Chapter 75
As soon as I stepped into my quarters, Yahul held out a towel as if he'd been waiting. When Cheonsan Yeomje arrived, Yahul slipped away. It was obvious he was avoiding any hassle from another discipleship pitch. And the guilt in his eyes as he looked at me was plain as day.
My father glanced at me and Yahul before heading deeper into the room. I turned to Yahul.
"You doing okay?"
"···Trying."
Cheonsan Yeomje had taught Yahul a circulation method to suppress his excess yang energy, along with a prescription. It wouldn't cure his Extreme Yang Body, but it could at least slow the deterioration. Even though it was extending his life, Yahul's face remained grim. Because of me.
He believed Cheonsan Yeomje had shared the method and prescription as a condition for me learning the Golden Crow Hands. Every time I saw that depressed look, I felt terrible.
'It's not like that at all···.'
Whether I learned Golden Crow Hands or not, Cheonsan Yeomje would've taught Yahul anyway. He wouldn't let a rare Extreme Yang Body just die. But it was too late to explain now. I forced a smile, pretending it was fine—never realizing that only made Yahul feel more guilty.
"Patriarch, Cheonsan Yeomje has arrived."
"Show him in."
Namgung Mucheol didn't turn, hands clasped behind his back. Cheonsan Yeomje approached and spoke right behind him.
"Wondered what had you so fixated. Feeling itchy?"
"Would you spar if I am?"
"Sure, if you don't mind me burning you to a crisp."
"Can't have that."
Namgung Mucheol's gaze lingered on a sword atop the display stand.
"The Demonic Cult's been quiet lately."
"Good news, but suspicious."
"Yeah. What the hell are they plotting···."
"You've been off the Alliance Leader seat for ages, and you're still worrying about it?"
Namgung Mucheol shook his head and turned.
"Fancy a stroll?"
He left the room with Cheonsan Yeomje, leaping onto the roof and landing at a two-story pavilion by the lake in just a few steps. Cheonsan Yeomje followed.
"How's Ri-yeon keeping up?"
"···Not bad."
Namgung Mucheol's brows shot up in surprise.
"Not bad? High praise from you."
"Cut the nonsense."
"Thinking of taking her as a disciple?"
"Not an Extreme Yang Body."
"Heard you would've if she were."
"···."
Namgung Mucheol chuckled heartily.
"Good thing the girl's got a place in your household. She's grateful and pure-hearted—beneficial for you too."
"Heh, talking like she's your own granddaughter?"
"Wish she were. Shame."
Cheonsan Yeomje whipped around, glaring.
"I claimed her first. Don't even dream of reaching out."
"Not a disciple, you said?"
"Hmph."
Cheonsan Yeomje snorted and continued.
"Shouldn't you be focused on that girl right now? Word is your grandson's got issues. Can't produce sword qi anymore?"
"Mm."
Namgung Mucheol let out a low groan.
"Can't be. When I first formed sword qi, it's been so long I barely remember. Feels hazy."
They called first manifesting sword qi "surpassing the wall." It meant advancing to the next stage. The initial breakthrough was brutally hard, but no one ever regressed after. Yet Namgung Ryu-cheong had.
He'd formed sword qi once; now was the time to infuse it into a real sword and get accustomed. But he couldn't produce it again. Unheard of.
No need to guess how Namgung Ryu-cheong—who'd never failed at anything—felt.
"Ryu-cheong's troubled too."
Namgung Mucheol's gaze fell on the fluttering white cloth atop the training ground.
A few visits, and the training ground felt familiar. Amid the routine, I spotted changes: a white canopy overhead to block the direct sun.
'Nice! Won't be so blinding.'
Father was sparring guidance with Namgung Ryu-cheong today. Pity Seo Ha-ryeong wasn't here. She'd returned to Suhyangmun shortly after I entered Changgung Pavilion—for Mother's birthday.
'She would've loved this.'
Across the field appeared a face I hadn't seen in ages: Namgung Ryu-cheong. Last met before Changgung Pavilion.
'But why's his face like that?'
He looked gaunt, like he'd starved. Poor complexion, dark circles—clearly sleepless for days. Hiding my shock, I approached.
"Long time no see."
He glanced, nodded curtly. Barely a response. For a second, I wondered if we'd fought at our last parting.
'Nah, we didn't.'
Confident, I tried again.
"Why haven't you visited once? You've been out of Changgung Pavilion a while."
"Our deal was until your hand healed. Why would I visit?"
"Just to see how you're doing. Chat a bit···."
"Why bother?"
"···."
He straightened his sleeve casually, silencing me.
'This jerk··· his chronic illness acting up again?'
I dubbed it "the disease of making the world hate him." Tilting my head, I saw Uncle Namgung Wan and Aide Shim standing back, at a distance. Uncle's face flushed purple with rage; Aide Shim pale. They hadn't spoken loudly, but as experts, they'd heard everything. Faces screaming they wanted to yell but held back.
'Tough having a son who pushes the world away.'
For Uncle's sake, one more try at Ryu-cheong.
"I miss you sometimes. Wanted to see you."
He finally looked up, eyes flickering surprise. I smiled.
"Don't you miss me?"
"···Too busy training."
He scowled, cutting me off. I crossed my arms, staring.
'Weird. Why's he acting so prickly?'
A sudden realization hit.
"Ryu—er, Young Master."
Almost called his name.
"Something bothering you?"
His brow twitched. Bingo.
He got sensitive with worries—usually sword-related.
"···Not your concern."
"Don't push too hard."
That said, I turned to the field's edge.
'Man, he's tricky.'
Our brief time bonded by my injury wasn't enough for true friendship. His sharp attitude stung a little, but no big letdown. I'd never expected easy closeness.
Father, who'd watched it all, asked,
"···You okay?"
I hugged him wordlessly. He patted my back.
Across, Uncle Namgung Wan spoke sternly to Ryu-cheong. Tense vibe, scolding—but Ryu-cheong seemed distracted even then.
'Can he focus on sparring like this?'
Father gripped my shoulders, gently pushing away. Spar time.
"Watch from here."
"Yes."
His robes fluttered as he walked off. I'd heard they'd formally introduced while I was in Changgung Pavilion.
'In the original plot, Father was supposed to take him as disciple around now···.'
No word yet. Lost in thought, their voices carried.
"Heard you can form sword qi. Impressive for your age—no peers match. Let me see. Draw your real sword."
"My enlightenment is lacking; I can't manifest it again."
"Hm?"
What? Father and I stared, baffled.
'That's odd.'
Plenty of time had passed since my palm healed from his sword qi. He couldn't form it again?