That Familiar Taste - 1
It had been three days since the hundreds of thousands of souls bestowed upon me their peak realm essence—no, their gift—and then departed. In those three days, the Chaozhou branch office drafted a rite to soothe the departed. With the final ceremony, they burned the document and scattered its ashes to the sky. Now, with no ties left binding the spirits to this world, they would wander the nine heavens no more, free from suffering.
"Thanks to you, my lord, my horizons have broadened. I've wandered the Central Plains and seen much, but this is the first time I've witnessed a memorial stele trapping souls."
"If you hadn't told me to suppress yin with yang, those spirits would still be bound to that stele. Thank you for the good advice."
"You're too kind, my lord. I merely spoke of basic yin-yang principles. It was your mercy that soothed and freed them."
And so, Yo Gwang-hyo, who had witnessed the ghost uproar and the soul liberation out of nowhere, expressed his gratitude for the novel experience. He even said it might lead to enlightenment.
He's got all sorts of experiences ahead of him.
I raised the corner of my mouth slightly as I watched Yo Gwang-hyo bow with clasped hands.
With the incident resolved and the branch office catching a breather, I could finally make the request: to escort Yo Gwang-hyo all the way to Kaepyeong.
I'd written him a solid letter of recommendation, so once he arrived, he could dive straight into officialdom. A monk turned bureaucrat—he'd face all sorts of new experiences he'd never dreamed of. The thought that they might spark fresh insights and growth for him brought a smile to my face unbidden.
"Then we'll meet again in Kaepyeong."
"Yes, my lord. I eagerly await the day you arrive."
And with that, I sent the wild Yo Gwang-hyo I'd met in Guangdong off to Kaepyeong, pledging to cross paths again someday.
Or rather, no need for such grand words as "someday." Once I finished inspecting the entire Yangguang region, I'd head back to Kaepyeong too. By the time Yo Gwang-hyo settled into bureaucratic life, we'd meet again.
I wonder which department he'll start in.
Yo Gwang-hyo had the talent and ambition to serve as the Emperor's advisor. Backed by a recommendation from a wangson like me, he'd surely make his mark. I was already looking forward to seeing whose eye he'd catch and how far he'd rise.
Please keep climbing the ranks and take some of my workload...
"Time for us to go too. We've lingered in Chaozhou longer than planned."
I turned away from Yo Gwang-hyo's leisurely retreating figure.
Chaozhou marked the eastern edge of Guangdong—the gateway to Yangguang, essentially. Even skimming Yangguang only, it wasn't some neighborhood lot; overdoing the leisure could spell trouble.
"Where to next, my lord?"
"Gwangju."
I answered Jo Wi-cheo's question without a second thought.
Gwangju: Guangdong's heart, its trade hub. Inspect Guangdong, and you inspect Gwangju. Control Guangdong, and you control Gwangju. Its influence was that immense. No wonder "Yangguang"'s "Gwang" derived from it.
...What if ghosts are rampaging there too?
A sudden unease filled my chest.
Near Gwangju lay Aishan, site of the Southern Song's final battle. There, the Emperor and countless officials and soldiers had met their ends—a tragedy dwarfing Chaozhou's. If ghosts were to appear anywhere, Aishan and Gwangju made far more sense.
...It'll be fine.
I pushed the anxiety down.
Aishan wasn't just any place; the Baekryeon Cult Leader held rites there yearly. No families or friends of the dead remained like in Chaozhou, but as Daesong's successor to the Southern Song, the state honored Aishan's fallen as national heroes, tending them with utmost care. Even the Emperor who perished there was treated as a Daesong predecessor.
With rites so meticulously by-the-book, Aishan and Gwangju should be peaceful. I had to believe it.
Please.
If not, I'd be in deep trouble. Even as a wangson, striking lightning into Aishan would earn me a royal tongue-lashing. Huangzu or wangzu, wreaking havoc in a national mausoleum where a predecessor lay was an unforgivable outrage for anyone.
- Buooo?
"Ah."
I hugged Buong-i tighter without thinking, and he turned to look at me, honking as if asking what was wrong.
"Sorry. Got lost in thought for a sec."
- Buo~
I stroked his head, and Buong-i honked softly, sniffing contentedly, as if to say he was fine.
