Chapter 98
Chapter 98
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>Translator: Ryuma
>Chapter: 98
>Chapter Title: Volunteer Work (3)
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While crafting mahjong tiles, Go stones, Go boards, and other playthings, and as the Heavenly Demon taught letters to the severely afflicted patients.
The Silver Wing Pavilion Master and Elder Kang pressed on with the construction alongside the elders.
After toiling steadily for half a day straight, they succeeded in erecting roughly five thatched huts.
It was a method close to prefabrication, an astonishing speed made possible by the elders' profound martial prowess.
And as the sky began to dye in shades of crimson.
“There! Now today’s exercise is done, so please wash up and have your meal!”
They could finally wrap up the work and tidy things away.
But gone was the construction; bathing twenty dementia-stricken elders was labor of no less grueling sort.
At least a few had been cleaned earlier, which was fortunate indeed.
While Il-mok, Elder Kang, and the Heavenly Demon washed the dementia elders. The Silver Wing Pavilion Master slipped out of the clearing to gather fruit or hunt game, preparing meals.
Ever ready to attend the Heavenly Demon at any moment, he was a truly multifaceted man.
By the time the baths were done and dinner finished. The sky over Peach Blossom Ridge had darkened completely.
“Snore.”
“Groan.”
Though it was only early evening, some elders had already dozed off. Hard labor from dawn, followed by a meal and bath, had left them blissfully spent.
And a few elders made use of the bonfire light Il-mok had set, enjoying their games.
The Go sets and mahjong crafted by the Heavenly Demon and Il-mok.
“You dare deceive me!”
“You’re the one who tried to fool me!”
Of course, those with faltering memories would sometimes erupt mid-game.
“Tut.”
A light pulse of demonic qi from the Heavenly Demon quelled them at once.
And even those at play, their bodies slack with fatigue, soon nodded off.
After settling the sleeping elders into the thatched huts.
“Whew.”
Il-mok dragged his weary frame to the bonfire.
Elder Kang, who had tended the dementia elders alongside Il-mok, along with the Silver Wing Pavilion Master and the Heavenly Demon, sat gazing into the flames.
All wore much the same expression.
A peculiar blend of exhaustion and satisfaction.
Il-mok had seen such looks now and then.
The faces so common after volunteer work wrapped up.
“You’ve done well.”
At the Heavenly Demon’s praise, Il-mok clasped his fists in reply.
“My apologies for burdening you with such tiresome tasks, Master.”
The Heavenly Demon shook his head.
“Nonsense. I’ve long carried guilt over those sent to this Peach Blossom Ridge. Truth be told, a part of me wondered if this single day’s effort wasn’t just hypocritical posturing to ease that conscience.”
It was a Heavenly Demon with an unfamiliar cast of regret in his eyes.
His gaze fixed on the red flames rising from the bonfire, yet his thoughts delved far deeper.
‘...Only about twenty remain.’
Over decades atop the Heavenly Demon throne, the elders exiled here had numbered well beyond twenty.
Yet today, they had tended just about that many. What fate had befallen the rest?
No need to ponder long.
For a moment, he sank into reflections on those he had turned from—out of duties as Heavenly Demon, or claims of no solution.
His disciple’s voice roused him.
“Isn’t even hypocrisy a form of good?”
“Hypocrisy as good...”
“Indeed, Master. That’s how most folk live. Rather than pure goodness prompting aid to others, they help to bask in self-satisfaction, or to seem virtuous in others’ eyes, or from a fleeting pang of pity. Yet there’s no call to blame them, no reason for it. For even feigned aid outshines doing nothing at all.”
A commonplace affair, even in the modern world.
Plenty donated to cut taxes or polish a company’s image, trumpeting it wide.
Some might brand them hypocrites, but Il-mok—once a social welfare worker—saw it differently.
Better by far than those who siphoned funds without a dime to charity.
The Heavenly Demon mulled Il-mok’s words a moment before replying.
“Yet I am the Heavenly Demon, ruler of the Demonic Cult’s entirety. How could I tend to my followers through pretense?”
“True. As the Heavenly Demon bound to care for all, washing and feeding them yourself as today might well waste time. But isn’t this precisely what only the Heavenly Demon can achieve?”
The Heavenly Demon paused at Il-mok’s retort, soon grasping its drift.
“...Like the matters of Tranquil Heart Garden or the academy?”
“Exactly, Master.”
No leader need toil on-site with his own hands.
A visit or two to survey was fine, but persistence there verged on squandered hours.
What leaders, statesmen, politicians truly owed was not on-site theatrics, but forging laws and frameworks.
Frameworks to aid the downtrodden with greater efficiency.
“Then, how ought we better tend these elders here?”
Il-mok’s response to the Heavenly Demon’s query unfurled at length.
“First off, Elder Kang alone cannot manage over twenty elders. We must bolster the ranks. There’s a martial unit that patrols Peach Blossom Ridge periodically, yes? Henceforth, reassign them from watchers to caretakers.”
Il-mok drew on memories from his Seo Ji-hoon days. Times in social welfare handling dementia facilities—their structures, their caregiving ways.
“And as today, gather the elders to assign steady tasks or amusements, coaxing body and mind to constant use. Leaving dementia patients idle or isolated only hastens decline.”
Yet modern methods could not transplant wholesale. Il-mok summoned those recollections, reshaping them for this era.
