Where Murim Collapsed - 1
One of the classic jabs at liberal arts majors goes something like this: "If you want to make use of your degree, go back to ancient Greece." It's the kind of line that makes your teeth grind, but luckily, it's easy enough to fire back. "Even ancient Greece wouldn't take a liberal arts guy, you bastard!"
I vaguely remember yelling that at some enemy disguised as a friend in my previous life. Sure, ancient Greece did have famous philosophers and historians. But they were good at philosophy and history among other things—not just those fields alone. Back then, multiple majors were the baseline for any liberal arts scholar.
So, for a liberal arts student—especially a history major—the one surefire way to fully leverage their expertise is this: regress to the past, possess a body, or reincarnate. Huh, saying it out loud makes it sound like three options instead of one.
"My lady! It's a boy—our son!"
"Hee hee... so it is. A fine son, just like you, my lord."
What the hell.
But when I actually drew the short straw and reincarnated—one of those three—the shock outweighed any joy. Faced with "Live in some barbaric ancient or medieval era to flex your major" versus "Ditch the major and enjoy modern safety, hygiene, and culture," who'd pick the first? What lunatic would?
If gods exist, I'd lodge a fierce complaint. Dying young from a sudden heart attack was bad enough—why send me to the past instead of the future? It's tyranny without consent.
Of course, complaints wouldn't reach any gods, and a newborn grimacing just got its diaper yanked off for a butt check. God, I wanted to die in those moments.
If you can't avoid it, enjoy it.
Still, brainwashing myself into embracing this forced reincarnation life worked out. Fine, since I'm here, let's live it up properly. Thankfully, while not a history buff, I remember which nations rose, who seized power.
Stick by that power player when they're just a sprout, rack up merits—totally doable.
"Our Un-i takes after his father—such a sturdy frame. Perfect for learning martial arts."
That's what I thought until age three.
Martial arts?
The world seemed to freeze. Fine, a father gushing over his three-year-old's build—whatever. But martial arts? No way I could swallow that.
My sweet life plan hinged on this world following real history. If it drifted into alternate history or worse, wuxia, my shallow knowledge turns to trash in an instant.
"These are good times, now that we've driven out those savage Mongols. Work hard, and you can achieve great things."
But his next words eased my mind. Mongols expelled? This world has its own history, then. Yeah, even my past life's wuxia stories were based on the Yuan-Ming transition, historical fiction vibes. Martial arts or not, I can still use history knowledge.
My grand ambitions hadn't crumbled yet—
"So grow strong and become a proud warrior of Great Song."
Ah.
I squeezed my eyes shut at Father's double-drift. Why Song, not Ming? Post-Mongol restoration screams Ming.
Fuck.
The world, just restarting, froze again. My knowledge was already garbage before I was born. Took me three years to realize.
"Waaahhh!"
"U-Un-a!?"
"My lord! What did you do to our Un-i?!"
"N-no, I didn't do anything!"
I couldn't hold back the tears. Mom charged in furious from afar, but at three, my tiny body wouldn't obey. If Mongols once ruled, this wuxia world followed my history's flow—until it veered into Song?
Which bastard jumped the gun and fucked it up...!
Traces of another regressor/possessor/reincarnator, no doubt. That dogshit prick!
"My lord."
"Y-yeah. Speak."
The inspector's voice snapped me from my daze.
Lately, this keeps happening.
Bitter. Not my peaceful central life, but unwanted nationwide tours dredging up that soul-crushing reincarnation memory. No martial arts, no need to roam. Or if it'd been Ming, not Song, no provincial hopping as vice inspector.
Pointless what-ifs, but fatigue sours the mind.
"The Left Censor-in-chief says wrap up here and head to Fujian."
And now my ears are failing too.
"Fujian?"
"Yes."
The inspector nodded calmly at my echo, but my heart wasn't calm.
"Does she even know where we are?"
"Sent a messenger pigeon right on arrival in Shanxi. Unless it got eaten en route, she knows."
His confident reply drew a sigh. So that madwoman's sending us from Shanxi to Fujian.
Coast-to-coast road trip.
North end to south end—my boss did this.
Official luck sucks.
"Ignore this and pretend not to get it, and next it's Yunnan."
"When did I ignore?"
Chilling warning—I downed the wine in my mouth. Touchy guy. I'm a paid Great Song official; I'd never ignore orders. Just thorough prep delayed us.
"Why Fujian, though? Heard it's been quiet."
"Fujian's water bandits are rampaging."
I frowned at the nonsense. Fujian's a frontier by the sea, Taiwan next door—pirate haven. Daily chaos. Locals handle it; no need for us touring inspectors to rush from Shanxi.
"In the process, Dong-gu Wang's ships took damage."
...Except.
"Finish this and let's go."
"Yes."
Founding merit king Dong-gu Wang pissed? I bowed quietly. Odd-numbered fools for parents. Prey or no-go—why touch a king?
Dong-gu Wang.
I chuckled, sipping like soup. Cute name aside, he's Song's southwest titan, maritime trade lord. Founding merit favored by the emperor, Iseongwang despite no royal blood.
Many Iseongwangs from war era, but prestige holds. Treat with respect unless peers.
Didn't wanna meet him.
Tears welled at pirates forcing it. Emperor bows to his age.
"You filthy mutts, how dare you!"
"Invade our turf and yap?!"
Upstairs inn uproar. Shameless brawling, turf talk, punches.
"Parakho here too."
"Yin Ying Sect worst, but dig and you'll find plenty. Frontiers breed 'em."
I tsked, chopsticking dongpo pork. Annoying, but eat and bounce. Extra work wastes time.
"What the."
But ignoring failed—a snapped blade from upstairs stabbed my precious pork.
Fuck what.
No iron topping ordered. Inn surprise event? Return hidden blade for free pork?
Please say yes. Otherwise, pissed.
"M-my l-l-lord, th-that, uh..."
Waiter shook, denying frantically. Enough to know: not inn fun, parakho horror.
"Wi-cheo."
"Yes, my lord."
"Round up those bastards."
Smiled warmly at waiter, ordered Inspector Jo Wi-cheo—wine bowl and all.
"Limbs intact."
"Understood."
Watched him charge upstairs, downed remaining Zhuyeqing. Guyongguan perfect for them. Unlike manpower-short Shanhaiguan, it thrives on crowds.
Parakho to border shield? Promotion.
Not personal revenge. Mercy—new life for harming innocents.
"Waiter."
"Y-yes, my lord!"
"One more dongpo. Report to the office; compensate from those parakho's assets."
He bowed fiercely in thanks.
End times.
Heavy heart. Warriors harm civilians they should protect; central officials mind local hearts over national strategy. Officials solo-carrying the realm, no murim harmony.
How long this nightmare burden?
Won't die in office.
No murim revival? Nation admin-overloads or I burn out. Neither welcome.
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Aaaah! My arm! My arm!"
Screams upstairs; I sighed. If that's average warrior, no murim revival coming.