Murim Debut (4)
Since Namgung Soso's room door was locked, Mancheon hurriedly laid her down on his own bed. That's when he noticed something off. It was late at night, sure, but the silence was suspiciously eerie. The moment he'd entered the inn, he'd looked for the owner and errand boy on the first floor to call a physician, but they were nowhere to be found. All the rooms on the second floor were empty too, except for the ones occupied by him and the other late talents.
A creepy stillness, devoid of any human presence, filled the inn.
"Haa... haa..."
He gazed at Soso, who had been perfectly fine just moments ago but was now too weak to even sit up, gasping ragged breaths with effort.
...What the hell is going on here?
The owner, the kitchen staff, the errand boy, and even the other guests who'd been around until dinner—they'd all vanished for some reason. That left only him and the prestigious righteous faction late talents stranded here, clueless.
It was too early to be certain, but it felt like they'd stumbled into some dangerous conspiracy.
This was no longer something he could handle alone.
"Sword expert! Formation expert! Tang young miss! Wake up! We've got big trouble!!"
He pounded on the doors of the other late talents' rooms, but no response came. No time to hesitate—he kicked the doors open. Inside, everyone was just like Soso: burning with fever, passed out, and breathing heavily.
Now he was sure. This was a trap someone had set.
He didn't know what method they'd used, but they'd slipped something past the Tang family's keen senses with a special drug, knocking out every single late talent.
That left him with two choices. One: bolt to the local yamen and bring back the guards. The other—
"What? There's someone still awake?"
"Told you not to deal with that brute-force lunatic. Lies the second he opens his mouth."
"...But he really seems to be the only one awake?"
Standing at the second-floor railing, Mancheon eyed the group of assassins who'd just waltzed into the inn—at the perfect timing, right when all the late talents were out of commission.
You shouldn't judge by appearances, but these guys looked like straight-up villains, swords in hand, swaggering in like they owned the place. Total gangster vibes—or assassin squad.
Time's up. His two choices had narrowed to one.
Time to fight.
"No backing down now."
He muttered a sigh-laced soliloquy to the empty air and limped down to the first floor.
Those climbing the stairs to kill. The one descending to protect.
Their eyes met. A bizarre tension hung in the inn.
Creak—creak—
The old wooden stairs groaned under his steps, echoing through the silence.
"Just checking—who'd you come to kill?"
"Namgung Soso."
"What'd she do? Or is it a grudge?"
"Beats me. Family drama from a prestigious clan, probably."
Mancheon reached the bottom of the stairs, rolled his shoulders, and approached the nearest assassin without a hint of caution.
"Thanks for the info. But you sure it's cool to spill so easily?"
"We're killing you soon anyway. Consider it funeral money for the afterlife, friend."
"Yeah? Then this is your change, friend."
Stick Prods Rabid Dog
Strikes upward at a mangy mutt.
The assassin's jaw took a direct hit from the upward-swinging staff, sending him arcing through the air before crashing into the inn floor with a thunderous thud.
"What the...?"
The unexpected turn of events left the assassins' eyes wide in shock. A sidelong glance confirmed it: the downed assassin's jaw was shattered, out cold.
Pure, heavy, scorching energy poured from this guy they'd dismissed as a mere cripple. His aura pegged him at least on par with a prestigious faction late talent.
They'd thought this was an easy gig: slip into the rigged inn and off one passed-out Namgung Soso. No one expected a hidden wildcard.
The assassins eyed the stairs behind Mancheon, minds racing with calculations. Priority one: kill Soso fast. No need to tangle with this mystery martial artist. No bonus pay for extra blood.
"What if we let you walk? Will you go quietly?"
Mancheon flashed a faint smile at their shameless offer—a look of grim resolve.
"You know what? Namgung Soso's sword is beautiful."
"...Huh?"
Honestly, their deal wasn't bad. Fake or not, bailing made sense. Risking his neck for a near-stranger he'd just met? Bad business. Dumb move.
...But that moonlit sword dance under the stars was burned into his brain, unforgettable.
What kind of life, what resolve, led to swordplay that stunning? He was curious. He wanted to know more about Namgung Soso the person. Debate martial arts with her.
...Claim that ethereal blade glowing under the moonlight for himself.
He chuckled. No wonder Jegal Yang called him a mad old coot.
Circulating his inner energy, he readied his forms and dropped into stance, blocking the stairs to keep them from the second floor.
"Beautiful things belong in this world."
"Madman's confirmed. Hit him from both sides."
Strong, sure—but just one guy. Flank him, exploit the gaps, and he'd crumble.
Blades laced with killing intent slashed at his throat and heart from both sides, almost in sync. Back to the stairs, nowhere to dodge.
Every attack from here on had to be parried. He cleared his mind, raising both hands left and right.
Split his focus in two.
Not long after Mancheon departed on his journey, back at the Sima Family Manor.
Jang Chunhwa wiped away tears while cleaning her mischievous son's room, the emptiness hitting her hard.
"Why'd he have to send out a sick kid? Is he sleeping well? Eating okay?"
She understood her husband's intent to groom him as heir, but worry was worry—especially for such a needy child.
"Oppa must be doing fine and healthy right now, Mother. No need to fret so much."
Chunhwa snapped from her thoughts at Sima Yeomhwa's elegant, soothing voice, smiling softly.
"I should be the one fussing over you as your mother-in-law. Sorry you saw me like this."
"No, it's fine. Taking care of Mother as family is only natural."
Yes—as her beloved oppa's wife, filling his absence and tending to her mother-in-law was perfectly natural. Utterly reasonable. Textbook stuff.
(For the record, Sima Bu was both father-in-law and biological dad, so no extra bows or service there.)
Unaware of her inner thoughts, Chunhwa saw Yeomhwa's actions as pure-hearted concern for son and mother.
The two women cleaned in warm harmony until they uncovered a massive pile of papers stacked in a chest.
Yes, a literal heap of paper. Thousands of sheets crammed inside, covered in triangles, squares, circles—endless doodles.
Yeomhwa unconsciously reached out with her slender, delicate hand and lifted one sheet.
On it: a circle and square so perfectly precise, nothing else could describe them.
For Ohae. To beat the Half-Dragon. To never make that precious girl cry again. The training he'd begun with that thirteen-year-old resolve.
Five years of determination, five years of setbacks, five years of grind—surpassing the wall.
Right: Dog-Beating Stick Technique
Left: Empty Brightness Fist
His hands unleashed two different forms at once, countering foes from both sides simultaneously. The merciless staff thrust pierced one's solar plexus; the flowing fist deflected and subdued the other.
Three assassins down in a blink. The watchers behind grimaced.
No more holding back. Getting stalled by one guy, failing to reach the target? Pathetic.
"Call in all the backups outside."
Anticipating the Sword Dragon's awakening, the outside reserves flooded in at the signal.
Clomp clomp—clomp clomp—
They poured in, drawing blades, encircling Mancheon in a semicircle against the stairs.
Sapa weren't to be underestimated. And this punk had bruised their pride.
This wasn't just silencing a witness anymore. They'd kill him however it took, then climb those stairs and finish Soso. A matter of sapa martial pride.
"No running now, kid. You're done."
'Damn, he brought a whole army.'
Hard to count exactly, but around fifty by rough estimate.
He tilted his head slightly, glancing at Soso's room where she slept soundly on the second floor.
A sigh escaped him. He turned back to the assassin horde.
Left arm extended to gauge distance, he gripped his staff tight. Steel resolve.
'1 vs 50... Guess I'll make legend tonight.'
Who moved first? No telling.
Just attackers surging up and defender holding the line—clashing at once.