Wudang Sect (2)
The Wudang Sect.
What more is there to say? It was that Wudang Sect of "North reveres Shaolin, South honors Wudang."
Ever since its founding patriarch Zhang Sanfeng established its base on Wudang Mountain in Jun County, Hubei Province, the Wudang Sect had never once been pushed to the fringes of the central plains martial world.
So it was only natural that these kids were buzzing with excitement.
"Take this! Taiji Fist!"
"Ugh, so strong…!"
Even I, a total novice when it came to martial arts, could tell that wasn't real Taiji Fist.
After Cheonghyeon, who'd hurled a wooden sword at me, suddenly vanished, I'd been blankly fashioning grass flutes. Using the dandelion stems that bloomed profusely around Wudang Mountain made it easy.
Dandelion stems were hollow inside, so they produced a flute-like sound even when just blown into plainly. But I'd added a bit of finesse to mine.
I sliced the end at an angle, then carved a horizontal notch. I wedged a broad leaf into the notch and trimmed it short for easy mouthing. And just like that, one grass flute was complete.
—Piiik.
I gave it a light blow. The pitch was a touch high.
"Gotta go thinner and longer next time."
Dandelion stems varied wildly in thickness and length, which affected the tone. I'd selected ones as uniform as possible to craft my flutes.
Homogeneity was key when selling goods. That built trust. Buyers had expectations, and I met them. Trust was the foundation of commerce.
As I worked on the flutes, it hit me: there couldn't possibly be a Ninth Heaven this vivid and brimming with life.
I'd already spent several days here. I'd slapped my cheeks a few times to check. Only now, today, did I finally accept that I'd returned to the past.
"Is it because of that Shinma Pill?"
Things had been too chaotic when I swallowed the pill to notice, but in hindsight, there'd seemed to be some strange power at play. Or maybe not. Hard to say.
"What's this?"
Then a hand reached from behind. Before it could touch the flute, I smacked the back of it.
"Hey!"
I turned to see a boy clutching his hand. He didn't look particularly embarrassed. We were peers, so casual speech was fine—expected, even. I wasn't keen on using formal speech with kids way younger than my previous life's self anyway. Handy.
"Why'd you hit me?"
"'Cause you touched the merchandise."
"Merchandise?"
"Yeah. Merchandise."
I slipped the flutes into a small satchel, layering broad leaves between layers to prevent damage.
"You don't practice martial arts?"
"That look like martial arts practice to you?"
To me, it looked like kids playing house. Turning street-brawl punches into Taiji Fist—what else could you call it?
"There's a lay disciple evaluation tonight."
"Lay disciple evaluation?"
Oh, right. That thing where they spar new lay disciples to gauge their talent.
But who gave a damn about lay disciples? The Wudang Sect was probably just sending low-tier disciples to fill the quota on paper. That's how it had gone in my memory, anyway.
"Catch the elders' eye, and they'll let you join as a core sect disciple."
"I know. But it won't happen for us."
"Why not?"
"Why? Look at our age."
Core Wudang disciples started with horse stance practice almost as soon as they could walk. If talent showed, they'd undergo marrow cleansing to reshape their bones and meridians for martial arts.
"We've eaten too much grain already. Our bodies are full of impurities. Even if we bust our asses now, we'll top out as second-rate at best."
"That so?"
"Yeah."
I gave a rough answer and started to move away, but his next words stopped me.
"You're smart. Truth is, I didn't wanna hang with those idiots anyway."
"Huh?"
His tone turned sharp out of nowhere. Well, at our age—late teens—we knew the score.
"They still don't get it. What it means to enter as a lay disciple."
"What does it mean?"
"Why play dumb? You know too. This place is just for networking. Donate enough to join as a lay disciple, means your family's got money. Good connections to make."
A real black-hearted kid. But he wasn't wrong. Spot on, actually.
We hadn't come to learn Wudang martial arts. We needed the "Wudang lay disciple" label.
Slap that on your merchant guild later, and it opened doors.
"What a schemer."
"Less than you, already hawking wares."
He laughed. It was so innocently sly, it cracked me up.
"Jeon O-su. What's your name?"
"Muk Hwi-yeong."
"Cool name. Sounds like the world's greatest warrior."
World's greatest? More like a name that groveled to martial artists before dying pathetically.
Jeon O-su, huh. I racked my brain.
"Your dad's name Jeon Ho-rak, by any chance?"
"Oh, yeah. That's him."
"Son of the Wuhan Money House."
Figures. Lots of local bigwig kids among the lay disciples. I'd been kicked out after a month, so I didn't know them all well.
"You?"
Jeon O-su's eyes sparkled. I just shrugged.
"My dad's a simple farmer. Donated steadily to Wudang to get me in as a lay disciple. Not much, though. Couldn't afford more."
"Ah, got it."
Interest faded from his eyes. He'd hoped for some heavyweight backing, probably.
"Disappointed?"
"A bit. But it's fine. Dad said make as many friends as possible. And get extra close to anyone valuable. No background's a shame, but you seem sharp. Could handle accounting at the Money House later."
"Not the type to work under someone. Better to start my own business."
