A Life of Leisure
Dense agarwood incense drifted through the quiet chamber, curling in pale ribbons toward the ceiling.
Beyond the crimson silk bed-curtains, the faint flicker of candlelight wavered against the dark wood. Deep within the rugged peaks of the Hundred Thousand Mountains lay the private bedchamber of the Young Mistress of the Demonic Cult—she who was known throughout the realm as the Saintly Stream.
“An achievement not even the sect’s venerable elders could attain.”
A cool, imperious voice carried past the silken drapes. Draped in sleeping robes embroidered with silver thread, the Young Mistress regarded me with languid eyes. A subtle curve touched the lips of the woman whose very name struck terror into the hearts of demonic practitioners under the heavens.
“These past three years, you suffered greatly to devise a demonic art tailored solely to me.”
I had started as an abandoned orphan, a creature of the gutter chewing bitter poisonous herbs just to stave off death. In my desperate struggle to survive, my body had broken, leaving my dantian crippled and capable of harboring no more than a speck of internal qi the size of a millet grain. For a half-man like me, only one gift remained.
An innate genius that saw through the very marrow of martial arts.
A talent for creating techniques never before seen, and for elevating the martial arts of others to higher realms. By virtue of that sole gift, I had clawed my way to where I stood today.
“To think a frail wretch with a frame weaker than a child’s could hone my sword and martial arts so flawlessly.”
The Young Mistress lowered her gaze, staring quietly at the tips of her slender fingers. Only three days ago, the demonic qi surging from those fingertips had not reached even half its present potency.
“Your peerless brilliance is something this one willingly acknowledges.”
Praise from the foremost prodigy of the Demonic Cult and the sole blood descendant of the Cult Leader was tantamount to absolute law within the Hundred Thousand Mountains. I lowered my head with an easy, deferential bow, the corners of my mouth tugging upward.
“Haha, what use is the recognition of fools beyond these walls? As long as the worldly Young Mistress acknowledges me, this humble one wishes only to hide in my wife’s shadow and enjoy fine food and warm robes for the rest of my days.”
“Fine food and warm robes, is it? Truly, a desire befitting you.”
“For a matrilocal son-in-law, what greater contentment in simple obscurity could there be?”
A soft chuckle broke from her lips.
Our union had begun on cold, calculating terms. She needed a martial art that suited her unique physique, and I needed a lifeline to keep breathing. Yet across three years of living side by side, an unspoken tenderness and trust had quietly taken root in those crimson eyes.
And tonight, with her martial art finally completed, marked our true wedding night—permitted at last, three full years after I was taken into her household.
No more prodding my food with silver needles. No more sleeping with a concealed dagger beneath my pillow.
From here on out, nothing awaited me but a smooth, leisurely path paved in silk.
Shhhk—!
A flash of steel breached the window lattice, severing the candlelight in a single breath.
Darkness fell, and the crimson curtains were shredded to ribbons.
“What in the madness—!”
Instinct moved my limbs before thought could catch up. I threw my arms around the Young Mistress’s waist and pulled her against me.
Crrraaaash!
The solid obsidian floor shattered under a concussive blow. Out from the shadows burst seven assassins clad in pitch-black masks, their drawn blades exhaling a nauseating, acrid mist. The stench was so pungent it numbed my nostrils instantly.
It was the Seven Steps Death Poison—a lethal venom mastered by only a tiny handful of elite figures within the Demonic Cult.
“Khurgh…!”
A violent spray of dark-red blood erupted from the lips of the woman in my arms. I swiftly pressed two fingers to her wrist, but her pulse was already fading into oblivion. She was completely unresponsive. A colorless, odorless poison had already blanketed the chamber long before the blades struck.
What insane rat dared sneak poison into the bedchamber of the Cult Leader’s direct heir?!
I immediately attempted to channel my inner energy, but my dantian twisted in agonizing spasms. Even the thread-thin strand of qi I possessed scattered from my fingertips. My breath caught in my throat, and my vision swam in blackness.
“Guh… hack!”
The assassins’ blades rained down toward my neck in ruthless succession.
Are you serious? I chewed through poison weeds every single day just to scrape my way into becoming the Cult Leader’s son-in-law!
Blood rushed to my head in pure fury.
I was finally about to clasp my hands behind my back and live a life of peaceful luxury, and you bastards kill me now?! I can’t even close my eyes in peace, you sons of bitches!
Right as my rage peaked—
Squelch!
