My Little Sister is from the Baekhwa Cult (13)
A small, bustling inn sat along the road between villages. Five men dressed in matching black uniforms stepped inside.
“Boy, we're just here for a quick meal. Got any seats?”
Their stiff expressions and precise movements screamed Murim warrior at first glance, so the waiter plastered on a servile smile to humor them.
“Aigoo~ Sorry, sirs. As you can see, we're packed. You'll have to wait a bit.”
At the waiter's words, the black-clad men scanned the inn. The one with a massive scar across his face twisted into a grotesque grin.
“No problem. If there are no seats, we'll just make some.”
“...Pardon?”
Bodies. Bodies everywhere you looked.
The once-crowded inn was now filled only with cold corpses strewn across the floor—everyone except the chef and the black-clad men.
“I believe weak Murim folk deserve to die. What do you think?”
In the midst of the sticky blood and scattered corpses, the scar-faced man casually slurped his noodle soup and asked the pale-as-a-ghost chef.
“Y-Your words... are correct. Utterly just.”
“No need for 'sir.' Even I am barely scraping by with my blade these days.”
The scar-faced man patted the terrified chef's shoulder as if to ease his tension.
“But get this—there are people who call themselves Murim warriors yet can't make a living with their swords. Isn't that ridiculous?”
“...Haha.”
The chef had no idea what part warranted laughter, but to avoid offending the killer before him, he forced out a dry chuckle.
“Can you really call someone a Murim warrior if they can't survive on martial prowess? I say no. Understand?”
“Yes! Yes! I understand, sir!”
Watching the chef nod vigorously without hesitation, the scar-faced man flashed another grotesque smile—a razor-sharp grin.
“Good. So, what should we do with a chef who can't cook? Hmm?”
No answer came from the chef.
The moment the words left his mouth, the scar-faced man swung his empty plate, slicing clean through the chef's neck.
The headless body crumpled to the floor in a spray of blood, while the head spun through the air before landing neatly on the plate, now wreathed in black demonic energy from the neck up.
Yeongdo of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult's Black Kill Squad—the scar-faced man—gazed contentedly at the chef's head prettily plated on the dish, then offered it to his comrades, who were downing sorghum liquor and braised pork belly.
“Want some?”
“We're not Blood Cult. Why would we eat human flesh? Get it away.”
The plate bore a human head—a sight that would turn stomachs and induce vomiting—but the black-clad men showed no reaction, impassively devouring their liquor and pork.
Ignoring his comrades' cold shoulder, Yeongdo shrugged, set the plate with the chef's head next to some bland noodles, and snatched some braised pork with his chopsticks.
Yeongdo's eyes widened as he chewed the pork. He downed a shot of sorghum liquor. A sigh of admiration escaped him.
“Kya~ Should've ordered pork instead of noodles. Then this guy might still be alive.”
Half-joking, half-serious, he tapped the severed head. He filled a liquor cup to the brim and placed it before the head.
“As an apology, here's one from me. Have a drink on your way to the afterlife.”
Caw—caw—
The Black Kill Squad members, enjoying their late dinner with lively banter, froze mid-chopstick at the sudden crow's cry, senses sharpening.
With a flutter of wings, a crow swooped into the inn and landed on their dining table. A tiny message tube was bound to its leg—the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult's messenger bird.
The cult's orders were absolute. No dawdling over dinner.
One squad member immediately checked the orders first, downed a cup of cold water to wash away the liquor taste, and stood.
“Dinner's over. Time to move. New mission.”
“What kind?”
Yeongdo's eyes and the wrinkles around his mouth began to twitch—not from anger at the meal's interruption, but from excitement at the prospect of more killing.
“Scout team got wiped. Rumors were true—Sima Family Manor and Baekhwa Cult have allied.”
“...Wolf hunt, then.”
“Yeah. Kill Sima Family head Sima Bu and retrieve Baekhwa Cult's monster.”
Yeongdo's eyes rolled eagerly. Smarter, stronger beasts always sensed the class difference well.
“We might not be enough. Reinforcements?”
“We're the reinforcements. Elder Gu Goak is already leading other believers toward Sima Family Manor.”
“Ah~ That was a damn good meal.”
