The Mount Hua Sect

Apart from one small incident(?)—an encounter with the Demonic Cult, known to Cho Jayun alone—which was resolved without a hitch, Soyul and Cho Jayun managed to cross into Shaanxi after seven days on the road.

Not that the journey to Shaanxi had passed without its own modest commotion.

"Do you think I could run back to Qinghai for a bit?"

"...Are you saying that in your right mind?"

"Hm? I'm perfectly fine. Why?"

"You dragged yourself all the way here from Gansu, and now you propose turning back to Qinghai—which lies farther off than Gansu? What manner of talk is that?"

"Ah... well, it's just..."

The truth was that Soyul couldn't get her mind off the sword she had left behind in that cave, but she could hardly bring herself to say so outright.

How precious a sword was to any martial artist. Admitting she had abandoned hers and wanted to double back for it would be deeply mortifying for anyone who called themselves a warrior.

And precisely because of that, the man currently wearing an expression of pure incredulity in front of her was bound to tease her without mercy if she told the truth.

So in the end, Soyul had no choice but to mumble her way through an excuse.

"There's something I absolutely have to take care of. Now that I think about it... I may not have thought this through very well."

"And what would that something be?"

"Er, um... it's just something that's been weighing on me so much I can't sleep at night? It really should have come along with us, except it didn't."

Cho Jayun frowned at the utterly incomprehensible explanation.

"What on earth are you going on about? If so, you should have said so from the very start—not after we've come all this way."

"You're right, I should have."

Soyul scratched her head sheepishly; she knew full well she was being unreasonable. Watching her, Cho Jayun's expression began, despite himself, to soften—but then he shook his head hard.

That pitiful look had almost won him over before he realized what was happening.

"Very well. In fact—if you will explain exactly what this matter is, I shall help you with it myself."

Soyul's eyes rolled upward as she considered.

As if I could tell you. Can you imagine how much you'd tease me?

"No, it's something I have to settle myself. Don't worry about it. I'll go some other time."

Cho Jayun kept staring at her, doubt written across his face, but when Soyul marched on ahead without a backward glance, he let the matter drop.

After that, Soyul kept clamoring that she wanted to see Kunlun along the way, or visit the great market in central Gansu, and Cho Jayun lightly brushed it all aside—he judged that Kunlun was far too great a detour, and that central Gansu, with its sprawling pleasure houses, was a recipe for trouble.

Of course, Soyul had neither any obligation nor the slightest inclination to take Cho Jayun at his word, and so minor squabbles flared between them now and then. At his wits' end over how to handle this flighty young lady—young enough to be his own granddaughter, yet somehow become his friend—Cho Jayun heard himself making a promise he would live to regret.

"I beg you. If you will simply do as I say and travel quietly to Mount Hua, then on the way I shall buy Lady Kang everything she desires."

"Oh ho? Really now?"

The very instant he saw the delight bloom across Soyul's face, Cho Jayun regretted it—but the words were already out of his mouth.

It was a disaster born of the single thought filling his head: that he had to hand Soyul over to Mount Hua an hour, a minute, sooner than planned.

From then on, the same scene simply repeated itself.

"Jayun, what's that?"

"That would be a mooncake."

"Buy me one."

"...As you wish."

"Jayun, what's that one?"

"The rye rice balls you ate the other day. Why do you keep asking when you know full well—"

"They were tasty."

"...I shall go and fetch some."

After days of such torment, Cho Jayun slipped out one day on a stroll—ostensibly to buy snacks and soothe his fraying mind—and in the process sensed the Demonic Cult's pursuers and drove every last one of them off.

And today, Soyul's demands began all over again.

"Jayun, what's that?"

This time she was pointing at a red entertainer's dress hanging outside a fabric shop, and Cho Jayun covered his face with both hands.

"You must draw the line at that one."

"Why? You promised! You'd buy me everything!"

"We arrive at Mount Hua very soon."

"So what?"

"Mount Hua is a Daoist sect."

"So what?"

Watching Soyul do nothing but echo the question back at him, Cho Jayun forced his temper down.

This, too, is a form of training. If I can keep my mind at peace even in a situation like this, then no circumstance, no enemy, will ever ruffle me again—I will gaze upon the sword alone, serene, in any place and before any foe.

"Laozi taught that the five colors blind a man's eye, the five sounds deafen his ear, and the five flavors confound his palate. And Mount Hua is a Daoist sect that follows Laozi's teachings—how, then, could one presume to call upon it dressed in such a garment?"

The moment Daoist doctrine came pouring out of Cho Jayun's mouth, Soyul's jaw dropped open of its own accord.

She had studied nothing but martial arts, martial arts, and still more martial arts since childhood; there had never been time in her life for learning of this sort, and for one fleeting moment, Cho Jayun looked positively magnificent.

