Fifty Years, Then Home
Seeing Orthodox faction thugs in every direction I looked, I figured I was pretty thoroughly screwed.
With a dragnet this size, it obviously wasn't a trap they'd thrown together overnight.
The truth is, the Heavenly Demon's wanderlust was famous throughout all of the Central Plains.
She spent more than half of every year out roaming the heartlands, and she'd kept it up for a full thirty years without missing a single one. If she *hadn't* gotten caught eventually, that would've been the real miracle.
No matter how resourceful the Divine Cult was, that much was beyond even them.
The only reason she'd managed to roam freely all this time was that her sole escort was me, and our disguises and acting were that flawless.
It was true that the Heavenly Demon wandered the Central Plains, but since nobody could ever predict when or where she'd appear, the Murim Alliance had never been able to move against her.
But now we'd well and truly blundered into it.
Somehow the information had leaked, and an enormous number of martial artists were already lying in wait here — with more pouring in even now.
Just look at the three men currently facing the Heavenly Demon up ahead, and you could see how dead serious the Orthodox faction was about this operation.
The Sword Venerable. The Martial Venerable. The Buddha Venerable.
The three supreme masters of the Orthodox faction.
Men who couldn't stand the sight of each other, all gathered in one place — the Murim Alliance had clearly staked everything on this.
The Heavenly Demon turns aside the attacks of the Three Venerables, who have her surrounded from three directions.
Watching her hold her own against three masters of the Mystic Realm without giving an inch, I had to admit — our Heavenly Demon was the real deal.
It was easy to understand why the Murim Alliance was so determined not to let slip this chance, when she'd ventured out with a single guard for company.
Because the main event of this battle was so spectacular, the Orthodox thugs surrounding me didn't seem particularly eager to press their attack either.
Since their very lives hung on the outcome of that fight, I suppose they were content to bide their time and watch.
If it hadn't been for that, even a Demonic Transcendence-level master like me would never have had the leisure to study the Heavenly Demon's battle.
That said, even if this Heavenly Demon ranked among the most fearsome transcendent masters in the Cult's entire history, facing not just the Orthodox faction but the Three Venerables in their entirety made it hard to picture a victory.
Frankly, in this situation, cutting and running would have been the wiser choice.
"Something's off here..."
I could see it, so there was no way that sharp-minded Heavenly Demon couldn't. So why was she still lingering here, hemming and hawing?
Someone of her caliber could have slipped away easily enough, even with the Three Venerables holding the line.
And then there was this encirclement.
I hadn't noticed at first, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was skewed noticeably toward *me* rather than her.
As if they were absolutely certain the Heavenly Demon would never flee...
Come to think of it, it was also strange that they were leaving me — someone they could dispatch effortlessly — just standing here.
If they'd eliminated me first, they could have thrown their entire strength at the Heavenly Demon.
At first I assumed they were simply prioritizing her, but the way things were flowing told a different story.
Don't tell me...
Just as the sense that something was deeply wrong crystallized, the Heavenly Demon's shadow rippled in an unnatural way.
My mind was already made up. I slammed an attack into the thinnest point of the encirclement and hurled myself forward.
Every last drop of my power, poured into Shifting Shapes and Changing Positions.
I took the King of Assassins' hidden blade — springing from the Heavenly Demon's own shadow — with my body.
"Ghk—!"
"...Siwoo? What in the world are you doing, you idiot..."
Yes, it was an idiotic thing to do. I knew that.
There was no way the Heavenly Demon hadn't sensed what I had.
She'd probably been planning to counter the exact moment the King of Assassins struck at her.
But it was something I had to do anyway.
I didn't know why, but I had the distinct feeling I'd become a hostage.
And if so, then disappearing quickly was the kindest choice I could make for her.
With the encirclement closed this tight, there was no way a half-baked Demonic Transcendence runt like me was escaping.
"Khh..."
True to his title, the King of Assassins had coated his weapon with poison as well. This burned — a fierce, searing heat.
My organs were churning, and I knew that the end had truly arrived.
Dragged into the murim against my will, forced to live like a kicked dog for fifty years now.
A life without regrets — or more precisely, without even the strength left to argue about it. All I wanted was to finish the ending on my own terms.
And if this was the end, then taking one blade for the Heavenly Demon wasn't a bad way to go.
I owed her plenty, one way or another.
"...Cheon... Yoo-ah..."
Feeling that the end was finally here, I called out the Heavenly Demon's name with everything I had left.
And then I tried to force out the one thing I'd always kept buried in my chest but never managed to say.
"...Could you... ghk—"
Ah. Can't get it out.
I was trying to tell her to stop gallivanting all over the countryside, for the love of god.
Seriously — what kind of person spends half the year roaming around?
And insisting on dragging *me*, of all people, along as her lone escort? When exactly was I supposed to live my own life?
Because of that woman, I reached this age without ever getting married.
Fine. It was done. At this point, I truly had no regrets left.
As my strength drained away and dizziness clouded my head, I closed my eyes with a quiet smile.
...And when I opened them again, I was back in my own bedroom. In the modern world.
Ha. Life, honestly... If I'd known it would end like this, I'd have just killed myself ages ago.
