The Flute's Lament
Another mournful note drifted from the Boksinjeok in Seomun Cheong’s hands. Within that sound lay a story so moving it could bring tears to the eyes even without them.
Some time ago, Seomun Su-rin had returned the flute, saying, “This master is already old. I have no need for a new pipe when I already have this dear, well-worn companion.”
Cheong had then launched into shameless flattery. “Master, this is a ten-thousand-gold masterpiece! Right now it’s a priceless treasure of the world, offered to you alone—my heartfelt gift!”
Seomun Su-rin, who had been about to deliver a Nuclear Noogie, paused. The Boksinjeok was a priceless artifact. Even if one were to assign it a value, ten thousand gold was the minimum. Anything less would be unworthy of it, and anything more was meaningless—ten thousand gold was already enough to live comfortably for generations without working. So whether it was ten thousand or twenty thousand made no difference.
What surprised Seomun Su-rin was that Cheong had accurately understood the flute’s true worth. She had assumed the girl was giving it away out of ignorance. Yet even knowing its value, Cheong had offered it without hesitation as a gift to her master. A deep ripple of emotion stirred in the old woman’s heart.
Yes. The child was truly kind. Even bearing the Heavenly Slaughter Star, she remained such a good girl. She was simply… a little dense. No, even so, there were limits. Even plain water wasn’t this bland. Still, gratitude was gratitude. The disciple’s sincerity was precious, and it brought her genuine joy and affection.
Seomun Su-rin smiled warmly. “I will accept only the sentiment. You should keep it.”
“But I don’t even know how to play it.”
“A proper lady should at least master one of the Four Arts, should she not?”
The Four Arts referred to music, Go, calligraphy, and painting—the highest regarded pastimes in the Central Plains. They were no mere hobbies. In modern terms, they were equivalent to yachting, horseback riding, golf, or clay shooting. Claiming to enjoy them made one appear refined and cultured. That was how the Four Arts were viewed in the Central Plains.
“You happen to have a fine flute, and music soothes the heart. It is an excellent tool for calming the mind. It will greatly help in suppressing your murderous impulses as well.”
Thus, in addition to her training, flute practice was added as a side discipline. All winter long, despite the freezing cold, Cheong blew the flute relentlessly. Naturally, the melodies were unbearably sorrowful, stirring the heart and bringing tears to the eyes.
Yet once she began, she played remarkably well. No—it went beyond “well.” To Seomun Su-rin’s ears, melodies that had never existed in this world flowed out freely. The unexpected result drew genuine admiration.
“She possesses talent enough to found a school of music—or even rewrite history itself! Who would have thought my disciple had such ability!”
Cheong tried to smile bashfully, but she was so cold that she merely trembled, gazing at Seomun Su-rin with hopeful eyes, as if expecting a blanket. None came.
Of course, the true nature of that talent was plagiarism. Any modern person carried countless melodies in their memory. Unless one belonged to an extremely niche category, these tunes would strike the ears of Central Plains people as something that transcended eras—shattering even the fundamental frameworks of musical form.
Among them, two pieces were considered the finest by the Goddess Sect disciples: the Cannon Variations and the Carousel. Of course, no one could understand why such a hopeful hymn had been given the savage name “Cannon.” Nor could anyone grasp what a spinning wooden horse—an object they had never heard of—had to do with a lyrical melody that evoked the fleeting beauty of life. But what did it matter? The music was beautiful.
To Cheong, it was a rare reminder of her homeland, evidence of a life before her transmigration. Her previous existence had not been particularly outstanding, yet she had lived in quiet satisfaction. Even so, those days had been better than this freezing, humiliating state. Thus the melodies she played on the flute could only be memories that no longer existed in this world.
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The Murim Alliance headquarters was thrown into chaos. A newly confirmed report had arrived. It had begun with a protest from the Yangtze River Water Sect. The independent patrol dispatched by the Murim Alliance had been part of a secret force called the Blood Cult, and its members were vile sorcerers who commanded Blood Jiangshi and Living Jiangshi. The son of the Water Sect’s leader had even lost his life.
The Murim Alliance immediately sent martial artists to the Jinju Eon Clan to verify the truth. The investigation returned to the Eon Clan’s estate—which had already reached the end of its lifespan. A house, after all, was a property that required constant maintenance and repairs. Without someone like the little girl who had once swept and cleaned Seomun Cheong’s thatched hut while waiting for a loved one, even the grandest residence would quickly become a ruin.
By the time the investigation team arrived at the Jinju Eon Clan’s estate, it was nothing but an abandoned house with no trace of human habitation. What was surprising were the testimonies of the townspeople. Until just seven days ago, they had seen numerous Eon Clan members coming and going. This corroborated the Yangtze River Water Sect’s claim that Eon Yeonyeong had slaughtered the entire clan and turned them all into Jiangshi.
The Jinju Eon Clan had never truly been inhabited by people. There existed a force that included a man-eating demon and the foremost Jiangshi sorcerer of the Central Plains—a force cunning enough to operate right under the Murim Alliance’s nose while concealing its activities. The Murim Alliance had to formulate countermeasures. The great and heavy body of the alliance began to stir.
