Chapter 189
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 189
Chapter Title: Twisted Fate (1)
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Is the world fair? Can one truly be judged solely on merit?
What answer might come if someone posed such a question?
Those renowned powerhouses with great fame would never claim it isn't fair. In public, they proclaim that opportunities are open to all.
Seizing those opportunities requires talent and effort, they say.
Yet reality doesn't judge purely on skill. Without the connections and background to back up one's talent, one is doomed to despair against harsh reality.
Here stood a man, dazed before the cold wall of that very reality.
His goal had been to secure a government post through the civil service exams. Having passed the preliminary rounds, his abilities were more than sufficient.
But time and again, he suffered bitter rejection at the final hurdle. He stared holes into the posted list on the wall, but his name was nowhere to be found. The top spots were claimed by those linked to high officials or former academy scholars.
He didn't even need to be first.
He desperately wished just to see his three characters at the very bottom.
Haa!
A sigh heavy with the traces of years spilled out.
From age three, spurred by his father's praise, he had devoted himself to study well into his mid-thirties. Thirty years of unwavering dedication, and the result was.
Having passed the licensing exam granted him the status of a giant, entitling him to stipends and rations from the state. But in practice, they were often siphoned off midway.
Local magistrates and county heads colluded to divert the funds.
Report the truth, and all you'd get was a beating. It was so commonplace, like an unwritten rule, that no one paid heed.
There had been a time when merely being a licensed scholar earned local respect. But those days were long gone. To leverage that fame as a scholar, one needed to be a local landlord or influential figure. A poor scholar from an impoverished family, clinging only to exam success, lived a harder, more barren life than commoners.
Sneered at by sons of wealthy families, dismissed by peasants as a penniless show-off.
Yet he hadn't given up, thanks to his mother's and wife's devoted support. After his father, who had rejoiced at his exam success before passing, he had redoubled his efforts.
Blinding himself with the mantra that studying was all he could do.
But the cold wall of reality couldn't be reached by effort alone.
His family had crumbled into poverty; he couldn't even buy his children a single piece of meat they craved. Unfilial as a son, the worst as a father.
Haa!
To soothe his desolation, he let out sigh after sigh.
'Should I have taken the military exam instead?'
Though the military track was undervalued compared to the civil one, its fairness was at least better. To pass, you needed real skill. Even cheating had limits—you had to be able to fend for yourself.
Heh heh!
A self-mocking laugh escaped. It was just a complaint. He lacked even the stamina for the military exam. He was so inept at physical labor that his wife scolded him for being worse than her; passing was a pipe dream.
Yet he'd considered it, showing just how desperate reality had become.
Whish!
He turned his slumped shoulders away from the list. Lingering here whining about the years wasted wouldn't change a thing. In this world, the pleas of a nameless, poor scholar fell on deaf ears.
Thud, thud!
His footsteps were heavy. The way home was long, so very long. He couldn't bear to face his mother and wife with the truth. Regret lingered for the years he'd poured into this, draining the family fortune.
'No more, I suppose.'
This was enough. Dreaming of glory through exams in a nation rotten to the core was futile. But he wouldn't blame it. Compared to its founding days, the realm was stable now. The longer peace endured, the thicker the pus of internal decay grew. It was history's inexorable truth.
Still, he had to go back.
He might abandon officialdom, but not life itself. For his family, he couldn't stop. A scholar's lofty pride? Better fed to the dogs. Before poverty, status was nothing but a burden.
Gurgle!
And yet, his stomach growled amid it all.
He clicked his tongue at the irony—dire straits or not, one still had to eat. With scant coins left, his wife had given him every penny of her emergency savings, skipping her own meals to save.
Fine inns were too pricey; he sought a cheap one. Shabby and worn, but the food smelled good. Drawn unwittingly, he stepped inside.
"Heard the news?"
"What news again?"
"Huh? When did I say that?"
"Oh, thought you were that ghostwriter."
"Don't compare me to that petty ghostwriter!"
The licensed scholar's ears caught the conversation of men gulping cheap rice wine as they gossiped.
"That Heavenly Fortune Fist guy—fancies himself some Heavenly Fist or whatever—is marrying into the Huangbo Clan, they say."
"Luck's on his side, true to his name."
"He's got some skill too, apparently. Peak realm, at least."