Then, abruptly, Soyul tilted her head.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"But do they really force their teachings on every visitor just because they're a Daoist sect?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, come on. You're saying that to visit Mount Hua I have to dress to their taste, and eat to their taste—and what else was it? Sounds? I have to match those too, that's what you just said. So does everyone who visits Shaolin have to throw on a yellow robe and shave their head bald?"

Flustered by the outrageous leap in logic, Cho Jayun cried out.

"I never said anything so far-fetched! I merely stated that one should observe proper courtesy when paying a visit!"

"Hmm. Oh, really? Then I suppose when wealthy merchants or high-ranking officials visit Mount Hua, they also have to wear plain everyday clothes and leave off every ornament they own?"

"Th-that's not what—!"

"Oh dear? Then don't tell me—this dress is unacceptable because it looks cheap, but gowns dripping with jewels and bursting with greed are perfectly fine to wear through the gates of a Daoist sect?"

Over her travels so far, Soyul had come to understand roughly how the entertainer's dress she wore was treated, and what sort of people tended to wear such clothes.

She hadn't cared in the slightest. It's a dress I wear because it pleases me. Why should I spare a thought for other people's eyes? Besides, merely putting it on made opponents underestimate her—and she could think of few merits greater than that.

Cho Jayun, who had no way of knowing what was passing through her head, tried to stammer out an answer, but victory had already slipped from his grasp.

Merchants did, of course, come and go freely at great sects like Mount Hua. Merchants proclaimed their wealth through their clothing and earned credit on account of it, and so they naturally draped themselves in costly garments and glittering ornaments.

And naturally, not one soul ever criticized them for it. Why? Because they were merchants. Because such clothes suited their trade.

Follow that line of reasoning, and a gisaeng passing through Mount Hua's gates in an entertainer's dress was, in fact, perfectly permissible.

Granted, it would take a lunatic at the front gate willing to admit a gisaeng—but still.

Except Soyul wasn't actually a gisaeng, was she?

Cho Jayun marshaled his thoughts and opened his mouth—only to find it empty. He simply could not untangle how one was supposed to explain something so perfectly self-evident.

"Er..."

And as he stood there opening and closing his mouth like a gasping fish, Soyul drove the wedge home.

"Buy it first. And if Mount Hua turns out to be so petty that they won't let me through the gate in this dress, well—I'll think about that when it happens. Besides, you're not a Mount Hua disciple, are you, Jayun? Hardly your place to preach at me."

Everything Soyul had said sounded like sophistry, admittedly—but she had never once twisted logic by brute force, and her argument had held to one coherent thread from beginning to end.

And that was only to be expected. To master the martial arts to any great height was, in truth, the mark of a nimble mind. A dullard takes longer just to grasp the formula of a single technique, and the higher the realm one climbs, the more everything hinges on enlightenment—fools simply do not reach the high realms.

"......"

When all Cho Jayun could manage was to hem and haw, Soyul flashed a wicked grin and murmured, ever so sweetly,

"Jayun... don't tell me you're short on money? Ohh, I see. Then I'll buy this one myself. Here I thought you had money to spare, what with all those grand promises—you should have just said something. My fault again, for never considering my dear friend's purse. I do apologize~."

"What nonsense is this! Short on money? Are you suggesting I look like some base, stingy creature who would break his word over a pittance of coin?"

Most men, hearing those words from a woman's lips, would react much as Cho Jayun just had.

If he had truly been penniless, perhaps he could have borne it—but with a full purse? All the more so.

"Then pick whichever you like! But if Mount Hua refuses you entry, you change clothes, as promised."

"I'll take this one, please."

"No, wait—phew... how much?"

Without waiting for an answer, Soyul snatched up the dress. She watched Cho Jayun hand over the silver, and the instant the tally was settled, she burst into peals of laughter.

"Jayun, I never once said I'd change clothes if Mount Hua turns me away, did I? I said I'd think about it when the time came."

"But... you said, just now, quite clearly... huh?"

Cho Jayun knit his brow, replayed the earlier exchange in his memory—and promptly went blank. She was right. Recall it however he liked, Soyul was right.

"You... you...!"

Trembling with fury at being so utterly toyed with, Cho Jayun shook where he stood—but Soyul spared him not a single glance. She tucked her freshly extorted dress carefully into her pack and strode off, every inch the victor.

"I'll save this one to wear later. Come on, let's get moving!"

The Mount Hua Sect was a celebrated orthodox sect perched atop Mount Hua in Shaanxi, in the heart of the Central Plains, its summit ringed like a folding screen by cliffs a thousand fathoms sheer.

One of the Five Great Mountains, Mount Hua had been home to immortals, so the tales ran since ancient times, and its breathtaking scenery and solemn majesty carried an air that compelled all who beheld it to take stock of themselves.

The sect's martial arts took the sword as their core, yet threaded through every form were the principles of the Dao and the workings of nature itself.

The swords they wielded were not tools for taking lives but brushes for pouring out the heart—not blades for cutting down enemies, but one part of a discipline for tempering the self.

