That's Just How the World Works

After leaving Volume Two of Nangahyeopjeon at Kang's bookstore, Sanwol felt as heavy as lead.

It was no figure of speech. His body swayed as though he might collapse at any second, weighed down by the sheer mass of the sacks clutched in his hands.

When Old Man Kang first handed them over, Sanwol's instincts told him they weighed dozens of gwan. In the modern units he was accustomed to, one gwan was roughly 3.75 kilograms. Dozens of gwan, therefore, amounted to well over a hundred kilograms.

A sixteen-year-old boy was trudging along, groaning under that staggering load—one massive sack in each hand.

Where is the bank? Where the hell is the bank?

Under normal circumstances, Sanwol would have tucked any money pouch deep inside his robes. Now, however, he was marching down the main thoroughfare in plain sight, one sack in each hand, clinking like a walking treasury ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with every agonizing step.

It wasn't because his cautious nature had changed. Ordinary folks couldn't even budge these sacks, and even a martial artist in the Peak Realm had to circulate internal qi just to haul them around. In other words, even if an expert of the Transcendent Realm showed up, snatching this kind of weight and making a clean getaway was near impossible. If anyone wanted to steal it, they were welcome to try.

"Oh! Captain, what are you doing out here?"

"Y-You... Perfect timing."

Sanwol dropped into informal speech without even realizing it. Carrying this mountain of copper was a chore that even a stark raving lunatic wouldn't volunteer for. As he dragged his feet toward the bank to deposit the coins, a familiar face had caught his eye: his coworker from the escort agency, a warrior named Han Seochul.

"Hold this. Channel your qi first, or your spine's going to snap."

"Huh? Ah, right!"

Sanwol's lips twitched as he shoved one of the sacks forward. Han Seochul sensed impending doom, but unable to refuse a request from the elder brother he privately regarded as his captain, he accepted the load.

And then—Khhk!

What in the heavens had been stuffed inside to make it this heavy? Confronted with a crushing weight he had never experienced in his life, Seochul gritted his teeth and strained with every fiber of his being just to keep the sack off the cobblestones.

"Big Brother... I don't think this is right."

"The hell it isn't. We're hauling this to the bank."

"Did I screw up during the escort run to Anhui Province? Just say the word and I'll drop and bang my head on the dirt, just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠please spare my life!"

Han Seochul was in his mid-twenties, a mid-stage Second-rate warrior. Naturally, both his qi control and total output were pitiful compared to Sanwol's. Even with qi bolstering his physical strength, the crushing sensation bearing down on his body hardly lessened.

"Forget banging your head. Keep moving before I break it open myself."

"Honestly, taking a beating and limping home sounds like a bargain right about now."

He wasn't joking; he meant every word. Reaching the bank would take at least another tea's drinking time. Taking a single smack to the skull and nursing a bruise on the way home seemed infinitely more economical.

Of course, Sanwol had zero intention of letting such prime labor slip away. And so, muttering a non-stop stream of curses under their breath, the two trudged down the avenue.

A route that should have taken one tea's time dragged out to more than two under the sheer weight of the sacks. After an eternity of suffering, they finally arrived at the bank, only to find several dozen people waiting in line.

"Captain, what do we do about that?"

"...Follow me. I'll take care of it."

"Captain?"

For a brief second, Han Seochul caught Sanwol's gaze—unfocused and hollow. His gut told him he ought to stop him, but truthfully, he was far too desperate to drop this cursed sack and get out of here. Shoulder to shoulder, the two marched straight toward the bank teller's counter.

The people ahead turned around, scowls ready to flay whatever shameless peasant had dared to cut the line. And then, almost in unison, every single one of them coughed dryly and averted their eyes.

They had no other choice. Two strapping men were glaring at the teller counter as if it were their sworn mortal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enemy. Sweat cascaded from them in torrents, accompanied by a wave of stifling heat that radiated off their bodies. Worse, the one who looked like a mere boy was practically billowing with shimmering golden true qi.

"H-How may we... be of service today...?"

Flustered out of his wits, the teller trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. Neither Sanwol nor Han Seochul cared in the slightest. All they did was heave the burlap sacks that had been crushing their spines onto the wooden counter.

THUD!

A deafening, thunderous rattle shook the hall, startling everyone within earshot.

"It's dozens of gwan. Deposit every last coin."

"M-May I have your name, please?"

"Dokgo Sanwol. Dokgo Sanwol of Mukhwi Escort Agency."

The moment he gave his name, the hall fell dead silent. Not out of fear or wrongdoing, but from pure, unadulterated astonishment. Recalling the familiar scene from Muban Inn the night before, Sanwol silently counted to three in his head.

"Dokgo Sanwol!"

"Nangahyeopjeon!"

Having thrown the entire bank into an uproar, Sanwol barely managed to complete the deposit process. He made a solemn mental note to buy a veiled bamboo hat immediately.

...When on earth am I going to haul the rest?

The greatest horror was that three more sacks were still sitting in the storeroom of Muho Bookstore.

Screeech. With a loud groan of stiff hinges, the door shut. Stepping over the threshold into his home, Sanwol let out a deep sigh and collapsed onto the floor.

"I'm dying..."

He meant it. Having endured a day far more grueling than cultivating internal qi or refining sword stances, Sanwol untied his bundle. He took off the bamboo hat with the concealing veil—purchased at the market to hide his face the entire walk home—and set it on the floor.