"Smart. Gotta go independent to succeed. Work for others, you're a slave forever."
Jeon O-su chuckled. In my memory, he'd smoothly taken over the Wuhan Money House and lived well. No harm befriending him.
"Why sell grass flutes, though?"
"Need money."
"Who'd buy these? Honestly, I wouldn't. I could make 'em myself."
"Core disciples. They got nothing fun to do. Can't even make a simple trinket."
Lay disciples usually got pocket money, but my family wasn't well-off.
Still, Dad had been savvy. Sending me here despite the hardship. Of course, I hadn't lasted a month or earned lay disciple status.
"Guess I'll be your first customer."
"Welcome. Sorry about smacking your hand earlier."
Jeon O-su picked up flutes from the satchel, testing their tones.
"All same pitch. Nice handiwork."
"You're too kind, sir."
"How much?"
"Three copper coins."
"Cheap."
"My labor's only worth that much yet. Didn't take much effort."
Jeon O-su counted out three coins from his pouch and handed them over. I gave him the best flute.
"Play well. Was bored—perfect timing. Fix it if it breaks?"
"Want a smack, customer?"
He laughed like he'd expected it, then headed inside blowing the flute.
My first sale had been at twenty-eight. Before that, I'd scraped together capital doing odd jobs. Young and dumb then. No capital? Sell what you got. Instead, I overreached and nearly went bust.
Anyway, now at twenty, first sale. Eight years ahead of schedule.
"Caterpillars gotta eat mulberry leaves."
Selling one item settled my mind. Merchant blood ran true.
The art of commerce: money begets money. Buy better goods with profits, sell higher. Grow and grow until you're a trade lord.
But I had no plans to reinvest in goods. My investment was elsewhere.
The letters I'd named "Cash Shop." Focusing on them summoned the mirage before my eyes again.
I'd checked other items, but only this had the beginner discount. Stingy—truly one-time only.
This shop interface had real merchant savvy. Hard to lure a customer once; easy to keep 'em coming back. So they ran grand opening gimmicks for that first hook.
But how do I buy? I want it.
That very thought, and the three copper coins in my hand vanished in an instant.
The rough texture still lingered on my palm. Ghostly.
Did I buy it?
No clue. No immediate difference.
Might feel it trying some martial arts. I recalled Cheonghyeon the Real Person teaching basic Samjae Heart Method and Samjae Fist.
Might as well send me back to age five while they're at it.
Rescuing a drowning man, then demanding payment? Grateful for the new life, but greed creeps in. Still, learning martial arts without mooching off others.
But as I'd told Jeon O-su, too late. I hadn't touched martial arts till my late teens before.
Just as I geared up to test solo, a pebble whizzed past me.
"Ow!"
It nailed the back of a lay disciple's hand mid-Taiji play in the yard.
I whipped around. There stood kids in blue daoist robes, unlike our plain ones. No attempt to hide throwing the stone.
"What the hell?"
"Core disciples."
The likely culprit stepped forward, chest puffed arrogantly.
Lay disciples were mid-to-late teens; these core kids looked freshly ten.
"Why throw rocks?"
"You insulted our Wudang!"
The kid bellowed.
"How dare you call that pathetic flailing Taiji Fist? We don't even teach it to lay disciples."
Ah. Their faces flushed like they'd been personally offended. They really believed it.
The Nine Great Sects' kids had killer sect pride, alright.
"Doesn't mean throw rocks."
"Be grateful we didn't break your arm."
The kid sneered. The hit victim flushed red-to-purple. Pissed at shorter kids acting big.
"Fine. Try breaking it."
The struck lay disciple rolled up his sleeve and advanced.
Tension spiked. Lay disciple charged first—total amateur stance.
The core kid was already angled perfectly. I knew the outcome.
"Ack!"
In a blink, the lay disciple's arm was twisted behind his back. Couldn't even see how. The lay disciples looked stunned at losing to toddlers. That was martial world vs. outsider gap.
"Know your place, lay trash!"
"Aaaagh!"
Come to think, core kids picked on lay ones a lot.
From core view, being lumped with lay disciples shamed Wudang. Especially at that clueless age.
"What do we do…?"
"His arm might really snap."
Lay disciples panicked, scanning for adults.
But Wudang elders checked lay quarters just morning and evening. No reason for more.
"Hey, customers."
Jeon O-su tapped my shoulder from behind. He'd come out for the commotion.
"Got it."
I brushed his hand off and approached the core kids.
They eyed me warily.
"What, you got beef too?"
"How could a lay disciple complain about core ones? This unworthy one never dreamed of it."
I clasped fist over chest in baoquan salute—martial courtesy.
"I'm lay disciple Muk Hwi-yeong."
My politeness threw them; they glanced at each other, unsure.
"First, let that guy go and talk. He's gotten the point."
"Ordering us?"
"No, a humble plea."
"That's why you came?"
Prickly. But merchants dealt with prickly customers always.
I cleared my throat.
"No."
"Then what?"
"Got some fine goods."
"Huh?"
My out-of-left-field line baffled the core kids.
Now the real selling began.