Treasure Hunt in the Tang Clan
I dragged my exhausted body onto the first car of the subway. Even standing, I could lean against the wall, which was a plus. That's when someone shouted urgently.
"Hey, young man, watch out!"
I wondered if that young man was me, so I looked up from my smartphone screen. A pale-faced old man was pointing at the subway floor.
"A snake…?"
It slithered toward me in an S-shape and chomped down on my ankle over my crew sock. Before I knew it, sensation had vanished from my leg below.
Thud!
"Young man, you okay? Young man!"
"Fuck… no, I'm not, so call 119."
With the old man frustratingly shaking my shoulder right in front of me, my last memory cut off.
Bitten by some random snake, I reincarnated into a wuxia world. All I'd read as a jobless uncle's kid were elementary school manhua. Lately, just some free webtoons to kill time.
Still, I knew the basics: the Sichuan Tang Clan had solid character with their poisons and hidden weapons. I was reborn as the youngest son of the Tang Clan Head, who had five boys. No mother for some reason, no fatherly attention either.
It was the kind of setup that'd crush most, but I, with my past-life memories intact, didn't flinch.
I might not know wuxia well, but I grasped webnovel clichés. In local terms, like "momentum" or "flow."
The chaebol's youngest son in that drama was OP as hell—how broken would a fifth son be?
Current hardships meant future success—it was common sense. Even Harry Potter learns at Hogwarts his dad's a rich punk! That random snake? Definitely the glass pane vanishing!
Even without those perks, growing up in a prestigious clan meant the full expert course to becoming a master. Naturally.
And sure enough, at three or four, I was with my one-year-older brother.
"Then the Fifth Young Master should train alongside the Fourth Young Master too."
Back then, I had no clue about the disaster looming in my life.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
This wasn't a sound from my mouth. My clothes were already soaked with sweat.
"Nine hundred ninety-one!"
Right fist forward.
"Nine hundred ninety-two!"
Left fist forward.
With my throat hoarse from kiais, what flew out weren't daggers. No way.
Just fists. Plain, boring fist barrages.
Alternating punches from clenched left and right fists. That was it.
Was this the Sichuan Tang Clan or an elementary school taekwondo dojo? It didn't end after an hour either, and without slushies, this world's conditions were way harsher.
Why slap a fancy name like Tang Family Fist on such basic moves and make it mandatory for every clan member, direct or collateral, male or female, until age ten? That was their education policy.
At first, I was baffled.
Why? Isn't the Tang Clan about poisons and hidden weapons?
Yeah, eight-year-olds couldn't hurl much. Giving real poison or daggers to kindergarteners? Insane. Even superpower worlds call "that genius killed his family at seven" exaggerated fiction—all bullshit.
Learning acupuncture points and qi circulation was novel but brief. Most training was Tang Family Fist plus long runs, long jumps, full-body conditioning to build basics. Newspaper articles say kids' stamina rivals athletes—we burned that endless energy, and it hurt like hell. I wanted to flee to my public service days, chasing that old man who shat himself in tag.
If the food sucked too, I'd have bolted, but living rich in gourmet Sichuan meant my mouth was happy at least.
"Nine hundred ninety-three—"
"Fourth Young Master! Weak kiai!"
The instructor spotted the gap and swung his bamboo sword. Luckily, Fourth Young Master wasn't me—it was my brother.
"Urk…"
Hit in the ribs, he crumpled. I'd felt it too—that shit hurts.
"Young masters, you planning to buzz like mosquitoes in front of the enemy?"
Tsking pitifully at my brother, the instructor turned on me next. Collective punishment, just like hellish Korea.
…No wonder they all loved ramen flavors.
"No, sir!!!"
I shouted as ordered, but had no idea why. This summer, I learned firsthand how abuse leads to trance states.
"Start over!"
Clinging to my fogging mind, doubts bloomed.
Why kiai? Aren't we the stealthiest orthodox sect? Is Tang Family Fist actually soundwave arts?
"Nine hundred ninety-four!!!"
Lost to instinct, I yelled louder.
"Nine hundred ninety-five!!"
Know what's really fucking infuriating?
Passing Tang Family Fist was a warrior's first gate. Fail it, and no poisons or hidden weapons—you're out. No mercy for direct kin.
Five more years of this crap.
"Nine hundred ninety-nine!"
I was only five. The road was long.
Too drained to move after training, we lay side by side when a question hit me.
"Brother, what's that building?"
"You too? Bi Yeon Pavilion is a warehouse! How don't you know after going so often?"
