Chapter 47
Chapter 47
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 47
Chapter Title: Returner IV
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New Noah
"What business? What are you talking about?"
"Heh heh. This lord has it all figured out. Just watch, brother."
The Sword Marquis suddenly strode out of the rest area.
I, the Undertaker, if I were the type to stay put just because someone told me to, I would've quit being a regressor ages ago. Naturally, I followed after him. The old man merely glanced at me once but didn't try to stop me.
The Sword Marquis, who had been utterly hopeless with directions before climbing Mount Hua, now navigated the mountain paths with expert ease, as if a navigation app had been installed and updated in his brain.
I was just thinking I should ask where the hell we were going when the Sword Marquis suddenly squatted down.
"......?"
At first, I thought he was just tired from climbing and taking a break. But that was wrong.
He was pulling something out of his pocket. I leaned in close and peeked. What he took out was a seed. It must have been the pouch of seeds he'd cherished ever since leaving Ulleungdo.
He planted that seed into the soil in a crevice between rocks.
"......?"
A question mark hook popped up in my head. What the actual fuck was he doing?
"Brother. What exactly are you doing right now? Explain it to your little brother here."
"Heh heh. Rebuilding."
"Rebuilding?"
"Or restoration. If we want to add a poetic touch, you could call it regression."
Rebuilding. Restoration. Regression.
It was a string of utterly incomprehensible words.
But in response to my question, the Sword Marquis just chuckled and stroked his beard, refusing to give a straight answer. That only pissed me off more, so I stuck to him like glue.
Unfortunately, there was no payoff to my persistence. The Sword Marquis just kept repeating the same thing: climbing the mountain paths, planting seeds, covering the sparse soil in the rocky terrain, and tenderly patting the mounds of dirt with his wrinkled palms.
The next day. And the day after that. On and on.
No, seriously, what the hell was he doing?
'He's even walking really well!'
What got me was this: when crossing the Central Plains, he'd relied on my back nonstop, but now that we were on Mount Hua, his energy was overflowing as he scampered up the mountain like a pro. Was this old geezer pretending to be weak all this time?
'No way he was fooling me...?'
Climbing up and down the rocky slopes with that frail old body couldn't have been easy. Yet the Sword Marquis was out from dawn till dusk without rest.
He didn't even complain of muscle pain. It was like he was a car and Mount Hua's air was gasoline—he buzzed around relentlessly.
Just in case, I tried sitting cross-legged and meditating like in those cultivation novels, but whether it was Seoul's Gangnam air or Mount Hua's, my scientific experiment yielded only one result: no mystical ether properties.
-Grrrrroooar!
"Oh god, brother! Help me! The vile Demonic Cult's monster is after the Mount Hua Sect Leader!"
Plus, no matter how I looked at it, it didn't seem like 'weakling cosplay.' The Sword Marquis was genuinely 100% frail. He couldn't even handle a wild boar-sized yokai and kept running to me.
It was like his stats had maxed stamina at 99 but left martial prowess at a measly 10—the extremes were wild.
"This is so weird......"
In the end, I had no choice but to trail him as his bodyguard.
A while later, even that got annoying, so I just wiped out every monster seed around Mount Hua.
While I was at it, I roamed the Chang'an and Guanzhong region—what would be Shaanxi Province in modern terms—hunting down anomalies. Thanks to that, people showered me with food and clothes in gratitude.
One week. Two weeks. Three weeks.
Around the time I started getting called "[Mount Hua Daoist]" by the Guanzhong locals—a nickname bordering on black comedy.
Sprouts emerged from every spot where the Sword Marquis had planted seeds. Their growth rate was insanely fast. It had to be the ability that turned him into an S-rank Awakener, aptly named [Plant Growth], at work.
"What kind of sprouts are these?"
I muttered to myself. Asking the Sword Marquis would've been pointless anyway—he never gave straight answers.
For starters—they weren't grass or flowers, but definitely 'trees.' But my encyclopedic knowledge stopped there.
I've got plenty of regressor mileage, so I know most plants on sight, but I wasn't some botany expert who could ID seedlings that tiny down to the species.
"Hey. What the hell are you?"
No answer from the sprouts, naturally.
Late summer passed.
The Sword Marquis's odd behavior continued through early autumn and into winter.
Snow blanketed Mount Hua's ink-black rocks in pristine white. In this ruined world, winter seemed to officiate the funeral of all life. Like an aged undertaker, winter conducted the world's burial rites quietly and smoothly under veils of snow.
Winter's touch was cold yet gentle. Life and civilization bowed their heads silently to its gaze. Rumors swirled on the wind that a million civilians in Guanzhong had been buried in snowdrifts in a mere fortnight.
My monster-hunting range expanded too, from Shaanxi to Henan Province.
'Tutorial Dungeons' weren't just a Korean phenomenon—they popped up worldwide—but of all places, a top-tier one had to spawn in some Yongyangjin in Henan.