A freezing sliver of cold steel punched cleanly through my throat.
Then, my consciousness plummeted into a bottomless abyss.
My eyes snapped open.
“Haaah!”
The vivid phantom sensation of cold steel tearing through my windpipe jolted my torso upright. Out of pure reflex, I gathered killing intent into all ten fingers. Snapping a man’s neck required nothing more than that.
“…?”
Yet nothing happened.
No power gathered at my fingertips. To be precise, there was no energy within me to gather in the first place. I clamped my eyes shut and quickly inspected my physical condition.
What on earth is this?
This was not my body. The faint yet distinct strand of internal energy that had once resided in my dantian was nowhere to be found, and my grip possessed virtually zero strength. The frame felt light as a feather, completely hollowed out.
More than that, the metallic stench of blood unique to the Demonic Cult was gone. In its place lingered the delicate fragrance of plum blossoms, and against my back rested a plush, cloud-soft mattress of the finest silk.
I blinked.
A wardrobe adorned with radiant mother-of-pearl inlay caught my eye, alongside masterfully penned calligraphy scrolls hanging upon pristine walls. An exquisitely refined, peaceful chamber stretched out before me.
Throb!
A sudden, sharp headache pierced my skull as foreign memories rushed into my mind like a bursting dam.
The great pillar of the Orthodox Faction. The peerless clan of the sword. The paramount noble lineage of the martial world, the Namgoong Clan.
And the reigning World’s Greatest Martial Artist—Patriarch Namgoong Mugeuk—along with his only daughter, Namgoong Seol.
What?
I cradled my throbbing head, sifting through the deluge of information. Namgoong Seol, the cherished jewel of the World’s Greatest Martial Artist. And this unfamiliar body I had taken over was none other than the matrilocal son-in-law married off to her.
More specifically, he was the groom who had concluded the wedding rites only yesterday and had been meant to spend his first night here.
His name was Baekri Hyeon. The second son of the Hebei Baekri Clan—a man treated within his own family as nothing more than a useless scarecrow.
“Ha.”
A dry laugh spilled from my lips.
A matrilocal son-in-law to the Namgoong Clan? I died, only to become a son-in-law all over again?
Whether this was a stroke of miraculous fortune or some vicious sorcery from the outer lands, I could hardly tell. I sat there with my mouth agape for a moment, utterly bewildered.
Wait…
As I browsed further through the original owner’s memories, a subtle grin began to creep across my face. Within his clan, this man had been treated like thin air. He had no presence, spoke in a quiet murmur, and possessed the mild temperament of a meek scholar who had never earned a single enemy. He was merely an inconsequential chess piece summoned to fill the empty seat beside Namgoong Seol in a political arrangement.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Was it fear? Anger?
No.
It was uncontainable, boundless euphoria.
This place is an absolute paradise!
Back in the Demonic Cult, even basking in the morning sun had been a luxury. Meals were routinely tainted until silver test needles turned pitch-black, and going to sleep meant holding a sword hilt in fitful slumber amid a living slaughterhouse. But what of the Namgoong Clan?
Beyond the estate walls, the finest warriors of the Orthodox Faction stood guard day and night. The clan’s storehouses overflowed with endless mountains of silver. Best of all, thanks to the original host’s splendid groundwork of being utterly invisible, I would never have to step forward, get entangled in factional power struggles, or stain my hands with blood.
Perfection itself.
This had to be Heaven’s compensation for a man who had crawled back from the brink of death.
Right as I was silently reveling in my supreme good fortune, the final moments of my past life flashed across my thoughts.
I may have gained a miraculous second chance and survived like this… but the Young Mistress must be dead.
She had ingested that horrific Seven Steps Death Poison and lost consciousness entirely. Though we had never shared a deep romantic love, she had been the only person in that brutal hellhole who had ever treated me like a human being.
A pity, Young Mistress.
I murmured quietly toward the ceiling.
I’ll make sure to live well enough for the both of us.
And so, this time, without fail, I would enjoy the most tranquil, carefree life of leisure in all of martial history from within the walls of the prestigious Namgoong Clan.
Just as that resolve took root—
Creak—.
The sound of the door opening severed my train of thought.
I turned my head to see a woman in immaculate white robes standing in the doorway. She was an arresting beauty who stole one’s breath at a glance, yet her countenance radiated a frost colder than an ancient glacier.
My new wife in this life, Namgoong Seol.
She stared down at me sitting on the bed, her voice slicing through the air like shaved ice.
