15. After the Conclusion
'You're insane, Yeon Woon-ryong! Why the hell did you drag out that habit of treating her like a niece from your past life?!'
I slapped my own cheeks dozens of times, berating myself to the bone, but the water was already spilled. The soft texture of her hair lingered on my palm like a curse.
Skipping breakfast, my footsteps toward the classroom felt as heavy and wretched as those of a pitiful cow being dragged to the slaughterhouse.
With trembling hands, I cautiously pushed open the creaky wooden door of Lecture Hall 13.
Kiiiek.
Steeling myself, the scene before my eyes was utterly peaceful—just like yesterday. No different at all.
My gaze naturally locked onto the prime seat in the front row center. There sat Hwangbo Suyeon in her spotless white martial robe, back straight as always.
Her snow-white expression was as coldly aloof and pristine as ever, without the slightest disturbance. As if that horrific 'head pat' incident in front of the dining hall yesterday had never even happened.
I swallowed dryly and forced my lips into a smile, starting my awkward act as if nothing was wrong.
"Uh... yeah. Suyeon, you're early again today."
Even as my voice trembled faintly with the greeting, she looked up at me with her clear, unwavering eyes and bowed with utmost politeness.
"Master, you've arrived."
Not a drop of resentment or murderous intent seeped from the voice slipping between her red lips.
"Haa..."
I barely held back from collapsing as my legs buckled, letting out a deep, secret sigh of relief. The phrase "aged ten years" was made for moments like this.
Gathering strength into my nearly crumbling knees, I slowly made my way to the podium.
Even after class ended, she stood diagonally behind me like yesterday, guarding me like an iron wall and firing off questions like a machine gun.
I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, racking my brains to repackage my past life's scientific knowledge as profound murim philosophy, sweating bullets to answer her.
Thus, the near-fatal blunder that could have cost my life passed harmlessly thanks to her tremendous misunderstanding, and my precarious murim survival saga seemed to reclaim perfect peace.
One decisive event put the perfect final period on this absolute peace.
It was the downfall of Paeng Mugum, the sole instructor in Cheongryong Mugwan who called me a "pathetic literati wimp" and relentlessly bullied and despised me.
That hulking brute with his wild, savage build had lost his prized Paengsan Sword to a single bare-fisted punch from Hwangbo Suyeon—a mere freshman cadet—and rolled pathetically on the ground.
That shocking incident spread like wildfire beyond the academy to every warrior in Nakyang within half a day.
Hwangbo Suyeon, Cheongryong Mugwan's top prodigy, who crushed the infamous brute Paeng Mugum in one strike with her raw power.
And the mysterious literature teacher she served as master—"Master"—shadowing her like an ironclad guardian.
Yeon Woon-ryong.
Once this chilling rumor solidified, no madman in Cheongryong Mugwan dared pick a fight with me or throw snide remarks my way.
As I walked the old corridors, even the delinquent cadets who snored through my classes during normal times plastered themselves to the walls in terror, yielding the path with 90-degree bows.
Even the haughty instructors from other subjects who subtly looked down on me now averted their eyes or forced smiles, greeting me politely.
"Teacher Yeon, have you had your meal?!"
Cheongryong Mugwan had become a perfect, absolute sanctuary inviolable to anyone—for a lowly literature teacher like me.
No more physical threats from back-alley loan shark thugs. No more mental contempt from arrogant fellow instructors. A perfectly controlled environment for creation.
With Hwangbo Suyeon as my world's strongest shield, I could pour my entire soul and energy into just one thing: writing like a madman.
Thus, I secluded myself in the dark corner of my rundown dorm room, cut off from all external distractions, wielding my brush like a lunatic.
Spring flowers bloomed and scattered in the warm season. Scorching summer heat choked Nakyang. Autumn rains mournfully soaked the old tiled roofs. Until the bone-chilling winter winds battered the paper windows.
Eight grueling months of soul-grinding endurance.
I ground ink black as night, dipped my worn brush, and filled pristine paper with relentless black characters.