And to top it off, Daoist cultist terrorists got tangled in it, turning everything apocalyptic.
What could I do? Had to help.
...Back when the 108th regression started, this cycle was supposed to be a vacation. Somehow, I ended up working even at the resort. Was this workaholism?
As an excuse, I did have business in Henan anyway. The head of an Awakener guild called 'Baekhwa' on the Korean Peninsula was based nearby.
I got some good intel on that. More on that in a later episode.
Anyway.
Spring.
While all life bowed to winter's snowy gaze, only the sprouts tended by the Sword Marquis stood tall and defiant. The lives touched by his hands knew no seasons, ignored the climate, and grew even through wind and frost.
By the time the snow stopped, the tiny seedlings from those modest seeds had grown to my waist height. The trees bid winter farewell a bit earlier than the world and welcomed spring a touch sooner.
Their way of greeting the seasons was to paint the world red.
"Ah."
Seeing that redness, I finally knew their name.
Plum blossoms.
"......"
The old man was planting plum blossoms on Mount Hua.
7
Lingering snow still crunched underfoot, keeping Mount Hua's rocks white.
On the plate-like white rock surfaces, plum blossoms delicately plated themselves, half red and half pink.
This massive mountain served as the platter, and a single shabby old man was the chef planting crimson dishes in every color and shade.
"Now we can take cuttings."
The old man's shadow burrowed into the mountain's shadow. With each deeper step, the snow-capped peaks bled red streams into the valleys.
With familiar gestures, he snapped off young branches from the plum trees. Then he replanted them between rocks, in the winding depths of valleys, in the scant soil. Amid the harsh crags, the plums spread like moss—but red moss.
"......"
After that, I curbed my outings and spent more time with the Sword Marquis.
Mount Hua's terrain was treacherous. Even with my stamina suddenly turning infinite after arriving, the gaps and voids were tough for the old man's frail legs to cross. I gladly lent him my back.
Crossing cliffs, he planted trees.
First spring, plum blossoms bloomed near the rest area.
The next year, a red cluster dyed West Peak.
The giant was immense. His dying time—and thus the blooming of his lifeblood—was agonizingly slow compared to human lifespans.
The Sword Marquis orchestrated the giant's time. He dictated its death and how it died. Even nature's law of living in spring and dying in winter was denied by him.
The giant's spilled blood flowed over three years from Golden Lock Pass to North Peak. His wounds veered to Central Peak over four years. Then the next year, they surged to East Peak. Every flow of death and life followed his footsteps and was sealed by his handprints.
Year 6 of ascending the mountain.
"......"
I stood on the roof of a pavilion on South Peak, looking down.
The world was full of plum blossoms.
Mount Hua was a flower mountain.
Along every sliding ridge of rock, red and white blossoms shyly intertwined. The plum trees' jet-black trunks propped chins boredly on the stones. The giant finally held its breath, and before that majestic death of crimson blood, one could only swallow hard.
Thus, without metaphor or simile, without interpretation or explanation.
Plum blossoms bloomed on Mount Hua.
"It's done."
One human had turned a proposition into truth.
A single proposition took one old man's six years and one regressor's centuries to bloom.
And that proposition was beautiful.
"Now it's complete."
It was a day free of mist.
When fog settled on Mount Hua, the rocks vanished. The fog lived and moved. Only vivid red blossoms barely poked heads above the opaque surface.
I lifted my head from sleep too.
The rest area where we'd handled most meals and lodging over the past six years.
The Sword Marquis was gone.
"Brother?"
When no one caught the word "brother," I already sensed something. Without even washing my face, I bolted up and chased his trail.
The old man had climbed to the top of South Peak, far beyond the sea of fog.
And I saw the unbelievable. At first, I thought he was rowing an oar atop the rocks. The fog was that thick beneath his feet.
But no one rows on a mountaintop. Looking closer, he wasn't wielding an oar—it was a sword. A wooden practice sword.
The old man was dancing the sword dance.
"......"
It was sword dance because it was embroidered with sword strokes. It was sword mist because the mountain's fog twisted and swirled with every blade swing. The wooden sword's blunt edge seemed to command all the fog on the peak, just as his wrinkled hands had once reddened the giant to death.
The old man swung the world's fog like his sleeve.
In that moment, I knew I'd never forget this scene.
"......"
Rustle.
Somewhere, a faint sound of snow sliding echoed.
Had the Sword Marquis stepped on snow? Maybe. The world was shrouded in fog, hard to discern ahead. Only sounds and scents touched my skin sharply.
In the fog, blossoms chattered, breathlessly exhaling plum fragrance to the heavens. Or perhaps—maybe, just maybe—the scent bloomed from the old man's sword tip.
Wind blew. Endless waves of fog engulfed the entire peak.
"Brother?"