Having lived over fifty years in the murim before returning, I expected the world to have changed — but reality hadn't changed one bit.
No, something *had* changed.
Baek Siwoo, twenty-eight-year-old aspiring actor, was now a twenty-three-year-old aspiring actor.
So one year of regression for every ten spent in the murim?
If that was the exchange rate, I'd apparently died at a pretty convenient time.
If I'd dragged things out another decade or so before dying, I might have woken up back in my military unit.
However good the modern world was, opening my eyes and finding myself in the army again would've been a bit much...
Just thinking about it gave me chills.
"Hey, you jerk. Did you seriously get work done on your face?"
"What the hell are you on about, you lunatic? Give it a rest."
One more thing that had changed: my looks.
Whether this body had gone to the murim as-is and come back, or returned freshly remade by Complete Body Reconstruction, I couldn't say — but either way, it had come back transformed.
Granted, it was the half-finished Reconstruction the Heavenly Demon had forced on me, so the effect wasn't dramatic. But the balance and sculpted quality of my face had sharpened, taking an already decent face and making it just a little more striking.
At a glance you wouldn't notice, but if you stared long enough you'd tilt your head — that level of difference.
Still, for all that it was a Reconstructed body, nothing about it was drastically different.
Just a bit sturdier and more agile than before, that was all.
With not a single spark of internal qi in it, I couldn't even hope for the true prize of Reconstruction — the boost to martial arts cultivation efficiency.
Though, since this was a world where internal qi didn't exist at all, there was hardly any reason to think about martial arts in the first place.
Actually, the first thing I'd done upon returning to the modern era was check my qi.
After fifty-odd years in the murim, the total absence of internal power did nag at me a little.
So I tried this and that, and the only conclusion I reached was that this world contained no qi whatsoever.
Not "the air is thin and the qi won't gather" thin — qi simply did not exist here.
Coming all the way back from the murim unable to use a single technique was a setback of "you're telling me I can't?!" proportions — but in a way, it was a blessing.
If qi existed, odds were decent that murim-types existed somewhere too. And the world was better off without those psycho thugs.
How was anyone supposed to live in peace knowing those bastards were walking around breathing free air?
As an aside — every single martial art I tried turned out to be useless, but the Divine Cult's foundational technique, the Body Refining Immortal Art, actually looked fairly promising.
Was that because it had nothing to do with internal qi to begin with?
In truth, calling it a martial art was generous — it was closer to a structured exercise routine. Think of it as a somewhat more efficient form of tai chi. Keep at it consistently, and it seemed like it would do wonders for conditioning and weight management.
It might be worth quietly mentioning to Father and Mother, too.
Though whether they'd actually do it with me if I suggested it was another question.
Not that I had any intention whatsoever of teaching it to my blood-related housemate, Mom's little girl.
Anyway.
The blood-related housemate in question — her brain addled by the Reconstruction business — was still needling me about my face being different.
She, for her part, was trying to seize the moment and get some procedures done herself. Fat chance.
But every time she pulled one of her little stunts, my head snapped into focus and I truly felt that I'd come back.
To think *this* was what eased me back into reality. Absolutely absurd.
"Dad~ I think this bastard has actually lost his mind."
"Now, now. Sweetheart, why would you say such a thing? My son — it's okay, go ahead and cry. There's soul in your father's chicken. Feeling your soul stirred to tears is perfectly natural."
"No, Father. Honestly, that's going a bit far—"
"Son. Dry your eyes before you say such things."
"That's what I'm trying to—"
One more reason I adapted to reality so quickly: my father's chicken.
Dad ran a fried chicken place and would often bring home the leftovers, and eating it drove home beyond doubt that I was really back.
Dad-brand chicken used to be so bland I found it tiresome — so why on earth did it taste this good now?
The first day I returned, I ate it and burst into tears, which got me into quite an ordeal.
Father — speaking now, though it's late — your chicken does not have soul in it.
It's miles better than any chicken dish the Central Plains ever managed, but claiming it stirred my *soul* crosses a line, don't you think?
Look, refusing to franchise and handling everything yourself is admirable. But let's not get carried away.
"Ta-da! Son. This one's the new garlic-sauce item."
"Garlic?"
"Seemed like we needed at least one garlic menu item. Customers keep asking for it."
"Garlic's a solid choice, definitely."
"Hmm..."
"What is it?"
"I think it's a failure. My own son, unable to feel his father's soul."
"...No, that time I was genuinely—"
"Very well. I'll try harder. The new menu stays on hold for now."
Thanks to the whole tearful incident, the new item that should have launched ages ago kept getting pushed back.
Our father was a peculiar man — once he fixated on something, there was no talking him down.
It seemed he wouldn't put anything on the menu unless it moved me to tears, and honestly, was that any way to run a business?
Bear in mind, I had cried over Dad's chicken exactly once, that single day — and now he was trying to recreate it. Utterly ridiculous.
"Leave him be. He'll get over it. Your father's been like this forever."
"...I know, but still..."
He lived such a cheerful life that just letting him be was probably the best thing for everyone's mental health.
Just as Mother said.
Seeing Father be his usual self made it sink in that I really had come home, and my heart settled a little warmer.
This — this was the everyday life I'd never managed to forget, even through fifty years in the murim.