How Long Is Life? (2)
By the time I reached the cottage, the sun had already vanished completely, and only the cold moonlight spilled across the yard.
As soon as I arrived, I lit a fire in the brazier.
Then I set the teapot over the flames and, along with the tea leaves, secretly tossed in several herbs that were good for restoring internal energy.
From the way I had carefully watched my master’s movements with my Mind's Eye all this time, I had learned one thing: her inner energy was far too unstable. It was deep and vast beyond sight, yet its texture kept breaking apart here and there, leaving it terribly precarious.
It looked like a taut thread that could snap at any moment.
Maybe that’s why Wol-o Mukjeok withdrew from the jianghu.
If Master knew what I was thinking, she’d probably start scolding me in that sharp, prickly way of hers. That much was obvious. But honestly, what did it matter?
Live long and prosper, Master. With that thought, I sprinkled a little more herb into the pot.
Before long, the water came to a boil and steam rose in gentle billows. Yet my mind, which had been occupied with my master’s health, turned cloudy again as though fog had settled over it.
The news I had heard in the market—the Yongle Emperor is dead—would not leave my head, lingering like an ominous plume of smoke.
It wasn’t only because of the emperor’s death I had heard about in Mureung County, or because the people were already gripped by foreboding. It was also because Mukjeok, walking silently behind me, had a presence that felt far more subdued than usual.
Through my Mind's Eye, Master’s inner energy seemed to sink like a quiet deep sea, so profound that I could not even guess where it ended.
As though it were being drawn down into oblivion.
“Disciple.”
A cold voice broke the silence. I stopped my hands and looked up.
“Do you long for the jianghu?”
For a moment, my hand froze.
Back when I was first possessed—when I had been carried here to Zhangjiajie in Master’s arms—I had of course dreamed of escaping this hateful mountain backwater and becoming a peerless master who would shake the world.
To a modern man of the twenty-first century, the martial world was the very sum of romance.
Brilliant martial arts. Encounters with beautiful women. Tales of heroes whose names would be remembered in history.
To slash through the world like a protagonist, cross paths with an incomparable beauty, and rule over all under heaven—
That, I had thought, was the proper reward for a gamer who had been unjustly shoved into this world.
But...
After seventeen years of living here, growing used to the harsh life of Zhangjiajie while piling up one layer of affection and one layer of annoyance with Master after another, things were different now.
I saw Master’s face from the days when I was still an infant.
Her embarrassed cheeks reddening as she went out begging for milk for me.
The way she frowned while changing my dirty diapers.
The way she forced down the baby food she had made with her awkward hands, just to feed me properly.
Then came the memories from when I could walk and run.
“I told you that was wrong, you foolish disciple.”
Every time I got one thing wrong in my lessons, she would snap at me coldly and order me to do it again.
“You must be cold. Come closer to the brazier. A cup of tea will warm you up.”
And yet even then, she would try so hard to hide her kindness, insisting on taking care of me in her own stubborn way.
“Good heavens, Lady Immortal! The weather is lovely again today!”
“Lady Immortal, please try this! My family made these honey rice dumplings. They’re incredibly sweet, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy them!”
The villagers, who had treated me with simple, genuine warmth despite the aura of Master’s disciple hanging over me like a halo.
When I thought of all that,
it didn’t seem so bad.
More than anything, Master was no longer just my teacher. To me, she was almost like a mother.
I took out a sheet of paper and wrote quickly.
[At first, I did dream of the jianghu. I wanted a life in which I could wield dazzling martial arts and make a name for myself.]
Master’s eyebrows lifted a little. I paused, then looked her straight in the eye and wrote the next line.
[But now it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t mind stepping into the jianghu, but if I never do, that is fine too. This place, where you are, is my jianghu, and the tea I share with you is my own chance encounter with fate. Brewing the tea I will serve you tomorrow morning matters more to me than becoming the number one under heaven.]
Master’s eyes trembled ever so slightly as she read my words.
She gave a deliberate cough, then turned her gaze toward the fire.
“Hm.”
Was that too much flattery?
While I was awkwardly scratching at my head, Master spoke again.
“You call the moments spent with your master the jianghu?”
[Yes.]
“Then what, to you, is the jianghu you dream of?”
At her question, my brow twitched.
Was Master testing me?
I carefully studied her expression, but her face remained as blank as ever. No hint of emotion showed through.
Or perhaps she had heard the news of the emperor’s death and was lost in thought as well.