The fog ebbed and flowed slower than the waves.
White rocks and red plums revealed themselves again.
But no sign of the Sword Marquis.
"Brother!"
No reply came back.
Only echoes of brother-brother-brother.
Even those soon drowned in the blossoms' chattering fragrance.
"......"
Suddenly, the world went still.
From Mount Hua, swept by white fog, only plum scent drifted and spread for ten thousand li.
8
Should I call this an epilogue?
One rather strange story remains.
After the Sword Marquis vanished, I naturally set out to find him. But I failed.
If he'd slipped on the mountain and fallen to his death, there should've been a body somewhere. Even if beasts ate it, traces would remain. Yet no matter how I searched Mount Hua, nothing.
An utterly absurd disappearance.
'...No way he really ascended as an immortal?'
The thought crossed my mind briefly.
But impossible. The Sword Marquis was just an old man who'd never trained in martial arts. If he'd truly reached the Transcendent Realm as he claimed, I would've noticed. We'd spent six years together, and I'd carried him on my back for over sixty days?
Later, back on the Korean Peninsula, I even secured documents. The Sword Marquis was undoubtedly, without doubt, a Korean born on Ulleungdo.
But locals from his neighborhood didn't remember him clearly.
"Ah, that grandpa?"
"I'd see him around sometimes. What? He'd been in the neighborhood decades ago too? Not sure about that far back...."
"He'd be there, then gone, seen then not."
Anyway, he was Ulleungdo-born. Certificates and records proved it.
If he was truly the next Mount Hua Sect Leader who'd finally become an immortal and ascended—too many things needed explaining.
First, born on Ulleungdo, he'd have to cross to China by age 15 at latest. Become the personal disciple of the Mount Hua Sect Leader as a child.
He was mid-60s when he vanished. Before coming to China with me, he testified that Mount Hua Sect was raided by the Heavenly Demon 45 years ago.
At the Demonic Cult's attack, he should've still been the 'personal disciple of the Mount Hua Sect Leader.' Meaning by 15 at latest, he'd borne the sect's expectations as heir apparent.... Possible?
What odds would a miracle like that require?
How did a Korean kid from Ulleungdo end up at China's Mount Hua Sect in the first place?
And Mount Hua Sect—straight out of wuxia novels—existing in reality? I'd never even heard of it as a regressor. Let alone Heavenly Demon? Demonic Cult?
A ridiculous hypothesis. Utter nonsense, not worth considering. I rationally discarded the 'Sword Marquis = Mount Hua Sect Leader' theory.
But later, past the 200th regression, something bizarre happened.
"Elder."
"Hm?"
"Sorry, but could you spare some food if you have any?"
This was in Incheon's Chinatown, with the Sword Marquis.
The guy calling us 'elder' and asking for food was Chinese. He approached casually, probably mistaking the white-bearded Sword Marquis for a compatriot.
"Ah—"
As travel in the 108th cycle revealed, only I spoke Chinese. I scrambled to reply before the old man weirded out the vibe and embarrassed the guy.
That's when it happened.
"Of course."
Before I could open my mouth, fluent Chinese came from beside me.
I whipped my head around in shock. There was the Sword Marquis, casually responding to the young man in Chinese.
"This lord has little on him now, but how could I refuse a wayfarer's modest request?"
"Pardon? This lord?"
"I'd just bought some dumplings over there to take back. Not much, but take these to tide you over."
"Ah.... Thank you, elder! I'll never forget this kindness!"
"......"
My jaw dropped and stayed there.
My shock lingered until the Chinese youth walked off with his veggie dumplings, out of sight. Finally regaining my senses, I grabbed the Sword Marquis's bony shoulder.
"No, Sword Marquis. Hold on. Just hold on."
"Hm?"
"Sword Marquis, you speak Chinese?"
He blinked.
"Chinese? What are you on about?"
"What? You just spoke Chinese! To that guy earlier!"
"No idea what you mean."
He blinked innocently, face saying he truly didn't know.
"Why the sudden fuss, Undertaker? This lord said nothing, just handed over the dumplings."
"No. Wait. No."
As if I'd fall for that crap.
I dragged him around Chinatown, searching high and low.
But the youth was gone, and trying to chat with other Chinese folks yielded nothing.
The Sword Marquis frustratingly yelled, seemingly unable to understand Chinese at all.
"Hah! Just because this lord lacks language skills, the young disciple torments me so! True heroes know no borders. My realm towers above all, even if words fail me!"
"......"
In the end, not a single Chinese word from his mouth. His face showed no lie.
What a ghostly affair.
Even now, I can't be sure if the Sword Marquis truly ascended as an immortal beyond Mount Hua's fog, flawlessly chatted with that Chinese guy in Incheon Chinatown, or if it was all my hallucination and auditory illusion.
I learned just one thing.
The jianghu is full of extraordinary eccentrics.
- Returner. End.