The First Crisis: Epilogue
The outside of the Cheonma Tomb was already shrouded in pitch-black night.
Cheong stretched with a satisfied groan. Aigoo, I thought I was gonna die trying to keep up that act. Truth be told, several times during the ordeal the urge to bolt straight down the stairs and run for it had surged up inside her, but somehow she had pulled it off brilliantly and survived.
With relief came a rush of joy at simply being alive. Before she knew it, Cheong was riding that high, moonwalking backward in what had to be the most successful dance in human history. It was Indiana Ma’s Wol-sang-bo-haeng.
The principles the Heavenly Demon had demonstrated with her body remained perfectly intact. Among all the insights Cheong had gained, this was by far the most precious.
She was right in the middle of celebrating with her victory dance when—
“Ahem.”
The sound of a cough made Cheong jump in surprise.
“Geez, you scared me! Gramps, why did you follow me out?”
“I packed your belongings so I could give them to you when you left. Even if you go, you should at least take your own things, you sloppy girl.”
“Whoa, really? You packed everything?”
Only after hearing him did she remember her luggage. There was the unlimited pass for the Yangtze River, the guest plaques her friends had given her, and the letter from her master that she was supposed to deliver to the Abbess of the Mount Emei Sect. Come to think of it, the old man had been telling the truth.
Since her entire personality had changed, the interest he had shown her had vanished along with it. He had even prepared her things, probably planning to let her go peacefully once she blew the Boksinjeok and opened the door.
Cheong trotted after Choe-ri-ong like a little duckling. When they reached a certain wagon, the old man stepped inside and came back out carrying a bundle along with some very familiar items.
Cheong snatched up the one she was happiest to see.
You’re back! My Wolgwang-geom!
It was the eighth version of the Wolgwang-geom, but the grip fit perfectly in her hand as if she had never let it go. Cheong beamed as she fastened the sword at her waist.
When she reached out for the rest of her luggage, however, Choe-ri-ong kept hesitating, clutching the bundle and refusing to hand it over. Cheong’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s this? Don’t tell me the rest is pay-to-play?”
Was this the original China after all? Had their business tactics been traditional since ancient times? Did she really have to pay to get her own stuff back?
But Choe-ri-ong looked at her awkwardly and said,
“Ahem. I’m old now. I don’t know how much longer I have left, so I was thinking of finding a nice burial spot. Would that… be alright with you?”
“Wait, why are you asking me for permission to pick your own grave—never mind. Sigh.”
Cheong let out a long breath. Even if she pretended not to understand, the old man clearly wasn’t going to back down.
Saying he wanted to find a place to die wasn’t literally about claiming a sunny spot on a mountain facing water. It was a desperate wish to spend what little life he had left by her side and die there.
“Gramps, let’s make one thing clear. I have zero intention of treating you like my new dad. On the other hand, I don’t care how you see me. I’m just gonna dump all my luggage on you, make you drive the wagon, and put you to work doing every single chore I can think of.”
Her words were downright immoral, but in the end it was permission. Choe-ri-ong’s eyes grew red.
“Thank you… thank you. Even that is more than I deserve…”
If having an old man follow her around and wait on her could let him live out his remaining years in peace, then she could grant that wish. He had already suffered enough in his life. He was an old man who had been tormented by the dead and abused himself long enough.
But if he later came at her saying she wasn’t his daughter or something, all that goodwill would turn into malice. She could tolerate anything else, but she refused to see that happen.
“Instead. I have no interest in dragging around the Great Demonic Head and getting pointed at by the whole world, got it? That uncontrollable demonic art of yours—get rid of it. What if you lose your mind later, flip out, and come at me screaming about how I tricked you and demanding your daughter back?”
It was a demand to scatter the jeonggong he had trained his entire life. For a martial artist, that was something even more precious than life itself.
“I will do so. Right this instant, if you wish.”
Yet Choe-ri-ong’s answer held not the slightest hesitation. Cheong let out another deep sigh.
“Let’s get out of here first and talk later. If we keep dawdling, all the demonic heads are going to swarm over.”
Inside the Cheonma Tomb, the elite experts of the Divine Cult gathered around Ji Seungju.
In the Cult that revered the strong above all, elite experts were essentially synonymous with the Cult’s leadership.
“Hey, Demon Brain. Are you really planning to follow that girl?”
“She is the Heavenly Demon of this generation. Did you not witness her Pacheon-magi with your own eyes?”
“Even so, she is still a green, immature girl. The dignity of the Divine Cult must also be considered.”
“Is she not all the more brilliant precisely because she is still young? Think of the Peerless Sword Demon. Is there any law that says such a person can only exist in the Righteous Faction?”
“But is she not already a person of the Righteous Faction?”
“Did you not see how she handled matters? The Heavenly Demon will have no choice but to return to the Cult in the end.”
“Hmm…”
The experts let out low groans. Gouging out a living person’s eyeballs was not something one could do without considerable cruelty. And to do it while smiling brightly, without hiding one’s delighted mood, as if playing with a toy—well, that was even worse.
“But must we now abandon the long-cherished wish we have pursued our entire lives? Moreover, reconciliation with the Central Plains bastards? Is that even possible in the first place?”
“It may actually be for the best. A strong fellow doesn’t get beaten even when he goes outside. What power in the Central Plains would dare stand against the Divine Cult?”