“Do not delude yourself.”
Her words were sharp and uncompromising.
“This marriage is nothing more than an empty shell forced upon me by my father’s command. I will never treat you as my husband for as long as I live.”
There was not a flicker of hesitation in Namgoong Seol’s eyes. It was the indifferent gaze of an aristocrat delivering an edict to a lowly retainer.
“Live like a guest dependent on the clan’s charity—quiet, as though you do not exist. Should you demand anything of me or dare assert your rights as a husband, know that you will be cast out beyond the Namgoong gates that very day.”
It was a chilling warning. To any proud man who had entered the grand Namgoong Clan as a son-in-law, such words would have been a humiliating insult cut straight to the marrow. Namgoong Seol seemed to expect me to flush with shame or flare up in wounded outrage, scarecrow though this man might be.
My thoughts, however, ran in an entirely different direction.
Exempt from tedious clan ceremonies? Not even an obligation to produce an heir?
To have the Namgoong Clan’s boundless wealth poured upon me while I merely breathed, all while being told to stay tucked away in my room? How was this not the ultimate luxury of an immortal sage? Dressed in top-grade silks, dining on delicacies from land and sea, and free from every single bothersome duty—a kept man’s dream. The very life of effortless contentment I had yearned for in the demonic abyss had rolled right to my feet of its own accord.
Suppressing the swelling wave of joy inside me, I arranged my features into a solemn, grave mask.
“If that is truly my lady’s wish.”
I adopted the most dignified, serious tone I could muster.
“This humble husband shall take great care to ensure my presence never offends your sight. You have my word.”
It was a clean, placid answer, devoid of the slightest lingering attachment or grievance. In that instant, a faint ripple disturbed the depths of Namgoong Seol’s icy eyes.
“…See that you do.”
Her response came half a beat late. Her gaze lingered on my face for a moment, measuring me with quiet suspicion.
What are you staring at? You’re going to make a man blush.
Soon, Namgoong Seol gave a subtle furrow of her brow and inclined her head in a terse nod. Without looking back, she turned and strode from the room.
Thud.
The heavy door shut firmly behind her.
I collapsed backward onto the plush mattress with an unrestrained sigh. The golden phoenix pattern embroidered across the canopy seemed to beam down at me in celebration.
“I survived. This life is set in gold.”
As I hummed and reached to pull up the silk quilt, my hand froze in midair.
Wait.
The fierce survival instincts forged through my past life in the Demonic Cult stirred restlessly. Right now, all was peaceful. But the Jianghu was a volatile place where a lethal storm could brew without warning. If I wanted to protect this peaceful life to the very end, I needed at least the minimum strength required to defend myself.
The dantian is empty, but the bone structure itself isn’t bad. If I tailor the formulas of the martial arts I once created to fit this frame…
Crossing my legs into the lotus position, I closed my eyes. Drawing upon the gentle, untainted energy of the Namgoong estate, I began weaving thread-thin strands of inner qi into my depleted dantian, one delicate loop at a time.
How much time had passed? By the time I completed a refreshing cycle of meditative circulation and opened my eyes, the pale, hazy light of dawn was already seeping through the window lattices.
“Is it that late already?”
Letting out a groan, I stretched my arms and stepped toward the window.
“Hm?”
I pushed open the wooden shutters, and my gaze drifted toward the distant training grounds. Beneath the morning mist stood a solitary figure wielding a sword.
It was my wife, Namgoong Seol.
Brilliant azure sword qi cleaved through the air with dazzling brilliance. The stances of the Blue Sky Sword—the supreme, signature technique of the Namgoong Clan—ripped through the open yard as if yearning to pierce the very heavens. It was a magnificent display of swordsmanship, the pride of the Orthodox Faction’s greatest lineage.
Yet, as I leisurely observed the sword dance, the smile on my lips gradually faded away.
My discerning eye for martial arts, combined with the instinctual senses engraved into my soul from a lifetime in the Hundred Thousand Mountains, caught a subtle anomaly. At the trailing edge of the sword’s path—clinging to the very tip of that radiant azure sword qi—a faint, murky black haze was quietly scattering into the air.
It was a sinister current, hidden so deceptively that ordinary Orthodox martial artists, and likely even the elders of the Namgoong Clan, would never have noticed it.
“…What is that?”
My gaze chilled into a hard, steady stare.
Why was the unmistakable stench of a demonic art lingering in the very heart of the righteous Namgoong Clan?