In the setting, Wol-o was also a master who had once wandered the jianghu, suffered betrayal and injury, and then retired completely after the campaign against the Blood Archfiend.
Perhaps while she had been living in retirement, she had come to feel both bitterness and guilt over the world sinking back into chaos again.
I took a moment to choose my words.
Should I give her the textbook answer here, or should I tell her what I truly thought?
The answer didn’t take long to decide.
After all, there were the things Master had taught me over the years, and the things I had seen and learned while mixing with the people of Mureung County.
I liked to complain that she had provided seventeen years of free after-sales service, but that didn’t mean all of it had been useless. Not at all.
The nourishment of the heart. A tired, clichéd phrase, perhaps—but those things had all been slowly, steadily gathered into the making of my spirit.
Was this what Master had meant by the Mo Sect’s mental methods?
Having chosen all the words I wanted to say, I moved my hand and wrote them down.
[If the world truly followed Mozi’s teachings—if all under heaven cherished and loved one another, if conspiracy and violence found no foothold, and if people did not lock their doors at night or stand with blades drawn against each other—then there would be no need for the martial world or the tales of heroes.]
It was not quite the same as Mozi’s universal love, but it was a view often raised as criticism of altruism.
In a sense, it was a statement that could have irritated Master, a follower of the Mo Sect, yet she said nothing. She simply looked down at the words I had written in silence.
But I still had more to say, so I continued writing.
[But the world is still a place where thieves, bandits, and crooked devil-path bastards run rampant. The powerless common people can only watch helplessly as their belongings are stolen and fear even their lives being taken, all while biting back their cries. How could they ever raise their voices? I believe a knight-errant is someone who becomes the roar of those voiceless people.]
[If everyone under heaven were to join hands, distinguish right from wrong, speak out for the wronged, use martial arts not to oppress others but to save the weak, and punish injustice while upholding public righteousness, then even if the ideal land of peach blossoms lies far away, would not the martial tale itself still live and breathe in this world?]
[Though we do not ease the people’s hardships with martial power but with craft and skill, hasn’t that very fact taught them to cherish and protect one another? Even if there is no martial strength, the voice of righteousness rings out loudly, and I can almost feel that we are drawing near to an ideal world. Wouldn’t that, too, be the voice of a knight-errant reaching heaven? Even if our deeds are humble, our righteous backbone carries its own fragrance, and we would not be ashamed before the heroes of the world.]
...Was that last bit a little too presumptuous?
As I kept writing, I grew so caught up in my own enthusiasm that I even dragged Li Bai’s “The Knight-Errant’s Journey” into it, and the moment I realized what I’d done, embarrassment came flooding over me.
Silence fell.
Master studied every single character I had written, lingering over them for a very long time.
After a long pause, her lips slowly parted.
“For one who cannot speak, your mouth-craft has grown impressively sharp.”
She gave one soft swallow of tea, then set the cup down without a sound.
At her unexpectedly lukewarm reaction, I stared blankly at the lines I had written.
Wow. I really just delivered a protagonist-level speech.
A sudden wave of post-ego clarity hit me, and my face burned.
This was why you couldn’t let yourself get carried away too easily. The aftercare alone was impossible to bear.
Master looked at my flushed face for a moment, then gave a quiet snort. Rising to her feet, she tapped my shoulder.
“Sleep. If you go out for training tomorrow and come back as a corpse, it will trouble your master.”
At her words, I suddenly remembered the task she had assigned me.
From tomorrow onward, it will be the real thing. Climb down the cliffs of Zhangjiajie and break through the ferocious beasts and hidden formations laid through the forest. Come back injured—just not enough to die.
Feeling cold sweat break out across my back, I wrote quickly.
[You’re serious about that?]
“Did you think your master was joking?”
[Master. For the sake of the bonds we’ve built over all these years, please let me leave behind at least a will before I set out tomorrow. I’ll go after bowing three times toward the graves of the ancestors.]
“Stop whining and get some sleep.”
Keugh.
A pillow and blanket flew at me so suddenly that I nearly toppled out of the chair, and only barely managed to stay upright.
Once I had regained my balance and laid out the bedding, Master was still sitting by the brazier, sipping tea in silence.
Haa.
Setting my worries aside, I laid my head on the pillow and closed my eyes.
Still, surely nothing too terrible would happen.
...Would it?
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Clumsy, disciple.
Mukjeok took a sip of the fragrant tea her disciple had brewed and let the corners of her mouth rise just slightly.