The bulk of the bundle consisted of various-sized paintbrushes. Beside them were several packages of seasoned jerky he had bought for snacking, and nestled at the very bottom lay a remarkably thick stack of bank drafts.

At the bank, Sanwol had converted both sacks of copper coins into drafts, cashing out just a small fraction to buy supplies. The mountain of copper had been so vast that the drafts were denominated in silver taels. He had dozens of slips worth ten taels of silver each. Considering one tael of silver was equivalent to a thousand copper coins, he was, quite literally, rolling in filthy wealth.

Staring down at his plump money pouch—or rather, the thick stack of bank drafts—a wide grin spread across Sanwol's face.

Time to move.

Sanwol now held enough wealth for an ordinary family to live in idle luxury for two generations at minimum, and up to five at best. In other words, he had reached an income bracket capable of handling Wuhan's insane real estate prices. And more than half his fortune was still sitting neglected at Kang's bookstore.

The settlement he received totaled five burlap sacks stuffed to the brim with coins. Even after depositing two sacks today, three remained. If he pushed his budget slightly, he could easily purchase a luxury estate in the bustling heart of Wuhan.

And that was just the revenue from Volume One! What if he published Volume Two, Volume Three, Volume Four, and beyond? Forget three generations—his great-great-great-grandchildren would be rolling in clover on a cushion of gold.

"Money is always right..."

Wearing the enraptured expression of someone who had achieved great enlightenment, Sanwol pushed himself up. Unfolding the bedding he had neatly set aside that morning, he prepared for sleep.

First thing when I wake up: submit my resignation to the agency.

What kind of house should I get? Having a courtyard for martial practice would be nice.

Dongpo pork, spiced five-flavor beef... *slurp*. Every famous restaurant in Wuhan is on notice.

As his blissfully runaway stream of consciousness accelerated, Sanwol's eyelids drifted shut. The unseen fatigue of the day had thoroughly drained his stamina, so it was only natural.

Tomorrow's going to be busy too.

With a contented smile, Sanwol sank into a deep, peaceful slumber—completely unaware that Wuhan had been turned upside down yet again.

With the Murim Alliance establishing its headquarters there, Wuhan had become the beating heart of the Central Plains' martial world. And across this densely populated, bustling metropolis, a piece of news began to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spread like wildfire.

From common folk to the rising prodigies of the Murim Alliance, regardless of rank or station, everyone in Wuhan had read it at least once. A work universally acclaimed and passionately adored—the newest installment of the comic by Grand Master Dokgo Sanwol, Nangahyeopjeon, was finally released.

The flames of craze, which had only just begun to die down, erupted into a towering inferno once more. When Volume One debuted, the Nangahyeopjeon fever had swept across Wuhan in a flash. Having flared back to life just as it subsided, one had to wonder if this fire could ever be extinguished at all.

"What about our Dragon and Phoenix Gathering?!"

"Damn it all! What could possibly be so fascinating about a cheap scrap of paper meant for fleeting amusement?!"

The Murim Alliance leadership, who had been hunting for an opportunity to turn public attention toward the Dragon and Phoenix Gathering, screamed in agony and rolled on the floor in despair.

By all rights, everyone in the city should have been buzzing about the tournament by now. It was the premier stage uniting the rising prodigies of the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families, alongside renowned masters from across the Central Plains. That attention was meant to showcase the enduring strength of the Righteous sects and firmly cement the prestige of the Murim Alliance.

And yet! Out of nowhere, bursting forth like a literal comet, some nobody named Dokgo Sanwol had completely ruined their grand design!

Far from captivating the general public, even the prodigies of the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families gathered in Wuhan were blabbing about Nangahyeopjeon. These were the bright hopes of the martial world who should have been measuring their bladecraft and shaping the future of Righteous Murim—not huddled in whispering circles debating plot theories for the next volume of a comic book!

"Alliance Leader! Do you not have some brilliant insight to offer?!"

"At this rate, our Dragon and Phoenix Gathering will end in utter disaster!"

Driven to wit's end, the Murim Alliance elders rushed into the Alliance Leader's office. Geuk Cheonrang, seated at his desk, awkwardly averted his gaze at their sudden intrusion.

Why was the typically bold and peerless hero acting so sheepish? A chill of unease gripped the elders. After exchanging hesitant glances, their eyes followed the direction of Geuk Cheonrang's turned head.

There, resting upon an antique bookshelf, lay an exquisitely wrapped silk cushion. And enshrined upon that cushion with utmost reverence was... Volume One of Nangahyeopjeon...?

"W-Well, you see... The youngsters made such an ungodly racket about it that I simply grew a little curious..."

In the end, the Murim Alliance leadership suffered an instantaneous qi deviation. Instead of coughing up blood, they choked on dry heaves; instead of gore, tears and snot poured down their wailing faces. Caught in an impromptu office raid, only Geuk Cheonrang was left rubbing the back of his neck in acute embarrassment.

Still, it couldn't be helped. Even in the eyes of Geuk Cheonrang—the reigning Number One Under Heaven and Leader of the Murim Alliance—Nangahyeopjeon was thoroughly captivating, with its stunning illustrations and gripping, dramatic narrative.

People simply cannot resist something genuinely entertaining. That was just the way of the world.