63. Temporary Disciple (1)
Beggars might seem like easy targets, but could anyone really dismiss the Beggar Clan as just a bunch of hobos?
Yi Mu-myeong wanted to shake his head vigorously at the question.
"What's with that look, Mu-myeong?"
"N-no, it's nothing."
Han Bin glanced around before continuing.
"See? Even Mu-myeong agrees."
"That doesn't look like agreement to me."
Sim Miho pouted and pointed at Yi Mu-myeong.
As everyone puzzled over it, Han Bin laid out his plan.
"So here's the thing... "
The more Han Bin explained, the wider their eyes grew and the more their jaws dropped.
He described Mujaeja Hong Chilgae as if he'd spent years watching the man up close.
So Daeseop was the most shocked. He'd never heard rumors of Han Bin rubbing elbows with the Beggar Clan, let alone seen him chatting with one.
Yet here he was, rattling off everything from Hong Chilgae's habits to his quirks like it was nothing.
Sim Miho felt the same. The sheer volume of info Han Bin casually dropped dwarfed everything she'd dug up.
No matter how she looked at it, this side of him felt brand new.
Han Bin, though, acted like it was no big deal. It was all from memories of his past life, after all.
Twenty years in the jianghu meant you'd shared drinks with plenty of murim legends.
One thing Han Bin couldn't be sure of, however: what if Mujaeja had lied to him back then?
The meeting dragged on until the first rooster crowed at dawn. With bloodshot eyes fixed on him, Han Bin finally declared,
"Dismissed!"
In an instant, Sim Miho and the others didn't stand—they face-planted right onto the table.
Thud!
The next afternoon.
Han Bin strolled through the marketplace with a wooden sword at his side.
His destination: Cheonhwa Pavilion.
A six-story restaurant smack between Hebei's top counties, Jil-hyeon and Jeongnang-hyeon—it was the local legend.
Right next to the ronin inn where he'd once cut a deal with the Ronin King.
But Han Bin wasn't there for the food.
Intel said Hong Chilgae was begging nearby.
"Man, the Beggar Clan takes 'equality' to a whole other level," Han Bin muttered with a smirk.
It was true. Except for the clan leader, every member had a begging quota to hit.
Fall short, and even the oldest elder got no respect.
Someone like Hong Chilgae could knock out years' worth at one major sect, but the eccentric never did.
He hid his status, begged properly, and hit his marks.
That was how he'd lived a textbook sixty years as a beggar.
At Cheonhwa Pavilion, Han Bin scanned carefully.
His eyes landed on a beggar—just three steps from the entrance.
"Whew, even this guy's living the high life."
Han Bin chuckled softly. He'd found Hong Chilgae.
What was Cheonhwa Pavilion? Hebei's finest eatery and brothel. And a beggar parked right next to it?
They must be tolerating him as a murim luminary—a rare privilege.
Han Bin didn't care. He just needed to hook the guy.
Spotting Hong Chilgae dozing in the pavilion's corner, he walked up casually.
Swoosh.
Han Bin paused mid-stride.
Then he turned back, fished a money pouch from his robe, and dropped a silver tael into the beggar's bowl.
Without even glancing at the man's face, he walked off.
Clink.
The coin's chime snapped Hong Chilgae's eyes to his bowl.
What the hell?
"Gasp!"
His jaw dropped like a gaping gourd.
Unthinkable in his begging career.
A full silver tael gleamed in the bowl, still spinning.
"What in the world?!"
Hong Chilgae whipped around, scanning wildly.
Nothing but swirling leaves in the empty street.
Mujaeja Hong Chilgae murmured low.
"Some elder... "
True enough. Shaolin monks or Wudang Taoists sometimes dropped silver to mess with him. But pure, honest begging for silver? First time in his life.
After that, he scoured for his silver-giving benefactor, eyes bulging.
Sunset came—no sign.
Gazing at the dipping sun, he sighed.
"Sigh. Greed clouds the eyes!"
He blamed his shallow cultivation. Maybe someone meant to toss copper but fumbled silver by mistake.
As he pondered leaving, he decided: if the owner came, he'd return it. Then he draped his straw mat.
Elder beggar or not, to Hong Chilgae, a mat made anywhere home.
Dawn broke.
