Chapter 1
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Left Envoy - While Carrying Bricks
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Is there such a thing as absolute weight?
These bricks I'm hauling would feel light to someone stronger.
To kids, they'd weigh a ton.
"Yeah. Big bro's fine."
The world always sets down its bricks.
Someone has to pick them up.
It'd be nice if the strong ones carried them, but reality doesn't work that way.
It's easier to threaten three weaklings with a clenched fist.
The load falls on the weakest.
Especially the kids.
Kids with no one to protect them.
Kids who never learned how to act spoiled.
Kids without parents.
It lands on us.
That's why we're orphans.
"Big bro, your shoulder's bruised."
"It's okay. It'll heal with some ointment."
It's not a bruise.
A scar from years of labor.
He knew no medicine could fix it, but Jung-seok smiled anyway.
"Here. This month's rent. And the overdue food costs..."
He emptied his pockets, but it still wasn't enough.
Even running deliveries day and night couldn't cover four kids.
"Oppa, I played with Byeol yesterday."
"Bro, we're doing crafts at school tomorrow. I'll make you a toy."
Even after work, Jung-seok couldn't rest.
He balanced the tight ledger and listened to the kids' day.
Lest his siblings forget their joys, he heard every detail.
"Sounds fun. Listen to the teacher, okay?"
After the director died and the orphanage collapsed, nothing remained.
He'd hoped for hidden savings after all the exploitation.
Jung-seok hadn't rested a day since joining.
One day for "living expenses," another for "food."
Once old enough to work, he took every odd job.
No one taught him what unfairness meant, so he couldn't protest.
'That's why it ended like this.'
Jung-seok always pushed his body to the limit.
He knew his joints were failing, but ingrained labor allowed no rest.
He just wished those kids never had to carry bricks.
Even at bedtime, he slapped on pain patches and hunted more work.
No days off.
Like an obsession, he couldn't stop.
And limits come without warning.
One ordinary day, Jung-seok hauled bricks.
Simple site for a five-story building.
Familiar work, done a thousand times.
On a strangely clear-headed day, he dropped them all.
He felt the crushing weight vanish in an instant as he fell.
"Ah."
A short death rattle.
The lightest his shoulders had ever been.
Dark.
The stench of corpses from that special cleanup job.
Iron tang of blood and roars.
Body's numb.
Freezing cold.
"Disciples of Kunlun, show no mercy to the demon spawn!"
"Show these Malco dogs what true demonic path means!"
Unfamiliar words rang in Jung-seok's ears.
'Kunlun? Demonic path?'
The orphanage had exactly three wuxia novels.
Flowing Willow Dawn Chronicle, obscure enough that even adults couldn't find more.
Like reading cereal boxes over meals, he devoured it endlessly from boredom.
'A dream?'
He recalled sleepless nights craving volumes four and beyond.
Donated books somewhere.
Begged the director, but no luck getting sequels.
Read it dozens of times, probably.
Jung-seok didn't want to wake from this languid haze.
"Junior brother! Form the sword array!"
"Yes, senior brother!"
Noisy men wouldn't let him sleep.
Clashing metal snapped him alert.
As haze cleared, suffocating pressure hit.
Trapped somewhere.
Instinctively wriggling, something heavy above shifted.
As he struggled, massive cheers and screams erupted.
Waaaaah—!
"It's the Golden Hand Rakshasa! Retreat! Retre... ack...!"
"Radiant Light Left Envoy is here! Press the attack!"
Thuds like bursting flesh.
Sudden silence amplified his creaks leaking out.
Creeeak, clunk.
"No...! If it comes out... aaagh!"
Nearby man screamed, but Jung-seok just wanted out.
Straining, light appeared—he was almost free.
Strange momentum in his body, then whoosh—the lid flew open.
"Ugh..."
Bright light from above stung his eyes.
When he finally opened them to the sky, a golden-haired woman like a dawn star gazed down.
Veil hid her face, but her height and eye shape screamed stunning beauty.
"Wonder what these Malco scum were hiding. A curious little kid."
Her clear, low voice was pleasing.
She had a natural allure.
The masked man bowed with a chilling tone.
"Left Envoy. Give the order."
He wiped his broadsword with white cloth.
Meaning: order, and he dies.
Fiercely cold eyes.
Only then did Jung-seok grasp this was real.
'What? What is this?'
His body felt off too.
As he scooted back, the woman knelt, offering a hand.
"Child."
Long, pale, pretty hand.
Drenched in someone's blood.
Jung-seok just grabbed it.
Fear? Or mesmerized by her glow?
He collapsed into her arms.
Jung-seok dreamed.
His siblings thriving, his own life unfolding.
The eldest entered college.
The second learned a trade.
The youngest married.
He...
"Urgh..."
Jung-seok's head throbbed like it would split.
He awoke in a vast hall.
Red wood and patterns screamed ancient grandeur.
Like wuxia novel buildings.
The room was eerily silent.
Jung-seok sorted through the pain.
Kunlun disciples?
Demon spawn.
And crucially, Golden Hand Rakshasa...
All familiar terms.
This was that world.
The wuxia novel he'd devoured: Flowing Willow Dawn Chronicle.
Classic transmigration or possession.
Unbelievable, but he was alive and moving when he should've died.
He knew he had to accept it, believable or not.
Most important now...
In modern stories swarming with transmigration, possession, regression.
Just bump into one heroic lead.
That squinting young master from Gold Flower Merchant Group?
The reformed delinquent heir of Azure Sword Sect, solid ally?
Kunlun mentioned, so maybe the protagonist's "that disciple" from Kunlun.
Jung-seok ran through the few male protags and side characters.
Flowing Willow Dawn Chronicle favored women heavily, easy to narrow down.
Problem: no memory of who.
No body memories?
Usually, the original owner's memories flooded back.
Politely explaining the body, or...
Amnesia orphan again?
"Two orphans in a row... Beating the odds."
Stepping down to look around, something felt wrong.
Step?
Light footfall.
Should've thudded with his weight.
Not an adult body.
Voice sounded thin too.
"Wait. Wait. Ah, ah."
Trembling lips spilled a voice light as dew, fragile and unfamiliar.
Arms and legs like chopsticks.
And hair draped over them...
Jung-seok frantically sought a reflective surface.
Rummaging crashed shelves; he snatched a mirror.
The polished surface rippled, revealing not his... her face.
"Ah."
Gently curved eyes.
Plump pink lips, fresh from sleep.
Youthful face, maybe twelve or thirteen.
Fingers to cheek: impossibly soft skin brushed his palm.
A headachingly pretty face.
Where'd that thick neck go? A slender line barely linked face to body.
Straight shoulders, budding chest.
Waist thin as hands could grasp, hips curving down.
Thighs in an especially soft line.
"A girl."
A girl.
"A girl."
And a beauty.
Orphan,
beauty,
young.
"Ah."
What did that mean?
Brothel.
Prostitution.
Whore.
The three great calamities for women in the jianghu.
"Kid, fuck...!"
A sound echoed in Jung-seok's ears.
The one he'd heard endlessly in his past life.
The sound of life going to hell.