Kidnappers (2)
When I came to after blacking out from the shock, I realized the whole situation had been a misunderstanding. These guys weren't kidnappers. They were real monks. For real.
In the meantime.
"Senior Brother, try some of this. I ground it up nice and fine so it should be easy to swallow—I made it into porridge. The spring greens are in season, so it's extra flavorful."
The young novice monk smiled brightly as he scooped up a spoonful of porridge from the bowl and fed it to me.
"Ah... uh..."
I pretended to resist but ate it anyway. Delicious. Who knew porridge made from grass could taste this good? Though it would've been even better with some kimchi... No, that's not the point!
With just the kid here, now was the time to double-check things.
"Wonmyeong."
"Yes, Senior Brother?"
I called out after chewing and swallowing a mouthful, and the novice flashed a grin in response.
"So, this is Shaolin?"
"Senior Brother, why are you acting like this?"
Wonmyeong's eyes welled up as he spoke, and I gave a wry smile. Why do you think? Put yourself in my shoes. Me, living in the 21st century, suddenly waking up in Shaolin inside the body of some kid named Jin Yeo-rip? You think that's easy to believe? Anyone else would've lost their mind by now.
"The abbot said there's nothing seriously wrong with your head, but you really don't remember anything?"
The novice Wonmyeong wiped the porridge from my mouth, his face full of worry.
Oh, I remember everything crystal clear. Clearer than ever. How my parents died, how I'd survived as an orphan with no backing—it's all right there. The problem is, it's not the memories you want.
So, I'll play dumb until I figure out exactly what's going on.
"It's okay, Senior Brother. You'll remember soon! As for me, the abbot told me to take good care of you, so that's what I'm doing. Plus, I got to skip dawn prayers because of it—score!"
Wonmyeong grinned mischievously and offered another spoonful. As I ate and listened, the situation started coming into focus.
I'd somehow dropped into the wuxia world I'd only read about in stories. In other words, possession. Whether it was an accident or suicide, this Jin Yeo-rip guy had fallen off a cliff called Repentance Cave, and when he woke up, it was me inside.
...What the hell kind of plot logic is that? I couldn't tell if it was real, a dream, or what, but that was the deal.
"So, who am I, then?"
"You're a disciple of Shaolin."
"Huh?"
"Um, or maybe the son of Cheongeumbang?"
"Cheongeumbang?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"That's all I know?"
"Huh?"
"Well, from what I heard, you were abandoned at Shaolin's gates at age two, just like me, and raised here?"
"Ah..."
I was an idiot for expecting more from a ten-year-old.
"Oh! Right! Do you remember when we snuck to the stream behind the mountain to catch frogs and got in trouble?"
Like hell I do.
"Or when you peed during dawn prayers..."
"Wonmyeong."
"Yes?"
"Never mind that."
Why bring up stuff like that...
"Oh, and I heard your family from your main house is coming soon."
"Main house? Cheongeumbang?"
"Yeah, they said they're picking you up next month?"
"Really?"
"That's what I heard. Don't know the details. Whoops, time for sutra study. Rest up, Senior Brother. Don't lie down right away—it's bad for digestion if you do before it settles."
"Yeah. Thanks."
Wonmyeong cleared the bowl, gave a cheerful wave, and left. Alone now in the quiet infirmary thick with the scent of herbs, all sorts of thoughts flooded my mind.
I glanced over and saw the statue of the Medicine Buddha, the one who heals the illnesses of sentient beings, smiling down at me—the one who banishes calamity and extends life.
"...Why are you doing this to me? Telling me to live longer?"
I muttered under my breath, frustration bubbling up. What else could explain it?
Maybe he pitied my early death at thirty and gave me another shot. But why? I'm not even Buddhist. I'd only visited temples a few times in my tours.
Ah, wait—did I carve my name on that prayer tablet at the temple, begging to be saved after my terminal diagnosis?
I let out a hollow chuckle. No real meaning behind it.
"There must be... some reason, right?"
I asked, knowing no answer would come.
Whatever the purpose, my past self was probably dead. I'd drifted off painlessly on heavy painkillers, courtesy of the doctors. That's just how it felt.
Slowly, the panic faded into acceptance. It wasn't something I could rationalize anyway, and fighting it would've driven me insane.
I sorted through my thoughts amid the turmoil and soon reached a conclusion. I couldn't say why I'd accepted it so easily—maybe because I'd become someone else, or because I truly felt my old self was gone.
Either way, I was alive now. A life in the wuxia world I'd never imagined, but if this was my second chance, I'd cherish it.
Like Zhuangzi's dream of the butterfly. If I had to dream, whether I was the butterfly or Jin Yeo-rip didn't matter—I'd live this new life fully.
Even if it was a dream, I didn't know how to wake up.
A second life. Isn't adaptability one of the greatest gifts gods give humans? Screw it, let's live. With everything I've got.
A few days later, before dawn in the pitch-black early morning, Beomgang woke Jin Yeo-rip.
"Yeo-rip."
"Yes?"
Why the hell are you smiling like that? Something good happen?
Jin Yeo-rip, still too weak to sit up, turned his head to look at Beomgang.
"The elders' council has made its decision."
"A decision?"
"Indeed."
"What do you mean?"
As Jin Yeo-rip stared in confusion, Beomgang rummaged through his robes and pulled out a wooden vial.
"This is..."
"Xiaohuan Dan."
"Xiaohuan Dan?"
"Yes."
Beomgang smiled and explained. Xiaohuan Dan—Shaolin's secret elixir, divided into Dahuan Dan and Xiaohuan Dan. The Dahuan Dan, refined over nine cycles of a full month each in the cauldron with rare herbs, required perfect timing and rarely succeeded—even Shaolin produced only one every few generations. But the milder Xiaohuan Dan came out at least once per generation.
