3. A Filthy Beggar Wench, Ain't She

As Yul Sogang turned the ring over this way and that, marveling at it, Taeul continued.

"It is called the Illusion Ring. A tool that makes those who look upon you mistake you for someone else — well suited to your present circumstances, I should say."

So that was what he meant: the Cult's pursuers would take her for someone other than Yul Sogang.

She did have her doubts. Having already transformed into a woman's body, she hardly expected the pursuit team to recognize her face regardless.

But then she recalled Taeul's claim that he had glimpsed the secrets of heaven, and nodded. So that was how it was, then.

"Thank you."

Yul Sogang bowed her head.

"You have been feeling immortal qi of late, haven't you?"

"By immortal qi, do you mean... the auspicious energy that has been welling up from around my heart?"

"That is the one."

"Ah. So that is what it is called. I hadn't known. I don't even understand why I can suddenly use it."

"In time, you will. But you must at least learn how to wield it. Now, listen well to the formula I am about to speak."

"Yes."

And so Taeul passed the inscrutable formula on to Yul Sogang three times over, and Soyul committed every word of it to memory. Watching her recite the long formula after only three hearings, Taeul could not help but marvel.

"Whatever shape you take, you are remarkable. Truly."

"That is only because you explained it so well. Thank you."

"This heart method is called the Myeongjin Simgyeong."

"Understood, Lord Immortal."

"An immortal, you say?"

"If you could teach me a heart method that wields immortal qi, how could Elder Taeul be anything but an immortal?"

"Hmhm. Not necessarily so. You wield immortal qi yourself, yet you are no immortal, are you?"

"Ah. True enough."

Watching Yul Sogang nod along, Taeul added one more thing.

"And you should change your name as well. How does Kang Soyul strike you?"

"Kang Soyul?"

"Yes. Yul Sogang sounds too much like a man's name, doesn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it? I should think Kang Soyul would suit you better."

It was a halfhearted bit of naming that did nothing more than flip her name backward, but Yul Sogang — no, Kang Soyul — beamed and offered her thanks.

The old man was kindly enough for now, but the knowledge that he was a master who could thrash her black and blue the moment something displeased him coaxed out every last shred of the courtesy she kept buried deep in her heart.

"I see. I haven't been called by any name of late, so it hadn't even occurred to me. Thank you."

"Well then, I shall take my leave."

"I'm sorry?"

At this utterly abrupt declaration of parting, Kang Soyul echoed back in mild bewilderment. She had been treading carefully around the man, true — he was an unsettling presence — but his intentions were simply unreadable.

Appearing out of nowhere, handing over gift after gift, and now simply leaving?

Is he testing me?

Unable to fathom the old man's purpose, Yul Sogang opened her mouth with care.

"There is still plenty of venison left. If it does not suit your taste, I will prepare something else. To see you leave in such a hurry without so much as a meal... it does not sit right with me."

"I shall eat next time we meet."

"But—"

Taeul smiled faintly and gave his hand a light wave. The instant she tried to add something more, her vision went dark, and Soyul's eyes snapped open.

She was standing in the clearing she had beaten out of the forest — her training ground.

She had been eating venison with the old man Taeul in the cave just moments ago, and yet somehow she now stood alone at the training ground.

Soyul tilted her head back, gazed at the sky, and murmured.

"No. I didn't move."

In the cave it had been evening; now it was afternoon — the hour when her training would only just be ending.

It felt like a dream, and yet it had been far too vivid for that.

Besides, the ring sat on her right ring finger, and the formula of the Myeongjin Simgyeong remained crisp in her mind.

"Gone, is he?"

The old man's presence ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had already vanished from her surroundings, but Soyul scanned the area carefully all the same.

Only when she was certain he was truly gone did she murmur, very quietly.

Cold sweat had somehow already begun to slide down her back.

"A frightening old man. So much so that I couldn't see the bottom of him. I should pack up and leave this place too. Who knows when he might come looking for me again."

Help was help, but with masters, the stronger they were, the more unfathomable their moods tended to be.

And so, haunted by the thought that the old man might change his mind, seek her out again, and do her harm, Soyul hurriedly gathered her belongings —

all the while feeling, bone-deep, that above every sky there was yet another sky.