As he mulled over the silver's owner—
"Waaah!"
A girl wailed up at a massive tree by Cheonhwa Pavilion.
Passersby halted, murmuring at the kite snagged in the branches.
"Oh dear."
"Yeah, bought it today too."
"Touch it wrong, and it'll rip."
As eyes fixed on girl and kite, Han Bin palmed a pebble from behind the crowd.
He flicked it skyward casually.
As it crested over his head and fell, he swung his wooden sword.
Infused with Lightning Flash, the blade blurred invisible.
The pebble met the flat at chest height.
Ping.
It rocketed upward like an arrow.
Whoosh.
Straight and true, it struck the branch's weakest point.
Crack—the limb split.
The kite fluttered free, drifting down.
Plop.
The crowd buzzed louder.
"Lucky."
"But where'd that rock come from?"
"No idea?"
As they swapped confused glances, Han Bin sheathed his wooden sword smoothly.
Speed from Yongrin Sword Art, precision from endless practice.
He could now wield any blade with pinpoint accuracy, even junk.
Miss the branch one-in-ten and shred the kite? No biggie.
If he'd fretted that, the Paeng jars wouldn't all be shards.
Anyway, he'd snagged the girl and beggar's attention.
Then—the girl, clutching her kite, stared right at Han Bin.
He shrugged with a grin.
As he did, the beggar watched with amused interest.
Once the fuss died and the crowd dispersed, Han Bin approached the old beggar.
The man pretended to doze, hand outstretched, eyeing him intently.
Han Bin dropped silver into the palm with a kind smile.
"Buy some dumplings with this, old beggar grandpa."
Giving silver to a beggar? Unheard of in normal times.
Even in his past life, Han Bin never had.
The unexpected breeds more unexpected.
Two days running, same move.
Han Bin gazed at Hong Chilgae with feigned innocence.
Mujaeja Hong Chilgae.
Disciple-crazed—his eyes spun at any prodigy. But he'd hesitate at the last second.
Heck, he'd tried poaching a Shaolin disciple and got blacklisted from the temple.
To Han Bin's memory, he'd died disciple-less.
Hong himself had said his ideal student embodied benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trust.
Hearing that, Han Bin had nearly spat his baek-yeop-cheong.
Who with all those virtues begs in the Beggar Clan?
Every Beggar Clan disciple had one flaw: laziness—in temperament, habit, whatever.
Semantic games aside, none were diligent.
Yet Hong sought diligence too.
Unlike his thoughts, Han Bin kept smiling.
Plop.
"Whoa, thanks much!"
Hong snatched the coin reflexively, eyes flickering.
Second silver in two days.
Same guy?
Too soon to say. Sure, as a clan elder, silver was pocket change at any sect...
But begging incognito? Never scored this big.
To a beggar, it was like monks seeking alms for enlightenment.
Mujaeja Hong Chilgae shook off reverie, eyeing the youth.
"Huh?"
Han Bin was gone.
Hong's eyes bulged.
This had to be...
"Phantom Shift!"
No, not enough.
Phantom Shift left afterimages.
Here? Nothing—no image, no trace.
"Taoist Earth Contraction?"
He shook his head.
The silver in his hand barely registered.
That stone-to-kite trick was no amateur hour.
And the kid's mysterious footwork?
Rejuvenation? Baby-faced elder? Hidden sect master?
Who was this expert? The question filled his mind.
Then a voice from behind:
"Hey, beggar grandpa, whatcha doing?"
What?
Hong turned. Han Bin beamed back.
Up close, he looked older than first glance.
Tall for early twenties, but that baby face shaved off three or four years.
Amid fresh shock, Hong's eyes widened again.
The kid had slipped behind him, evading a Top Hundred's gaze.
In combat? He'd be dead.
"H-how?"
Hong's voice quavered.
Han Bin blinked innocently.
"You had your eyes closed, grandpa. I had business back here..."
True enough. Hong's freakout stemmed from the suppressed presence, not Phantom Shift.
It erased existence.
Composing himself, Hong pressed.
"Business? What kind?"
Stroking a sparrow in his hand, Han Bin continued.
"Sparrow fell down here. Look—seems hurt. Wanna save it, but can't climb up there..."
He trailed off.