How could she not know that the boy, who couldn’t even properly gauge the amount of herbs to use, had slipped in enough medicinal ingredients to alter the taste of the tea?
Still, the sincerity behind it was touching, if absurd. So Mukjeok simply drank the tea her disciple had brewed in silence.
The fragrant tea, overloaded with herbs, was bitter enough to make her tongue ache.
If one were to ask whether all of her disciple’s efforts were meaningless and pointless, the answer was no.
As expected of a child with a Mind's Eye, Wolyeon had noticed that her inner energy was disordered and her dantian damaged, and he had begun, one by one, seeking out herbs good for restoring internal energy and the dantian, slipping them into her tea whenever she drank.
The effects were subtle, but steady.
She coughed up blood and fits of coughing became less frequent. The discomfort in her chest also eased.
But if one asked whether it had truly added anything to a life that was already like a candle with no wick, the answer was still no.
No matter how fully one did one’s duty as a human being, in the end it was Heaven that issued the decree of life and death.
Even if one awakened the secrets of health-preservation and healed one’s own body through medicine, one could never defy the natural span allotted by Heaven.
She had already lived to sixty. She had already lived all that she was meant to live.
There was no more attachment left to the life she had, and once her disciple fully matured into a proper man in the world, she would disappear entirely.
And Mukjeok could sense that day was not far off.
Truly, the more I think about it, the more foolish and yet endearing the boy becomes.
To bring forth the benefit of the world and remove the harm of the world.
To create benefit for all under heaven, and remove harm from all under heaven.
Though she had taught him the words of Mozi, to think that he would naturally awaken to the principles of Heaven’s will.
“A knight-errant is the roar of those without a voice...”
Mukjeok traced the words her disciple had left behind with the tip of her finger.
The answer he had given was far closer to raw truth than the stale doctrines the Mo Sect had pursued all its life.
She lifted her teacup and took a sip.
Thanks to the herbs her disciple had secretly added, the aftertaste was wretchedly bitter, but deep in her chest there was a strange sense of warmth.
Her black eyes sank deeper, descending into memories long past.
Decades ago, there had been a Daoist from the Wudang Sect who had approached her father with a smiling, easygoing face and brazenly declared, “I shall borrow your daughter for a little while.”
Her father had drawn his sword in silence, and the two of them had spent half a day in a full exchange of sword debate.
After that exchange, when her father asked for Mukjeok’s own wishes, the words he left behind had settled in her memory as clearly as ink carved into a criminal’s forehead—yet also as vaguely as some tale heard in childhood.
“When a great fire breaks out, would you throw even the water you were just drinking, or would you fan the flames and pour on oil?”
The girl had answered,
Of course I would throw even the water I was drinking.
“Then go. Go to the jianghu you dream of.”
“And when you wake from that dream,”
“you will come to understand how fleeting the jianghu you dreamed of truly was...”
Her father had not been wrong.
She had been disappointed in the jianghu, wounded by it, betrayed by it.
When all she had done turned into nothing more than ephemeral froth and came crashing down upon her, she returned to Zhangjiajie and, following the example of the ancients, silently guarded Zhang Liang’s tomb.
Mukjeok’s gaze naturally shifted to the sleeping Wolyeon.
She stared intently at the back of her disciple, who slept so quietly there wasn’t even the sound of breath to be heard.
Though she had taken Wolyeon in, he had not taken the Muk surname. That meant the burden of the Muk family’s legacy did not fall on him.
If her disciple wanted to step into the jianghu, he could do so at any time, and Mukjeok had no intention of stopping him. Nor would she be able to.
Mukjeok thought to herself that this child would probably, just as she had, spend his whole life roaming in search of the fire with only a single teacup in hand.
Perhaps even more recklessly. More fiercely.
The death of the Yongle Emperor. The chaos of the Central Plains. A bloody war waiting to begin again.
The world would once more be engulfed in a vast blaze. Some would seize the chance and pour oil on it; others, gripped by fear, would fan it higher still.
But—
You were right, disciple. The more chaotic the world becomes, the richer the fragrance of righteousness grows.
Mukjeok drained the rest of her tea in one go. Beneath the bitterness of the herbs, a faint sweetness rose at last.
She stared at the flame in the brazier for a moment longer, then flicked her hand lightly and extinguished it.
Darkness filled the room, but the blue moonlight just beyond the window shone with a clarity brighter than ever.
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