"That's impressive at his age, no?"
"Impressive. But that mouth of his is the problem."
"Say what you will, born in some no-name sect, made a fortune, got that level of martial prowess—no worries in life. Jealous as hell!"
"Jeering won't spit in our faces."
"That's life—envy and jealousy are our lot. Hope he crashes and burns!"
Normally, he'd ignore murim talk, but today it struck a chord. Especially the part about a warrior from an obscure sect making a name, amassing enough wealth to support his family comfortably.
'The jianghu beats bureaucracy.'
In the scholar's eyes, the martial world was a den of rogues. Lawless thugs living by their whims, flouting law and order, preying on the innocent. Divided into righteous and demonic, each with their own justice—but to him, they looked the same.
Yet today, he envied this Heavenly Fortune Fist, mocked by the world though he was, unable to shake his prejudices.
'Do I even have the right to call warriors rogues? When I can't even provide for my family?'
The scholar, who'd sought the inn out of hunger, mocked himself.
Some watched the failed scholar from afar.
Wrapped in patched sacks, they cautiously observed his every move. Orders from above: monitor the scholar without drawing notice. Missions were graded heaven, earth, man—highest was heaven-grade, straight from the gang leader at least.
"...My apologies!"
"Shut it and bow properly!"
Yes sir!
Beggars of the Beggars' Sect bashed their foreheads into the ground, hands bound behind, eyes black-and-blue. Any falter brought the whip.
'Damn it! What's with that scholar?'
'Yeah, said not to touch him.'
'You were the one who stepped up!'
They looked harmless, easy pickings for a drink money shakedown. But before they could act, they'd been collared and dragged to their alley haunt, beaten senseless.
'Why the Beggars' Sect?'
'Shit, stepped in it.'
Regular beggars you could beat and explain to, but sect members were another level. Touch the wrong one, and you'd vanish without a trace. So why? A heaven-grade target should be big, not some failed scholar.
Such flops were common around here. They boasted vast knowledge, but they were just rejects. Every time they acted superior, they'd been thrashed for their pretensions.
"Curious, are you?"
"...No sir! We want to know nothing!"
"Good, good. You've got some value left. If curiosity strikes, just kill yourselves. Easier that way."
"Never curious, sir. We're blind and deaf—saw and heard nothing!"
Twig hair, steel guts.
The five knots at his waist marked his status. As a fifth-generation disciple, he led this branch. Same intake as Hong Mu-gae, they were close.
'I don't even know, so how would you?'
Heaven-grade orders were rare for him. Even so, it irked him not knowing why. He'd quietly investigated the scholar himself.
'Why monitor him?'
Just another talented but background-less flop. Plenty like him; too contrived for a disguise.
'Ask Hong Mu-gae?'
Trivial or not, heaven-grade meant daily reports.
"Grit your teeth."
"...Brother!"
"Don't make me say it twice."
"...Yes."
He slapped his younger brother and son's cheeks mercilessly. Swollen faces reddened further; split lips burst anew. Crimson blood splattered the wall, painting a gruesome scene.
Blood kin or not, he showed no mercy. Before elders and children, he administered the punishment.
Yet no one voiced complaint.
He was the family head, wielding absolute power. A conqueror who'd surpassed the previous patriarch young and claimed the seat.
Shandong Ak Clan's patriarch, Ak Jung-pyeong.
Unlike his cold, ruthless aura, his balanced build and handsome features suited a middle-aged heartthrob. No signs of age compared to his youth.
But his low, sunken gaze exuded natural intimidation.
Before him stood Ak Jung-pil and Ak Hyo-sang, heads bowed even after the blows. Shame and humiliation kept them from defiance. In the clan, the patriarch was a tyrant.
"Out!"
"...Yes."
They obeyed without murmur, opportunity lost. Watching eyes held mockery. Blood ties offered no leniency to failures.
"Heavenly Fortune Fist, was it?"
"Yes."
"Your thoughts?"
"Extremely cunning."
"You think he planned this?"
"The Huangbo Clan wouldn't resort to such petty traps."
The responder was the clan's chief steward, Jin Gwan-su. Scholarly in appearance, his insight was sharper than any. Thus his moniker, Heavenly Piercing Prodigy Scholar, matching his name.