Reviving the Dead Lion, Reviving the Dead Root (7)
Before heading to Yodong Castle, home of the Moyong family, most travelers along the main road would pass through one particular city. Beijing. The capital of the nation. Murim warriors rarely lingered in Beijing, the domain of the imperial palace. Even the Habuk Paeng Clan, which had established its roots nearby, built their vast estate on the outskirts of the sprawling region, careful not to encroach directly on the palace grounds—what could truly be called "official" territory.
But lately, droves of Murim folk had been streaming in and out of the area around Beijing, putting the city on high alert from every angle. Hadn't the Murim Alliance Leader himself passed through just recently? If the gathering of so many Murim warriors demanded scrutiny from the state on multiple fronts—well, in truth, there was something even more pressing that had the imperial court, and indeed all of Beijing, on edge.
The hero of Murim—no, the hero of the nation, Moyong Cheon. The people mourned deeply upon hearing that his precious only daughter was on death's doorstep with a terminal illness, and the palace had offered solemn condolences with the utmost ceremony. In fact, Beijing was gearing up for war. Not against foreign invaders or rebels, but a war of sorts against the Murim world itself.
"If the Sword Saint leaves the Moyong estate in grief over his daughter's loss, we must secure him in the palace!"
"Should he wish to abandon the secular world for the mountains, it would shake the Murim power structure to its core—we must prepare for the ensuing chaos!"
Countering large-scale disruptions from Murim was no different from preparing for a full-scale national war. And it had to be this way. Right up until the Cheonma fell twenty years ago, even the slightest incident in Murim could split mountains, reverse rivers, destroy roads, and cripple administration or bring it to a standstill. The so-called "bandits of the green forests" were the worst offenders.
Murim outlaws hid in places beyond the court's reach, setting up mountain strongholds and preying on passing Murim travelers with plunder and endless incidents. One might ask what the court had been doing about it—but to be fair, the authorities had been purging bandits, green forest or otherwise.
"Argh! The officials are untouchable!! The officials are untouchable!!"
When bandits screamed about the untouchability of officials, the court dispatched peerless martial experts who snapped their arms and severed their heads. Yet bandits still overflowed across the Central Plains—not just because the land was vast and their numbers legion, but above all, because even bandits knew the code of official untouchability and never crossed that line.
The taxpayers were the common folk. And so, the bandits began paying taxes. Sounds insane, right? But they carved roads through the mountains and collected tolls, which they duly submitted as taxes.
"Wait, there are bandits on the mountain paths—why not eradicate them?"
"Because those green forest bastards punched through the mountains with their own fists."
"Ah."
"It's an unofficial toll road the court didn't build. Gotta pay up."
"Well, if that's the case..."
They even provided palanquins for ordinary merchants or locals, charging for transport and using lightness skill to whisk them through swiftly. Paths opened up across the mountains, and as long as casualties weren't catastrophic, the officials stayed hands-off. The taxes and kickbacks from these green forest groups flowing through local magistrates were quite lucrative, after all.
Thus, the court had always dealt with Murim forces with a certain leniency. Not because they couldn't control them, but because the taxes from those "masters" with their fancy nicknames and titles were enormous. Imagine a renowned figure with a title branded a tax evader? The shame would be unbearable, so most orthodox sects paid rates akin to merchant caravans or noble houses to sustain their schools and clans.
The court wasn't incapable of controlling Murim. Financially, militarily, or even through the raw might displayed in martial arts, they could suppress it. They simply weighed the pointless budget drain, manpower waste, and the post-war reconstruction costs of all-out conflict—and decided it was better to leave them be.
If there was one they couldn't control, it was a single man: the nation's hero, Sword Saint Moyong Cheon. Should he ever come to Beijing, the entire garrison would assemble for a triumphant general's parade. It had to be done. Only then could they impose even a semblance of human control over the existence known as the Sword Saint.
And so, the imperial house had always kept a close eye on Murim movements—year after year. Not solely because a Murim faction inside the palace had rebelled and allied with the Magyo decades ago, but because a stable Murim was essential for moderate governance.
