My Little Sister is from the Baekhwa Cult (7)
"Have you been well?"
No. Too plain.
"That was a beautiful song. You're such a great singer, big brother."
No. Sounds like I'm angling for an encore later. Vulgar.
"...Annoying."
Staring into the mirror as she rehearsed greetings for her meeting with Mancheon, Yeomhwa let out a frustrated sigh. She was irritated at herself for losing her composure over that silly song, getting all flustered and practicing lines like this. And what annoyed her most was imagining Mancheon blithely plucking away at his pipa with a carefree face while she agonized over this.
...But was he really that carefree?
A sudden flash like a spark ignited in her mind. A shift in thinking.
He'd sung that song, pouring out his desperate love without a care for others' eyes, only to be turned away at the door without even hearing a reply. If—if by some impossible chance—she'd confessed her love to her big brother, and he'd run off without answering out of shame and loss... she'd have burned him to death in embarrassment and then hanged herself right after.
In other words, her big brother must be utterly mortified right now. Probably kicking off his blankets in a fit—pong pong~.
This was her chance to strike. His attack had failed. The winds of romance were blowing her way now. It was her turn to go on the offensive.
"Did you really think a mere song sung decently well could win Sima Yeomhwa's heart? What lofty dreams you have."
She tilted her head slightly toward the mirror, raising her left hand to lightly cover her lips. A charming smile curved her eyes.
"That's not nearly enough, so do better."
Perfect. This is it.
Any more agonizing was a waste of time, so Yeomhwa kicked open the door and strode elegantly straight toward Mancheon's room. She was about to deliver a devastating blow to her wicked big brother, who'd been stirring hearts with that insufferably smug face. A haughty, pleased smile played on her lips.
Gone.
Manchon was nowhere to be seen. Not in his room, of course, and even after checking his usual haunts, no sign of him. Where the hell had he vanished to?
...He didn't run away from home just because I rejected him, did he?
Manchon always appeared quietly by her side without her having to seek him out. His absence now made the emptiness feel even larger. The house had always seemed spacious, but today it felt colder and vaster than ever.
As Yeomhwa stood darkly in the hallway, a maid who was cleaning approached with a puzzled look.
"Miss, are you looking for something?"
"No—"
Yeomhwa tried to flash her usual gentle smile and say, 'It's fine, don't worry about it,' but different words tumbled out instead.
"Um... do you know where Brother Mancheon is right now?"
He methodically checked the neatly stacked sacks of bean flour, rice, and other preserved foods.
"Hmm~ All accounted for, no shortages."
Finishing his inspection of the secondary granary he'd built in the back hills for emergencies like a house fire. There were servants managing it separately, so he didn't really need to check himself. This was just an excuse to slip away to the hills without drawing Mother's attention.
"I'll take a little stroll, so you all head down first."
He handed the warehouse keys to the servants who'd come up with him and climbed the mountain alone. As a small child, he could secretly train his martial arts in his room without the family noticing. But as he'd grown bigger, that wasn't feasible anymore.
Thud—thud—
Limping up the mountain. The thin clothes lined with weights made it quite taxing. He could use inner energy to make it easier, but that would defeat the purpose of this basic stamina training. His masters had always emphasized fundamentals, and his own experiments confirmed it: without a solid base, nothing worked.
Sweat poured as he pressed on, soon reaching a clearing perfect for training—his private secret spot. Lately, he'd been too busy tending to Yeomhwa to invest much in martial arts practice. Today, he'd train hard, no holding back.
First, Dog-Beating Stick Technique with his right hand alone. As his most invested art—practically his soul partner—it flowed flawlessly.
Now, the left hand only. The forms unfolded at the same speed as his right—a huge improvement from the sluggish starts at first.
Alternating right and left, he repeated every form his masters had taught, from start to finish. Imagining scenarios: opponent bigger than him, smaller, on high ground, low ground, unstable terrain. He conjured multiple virtual foes, but they all shared one trait—far stronger than him, like those he'd sparred against with his masters. Recalling the sword, spear, and fist users his masters had shown, he fought them in his mind.
...Embarrassing, but he'd never won once. Beating them and stealing their arts? His masters were incredible.
Pausing to catch his breath, he wiped the sweat dripping from his sleeves. His body warmed pleasantly. Fresh air filled his lungs. Felt good.
Today, he had a hunch he'd master Dual Hands Mutual Combat.
Focus. Split his mind exactly in two—no more, no less.
Right: Dog-Beating Stick Technique. Left: Empty Brightness Fist.
Input different forms into each arm. Execute two arts simultaneously, without a hair's breadth of error.
...The forms tangled, arms flailing wildly, center of gravity wrecked—he toppled over.
Lying spread-eagled on the dirt, he stared blankly at the blue sky.
Dual Hands Mutual Combat... How the hell do you handle the aftermath of something this bouncy? Huh? So~ damn cute. Master it, and he'd use it like King Sejong milking Prime Minister Hwang Hee—till the broth ran dry.
"...Haa."
A weary sigh escaped. Once the flow broke, fatigue crashed in. Sticky sweat crawled over his skin. Unpleasant.
...Come to think of it, a bit further up was the river. Maybe wash up?
He'd come to rinse off in the cool river flow, but someone was already there. A burly, muscular man in his mid-to-late thirties—hair too long for a monk, too short for a layman—bare-chested, washing under the rushing water. His appearance screamed extraordinary, but the massive tattoo on his back was even more striking: a fierce giant wreathed in flames, seated in meditation wielding a blazing sword. It resembled the Four Heavenly Kings at temples.
"Cool tattoo. Is that the Buddhist Four Heavenly Kings?"
At his question, the tattooed man turned, met his gaze calmly, and replied. His voice matched his build—heavy and solemn.
"Similar, but different. Not Buddhism—it's Fudo Myoo, one of Esoteric Buddhism's Five Great Wisdom Kings."
Immovable Bright King, huh. Now that he mentioned it, he'd seen it before—usually on yakuza manga protagonists or rival bosses' backs. This was the murim world, so no yakuza; probably religious significance.
"Anyway, looks badass. Enjoy your bath."
Curiosity sated, and not keen on sharing the water with a musclebound stranger, he turned to head down—when a voice called from behind.
"Got a quick question. You got time?"
"Ah... sure. If I know, I'll answer. Shoot."
Not polite to start a chat and ignore, so he turned back. The man pressed his palms together in a light bow, then stepped out of the water. From afar, his muscles looked insane; up close, the density was unreal. And his eyes—straightforward and kind, contrasting his fierce face. Towering too—not master-level, but at least 190 cm.
As he looked up, the man sat on a nearby flat rock to match eye level.
"First, a simple intro. I'm Mukgang, guardian lion of Esoteric Buddhism."
Just stating his name, yet the air grew heavy. Hot.
"And I've come to this village to slay the Baekhwa Cult's monster. Seen it anywhere?"
Strange as it sounded, the Immovable Bright King from before overlapped with Mukgang in his mind.