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In truth, when Seomun Su-rin told Cheong to strip, it had not been training but punishment. The disciple was reckless, dull-witted, and had even learned demonic arts, endangering both her sect and her master—an utterly unfilial and detestable act. That was why Seomun Su-rin had imposed the harshest possible penalty.
Normally, the disciple should have wept and begged, pleading that she had done wrong and asking to be spared this one thing. Even living among women, this was a humiliation worse than nudity before one’s juniors in the sect hierarchy. Seomun Su-rin herself would rather have bitten off her tongue than comply. Or she would have shattered her own dantian, severed her own limbs, and stormed out, declaring she would no longer be a disciple because it was filthy and despicable.
Yet the disciple’s reaction? Heavens! She had no sense of shame whatsoever! She felt a little embarrassed, but that was all. The cold bothered her far more than the shame. This had made Seomun Su-rin feel a greater sense of crisis than anything the girl had shown before. A woman must know shame. She must understand that there are things more precious than life itself. That was why Seomun Su-rin had confiscated even her undergarments and bedding, and removed every window and door from the hut—so the disciple would realize how shameful and disgraceful her appearance was.
Yet the girl only shivered and showed no embarrassment. Seomun Su-rin had been left speechless and let it be. Then, fearing the child might freeze to death at night, she secretly checked on her—only to witness something astonishing. The protective qi had risen of its own accord to shield her body!
Protective qi referred to the art of using internal energy to guard the body. Every night, as Cheong fell asleep, she unconsciously wrapped herself in protective qi to survive. The highest level of this art was precisely such unconscious deployment. If it did not activate without conscious thought in moments of danger, it could not truly be called protective qi that safeguarded the body.
In reality, even masters at the Transcendent Realm who used protective qi barriers had to consciously draw up their true qi during major confrontations. If protective qi became as natural as breathing, one would have reached the middle stage of the Harmonious Realm. That was why, when an enemy reached the middle stage of the Harmonious Realm, even a surprise attack could not guarantee victory.
Seomun Su-rin changed her thinking. Rather than a disciple who knew no shame, if this could instead allow protective qi to become a natural and instinctive art, the girl would at least not lose her life once she ventured into the martial world. It would be like wearing the strongest armor at all times. There were indeed things more precious than life. But Seomun Su-rin still wished for her disciple to live and breathe. At this rate, she had no right to criticize that wretched runaway disciple, Yang Sowol, who had burdened her own child with karma. This must be how a mother felt when she wished for her child to survive even if it meant carrying lifelong scars. If only this could remain a memory of hardship endured in ignorance…
“This wicked master’s terrible selfishness is unforgivable.”
It was abuse. What kind of master forced a disciple to live in such a state? Even if the girl later resented her and saw her as an enemy, Seomun Su-rin would have no words to defend herself. Yet even if the disciple one day held a sword to her throat, she could not allow her to abandon this opportunity. The girl would have to return to the martial world someday. It was a decision that would draw condemnation from the world if known. Seomun Su-rin had resolved to bear it all.
Of course, if Cheong had known, she would have said her master was worrying over nothing. Then she would have complained that if it was only cold at night, there had been no need to stay naked all day, puffing out her cheeks in indignation.
Still, it had been a major decision for Seomun Su-rin.
—Because of that, the Goddess Sect disciples reaped the benefits.
Unlike Cheong, whose bones ached from the cold, winter at the Goddess Sect was unusually warm—warm enough to rename Goddess Peak to Volcano Peak. Of course, this was entirely due to the youngest elder of the highest rank in the sect wandering about in such an unsightly and vulgar outfit. Whether the thin, semi-transparent fabric that clearly revealed the curves of her body could even be called clothing was debatable. It was a sight one could not bear to show even before a lover. Truly, it was a lascivious attire that even the most infamous seductresses of the martial world would hesitate to wear.
Yet contrary to her appearance, Cheong was completely pale and trembling violently. Her pitiful state was so wretched that it concealed any wantonness, transforming instead into a pitiable, blooming beauty. Then, when she played the flute, she seemed to forget the cold entirely—though of course, playing the flute required circulating internal energy, which banished the chill. A beautiful woman playing a sorrowful melody filled with deep longing descended upon them.
The inherent charm of music lay in creating an atmosphere unlike anything in this world. The utterly disgraceful outfit only heightened that unprecedented allure. Elegantly lewd! Calmly lewd! A living spring painting in motion! Just lewd! In any case, far too lewd! A complete Mara Papiyas! Mara Papiyas was the greatest evil deity in Buddhism. Surprisingly, the mythologies of the world aligned here—Mara held the same role as Lucifer in the Bible. Mara was the god who governed desire and symbolized, or embodied, worldly afflictions. It was the same “Ma” character used in “demonic arts.” Mara was famous for attempting to tempt the meditating Buddha and being rejected.
Whether elegant or calm, the conclusion was the same. Merely looking at her made one’s body heat up uncontrollably, warmth rising from behind the dantian. Thus, in this cold season, an unusually large number of disciples were seen clasping hands and clinging together as one. Some master-disciple pairs even crossed the strict hierarchical boundaries to share a single bed. It was winter.