“Moreover, observe the patients and log it all. Especially, sort by mild or moderate symptoms: severe cases to simple games or literacy drills, while milder ones join in labor as today. On top of that, chart each patient’s cycles of waxing or waning symptoms.”
To reclaim this Peach Blossom Ridge, no longer a wastrel’s dump, but a true haven for elders.
His obsessive compulsions had aided greatly, of course.
‘Damn it all, now that it’s started, I can’t stop!’
Leave it untouched, and all was well. But begin, and Il-mok could never halt halfway.
“And vital too: coax continual recall of self. Headquarters holds records on the elders, no? Use them to label these huts and future dwellings with paper notes. Craft an environment where elders read daily, reaffirming who they are, where they stand, how they ought conduct themselves.”
He had even borrowed from a film: the daily life of a man who forgot all each dawn.
What began as pity for dementia elders stretched into Soul-Stealing Heartless Sword-fueled obsession, Il-mok’s disquisition droning on.
Oblivious as he spewed framework after framework.
‘As expected of the youngest.’
‘Heavens... Who knew the Young Master’s wisdom ran this deep?’
‘...Chosen by the Heavenly Demon or not, how does one so young conceive such notions?’
The gazes of Heavenly Demon, Silver Wing Pavilion Master, and Elder Kang upon Il-mok shifted by the instant.
* * *
Come next dawn, the dementia elder volunteer squad bustled anew in elder care.
They readied breakfasts, fed them, set simple labors to engage body and mind, cleaned those who soiled themselves or regressed suddenly to infancy.
Beyond that, aiding Go or mahjong play, how much time passed.
“Now it’s time to depart.”
The Heavenly Demon spoke, gauging the hour by the sun aloft.
Heavenly Demon, Silver Wing Pavilion Master, and Il-mok made ready to leave. Elder Kang bowed toward them.
“Go safely, Lord of Ten Thousand Demons.”
“...My regrets at entrusting the heaviest burden to you, still unwell.”
“Nonsense. The grace bestowed by the Heavenly Demon is one this Kang could never repay in a lifetime.”
Talks done with the Heavenly Demon, Elder Kang offered Il-mok a fist-clasp salute.
“Go well, Young Master. The grace you’ve shown me I shan’t forget in life.”
“Take care.”
Il-mok returned the fist-clasp, sealing their farewell.
The trio then traversed Peach Blossom Ridge to the site where the Bewildering Dream Ghost Formation’s birth gate would open.
That gate held ajar for a scant hour at its set time; miss it, and days of waiting loomed.
Fortune smiled: they arrived, and soon the gate yawned wide. They exited Peach Blossom Ridge.
Emerging through the birth gate, dozens stood arrayed there.
Eight Trigrams Hall’s Hall Master An Hyo-gyun, hedging against formation mishaps. And the warriors of the unit tasked with Wastrel Ridge oversight.
“Master! Little brother!”
For some reason, Eldest Brother Wi Jin-hak stood among them.
“Jin-hak. What brings you here?”
“My apologies, Master. I couldn’t bear sitting idle for word, so I stepped out.”
Wi Jin-hak answered his master, then sighed in relief as he eyed Il-mok.
From the moment he’d heard Il-mok vanished, he’d yearned to join the search.
Only the Heavenly Demon’s command to stick to duties had pinned him in place.
A brief outing to greet shouldn’t hurt, he’d reckoned—and so ventured forth.
“Greetings, Eldest Senior Brother. Sorry to cause you worry.”
“Hahaha. Safe and sound—that’s what matters.”
The Heavenly Demon watched his firstborn and youngest disciples with a warm gaze a moment. Then turned to Il-mok.
“By Demonic Path Academy rule, cadets bar external jaunts. Out of Peach Blossom Ridge now, Il-mok—return forthwith to the academy.”
Il-mok made hasty fist-clasp and bow to his master, masking his bitter grimace.
‘Damn. After all that ordeal, not even a day’s rest?’
Il-mok’s hope fell flat.
“Lest mishap strike, you lot escort him safely to the academy.”
So ordered the Heavenly Demon to the Peach Blossom Ridge surveillance warriors.
Eyeing the approaching warriors, Il-mok let slip a faint sigh, then proffered his bundle of wooden planks to the Heavenly Demon.
“The matters I spoke of last night, summarized.”
Planks detailing duties for Peach Blossom Ridge’s incoming caretakers.
Last night’s obsession had barred him from stopping at mere words.
‘Damnable perfectionism.’
Words in transit bred errors—so he’d documented. Sword-carved script upon the wood.
‘Damnable Soul-Stealing Heartless Sword.’
Too many planks would burden the carry, so he’d etched minuscule, precise letters stroke by stroke.
Elder Kang’s torments had honed his realm; no difficulty there. Nay, the tiny carving honed his blade ever finer—enough to madden.
‘Damnable flesh-prison.’
No matter how he turned it, the possession felt botched. Talent too absurd: scant practice yielded epiphany, swordcraft surging.
‘That talent alone spared me death, earned me disciplehood with Master. Damn it all. If only those lunatic Martial Alliance dogs hadn’t struck!!’
On reflection, all stemmed from that deranged Martial Alliance raid.
‘Revenge, without fail. That cur of Flying Dragon Pavilion Master.’
At root, the Heavenly Demon’s inn visit—but revenge on him? Unthinkable.
No reverence at play.
Simply a monster defiance boggled the mind, let alone reprisal.
Revenge, by human nature, sought softer quarry.