And so, fleeing the deep mountains as though they were on fire and setting her course for Gansu, the very first humans Soyul met on the road were bandits.

It could hardly have been otherwise. Public order in the chaotic Central Plains was a complete shambles; even near the great cities, the moment one strayed from the official roads, bandits swarmed like maggots through dark, rotting earth.

And there was no chance in the world that bandits would leave alone a delicate young woman walking unescorted down a remote mountain road far from any great city.

To simply let her pass would be dereliction of duty — the kind that would tarnish bandit honor(?) itself.

Yet when it came right down to it, even those bandits, upon spotting Soyul trudging wearily along the road alone, deliberated long and hard over whether to pounce at all.

The reason was simple.

"Tch, hell. However I look at her, she's jist a filthy beggar wench with nothin' on her worth takin'."

As one bandit spat and grumbled, the one beside him chimed in, pinching his nose.

"Ugh, boss, look at the state of those clothes. You call that somethin' a person wears? Even a beast would shake its head at rags like that."

A year of training in the mountains without a proper wash or a single change of clothes had left Soyul radiating a sour, sickening stench from every inch of her body.

Her clothes, hardly more than rags, glistened and dripped with blackened sweat grease like old oil.

Her wild hair had matted into something like a bird's nest, and her face and limbs were caked in so much dust that even her natural skin tone was impossible to guess at.

Come to think of it, perhaps it was because Soyul looked like this that old Taeul had left in such a hurry.

"No, wait. You never know. A mad bitch might be carryin' somethin' unexpected. If she's got nothin', we let her go, that's all. You punks. Skippin' this job, passin' on that one — when exactly are we supposed to do business, huh? What, you've been eatin' too well? You little bastards."

So spoke the man who appeared to be the bandit chief, his eyes glinting.

Wild-haired and every inch a beggar she might be, but even through all that filth, Soyul's eyes alone gleamed as bright and alive as stars in the night sky.

Nothing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ailed her anywhere, either, so there was no room for doubt that her beast-sharp hearing was in perfect working order.

What was more, Soyul was a master of the Hwagyeong realm — one of perhaps no more than twenty in the whole of the martial world. However much that ragtag band of bandits believed themselves to be whispering, their filthy voices struck her ears as clearly as thunder.

"Crazy bitch? Dirty? These bastards..."

In that instant, Soyul's brow creased. Being called dirty she could have endured. But crazy?

The next moment, Soyul's figure seemed to vanish like the wind — and then, like a ghost, she was standing right before the noses of the bandits hiding in the brush.

"Urk—!"

The beggar woman who had been trundling peacefully down the road mere moments ago had vanished in the blink of an eye, only to reappear before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them in a hair-raising apparition — and the bandit band recoiled, scared out of their wits.

Seven parts in ten of their fright came from the shock and awe of a supreme martial art unleashed so suddenly that no human eye could hope to follow it.

The remaining three parts came from the revulsion of confronting her filth at suffocating range — which was, if anything, worse than they had imagined.

"Mmph... ughh..."

Among the bandits who, without quite realizing it, had clamped their noses shut and stumbled backward, one man alone prostrated himself flat on the ground with perfect composure.

It was Yang Guwol, chief of the bandit band.

Guwol — September — for he had indeed been born in the ninth month, just as his name said.

As expected, the chief really was a different breed.

Where his underlings had retreated, beaten back by the stench, he had recognized at a single glance the martial arts of a tremendous master who vanished and reappeared like a mirage — and slammed his forehead to the dirt without a moment's hesitation.

It was enough to draw an admiring click of the tongue: so that's the kind of instinct it takes to make a living as a bandit in this treacherous jianghu.

"F-forgive us... we didn't recognize a great one when we saw you..."

Even flat on the ground, however, one hand remained clamped firmly over his nose, so the words that mumbled out through his fingers were endlessly comical.

"Hey."

Soyul's single cold word fell.

"Y-yes..."

"Do I really look that dirty to you? Do I smell? Because I don't smell a thing."

Yang Guwol spent a moment wondering what bizarre technique this woman might have trained that had ruined her nose — then, feeling cold sweat trickling down his spine, he pondered how to answer in a way that would let him keep his life, and finally forced a smiling face and lied.

