Fallen to the Blood Chain Poison
“By steadily ingesting small amounts of poison, you build resistance to it. In the process of conquering the poison, your internal energy deepens as well.”
Won Seung nodded, though unease lingered in his eyes. Dok Sabu watched him with a meaningful smile.
“But before that, there’s something you must learn first.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
A few days later.
Dok Sabu vanished somewhere, only returning in the late afternoon. When Won Seung finished his training and came back, Dok Sabu led him to the warehouse behind their quarters.
“Gasp! There’s a dead body!”
In the center of the warehouse stood a wooden table, and atop it lay the naked corpse of a man.
The body seemed freshly killed; the skin hadn’t begun to rot yet. He looked like a farmer, his callused soles starkly pale.
“Did you... kill someone?”
“I only kill those who deserve it.”
Dok Sabu shook his head.
“I fetched this one with great difficulty from a nearby village graveyard.”
He beckoned Won Seung closer. Hesitating, Won Seung approached.
“Poison and medicine are two sides of the same coin. Master poison, and you’ll understand medicine. Master medicine, and you’ll gain knowledge of poisons. Study them together, and your progress will accelerate.”
Won Seung nodded.
“To learn medicine, you must know the human body.”
At that point, Won Seung had no idea what horrors awaited him. He figured Dok Sabu would just explain the meridians or structure. But instead, Dok Sabu picked up a small knife and plunged it into the corpse’s abdomen, slicing downward with a long pull.
Already queasy from the strange odor emanating from the body, Won Seung retched at the sight of the exposed entrails.
Dok Sabu scolded sternly.
“Keep your eyes wide open and look closely. You need to know how the organs are shaped and what they do to properly learn medicine or poison arts.”
That night was pure hell for Won Seung.
Dok Sabu sliced open the abdomen, separating the organs one by one and explaining their functions, but Won Seung could barely take it in. The stench from the decaying guts made breathing impossible.
Eventually, he dissected the muscles and bones too. The corpse ended up in pieces—a pile of bones and meat chunks.
Won Seung vomited endlessly, tears and snot streaming down his face in a pathetic mess. He half-wondered if he’d puke up his own guts next.
The lesson devolved into chaos from Won Seung’s constant heaving. Once the dissection ended, he bolted from the warehouse without a thought.
Watching him go, Dok Sabu sighed.
“Looks like I’ll need to fetch another one.”
A few days later, Dok Sabu brought back another corpse.
“This one’s excellent.”
He boasted proudly. It was the body of a sturdy young man, clearly a martial artist.
“Stabbed to death. Destroyed the liver in one strike—masterful work that killed him instantly.”
The corpse looked very fresh. Won Seung suspected his master had killed someone for it.
‘He might keep kidnapping people until I learn properly. I can’t let my poison-crazed master do that.’
Won Seung decided it was better to end this quickly than drag it out. Steel yourself, he thought, and dissected the body. Since it was so fresh, the smell wasn’t as bad as before, making it bearable. Still, once finished, he puked up everything in his stomach.
But the next time, Won Seung had grown accustomed. Calmly, he examined all the organs and determined the cause of death.
“This one died from a tumor in the large intestine. Must’ve suffered terrible diarrhea and agony before the end.”
Dok Sabu nodded.
“He’d been sick for a long time. Look at the liver—damaged from overuse of harsh drugs, see?”
After that, Dok Sabu occasionally brought corpses for dissection, explaining causes of death or the effects of drugs and poisons.
Once Won Seung grasped the human body, Dok Sabu began teaching poison arts in earnest. From early evening late into the night, they handled all sorts of poisons, mixing them, and sometimes ingesting them. Won Seung’s body toughened against poison qi, building resistance.
Before long, leaves fell, and winter returned. This winter’s training was brutally harsh; several boys died climbing ice walls.
As comrades kept dying, a rebellious glint appeared in the children’s eyes. Realizing the grueling training could kill them too, they burned with anger and resentment like Won Seung.
The difference? The other kids showed it; Won Seung hid it.
Come spring, fifty thirteen-year-olds remained: thirty-four boys and sixteen girls.
When the forsythia bloomed, Jang Gyo-du gathered the children and climbed the platform. In his hand was a large wooden box.
‘Another drug to force down our throats.’
