Chapter 231
Chapter 231
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>Translator: Ryuma
>Chapter: 231
>Chapter Title: Rehabilitation (6)
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“A face like a gigolo that could make a bunch of women weep.”
At Il-mok’s assessment, So Ho-gae burst into laughter once more before adding in a serious tone,
“You’ve got a real eye for this. Truth is, this bastard’s the lecher they’re hunting down at the Martial Alliance these days. A total piece of trash who’s toyed with plenty of women.”
“Fits the face. If I spot him, I’ll make sure to rip his manhood right off.”
“Hahaha! I’ll put my faith in the Maitreya Sacred Cult then.”
With that, So Ho-gae held out the wanted poster. As if telling them to hold on to it.
Il-mok had zero intention of touching a sheet of paper that had been in a beggar’s bosom, so he subtly averted his gaze and signaled to the others.
In the end, one of the nearby doctors stepped forward and took the wanted poster.
“Well then, I’ll be off to track down those Blood Cult remnants.”
Whether he’d truly come just to let them know he was starting the hunt or not, So Ho-gae left without lingering.
Leaving behind only the single wanted poster and a thick stench.
As an awkward atmosphere settled in, Il-mok cleared his throat and spoke.
“Ahem. Doctors, get this place cleaned up and prepare for treatments.”
Perhaps sensing that proper treatment could finally begin in earnest, the demon sword hanging at Il-mok’s side let out a ‘whoooong’.
Il-mok patted the scabbard to soothe the sword, then left the doctors and nurses behind and headed to the outskirts of Pyeongnyang County with the carpenters and laborers in tow.
“Build one here. A grand hall no smaller than the one at the Nanzhou estate—no, make it bigger.”
Il-mok pointed to an empty plot on the outskirts of Pyeongnyang County and gave the order to the carpenter Deukgwang. Watching from the side, Hong-gae asked,
“Why build such a massive hall here?”
“Once it’s up, the medicine-blend spars, plays, and such will all happen inside it.”
At Il-mok’s words, Hong-gae stroked his filthy beard, pieced together his own answer, and asked,
“So even on rainy days, the shows can go on?”
“That’s part of it, but the bigger reason is to be selective with the audience. After it’s built, we’ll start charging admission.”
“…Weren’t these shows meant to save the souls here? Charging money—what’s that about?”
Hong-gae shot him a look like, ‘So you bastards are finally showing your true colors!’
But Il-mok was unflinching.
“If we keep handing out food without work and providing free entertainment, do you really think Pyeongnyang County will improve? Think the other way around. If someone tossed alms to a beggar every day, would that beggar bother trying to escape beggary?”
Having lived as a beggar for decades, Hong-gae couldn’t readily agree.
“Humans are inherently lazy and seek comfort. Plus, it’s hard to find fulfillment just working to ‘get by.’ That’s why we’ll charge here. To give them purpose in life.”
It was commonplace in the modern world.
Il-mok himself was the prime example. What was work-life balance? Earning just enough for living expenses and hobbies through moderate work, then spending on those hobbies and leisure.
Heck, in some soccer-crazed country, people even worked to afford watching matches.
“We’ll teach these folks the joy of earning money. So they can work hard, earn coin, and enjoy fun shows in fine facilities.”
At Il-mok’s explanation, Hong-gae asked skeptically,
“Even so, slapping a price on what they got for free before—they won’t take to it easy.”
Il-mok shrugged at the point and replied,
“No worries. We won’t gouge them. We’ll tier the prices—cheap entry for Pyeongnyang locals. And it won’t just be for shows. It’ll double as practice space for medicine-blend spars, plays, music. Even for education.”
“What kind of education? Oh. Teaching letters, like in Nanzhou?”
“We’ll do that too, but this place is set to be the cradle of arts, so I’m thinking of teaching instruments as well.”
Lastly, though he didn’t mention it, it’d serve as a gathering hall too.
No matter what, Il-mok believed this hall would become Pyeongnyang County’s symbol, the cradle of the arts.
* * *
As the doctors and nurses began treatments and care, and the laborers started on the hall,
A massive headache had emerged at the medicine-blend sparring drawing the most attention in Pyeongnyang County.
“Honestly, isn’t it getting a bit stale now?”
At the words of the middle-aged man—who’d come from a brothel madam’s retinue and now handled commentary for the medicine-blend spars—those gathered for the meeting coughed awkwardly or looked away.
But as if they couldn’t just let it slide, the middle-aged man pressed on.
“It’s the same outcome every time—Blue Sword Hero wins. We know the ending without watching.”
“What’re you saying! Blue Sword Hero is a god, Clear Wind Heaven-Shattering First Style invincible! The just always triumphs—that’s how it should be. What’s wrong with justice crushing evil!”