"It's no match for Dahuan Dan, but still a miraculous pill. A cripple can walk again after taking it, and someone at death's door can gain at least a year of life."
"...Pardon?"
Hold up—that sounds like a cure-all. What is this, some cult? Shaolin's a scam?
"We can't give our sect's treasures lightly, but after deep deliberation with the elders, the head abbot decided it would aid your injuries. Consider it Shaolin's final gift before you return home soon."
Beomgang carefully opened the vial and, since Jin Yeo-rip couldn't move with his splints, placed the pill directly in his mouth.
Wait, hold on! I didn't say I'd take it...
He tried to push it out with his tongue, but the pill melted smoothly on contact and slid down his throat.
"Ahem. There we go."
Confirming it was swallowed, Beomgang nodded with a smile and prodded a few points on Jin Yeo-rip's body.
"All set. You haven't learned any meditation techniques, so no need for guided circulation. I've opened a few acupoints to let it absorb naturally."
Beomgang beamed in satisfaction, but Jin Yeo-rip could only panic inwardly.
I just accepted this world!
Ding!Ding!
Then, distant bell tolls echoed repeatedly.
"Oh, has it gotten this late already?"
"......"
"I must lead dawn prayers, so I'll take my leave. The Xiaohuan Dan will seep in properly—just sleep deeply, and when you wake, its vital energy will heal your wounds on its own."
Beomgang tucked in Jin Yeo-rip's hand with a kind smile.
"Ah, w-wait... damn... it..."
Jin Yeo-rip tried to speak, but overwhelming drowsiness forced his eyes shut.
As Beomgang donned his prayer robes, he glanced at the now-sleeping boy.
Dawn prayers were attended by all Shaolin monks except the guards. The infirmary would empty, but what trouble could arise? Non-vessels are not taught. He wasn't fated for the Buddha's path, so he'd never learned Shaolin's inner arts. The Xiaohuan Dan would simply heal his wounds and bless him with a long, healthy life.
"Amitabha."
With a quiet chant, Beomgang left for prayers. In the darkened infirmary remained only Jin Yeo-rip, sleeping like the dead.
How much time passed?
"Ughhh..."
A burning heat jolted Jin Yeo-rip awake. The fever intensified until it felt like his body was ablaze.
"Ugh..."
Unable to endure the dizziness and pain, he gritted his teeth and tried to move.
The culprit? Beomgang and his damn Xiaohuan Dan. That "miracle cure" was trying to roast him alive! Forget elixirs—what if he died like this? Even after dying once before, he couldn't go again. Chills ran through him amid the heat.
But no sound came out. The inferno clogged his throat; all he managed were groans.
Door... the door...
He strained against the splints, but movement was impossible.
Wonmyeong...
"...?!"
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his pounding head.
Help me. Anyone... please... save me.
Like his past life's desperate pleas after the terminal diagnosis, Jin Yeo-rip begged with all his might. But the words died at his jaw.
Then—BAM!—a hammer blow cracked through his mind.
When the Primordial Gate manifests, the paths in and out open. Forget the hundred meridians, and the wheel of truth turns on its own.
"Urk!"
Skull-splitting agony hit. Amid the ringing, fragmented memories from various moments flooded in at once.
What the—
"Ugh."
The pain didn't stop. Like an axe repeatedly cleaving his skull, his splinted limbs trembled violently.
Drip. Nosebleed. It poured endlessly, as if something shattered inside, splattering grotesquely on the floor—but his vision blurred.
As consciousness faded, visions raced through: lonely, desolate memories of the boy Jin Yeo-rip, abandoned at Shaolin's gate and raised by monks.
Years passed in hope his parents would return, until he turned sixteen. And that day—the day of possession.
He heard a voice calling from the abyss-like Repentance Cave. A hallucination, perhaps, or eerie winds stirring heart demons in the weary boy.
Entranced, he leaped—crashing into rocks, trees on the cliff...
He hit bottom. That's when he saw it: glowing eyes in the darkness.
How tragic. Why answer the call at the brink of death as little more than a half-corpse? So unjust... yet I must pass it on. May heaven's fortune revive you.
When enough inner energy builds to hear my voice again, these memories will awaken naturally. Etch them deep—the fastest path I've devised after long thought. Achieve it swiftly and claim your revenge.
Fear not. Though you're in Shaolin, without operation, the energy seeps into your three meridians, hiding its flow. Even the monks won't know what you've learned.
It's the Xiaohuan Dan. Left alone, its energy would've blended naturally—but it awakened another set of latent memories.
The voice, thick with grudge, repeated relentlessly, as if branding his mind.
When the Primordial Gate manifests, the paths in and out open. Forget the hundred meridians, and the wheel of truth turns on its own. Find the flow in the vortex; when beginning and end appear, bloom. Circular flow without cease...
"Ughhh..."
Jin Yeo-rip vomited not just blood from his nose, but black ichor rising from his throat.
The eerie voice droned on like an endless incantation, offering no aid.
After an eternity, it faded.
The jumbled memories aligned like a lantern show, flowing to an end.
The boy's final breath.
"Gah!"
Jin Yeo-rip blacked out.
His thrashing body went limp as a corpse.
More time passed.
How to describe the changes within? A faint tremor rippled through Jin Yeo-rip's body. The Xiaohuan Dan's energy, melted into him, flowed with his blood, seeped into his channels, then converged slowly like iron to lodestone—pulsing acupoints, gathering in his dantian.
Starting rice-grain sized, it grew plump and firm like a plum. His ragged breaths steadied.
His face relaxed into the peace of a sleeping child.
Then the clustered energy dispersed through his body, vanishing—just as it had first absorbed.
As if hiding even from that one...