As my brother explained, Bi Yeon Pavilion was one of the Tang Clan's many warehouses. Unlike poison, herb, or weapon storage, it held less dangerous junk: pottery, statues, crafts, old books—treasures future museums would envy.
Still, they said not to enter. Of course, wanting to cozy up to the Pavilion Master, I'd barge in anyway.
"No, the one behind Bi Yeon Pavilion."
I pointed at a dilapidated building visible even from afar.
"What? That one?"
From our training ground, that hall. Older than Bi Yeon Pavilion, probably another warehouse given its adjacency, but it took up serious space.
Suddenly curious.
I casually dangled disappointment.
"Even Brother doesn't know everything. Thought you knew it all."
"I can just find out!"
Unable to ignore my bait, he bolted up. I sneered pitifully.
Ah, Brother's clueless. Time is gold, after all.
Some old American kid tricked a painter with fun lies. Past-life wisdom for moments like this.
While naive Brother scratched his itch, I lounged starfished on the floor till dinner—blissful rest.
"One thousand!"
"Good work, young masters! Tomorrow, same—one thousand again!"
Next day, post-training, I got the intel.
"It's called Myeong Gyeong Hall. Used to be a pavilion, now a warehouse."
"Myeong Gyeong Hall?"
A pavilion—made sense. Traces of a pond out front. A dried-up pond with water would've been scenic.
Like millennium ganoderma beats one-year, in wuxia, older is better. That's why the rundown building piqued me, but seemed just an old pretty spot.
Or maybe not. True essence or mental serenity manual hidden, fitting the name?
I resolved.
Time to loot it.
Punching through bleak Tang life, my sole joy was hunting clan opportunities. They blocked poisons and daggers strictly, but as Clan Head's son, they cut slack.
Thus, I'd raided Bi Yeon Pavilion before. Got caught instantly.
Leveraged being a kid, massaged the elderly Pavilion Master, goofed around—hooked her. With nursing home dives into madness and depths, sane grannies were easy.
Tang Clan cherished blood ties—common sense. Like widowed McGonagall, she softened to the pitiable son among the Head's boys.
Trained all day with Brother, but slept separate.
I unwrapped cloth from my bosom. Inside: night-luminescent pearl.
Not radioactive glow—cheap fluorescent junk that charges in light. Snagged from collateral kids' toys.
With darkness-busting gear, I stormed Myeong Gyeong Hall.
Opportunity! Die for opportunity!
Peeking inside, not much different from Bi Yeon Pavilion. Junk everywhere. But pearls in mud? Finder's keepers.
Clang!
Something sparkled in the dark as it fell. A mirror. Size of two kid palms.
But in murim Central Plains? Shaped more familiar to modern me—pointy European antique, Disney princess style.
Wait, not bronze—actual glass mirror?
Shocked by the hi-tech familiarity, a loud woman's voice boomed in my ear.
"Hey!!! Break that and you're dead. Can't get it in the Central Plains anymore—who'd I get it from as a gift…"
"Uh… I'll be careful."
Then I realized: alone in Myeong Gyeong Hall. Yelling at a human? Supernatural being.
Worried it'd shatter—realistic ghost. Glass cost more than gold back then, and even pampered me hadn't seen any here. Forgave her fuss. Curious who gifted it, I checked the back.
Instantly, the ghost spoke again.
"You a Tang too?"
"Yes."
"Then you're distant kin of Senior Sister Wol."
So this ghost connected to my female ancestor? Honestly, didn't remember ancestors past grandpa.
"And you are?"
Not eager for ghost intros, but needed a name.
"Hmph, don't freak at my epithet."
Her confident tone turned grave for her title.
Epithet of the Mirror Ghost
"Where's Yizhou?"
"What? Even a kid knows Yizhou!"
Knew Hyeongju, Seojju— but Yizhou? Three Kingdoms era vibes—ancient.
"Never heard of it."
"Huh, don't even know my epithet—time flies."
Conceited ghost. Yizhou local title, probably.
Poison Scorpion, Poison Flower, Poison King, Divine Poison, Poison Ghost, Poison Sword—Tang epithets were national class. Active outside with Tang name? Already regional top, earning nationwide fame. Yizhou whatever, mocking her local boss status? I'd hold back, Eastern etiquette and all.
Then a brilliant idea struck.
"Senior, teach me poison arts!"
In poison-mad clan gripped by fist frenzy, poison training was distant. Even if regional poisoness, pre-review enough—K-early ed for competition edge. True opportunity, reincarnation perk, early bird full course to strength! Perfect plan.
"Too young for poison arts, no?"
Fact-slapped by a ghost, I glared at the mirror.
Sharp ghost.