Letters — 3
A lay disciple of the Mount Hua Sect. The red-haired protagonist of the original story.
More precisely, his hair was the color of red plum blossoms, and he was an orphan besides. Living with his disgraced master, Jinmu, in a hermitage deep within Mount Hua, far from the sect's favor.
A master who'd fallen out with the sect, and an orphan disciple. Thanks to that, the two of them lived in stark poverty. I knew exactly how the protagonist's story would unfold, and which choices he'd have to make — but I didn't know his actual name.
— Please enter the protagonist's name.
The game hadn't given him a default name, you see.
If you didn't set one, the game wouldn't let you proceed, so like any visual novel player worth their salt, I'd typed in my own name for easy immersion.
"Surely the original protagonist isn't actually named the same as me, right?"
That was the whole reason I'd introduced myself first under the pen name Zhiyu — to avoid spooking him with a suspicious case of identical names.
But what if he really was Kang Yunho? If he got famous later, would we be known as Black-Haired Kang Yunho and Red-Haired Kang Yunho?
— Between Black-Haired Kang Yunho and Red-Haired Kang Yunho, who's the famous one?
— One thing's certain: Black-Haired Kang Yunho is better at night work.
It's not going to turn out like that. Probably.
"I did ask the Seocheon Escort Agency to casually look into his name. They'll find out."
I turned my eyes to the opened letters.
Dear and esteemed Master Zhiyu,
Today I went to the market to buy my master's medicine.
I haggled from early morning and managed to get better quality herbs for less than anywhere else. Haggling down the price of expensive medicine while promising to become a regular customer — I couldn't help but puff up my shoulders. I felt like some great merchant.
Of course, I could have bought the herbs at any apothecary, but this is money you sponsor me with, Master Zhiyu. I cannot waste it.
Maybe because we'd agreed to be honest with each other, the letters were starting to carry personal touches. Reading them felt oddly like reading an exchange diary.
But having said that, I have a confession to make to you, Master Zhiyu.
"Oh? What's this about?"
Was he short on money?
The truth is... I spent the leftover money on a snack.
"That's it?"
The protagonist had written it like a criminal confessing his sins, and I couldn't help but chuckle.
You cannot imagine how long I stood in front of that food stall, torn with indecision.
But unlike my laughter, what followed was dead serious.
You told me to treat myself to something nice. But my master is ill — is it right for me to buy snacks? I'd worked all day bargaining. Surely I'd earned one piece of taffy? I agonized in front of that stall for the longest time. So long that a Mount Hua martial artist asked if something was the matter. And then the stall owner held out a piece of taffy to me.
He'd offered it so I could at least taste it. And that taffy was my undoing.
That single snack utterly destroyed my resolve. When I came to my senses, the taffy was already in my mouth.
To think a martial artist of Mount Hua could be swayed by a mere sweet. How can this be? I was so ashamed I didn't know where to put myself. And yet, even in the midst of it, the sweetness lingering on my tongue refused to leave.
You did tell me the sponsorship money was for buying something delicious. So it was allowed, wasn't it?
Today was delicious and joyful. All thanks to you, Master Zhiyu.
The original protagonist's tiny act of rebellion and quiet happiness kept the smile on my face.
Had I become his accomplice, too? It felt like a friend confessing he'd skipped night study, only for us to realize we'd both skipped it together. That shared-guilt feeling between friends.
P.S. I brought some taffy back for my master, and he was delighted. I'd spent my money well, I think.
P.S. 2. My master offered me half of one. I'd already eaten one on the way back and refused, but in the end I surrendered to my master and the power of snacks.
P.S. 3. Do you happen to like sweets too, Master Zhiyu? You may answer with just 'yes' or 'no' in your next letter.
"Sponsoring him is more rewarding than I expected."
The reaction was so good it left me satisfied.
And it wasn't as if I were bankrolling some Somali kid doomed to become a fearsome pirate — this was the original protagonist who would one day carve his name into the history of the martial world.
So this is what being a Daddy-Long-Legs feels like. On to the next letter.
Dear and esteemed Master Zhiyu,
Do you know what a lay disciple is?
"I feel like my young cousin just asked me what a generational successor is."
Of course I know. That's exactly like a young cousin asking. You know full well that in a few chapters the cool, deadpan character will suddenly transform into the sixth generational successor, and everyone will lose their minds.