“Justice this, justice that—where’s the fun in predictable results? Aren’t we all about the thrill?”
Even as medicine-blend spars boomed in popularity, their dilemma was simple.
The man symbolizing justice in the medicine-blend sparring world: Blue Sword Hero.
“Plus, with every story him slaying villains, churning out new bad guys is a chore. We’ve got limited Beggar Clan fighters who can perform, so we’re always padding with disguises.”
“Ahem. Setting him as the unforgiving scourge of evil leaves us no choice.”
“No choice? And soon the Beggar Clan guys are heading out for real clan duties—what then?”
“For that, the Maitreya side’s calling in new fighters anyway. Time it with their departure: have Blue Sword Hero lose and die.”
At the old storyteller’s vague brush-off, the commentator swung his fan and shouted,
“You think the crowd’ll buy that!? End it like some hack job, and they’ll riot on the spot! You lot just script from backroom and never hit the field—you’ve no idea how dire this is!”
As the commentator fumed, Baekcheon—who’d been at the meeting—stepped in to mediate.
“Now, now! Calm down! This is definitely something to plan now. Not just the hassle of new villains each time, but composing fresh entrance music ain’t easy either.”
“Ahem.”
No one dared speak up after Baekcheon.
It wasn’t just his martial prowess. They all knew how dead serious that young man was about his art.
A guy who wandered endlessly for inspiration, devoting his life to drawing crowds— if even he said new themes were tough, it was serious.
As things settled, Baekcheon spoke to wrap up.
“Boils down to two issues, right? Running short on fighters fit for medicine-blend spars. And Blue Sword Hero always winning—it’s getting boring.”
“That’s right.”
“The Blue Sword Hero actor from the Beggar Clan’s leaving soon anyway, so we need a replacement. Simple fix, really. Hahaha.”
Baekcheon laughed confidently, and the participants eyed him expectantly.
Then Baekcheon, with utmost naturalness, dropped his solution.
“I’ll do it. This body was born to play the lead.”
“…….”
Stunned silent for a beat, they belatedly remembered a key fact.
The guy was arts-mad, sure—but also a lunatic who’d die without attention.
He’d even tried crashing spars mid-song or mid-performance sometimes.
If this kept up, that young fool might really take the hero role, so the commentator jumped in.
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
To the clear-eyed gleam of the attention-seeker, the commentator replied,
“No mystique. Outside spars, you’re always the lead in plays and songs. Can’t have you starring in the spars too.”
“Exactly. Someone with your workload couldn’t handle sparring on top.”
“Right! We need someone who can focus solely on medicine-blend spars.”
Medicine-blend spars might seem simple, but choreographing the ‘blends’ was key.
Rehearsals took time—hard to juggle with other duties.
Naturally, they hit the same wall.
Someone skilled enough in martial arts to shine in spars, with the gravitas or mystery to replace the popular Blue Sword Hero.
Plus, free from other commitments to devote to spars.
The moment the thought hit,
Without a word, all eyes turned to one person.
“Hic!”
As the gazes converged, Jeonghyeon hiccuped involuntarily.
* * *
Deep in a mountain thick with overgrown brush.
A dark cave hidden amid eerie winds whipping through the foliage.
In that spot etched with an unknown crimson-black formation sat an old man, eyes closed beside a lit candle.
Whish.
The candle flame flickered in the wailing ghostly wind, and the old man’s eyes snapped open.
“What is it?”
“Who knows?” said the middle-aged man who’d appeared at the cave mouth.
“Reports say the Martial Alliance and Beggar Clan’s movements have shifted lately, Cult Leader.”
Frowning at the unwelcome news, the one called Cult Leader asked,
“Cause?”
“Seems the one on Gongdong Mountain’s been exposed to the Beggar Clan.”
“Tch. Greed breeds fire.”
Over a decade ago, he clicked his tongue recalling the Taoist he’d lured to their cult with the [Blood Lord Chronicle].
But he didn’t dwell.
Excluding core loyalists of old, they ran on loose cells anyway.
One exposure wouldn’t derail plans.
“Just in case, tell the others to lie low and hide in formations for a while.”
“Understood!”
“And how goes it in Sichuan?”
“Tensions between Sichuan Province’s three great powers have peaked. Beggar Clan’s Eighth Elder Chwi-gae is mediating, but it’s flowing our way.”
The Cult Leader nodded at the report.
“For any contingencies, proceed slow and cautious. We’ve waited seventy years—can’t botch it over months.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Ever in mind.”
The man at the entrance prostrated fully, then departed.
Whiiiish.
Alone again in the cave echoing with ghostly wails, the Cult Leader stared intently at the candle’s dancing flame.
“This time, it’ll be different.”