy guide to the letter. Because she had possessed that exact character, her strength surpassed most grown men and her steel-like constitution never tired.
And above all else, her constitution choice had been effective. Cheong’s special physique, the Corpse-Blood Poison Person, nullified every form of poisoning or harmful status effect. Even food poisoning counted, so she could eat literally anything without consequence. Truly anything at all.
That was how Cheong had survived her first year—by competing with beggars over rotten food discarded by third-rate thugs from evil sects, since she couldn’t even make eye contact with them. By stealing and eating potatoes or radishes only to get beaten half to death by angry farmers. That was how she had endured twelve long months.
Now it was her second year in the Central Plains. To Cheong, it felt like a rather special milestone. After two years, couldn’t she call herself a proper martial artist? She could finally walk around with her shoulders back and proudly say she had wandered the Murim. From now on, she would try to live like a real warrior. Like a real human being.
Just earlier, she had delivered the head of a wanted criminal to the authorities and collected the bounty. She still clearly remembered how she had cried and vomited after stabbing her first person during her first year. Now she could casually slice off arms and necks without hesitation. At this rate, she was practically a fine Murim thug. Damn right.
Cheong’s magnificent chest swelled with magnificent pride. It was the self-satisfaction of a rookie who had barely survived a little over a year in the Central Plains. Though even without Cheong, most people tended to overflow with confidence around the one-year mark after leaving their sects.
Of course, Cheong herself wasn’t entirely sure whether she had truly entered her second year. She hadn’t been carving the character for “correct” into a wall like a castaway on a deserted island or a kidnapping victim, counting the days. She had simply fallen here during warm spring, survived the winter, and now the weather was finally warming again. So it was probably around the one-year anniversary.
The humiliating days flashed through her mind. The moment she had opened her eyes, completely naked, thrown into an unfamiliar world. There had been almost nothing Cheong could do. Could she dig up money from the ground? Or, like in a game, break into random houses, smash jars and open boxes right in front of the owners, proudly committing theft?
Of course it was possible if the house was empty, and there were professionals who specialized in exactly that. But burglarizing occupied homes required surprisingly advanced skills. If she had known this would happen, she would have become a burglar instead of a factory worker.
Fortunately, some game-like elements existed. Killing people dropped money. The people of the Central Plains carried pouches called jeon-nang to hold their coins. When the owner disappeared, whoever picked it up became the new owner. So if you killed someone, you could legitimately inherit their pouch.
Even so, Cheong had always been poor. Because she wasn’t a robber-murderer who killed for valuables. She only killed truly bad people. If she cut off their heads and lugged them to the authorities, there was a small chance she would receive a bounty. However, the amount was never much.
Once you left the house, everything—eating, sleeping—cost money. Exaggerating only slightly, even breathing cost money. Naturally, her attitude toward life could only be pathetic.
But today, just for today, she would escape that pathetic state. It was a day she could celebrate with pride. It was her one-year anniversary, after all!
“Hey, waiter.”
At Cheong’s call, the waiter scurried over. A beauty mark the size of a housefly sat beside his nose. One could tell this wasn’t an ordinary inn. A large, clear beauty mark on a waiter’s face was considered auspicious. The bigger and clearer it was, the higher his wages soared. You could judge an inn’s class by its waiter’s mark.
“What’s good here?”
“There isn’t a single dish we can’t make, but today I recommend our steamed chicken with king mushrooms, finished by drizzling dark soy sauce and oil before frying. The chickens came in fresh from today’s cockfight pit, so the flavor is truly exceptional.”
The waiter recommended the dish with practiced ease. Having started at fourteen and now approaching his thirtieth year of service, the veteran waiter could assess customers at a glance. The traveler wore a worn-out sturdy outfit marked with traces of combat—clearly a poor female swordswoman of the Murim. Dark circles and heavy blemishes shadowed her eyes, yet she didn’t look tired. Therefore she must be a customer who had experienced something good enough to forget her fatigue and wanted to celebrate. Given her poor attire, something plentiful and greasy would be better than a small portion.
The bit about the cockfight pit was complete nonsense. In truth, the waiter knew nothing about it. But it was just chicken, not even duck. A little lip service like this would improve the customer’s mood. The fledgling who had barely survived two years in Murim could not possibly discern the waiter’s true inner thoughts. She was simply delighted.
Chicken! Fried chicken! The soul food of Koreans!
“Would you like alcohol as well?”
“Yes! One bottle of strong liquor!”
“Then how about Bi Hong Ju? It’s a new spirit from the brewery behind us. Though the brewery is only one generation old, its reputation for exceptional purity is no ordinary thing. Even the elders of the Beggars’ Sect sing its praises.”