And the grander the sect, the more its dignity revealed itself from the very front gate. Mount Hua was no exception: the men guarding its gate were drawn solely from the second generation of disciples and above.

To them was entrusted a double duty—to show the utmost courtesy to guests who had made the punishing climb, and to talk away, gently and firmly, those who could not be admitted.

The sect's generational names followed the cycle of 'Clear Wind, Bright Moon Path': elders took the character Cheong—Clear; first-generation disciples, Pung—Wind; second-generation disciples, Myeong—Bright; and third-generation disciples, Wol—Moon.

Standing watch at the main gate that day was Myeongji, a second-generation disciple of Mount Hua.

"Will no one come calling today at all?"

In truth, thanks ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to its punishing location, visitors had always been few at Mount Hua. Perhaps the ancestors who planted their sect atop the peak of one of the Five Great Mountains had never intended to receive guests in the first place.

But as the generations passed and the sect swelled in size, visitors inevitably began to make their way up the mountain. Not every Daoist, after all, lived off the land in hermit's seclusion.

As Myeongji stood his tedious watch at the gate, two figures came into view, toiling up the steep and narrow path.

"Ho. Speak of visitors and they appear—two of them, no less."

Myeongji readied himself to receive with full courtesy anyone bold enough to visit this treacherous mountain, but as the pair drew nearer, something strange caught his eye.

"Their attire..."

The young martial artist ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was properly and respectably dressed. The woman, however—look however he liked, ponder however he might—was, beyond a shadow of doubt, a gisaeng.

"What in the world..."

Any disciple of a great orthodox sect who failed to feel a stab of displeasure at the sight deserved not to bear the name.

A gisaeng, here, in this sacred Daoist sanctuary? Surely that young man was not about to present himself at the sect with a courtesan on his arm. What deeper contempt for Mount Hua could a visitor possibly display?

By the time the two reached the gate, Myeongji's brows had drawn tight.

One thing, though, took ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him aback: both of them were breathing with perfect evenness. Even first-rate warriors usually ended up gasping somewhere along this brutal climb, yet neither of them showed a trace of it.

The swordsman was one matter, but the gisaeng, too, seemed to possess astonishing stamina.

None of that, however, was the issue at hand.

"Greetings. This humble Daoist is Myeongji, a second-generation disciple of Mount Hua. Might I ask what brings you to visit our sect?"

That his etiquette never wavered by a hair's breadth even while his mood curdled was proof enough of why Mount Hua was counted among the Nine Great Sects.

To her mild surprise, no remark came about her clothes; smothering giggles at the thought of holding this over Cho Jayun later, Soyul said nothing, and Cho Jayun answered for the two of them with scrupulous politeness.

"Ah, I am Cho Jayun of the Jinsong Sect. I have come to request an audience with your Sect Leader."

"An audience with the Sect Leader... for what purpose?"

Myeongji naturally knew of the Jinsong Sect. Modest in scale it might be, but who could fail to know the distinguished house that had produced the Jinsong Sword Emperor?

But Mount Hua's own Sect Leader was likewise a supreme master of the Transformation Realm.

Had the Jinsong Sword Emperor himself come calling, that would have been one thing. For this man—who looked a good five or six years his junior—to declare, cool as you please, that he had come to see the eldest of elders, their Sect Leader? Doubt could not help but rise in Myeongji's eyes.

That doubt lived only a moment. At Cho Jayun's answer, delivered with a gesture toward the gisaeng, Myeongji's hand went to the sword at his hip and drew.

"What did you say?!"

Shing—!

The draw that followed his shout was so smooth one could not begin to count the ten thousand repetitions behind it—the very image of a great sect's disciple. And yet even beholding this junior's splendid skill, Cho Jayun could not summon so much as an approving smile.

The tip of that sword was leveled at his own throat.

"Ah—no. Why, why are you suddenly—?"

"Look at this—this shameless degenerate! You thought you could spew such filth—offering a gisaeng up to our Sect Leader!—and walk away unscathed? Does Mount Hua amuse you so greatly?!"

"...Heh. It's not—that is... haha."

Myeongji's words made Cho Jayun realize precisely what he had misspoken, and he could only laugh hollowly. But the eyes glaring back at him—the eyes of a man watching Cho Jayun smear, no, having already smeared, the honor of a Sect Leader whom Cho Jayun himself held to be the equal of heaven—held nothing but fury.

"You laugh?"

And at that bellow rolling out from the front gate, Mount Hua's disciples came sweeping in on lightfoot technique, one after another.

"Myeongji, what goes on here?"

"What's happened?"

"And who are these guests?"

With half a dozen disciples crowding to Myeongji's side and the air turning distinctly strange, Cho Jayun buried his face in his hands and groaned out his lament.

"Th-this... this is exactly why I told you to change clothes."

"Gyahahaha! This is hilarious, Jayun! No, really—you should have watched your words!"

And so Soyul laughed, clutching her belly, laughing until she all but doubled over.