Sima Mancheon patted his full belly with a blissful smile, contentment swelling in his heart. Yeomhwa beamed happily right alongside him.
“I'm so glad it suited your taste, orabeoni. That makes me happy.”
No empty words. No polite fake smile. She wanted to see her big brother's grin. Wanted to do more for him. Wanted him to need her.
Those thoughts filled her heart and mind. Bliss.
But as she gazed at Mancheon, her joyful eyes suddenly darkened.
...Do I even deserve to stand by orabeoni's side?
Conversations with him revealed it: orabeoni had a warm heart fitting Ahura Mazda's creation.
All good things in the world were Ahura Mazda's handiwork; all evil stemmed from Angra Mainyu.
Baekhwa Cult's monster. The world-burning saintess. Just one of countless carelessly sown seeds—a filthy illegitimate born without love.
Earth, fire, water, mind—the creator took special care with those creations. They must not be defiled.
Those near vermilion turn red; those near ink turn black.
Words that meant little when studying Central Plains tongue now pierced her lungs. Her words caught in her throat.
...Can a monster like me desire orabeoni's heart? Can I taint it?
And worse—she leaned on his kindness while hiding her true nature. Hiding the ugly monster, showing only the cute little sister to earn his love.
...What a cowardly monster.
“Your face looks pale. You okay? Did you push yourself cooking?”
Mancheon's gentle concern snapped Yeomhwa back. But anxiety lingered in her beautiful red eyes.
She craved confirmation of his love.
Snap.
On impulse, she flicked her fingers, sparking a tiny flame in the air. Steadying her trembling heart, she met orabeoni's gaze.
“I know you held back out of consideration for me. But... I want to know what you think.”
He looked into her flickering eyes, trembling like the flame.
Yeomhwa was sharp. Half-hearted platitudes would only wound her deeper.
Baring one's true heart took courage. Courage to be hurt.
So as her big brother, he summoned his own.
He reached out, gripping her slender, trembling shoulders firmly yet tenderly. He didn't dodge her red eyes, fixed only on him.
From the moment he'd seen her spark flames from her fingers, he'd itched to say this.
“Yeomhwa, if I joined Zoroastrianism, prayed hard, and donated a ton, could I snap my fingers and shoot fire like you?”
“...Pardon?”
Her pretty eyes blinked in confusion.
But his words were no joke—pure sincerity.
He hadn't brought it up in that dire moment, but Yeomhwa snapping flames to incinerate foes was pure Flame Alchemist 'Roy Mustang.' Too cool.
He wanted that too—snapping fingers for badass fire. To become Sima Mancheon, the Murim flame master surpassing the Flame Alchemist. That was his honest desire.
She'd seemed reluctant to discuss it, so he'd held back. But now she'd laid the groundwork. Grateful.
Her eyes sparkled purely with admiration. Yeomhwa's heart raced.
...You can make those eyes because you don't know the details, the monster deep inside screamed. But for now, it was enough.
In that brief moment, his past actions and the warmth from his hands reassured her.
Yeomhwa smiled radiantly at her quirky, kind, wonderful orabeoni, who accepted her whims again.
“Yes~ You could.”
A lie.
Her fire control came from her special Fire Witch bloodline. No amount of prayer or donation would let Mancheon wield flames so freely.
“But you'd need to follow a few precepts.”
“Th-that's the good thoughts, good words, good deeds thing, right?”
“Yes, but a few more too.”
Mancheon's eyes lit with curiosity at the unfamiliar words.
Yeomhwa, deeming herself vulgar yet unable to contain her surging emotions, laid bare her fervent heart.
“First: Cherish your little sister.”
“That's my specialty.”
Ignoring her flushing cheeks at his crisp reply, she poured out more lovely lies—wishes masquerading as precepts. Fulfilling her selfish desires.
“Second: Protect your little sister dearly.”
Mancheon nodded instantly, as if it went without saying. Joy surged in Yeomhwa, but shame made her hesitate on the final precept she'd just invented—
But deciding to be cowardly to the end, she confessed her love.
“L-Lastly, the third: L-love your l-little sister...”
“I already love you more than anyone in the world. Loving family is a given.”
His brazen smile pierced her heart as he grinned breezily. Yeomhwa adored her impudent yet kind, quirky yet cool orabeoni.