Being a lay disciple is nothing special, really.
Prestigious sects sometimes take in talented children and raise them as direct disciples, but they also teach martial arts for money. Those paying students are called lay disciples.
Naturally, the martial arts lay disciples learn are a level below what direct disciples — the ones meant to carry the sect forward — are taught. But even a watered-down art from a great orthodox sect carries the weight of its lineage, making it incomparable to the third-rate techniques peddled on the open market.
Direct disciples stay with the sect and prop it up, while lay disciples go out into the world to carry on their own family names.
A lay disciple gains the right to boast, I studied under so-and-so of Mount Hua! — and if he later makes something of himself and donates back to the sect, a virtuous cycle forms that strengthens the bond between them.
Mount Hua has many lay disciples.
Sons of wealthy houses, high officials, military families — all of them come from households with money to burn. They receive their full living expenses from home and spend it freely. Thanks to them, the market near Mount Hua is crowded day after day.
By contrast, I am a lay disciple with no relatives, so I was never in a position to spend freely. Ah — but please don't pity me too much. I may have no relatives, but I have my master, and I never went hungry growing up. I don't really mind it myself, you know.
And now I have you as well, Master Zhiyu. The reason I'm telling you all this is — with the money you sent recently, I bought shoes!
The letter practically soared off the page, the writer's joy leaping through the ink.
My master scolded me for staying away at the market too long, but it went in one ear and out the other! It was the first time in my life I'd ever bought brand-new shoes — surely I was allowed to deliberate a little?
Never again must my heart pound, wondering who might be watching, as I dig through the discarded shoes of other lay disciples hoping to find ones that fit. Do you understand, Master Zhiyu, how happy that makes me?
I'll practice my lightfoot technique in these new shoes. Somehow, with you behind me, I feel like even the parts that used to stump me will come easily now.
"So I just bought the protagonist his first-ever pair of shoes with my money."
Good. It wasn't quite a gift, but as long as he thinks of me every time he puts them on, the affinity will rise. That's all I need.
Ah! I got so excited I may have said something I shouldn't have. Please don't tell my master about the discarded shoes. Absolutely, positively not.
So he doesn't much mind his own poverty, but he hates the thought of hurting his master. Well, good for him. I turned the page immediately.
I cried.
"Weren't you just soaring with joy a moment ago?"
Why the sudden tears?
Walking joyfully in my new shoes, I fell into a filthy mud puddle. No matter how I washed them, yesterday's color would not come back......
The brushstrokes at the end of each line were trembling. Even as he wrote, the heavy feeling must have welled up in him. Poor kid.
Perhaps it was the price of wanting too much. I was low-spirited for days, and my master worried about me.
I cannot make my ailing master worry. The dirtied shoes I will wear for my lightfoot practice anyway. Dirty or not, they're still new, so they'll help with training. The remaining pair I shall only look at for now, and wear on some important day, when it comes.
"In the original story he was a bit more detached about his poor past. Maybe because he hasn't come of age yet?"
The protagonist's bright personality meant he never dwelled on it much, but the childhood stories he let slip from time to time had once made the imperial princess gasp in horror — while he himself just laughed them off cheerfully.
It seems that even with his sunny nature intact, he's still growing up, and his circumstances do weigh on him more than he'd ever let show.
P.S. If you should ever send word that you're coming to Mount Hua, I will wear my clean shoes.
Works for me.
I'd helped him knowing full well how hard his circumstances were. That meant I could reach a little deeper into his heart. I opened the next letter.
Dear and esteemed Master Zhiyu,
My master taught me for a full day, for the first time in a long while. Thanks to you, Master Zhiyu, his health seems to have improved lately.
I've been feeling strangely elated these days. For no reason at all, a smile just comes to my face when I sit still. Why do you suppose that is?
Could it be because I have a master who is like a father to me, and now a friend as well? Somehow I feel like everything is going to go well!
P.S. Master Zhiyu, I called you a friend — please tell me that hasn't caused some misunderstanding on your part?
P.S. 2. Come to think of it, it seems strange that I don't even know the name of my friend. I would like to know your name.
"How about you tell me your name first, hm?"
It's nice that he's happy about my sponsorship, but I suppose simple well-wishing letters alone won't cut it.
"I did tell the Seocheon Escort Agency to look into it. They'll come through."
Hoping his name would appear in the next letter, I unfolded it.