Which brought us here. One of the court's martial enforcers stood at Beijing's southern gate, gazing long into the distance beyond the walls. Some might see it as vigilance, others as scouting a distant foe—but the woman in black martial robes embroidered with a golden bird, [Intangible Sword] Yeocheong, was simply watching the endless carriages heading south from Beijing toward Yodong along the main road.
"Spying on carriages bound for the Moyong estate from the walls again, Imperial First Sword?"
"...Taehwan-gong."
The white-haired elder called Taehwan-gong stepped up beside her. Despite his age, he cut a robust figure, though his attire marked him as a eunuch.
"Head in and rest. It doesn't matter who's heading to the Moyong estate anymore."
"......"
"In the end, only three matter. The Sword Saint. His daughter. And the physician who cured her. Bring those three to Beijing, and the imperial prestige will soar even higher."
"You plan to draw Murim folk into the court? Officially?"
"What's impossible about it? You and I, martial artists who donned official robes—we become Murim wanderers the moment we shed them."
Taehwan-gong drew a white fan from his sleeve and snapped it open grandly.
"What defines a Murim man isn't the label—it's whether you serve yourself or others. When that service to others means drawing a salary as a cog in the national bureaucracy, we call you an official."
"Sounds like you're saying those who cast off formalities and live freely are Murim folk, Taehwan-gong."
"Strength and freedom aren't proportional. Look at the Sword Saint. Wherever he stands becomes the center of the Central Plains, and wherever his sword swings forces court and Murim alike to face a common foe."
"......"
"So this old man wishes the Sword Saint would enter the palace."
"I disagree."
"Hm?"
"We shouldn't target the Sword Saint—we should go after his daughter... no, his son-in-law."
"That physician?"
Taehwan-gong tilted his head.
"Why?"
"The Sword Saint moves for his daughter, and she moves for her husband."
"A walking bomb with Godok in his heart, ready to erupt at any moment—into the court?"
"Control it so it doesn't blow. And if it tries, cut it down before it turns Beijing to ash."
Yeocheong pointed alternately at her waist and Taehwan-gong's.
"Physician Dragon Seok Mu Wol. Embracing him is the simplest, swiftest path for the court to dominate Murim and crush any uprising they might stir."
"I see. So that's why you've been pushing to recruit that physician."
"Yes."
"Very well. I won't press further. But..."
"But?"
"Don't expect too much. You're young enough already—rejuvenating further won't mean much."
"...I'll take that as a compliment, but that's not it."
Yeocheong straightened sternly, and Taehwan-gong shrugged, raising both hands.
"Fine, fine. I half-thought you'd heard the Sword Empress rampaged back to her twenties with rejuvenation and were about to storm the Moyong estate yourself."
"And you wouldn't?"
"Me? Haha, child. What reason would I have to frolic like the Sword Empress? I'm content with my age. Gracefully old, you might say."
"If it meant restoring your manhood instead of mere rejuvenation, you'd be pounding on the Moyong estate's front gate right now, not Beijing's."
"That's..."
Taehwan-gong gazed skyward with a faint smile.
"Impossible."
"......"
"A severed root doesn't return. Gu-eum Jeolmok can be cured, but something cut away and lost decades ago? No medicine mends that. It's not an illness. It's just... gone."
Taehwan-gong's eyes began to glisten faintly.
"No matter how desperately you wish, some things won't happen. We call dwelling on them delusion."
"......"
"And delusion... is empty fantasy. Thoughts that can never come true."
Taehwan-gong wiped his eyes with his sleeve, then shook his head firmly.
"Love's power might heal a lover's Jeolmok Jeong, but it can't restore a lost root."
And here, at the Habuk Paeng Clan. In its deepest sanctum, the residence of Supreme Clan Head Dohwang.
"Restore my lost root...?"
Dohwang crumpled the letter delivered by swift messenger pigeon.
"This bastard dares deceive me!!"
The lost does not return.
"Not content with treating me like a bald-headed fool, he claims he can cure it? Don't make me laugh!!"
That's common sense. Defy it, and it becomes a miracle.
And miracles don't happen to just anyone.