"Ah... it's not all that bad, truly. One good bath and I reckon you'll be right as rain, ma'am. Heh heh."

His laughter scraped awkwardly across the air.

"So you're saying I do smell, then?"

At the sharp rejoinder from the young woman master — who looked very considerably displeased — beads of cold sweat swelled thicker on Yang Guwol's forehead.

Naturally, there was no one under heaven who enjoyed being told to their face that they stank.

Fucking hell. Should've just said she didn't smell from the start.

But try as he might, how was he supposed to keep a straight face and breezily claim she didn't smell, faced with a stench that ghastly — like something crawled straight up out of hell?

Unable to bring himself to answer, Yang Guwol lay prostrate and stifled — and Soyul spoke.

"Tsk. I have to meet people, so if I smell, I wash. Guide the way. Ah — and find me some decent clothes while you're at it."

"Wh-where to... did you say... guide you...?"

Yang Guwol asked in the same nasal mumble, and Soyul answered as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Where else? Your place. You have a home, don't you? Or is it not a home? A stockade, you call it? What, you don't want to?"

In truth, if the bandits said no, Soyul had every intention of shrugging it off and heading down to the nearest village instead.

But Yang Guwol had no way of knowing her innocent intentions. Seized by the dread that if he clumsily dug his heels in here, his head and his men's heads might go rolling off together before morning—

"Y-yes... yes... as for the clothes... shall I p-prepare them to your... your taste...?" he asked, lowering himself even further.

"Anything. Whatever will fit me. Ah — and one more thing. Pinch your nose at me one more time, and I'll start by tearing that hand of yours off at the wrist."

"H-hup! Yes!! My apologies!"

Yang Guwol jolted, snatched his hand away from his nose, and scrambled upright. At the sight, the other bandits, as if on cue, swiftly removed their hands from their noses as well.

Nobody wanted their precious hand torn off, after all.

The stockade stood not far from where they had been hiding.

Following a taut-with-nerves Yang Guwol along the winding mountain path for a good half hour, they arrived — and the bandit chief bowed and scraped once more.

"We have arrived."

"This is home?"

"It is... humble. My apologies."

Inside a low palisade of roughly woven timber, five or so small log cabins huddled together like mushrooms.

Haunted by the anxious thought that she might find fault with the place or make some unreasonable demand, Yang Guwol could not help stealing nervous glances at the master.

But the places Soyul had lived for the past year had been cold mountain roadsides and damp caves — by her standards, this was practically a royal palace, and she was thoroughly satisfied.

"Not bad at all. Living well for yourselves, aren't we? You must have been working very hard at your banditry."

At the 'kind' souls who had handed over so fine a home to her, respectful speech slipped out of her, unbidden and perfectly natural.

"N-no, ma'am! This was truly not built with plunder! It was built before the plundering — that is to say, in preparation for the plundering we are going to do — so not a single coin of stolen money went into it, I swear it! We raised every beam ourselves, with our own sweat!"

At the words working hard at your banditry, Yang Guwol waved his hands frantically and scrambled to explain.

"Oh. Then let's just call it talent."

Bandits, after all, belonged to the Unorthodox path too.

Not that Yang Guwol could have known it, but the Demonic Cult — the very root of Soyul's being — was an organization that could be called the pinnacle of the Unorthodox path, and so she felt not the slightest aversion to the act of banditry itself.

"Ah, this is the life."

Following the bandits, Soyul took bold possession of their small, humble haven on the mountainside and sank her body into a great wooden tub, steam rising from it in curls.

The warm water seemed to melt the tension out of her entire body.

The truth was that the bandits had never bothered hauling water all the way home to bathe; at best they gave themselves a cursory rinse in a nearby stream.

But there was no refusing Soyul's stern decree: I will bathe. Bring me hot water.

And so the poor bandits had scattered into parties for the day — one to haul water, one to light fires and heat the bathwater, one to carry the heavy tubs, and one to forage firewood to keep the furnace fed without a moment's rest.

Thus, as Soyul scrubbed herself raw and scraped off long-absent grime inside a warm wooden tub filled with the blood, sweat, and tears of the bandits, a sinister voice reached her ears.

"If we jumped her right now... couldn't we win?"