Won Seung recalled the Soul Oblivion Pill from his arrival.
Jang Gyo-du spoke with feigned generosity.
“This is the Fate Building Pill. It’ll boost your internal energy. One dose grants five years’ worth, so cultivate diligently.”
Won Seung’s ears perked up. He already had twenty-five years from the Blue Blood Rejuvenation Pill; adding five more would make thirty. He could handle deadly poisons then.
‘Different from the Blue Blood pill, so it’ll definitely work.’
It might contain some trick poison, but Won Seung trusted he could neutralize it.
This time, he swallowed the Fate Building Pill without hesitation. Jang Gyo-du made them all sit and cultivate right there to verify the effects personally.
As the pill dissolved, unlike the Blue Blood pill, Won Seung felt his chest burn hot. Then a cool energy spread up and down. Warm qi flowed from his dantian, mingling with it.
He circulated the fusing energies through his meridians repeatedly. As he did, the effects permeated his body.
When Won Seung opened his eyes, night had fallen. He’d started in the morning and cultivated all day.
Jang Gyo-du was gone; instructors stood guard.
Won Seung didn’t rise immediately, scanning around. The others were still cultivating. He’d woken first.
He sat longer, continuing. His power had clearly surged.
‘Over thirty years now, easy.’
Five years promised; even half was extra three. Who his age had this much cultivation? Won Seung mused he could beat the instructors once he fully mastered the Spectrum Sword Art.
As night deepened and kids woke one by one, he stood at an opportune moment. They cheered, feeling light as if they could fly. Everyone had gained about ten years total—five from prior training plus the pill.
‘Should’ve given it sooner.’
Won Seung eyed them. Some from last winter might’ve survived. But then he realized: giving it precisely when fifty remained made sense.
Not as potent as Blue Blood, but Fate Building Pills were elixirs too—costly ingredients. Better two doses to fifty survivors than one to a hundred. Children’s lives meant nothing to them anyway.
Won Seung wondered about their backers. Raising assassins with such investment over a decade required a grand purpose.
‘Some assassin sect maybe?’
Groups thriving on contract kills might do this.
Then he remembered Dok Sabu waiting. No lunch or dinner—he’d be starving.
‘Oops! Almost starved my master.’
Won Seung rushed to the kitchen, grabbed food, and hurried back.
“Why so late?”
Dok Sabu grumbled.
“Know what happened today?”
Won Seung explained the Fate Building Pill. Dok Sabu flinched, grasping his wrist.
Eyes closed, Dok Sabu took his pulse, then pressed acupoints. Won Seung immediately felt dizzy and staggered.
“What’s wrong with me?”
Dok Sabu sighed.
“It is Fate Building Pill. But they tampered with it.”
“Poisoned it?”
Won Seung had checked himself post-dose and felt fine, tilting his head puzzled. Dok Sabu nodded.
“Subtle stuff. You’ll take it yearly. Effects kick in after the third dose.”
Won Seung paled.
“Then what? What does it do?”
“No worry. Chronic poison—won’t act fast. Might even aid your poison training.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s called Blood Chain Mountain. Once active, needs yearly antidote or your blood dries up and you die.”
“Ah!”
Vicious bastards. Won Seung, thirteen now, would take two more doses, effects hitting at sixteen.
‘Graduation turns us into poison slaves. Calculated to the bone.’
Furious at the poison in him, Dok Sabu seemed unconcerned.
“Anyway, the pill gave you solid thirty years. Cultivate hard and dose steadily with poisons—you’ll hit forty before twenty. Astonishing.”
“Before twenty... just forty. When do I reach a century?”
Dok Sabu eyed him steadily.
“Even I, swallowing countless poisons, hit a century at fifty. Forty at your age is phenomenal. Rare even in great clans or sects.”
“All thanks to your Blue Blood Rejuvenation Pill, Master.”
Dok Sabu shook his head.
“No. It worked because you built a solid foundation with diligent cultivation beforehand. Even noble heirs start at five or six—who trains as desperately as you?”
True, Won Seung reflected.
“Still, Blood Chain Mountain ruins it all.”
Hoping for a cure, Dok Sabu shrugged indifferently.
“Study poison arts diligently. You’ll solve that trifle yourself.”