The Eastern Seven and the Western Nine
Though the Asura Demon Sect was called the enemy of the Central Plains, when one looked closely, their true foes were only the Nine Great Sects and the Daoist temples and Buddhist monasteries clustered around them. Even the Seven Great Clans, also counted among the orthodox factions, bore no grudges deep enough to warrant mention. In a way, it was only natural. Spread a map of the Central Plains and the pattern became clear: the Nine Great Sects were all gathered in the old heartland where Shaanxi, Henan, and Hubei met—Mount Hua, Mount Zhongnan, the Shaolin Temple, the Wudang Sect, and the Beggars’ Union. The Seven Great Clans, by contrast, stretched evenly north of the Yangtze from the Tang Clan in Sichuan to the Moyong Clan in Liaoning. If one sought regions where they held undisputed sway, it was Anhui, Shandong, and Liaoning—places free of the other thirty-six factions of the Central Plains. Thus, when people spoke of the balance of power in the martial world, they said the Nine Great Sects ruled the west and the Seven Great Clans the east.
To this were added the Eight Demonic Sects, who preferred the south where the court’s gaze rarely reached, and the Seven Secular Sects, who favored the convenient trade routes along the Yangtze because their fortunes rested on commerce. The result was a simple division: the Nine Great Sects in the west, the Seven Great Clans in the east, the Eight Demonic Sects in the south, and the Seven Secular Sects in the center.
The Heavenly Demon’s mountain stood in the far west of the Central Plains. Anyone trying to enter the heartland from Lanzhou had no choice but to pass through Chang’an into Shaanxi unless they wished to cross the rugged ranges that ringed Sichuan. Thus the Nine Great Sects and the Demonic Cult were fated to meet. And once they met, neither side could simply continue on its way. The great clans and martial halls cared little whether a tenant farmer or merchant prayed to the Primordial Heavenly Worthy, declared the gods already dead, or claimed the Dao itself had long since perished. But to the Daoist temples and Buddhist monasteries, such matters were everything. That was why, across two centuries of great wars between the orthodox and demonic factions, thousands upon thousands had died—yet the vast majority of those dead had been disciples of the Nine Great Sects. To Yeom Ho-yun, a daughter of the Guizhou Yeom Clan whose history among the Eight Demonic Sects was still short, the Demonic Cult was no enemy at all.
And if they were not enemies, then what harm could there be in accepting the Heavenly Demon’s goodwill and taking a single fortuitous opportunity? Yeom Ho-yun persuaded herself.
“Oh, well done. You have quite the talent for this.”
“Huff… thank you.”
As she exhaled and released the tension from her body, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Every muscle seemed to shrink like a deflating balloon. Any internal-energy technique that tempered the body—her own clan’s Heart-Forging Steel-Tendon Art included—produced a similar sensation when the power was withdrawn, but this case was different. Before she had released her energy, the Heavenly Demon’s crown had barely reached her navel. Now it rose to the level of her chest. The body truly followed the mind; it was astonishing. The Shaolin Temple’s Muscle-Tendon Changing Classic was said to be the root and pinnacle of all such arts, yet she could not bring herself to think this technique was any lesser.
Yeom Ho-yun asked, “What is the name of this art?”
“Does the name matter?”
“Of course not, but…”
A divine technique of this caliber surely deserved a fitting name. If none existed or would be given, she resolved to name it herself once she reached the appropriate realm. It was an ambitious plan for someone who had only just taken her first step after seven days and nights of training.
As though reading her thoughts, the Heavenly Demon chuckled. “When I first learned it, I was told it was called the Body That Transcends Heaven’s Imitation. What I learned then and what I use now are quite different, and what you will use will be different again. If you need a proper name, make one up as you go.”
“…Understood.”
“Ughhh…”
Having finished speaking, the Heavenly Demon lifted the arm that had been pressing against Yeom Ho-yun’s back and stretched. The limb crackled and twisted into shapes no ordinary human arm should assume.