The Heavenly Demon Divine Cult had already proven its might through four great Righteous-Demonic Wars. Even though they had been defeated each time, they had still left deep scars on the Murim world. If the Cult suddenly declared it was washing away its past and stepping into the light, the Murim would not be able to shout “No way!” and start a war that only brought harm upon themselves.
“In truth, how long must we cling to the isolation of our hidden city and keep it under control? Is that not the very reason we have repeatedly invaded and piled up a history of defeat?”
The Divine Cult lived hidden away on barren land. It simply lacked the capacity to support a large population. The gold the various external departments earned through their “businesses” in the Central Plains was ultimately limited.
That was why the Cult had no choice but to revere the strong. The strong-only doctrine had served as a means to maintain a limited population while cultivating the most elite forces possible.
The natural enemy of elite troops was, amusingly enough, the overwhelming numbers of ordinary people. Even if they slaughtered the enemy at an overwhelming exchange rate, the loss of each individual was painful. The longer the war dragged on, the more overwhelming their victories became while their overall position grew worse, until they had no choice but to flee in defeat.
There was no one present who did not understand the harm caused by the doctrine of the strong. They had all climbed this far by devouring people.
Yet even knowing the severe side effects of that doctrine, what could they do when there was simply no other way? Besides, the results had been excellent. Although Cheong constantly cursed them, calling them idiots with no redeeming qualities, the truth was that no other group in the entire Murim could match the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult in unity and raw power as a single community.
The experts still looked rather unenthusiastic. That was understandable—most of them had spent their lives chasing wealth and glory after the liberation of the Central Plains, like figures in a fantasy landscape.
However, Ji Seungju was the Secret Pavilion Master and the Young Demon Brain, respected by the Cult despite his terrible martial talent. Given enough time, he was confident he could easily manipulate even the ignorant demonic heads who worshipped nothing but strength.
If the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult, draped in silk, proudly claimed its territory and governed with a mixture of doctrine and morality, achieving greater prosperity than now would not be difficult at all.
Ji Seungju swallowed his ambition without any change in his expression.
In the past, a general named Ja in the Taesa Castle had once said (his name was not Lion), “If a man is born a true hero, should he not carry a seven-cheok blade and stand upon the steps of the Son of Heaven?”
A person bold enough to stand beside the emperor with a sword at his waist. That would be the highest position a schemer could reach—above ten thousand, below only one.
Jijon had no name.
He had never seen his father’s face, and the only thing his mother had given him was blue hatred. In other words, all he had ever received was indifference and hatred. He had not even been given a name.
Yet Jijon held no resentment over that fact. He was simply the one and only Jijon; he had no need for something as trivial as a name. If there was only one Jijon in the world, there was no reason to use a name.
Only now did he understand the other reason he had never been given one. He was merely a vessel prepared to house the Heavenly Demon’s soul. There had been no need to bestow upon him the luxury of a name.
When he had realized that truth, Jijon had fallen into despair.
But not anymore.
For the first time in his life, he had learned the pain of being scolded. And for the first time, he had known the gentle touch that stroked his head. He had heard the mercy that said she would forgive him.
The genuine smile that had bloomed from within, the sincere joy he had never known before—it had all been directed at him. That scene was so vivid that even with his eyes closed, he could see it clearly.
That was precisely the love a parent gives to a child.
Indeed. Could someone truly be called a parent simply because they irresponsibly created a body and tossed it into the world? The qualification of a parent lay in that very affection. Age, appearance, even gender were irrelevant. That was why a man was called father and a woman mother.
But one thing still remained. The most precious thing a parent could give a child. Something Jijon still did not possess.
A name.
She had told him to behave nicely, so he would behave nicely. When they met again, he would finally receive a name through that promise.
Jijon looked at the elite warriors of the Divine Cult. They were insolent bastards who dared to whisper among themselves, completely ignoring him. Rage boiled up from the depths of his heart. That rage became power, and pitch-black demonic energy seethed.
Jijon was a Profound Realm martial artist. Even that had only been restrained by his own seals in preparation for escaping the demonic state. Now that his dantian had been shattered, those seals had come undone as well. He had entered the Profound Realm.
Using that enlightenment, he had forcibly patched together his shattered dantian. Though the result was little more than a rag, he had somehow managed to preserve it. It was a body prepared for the Heavenly Demon. The medicinal properties of the elixirs he had consumed instead of rice since childhood still flowed through his four limbs and hundred bones.
As long as the dantian’s shape was maintained, recovery would only take time; it was not impossible.
Jijon calmed his rage. It was not difficult. Simply recalling the smile embedded in his chest was enough. His mind and body stabilized on their own, and the corners of his mouth naturally loosened.
As you said, I will be a good child.
My beloved.
Mother.
Jijon, forty-seven years old this year.
People sometimes experience moments when their upper dantian opens, unconsciously reading the movements of heaven and earth. This is also called the sixth sense, or a premonition.
Cheong shuddered violently. Suddenly, she was struck by a truly, extremely unpleasant premonition.
What the hell? I just got full-body goosebumps. What was that?
But no matter how much she thought about it, there was no particular reason. Cheong could only chew on that uneasy feeling.
Of course she would. How could she possibly know that, after gaining one father and one older sister, she had now also acquired a fully grown son?