A brewery that was only one generation old could not possibly produce good liquor, even as empty flattery. Moreover, the part about the Beggars’ Sect elders was pure fraud. As if beggars who drank anything could possibly appreciate fine taste. In the end, it was all just verbal packaging. But that packaging put customers in a good mood. Waiters were highly skilled professionals and true artists of hospitality.
“One Ja-eo-hyang Sweet-and-Sour Chicken and one Bi Hong Ju!”
The waiter shouted the order as he moved away. Shouting orders wasn’t to inform the kitchen. Nor was it to double-check the customer’s request. It was to announce to the entire inn what this person had ordered. The more expensive the order, the louder the voice. Occasionally, when a truly big spender arrived, the waiter would even step out to the main street and yell.
However, Cheong’s order wasn’t at the level that required shouting. The waiter had simply seen straight through her heart. The expectations of a poor customer were obvious. Oblivious to that consideration, Cheong was all smiles.
The other guests who saw her in the inn also burst into quiet laughter. They immediately understood the situation. Only Cheong herself remained unaware.
Cheong. A whole two years in the Murim now.
A hero doesn’t bother with something like studying.
Yet the age of ignorant sword-swinging passed, and the age of scholarly martial arts arrived. Martial arts, too, had become one branch of study.
The higher the realm of martial arts, the more its principles touched upon the truths of the world.
Without pondering the Dao and its philosophies, one could never become a supreme expert.
However, the greatest expert of the previous generation—the previous Heavenly Supreme—greatly loved this song. His title was Mucheon-daeje. It was a terrifying name. No matter how strong the greatest under heaven might be, how could one dare use an imperial title? It was practically a challenge to the august Emperor himself.
And so they actually fought. The august Emperor never avoided a challenge. The moment the words “treason” left his lips, the armies of the world would come rushing. The result? Mucheon-daeje remained Mucheon-daeje. Had he lost, his title would have become something like “Insignificant Rebel Against Heaven” or “Traitor Who Defied Heaven.”
It was a famous tale how Mucheon-daeje had crushed thirty thousand imperial guards, grabbed the Emperor by the collar, climbed to the highest point of the imperial palace, and sung a rewritten version of his favorite song.
A hero doesn’t bother reading the room.
When the world lies beneath my feet, what does it matter?
Though my status may be humble, who would dare block my path?
In this way, Mucheon-daeje succeeded in redefining the relationship between the government and Murim, creating a new law of mutual non-interference: the authorities and the martial world would pretend not to see each other. Thus Mucheon-daeje ascended as the godfather of all martial artists. Later, he even turned the legend of ascending to immortality into reality, remaining an undying idol. The musical achievement of writing the song most loved by martial artists was merely a bonus.
A true man of his era! However, there had been side effects. People began interpreting the lyrics “A hero doesn’t read the room” in reverse. If a hero doesn’t read the room, didn’t that mean non-heroes had to? Then anyone who read the room wasn’t a hero, right? It was enough to make Mucheon-daeje, now ascended to the heavens, beat his chest in lamentation.
And here, in the present.
Cheongha Jilpung Hyeop Jogak-san was a man who considered himself a hero. He was currently eating with his sworn brothers. The four of them together were known as the Cheongha Four Heroes, and they took pride in having made something of a name for themselves.
Then he suddenly spotted a familiar face. It was Jeungyeo Chugwi An Seong-il. Despite the title “Ugly Demon of Jeungyeo,” his appearance was surprisingly decent. The nickname had been given not for his looks, but because his behavior was exceptionally vile and filthy.
His main business was human trafficking. On top of that, he committed every evil act imaginable—theft, robbery, murder, rape, arson, fraud. He was a son of a bitch through and through. A hero cuts down evil without hesitation. Of course, only if the evil is weaker than him!
An Seong-il’s realm was known to be early Peak. Jogak-san himself was merely at late First-class. But this was exactly what sworn brothers were for. There was no reason for the four of them to wander around separately and feel uncomfortable.
One against four. Individually, each of the Cheongha Four Heroes was weaker than An Seong-il. But when the four of them combined their strength, they were strong. Because they were us! They absolutely could not overlook evil!
After calculating the odds from every angle, Jogak-san finally made up his mind. A hero doesn’t read the room. The act of “reading the room” included the direct and indirect damage that could be caused to those around them by causing a disturbance in a crowded inn during dinner. Such trivial collateral damage was insignificant in the face of the grand cause of executing justice.
The Cheongha Four Heroes quietly exchanged glances. Jogak-san tapped the table three times. In perfect unison, the Cheongha Four Heroes leaped forward.