“It’s been a while since I performed Muscle-and-Meridian Manipulation. My shoulder’s killing me. Hey, when you make it big someday, don’t pretend you don’t know me, all right? These days people are stingy; not many hand out favors like this for free.”
“Of course. After receiving such a great kindness, how could I possibly do that?”
Because a special form of Muscle-and-Meridian Manipulation was apparently required to enter the technique, she had received it four times over the past week. Such specialized manipulations were delicate and complex regardless of the practitioner’s skill, and therefore troublesome. In truth, Yeom Ho-yun was still dazed. When a technique of this caliber was involved, it was customary to trumpet its name for prestige while keeping its contents tightly hidden. Even within great sects, such arts were rarely taught to ordinary disciples and were instead passed only to a handful of heirs. Yeom Tae, the Great Cannon of the Yeom Clan, had always mocked such miserly behavior, yet even he would never have imagined someone freely teaching a divine art—complete with direct guidance during practice—to an outsider who was not even a disciple of the sect.
When the Heavenly Demon had first asked if she wished to learn, the prospect of receiving even a single pointer from an Absolute Master had been too tempting to refuse. Besides, if the Heavenly Demon had wanted her dead, there were countless easier ways. So she had accepted without much thought. Now that the opportunity was in her hands, however, she could not help wondering about the motive behind it—yet she was also afraid to ask.
“It’s just… I wonder if my abilities are sufficient to ever repay this debt in full.”
Yeom Ho-yun spoke carefully. The Heavenly Demon answered lightly, “Did I ever say I was lending you the technique?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m fairly certain I said I would teach it to you. At my age, I ought to be able to trust my own memory. If I did say ‘lend,’ I’ll correct that now. I’m giving you this art. The same way one tosses a coin to a beggar on the roadside. There’s no need to repay it. How would you even repay it if I asked? By squeezing the technique back out of your body like tea leaves?”
Yeom Ho-yun’s mind was too tangled to explain that repaying a debt of gratitude was not the same as returning the technique itself. The Heavenly Demon continued.
“You’re free to imagine I have some hidden scheme, but don’t voice it in front of me. I don’t like that sort of talk.”
“Then you truly mean to give it without expectation?”
Yeom Ho-yun stopped mid-sentence, realizing only then that the question might offend. Yet the Heavenly Demon merely smiled.
“Yes. I’m giving it because I like you. Whether you feel grateful enough to do something in return is up to you. Who knows—perhaps one day I’ll be dying of thirst in the middle of the Gobi and you’ll happen to walk past carrying a waterskin. Since it isn’t a debt, don’t keep a tally. Even if I survive thanks to you, I won’t be keeping score and rushing to hand you water the next time you’re dying of thirst. That’s something we’ll only know when the moment comes.”
The moment the words left the Heavenly Demon’s mouth, hands were clasped behind the head and the body was flung onto the bed. Watching the figure stretch out on a bed that was not even theirs, Yeom Ho-yun found it increasingly difficult to tell whether this person was simply kind, simply mad, or simply wished to be thought of as one or the other.
While she was still lost in that thought, the Heavenly Demon murmured with eyes closed, “Ah, lying down makes me sleepy. Tell the Tang girl that her plan to sneak a message home has been found out. And tell her I won’t scold her—anyone would be frightened in her place. I won’t be eating dinner…”
Two years and a little more ago, when Bae Do-pyeong had transferred to the Henan Academy, he had been happier than at any point in recent memory. Not that working at Jipmudang had been unpleasant. The institute’s name now resounded across the entire Central Plains. More than ten years had passed since the Top 108 Masters list it published each year had become the undisputed standard for the top one hundred experts, and the imperial army and Wugeuk Castle had been seeking its training advice for roughly as long. Within the martial world, at least, a scholar of Jipmudang was treated no less respectfully than a Hanlin scholar.
Yet the higher the institute’s prestige rose, the narrower its gates became. Securing a position there, and rising within it, grew more difficult by the day. As a boy Bae Do-pyeong had dreamed of becoming a great master after reading martial novels, but when his body proved unsuitable he had abandoned the idea and entered Jipmudang instead, resolving to become a scholar of the martial path. Even when he was praised by the head of Jipmudang for his research on Living Jiangshi and promoted to full scholar, Bae Do-pyeong had still believed himself a brilliant talent and the world his ally. That belief had lasted exactly two years.