I'm counting on you.
I smiled faintly at him.
When the inn swarmed with Chaozhou's spirits, among my three spirit beasts, Buong-i had shone brightest. His "buo-buo" cries at the ghosts were all it took, but he showed the most affinity for them.
So I trusted he'd protect me in Gwangju and Aishan too. Best case, the Cult Leader's rites kept spirits away entirely—but just in case.
Unlike Chaozhou, Gwangju had escaped the Mongols' bloody reprisals. Conquered only after Aishan's fall, its people lacked both cause and means to resist. With the Emperor dead and the nation fallen, what point in fighting among themselves? Resistance needs reason to endure.
Thus, Gwangju fell smoothly. The Mongols who seized it opted for indirect rule via Central Plains locals—too distant and ill-suited in climate for northern nomads to govern directly.
That choice spared Gwangju Aishan's horrors, letting it prosper reasonably.
Whoa.
And prosper it had—with teeming masses.
Where crowds gather, one thing inevitably follows.
Parakho everywhere.
Murim factions born of profit-chasing or drifting in from outside. Thugs with swords packed the streets.
Regrettably, population and murim density correlated perfectly across the Central Plains—a proven fact.
Gwangju's boom meant murim overflow was natural.
But after recent sagas—two kings' great demon hunts, bandit purges, New Haomun's revival—seeing plain old murim folk felt oddly off. Like spotting summer trash you'd forgotten to dump.
Guangdong's murim needs discipline too.
I clicked my tongue inwardly, sorting my thoughts.
Zhejiang had Dong-gu Wang and Bota Gate holding firm; Fujian crushed sects via bandit purges and shows of force. Guangdong? Only Seongbul activities so far—no spicy lessons for murim yet.
Dilemma. What stunt here would make them tuck tail and crawl?
With numbers like these, something flashy—set 'em ablaze spectacularly.
...Observe for now.
Irresponsible? Maybe, but no better play. Five people together, one's trash. This many murim? Trouble's brewing, and one spark lets you slap on laws and smash a couple sects easy.
So wait. Breathing in Gwangju would roll in merits and excuses on their own.
Gwangju: land of opportunity. Where murim could breathe, live like people—a glorious haven.
Far, far from Emperor's Kaepyeong. As Daesong's southern fringe, official scrutiny was lighter.
And Guangdong folk rivaled any in the realm. Fewer people, and officials would've clamped murim tight—but masses overwhelmed control.
Crowning it: Guangdong and Guangxi's ring of mountains. Hard access from outside, lax control within. That's Gwangju.
Stick to lines, live envy-free.
In Gwangju, boundaries mattered. Chase gains short of official notice—or even if spotted, below reprisal threshold—and thrive like local powers.
Hyperbole: relive pre-official-invincibility glory.
Knowing this, new murim sects sprouted, outsiders flooded in. Smarts and savvy beat anywhere.
But glory draws idiots. Effort-blind, glory-chasers always blunder.
"How dare you eye our turf!? Rip your eyes out!?"
"You outsider punks got no claim! This area's under our protection!"
Idiots.
I sipped baijiu, eyeing the inn's bickering gangs.
Broad daylight, civilians watching, murim yelling turf claims. Begging officials to haul 'em off.
Sure, big sects skimming inns, brothels, dens was tacit—but only if undetected. And they showed "gratitude" proportional.
Here? No gratitude—just bellowing "I'm taxing this joint!" Innkeeper's gut must be churning. Pay to fend off rival noise, but the taxman's the noisemaker.
Crowds let even morons earn.
More watching, and I'd dumb down too—I turned aw—
"You bastard!"
A shout, dish shattering.
Crazies.
Words to fists now. Unfathomable, unappealing—I quietly nursed my cup.
Not my business. No ties to those lunatics. Just unlucky same-inn diners.
"See? Wait it out, pretext forms."
"For real..."
Ignoring, mid-meal, voices drifted from the entrance—a man and woman.
Ah.
Spotting them, I rose stealthily.
Ten years in Gwangju honed my eye: threat or harmless at a glance.
Get noticed, you're fucked.
That pair—especially the man—was to evade at all costs now. One slip, mistaken for their crew, dragged in.
My instincts screamed it.