His confidence, already worn thin by rubbing shoulders with the Jeje during lectures, had vanished completely by the time a thirteen-year-old girl who had become a scholar half a year after him rose to Jeje in only a year and a half.
Jipmudang’s martial scholars were divided into three ranks: Dohak, those who had not yet become scholars; Haksa, those who could attend lectures; and Jeje, those who could set the topics. When Bae Do-pyeong realized he would remain a Haksa for life and never become a Jeje, the emptiness of his existence had felt crushing. The offer from the Henan Academy had come at a moment when he was desperate to escape. Money was enough so long as it was not lacking, and while the academy had its own assistant and deputy scholars, no one would ever rank the head scholar of the Henan Academy above a Jipmudang scholar. He had simply wanted never to see Gyeon Yo or Jipmudang again.
Now, however, he could confidently say that deciding to come to the Henan Academy had been the best choice of his life. Working under a superior who recognized his worth and alongside subordinates brimming with respect and enthusiasm, Bae Do-pyeong had produced dazzling results, been promoted twice in a single year, purchased a respectable house with a garden inside Luoyang, and hired several servants. And today he was certain the time had come to take yet another step forward.
“Is the Grand Scholar in?”
“Come in.”
When he opened the door, a splendid chamber decorated with exotic sculptures and potted plants came into view. At the center, seated behind a wide table, was a man in deep-crimson silk robes who looked younger than Bae Do-pyeong himself. He was Guixian, Grand Scholar of the Henan Academy and friend of Prince Han.
“Your expression is bright. Good news, I take it? Let me guess—successful optimization?”
“As expected, you see right through me. That’s correct. The final results from the previous experiment have come in. Look here—there’s clearly a meaningful yield.”
“Excellent. There really is no one like you. His Highness Prince Han will be most pleased.”
“However, research into refining animal blood is still incomplete, so it will likely take more time before it can be put to proper use…”
“That cannot be helped. Did you truly expect the road to immortality to be easy?”
“You are right. It is a grand undertaking worthy of a lifetime’s work.”
As he spoke, Bae Do-pyeong’s eyes grew moist. Guixian asked, “Why the sudden tears?”
“Forgive me. I am simply overwhelmed. Only three years ago I thought my life had no purpose, yet thanks to you, Grand Scholar, I have been given the chance to leave my name upon the world…”
“Haha, you really are hopeless.”
“Indeed.”
Guixian patted Bae Do-pyeong’s back as the man wiped his eyes, then spoke as though he had just remembered something.
“Ah, there should be a reward for this matter as well.”
“Ah… wouldn’t it be better to wait until the refinement method is complete?”
“Everything that needed to be produced has already been produced. What remains is merely tedious labor. Do you expect me to wait several more years? As for the reward itself, unfortunately there is only one position of Head Scholar and I cannot dismiss the current one, so I cannot promote you further in rank.”
“Ah, of course. I wouldn’t want that either.”
“Instead, I intend to grant you an estate of several dozen households, one gwan of gold, and—after speaking with His Highness Prince Han—a title of the fifth rank. Is that insufficient?”
Bae Do-pyeong’s mouth fell open. The comical sight of his dumbfounded face made Guixian chuckle.
“This is far too much! Please…”
“Do not ask me to take it back. This is a fitting reward.”
Guixian’s expression grew solemn. “Does this seem like thoughtless generosity? Do you imagine I am simply tossing it at you because I like you or because the news pleased me?”
“That… is not the case.”
“Correct. You have performed a service worthy of an estate, gold, and a fifth-rank title, so carry yourself with confidence. I have always said that merit must be met with appropriate reward and fault with appropriate punishment. Even when training a dog we follow this principle—how much more so with human beings?”
At those words, the tears Bae Do-pyeong had thought dried began to flow once more. Guixian watched him and smiled again. In the end, there was not so great a difference between dogs and men.