The joints of my right index and middle fingers gripping the brush had hardened into hideous calluses like rocks, and the corner of my room became a massive grave of dead brushes piled in pathetic heaps.
But the inspiration and dopamine pouring from my mind like a waterfall never dried up.
The vast database I'd built grinding through ten years of the modern web novel ecosystem bloomed perfectly on this murim world's paper.
Protagonist Cheon Ujae's merciless, bloody revenge against his most trusted childhood friend Gam Uhyeok, who drove him to a horrific death in his past life.
The Fist King's breathless power fantasy crushing the Blood Sect's massive conspiracy writhing in murim's shadows.
After wringing readers' hearts with peak frustration, shattering enemies' heads in cathartic release. The perfect clichés of modern web novels maximizing dopamine flowed mercilessly from my fingertips.
The result of that obsessive writing, day and night lost to characters.
30 volumes total. A staggering 300 chapters—an unimaginable volume in this barren murim publishing market.
A mega-hit worthy of standing tall even on past life's giant platforms. A monumental epic.
With trembling hands, I dipped my brush heavy with ink and scrawled a thick "END" at the bottom of the final page.
The moment I slammed the brush to the floor, punctuating the long tale of Regressor Sword God, This Life Fist King.
"It's done... finally, it's all over."
I muttered in a voice cracked and dry as I sprawled starfished on the ink-scented floor.
Protagonist Cheon Ujae becomes the world's greatest, brutally settling all grudges, reigning as murim's absolute Fist King. A perfect, sweet closed ending.
The controversy-free happy ending modern readers crave. A solidly satisfying conclusion.
My first work, soaked in the blood, sweat, and desperate struggles for survival that began under loan shark threats.
That long, arduous journey had finally reached the world's most brilliant, overwhelming completion.
Just days after my soul-poured finale manuscript passed through the hands of the noodle lady and the trash collector to reach Danche Ryeong.
The eagerly awaited volume 30 of Regressor Sword God, This Life Fist King—final volume—hit Nakyang's bookstores via Danga Sangdan's massive distribution network.
And on the day this historic conclusion echoed through the world.
Nakyang's bustling main streets, which should have been lively, drowned in an eerie, oppressively heavy atmosphere unlike anything before.
No Sapa thugs storming in for riots or bloodshed.
It was the collective sense of loss from tens of thousands of readers, plunging the entire massive city into deep depression.
"Aah... it's over... Our Fist King is really gone."
In one corner of Chwiseonru, Nakyang's largest inn, the bearded old man who yelled himself hoarse daily was downing massive shots of liquor, shedding thick tears.
"The only light and joy in my harsh, grueling murim life... What the hell am I supposed to live for now?!"
The skinny man across from him clawed at his hair, wailing in world-ending despair.
The countless reading groups in Nakyang, ballooned exponentially over eight months by Danga Sangdan's savvy marketing and my demonic penmanship.
Today, they abandoned heated debates, gathering in inns in small clusters, rolling empty bottles across floors, heaving earth-shattering sighs.
"Not seeing Hero Cheon Ujae crush the Blood Sect in that grand epic... feels like a gaping hole punched through my dantian."
"That insane thrill of smashing those vile bastards' heads... My limbs are already shaking. Serious withdrawal kicking in."
The feverish screams under brutal cliffhangers, wild guesses shaking inns as they awaited the next volume.
But now that the story had ended, Nakyang truly felt like it might sink into the earth from their deep, heavy sighs.
The terrifying "post-finale syndrome" fervent readers suffered in my past life's web novel ecosystem.
As the world's premier commercial city turned gravely depressed—even alcohol sales dipping—the underworld queen Danche Ryeong swiftly laid her plans.
The very next morning, before the finale shock had faded.
Giant red posters went up simultaneously at entrances to major inns across Nakyang, massive bulletin boards in busy streets, and every Danga Sangdan branch exterior.
Thousands of warriors, steeped in gloom overnight, swarmed like bees to devour the bold red text hungrily.
- To the readers of the world who loved Regressor Sword God, This Life Fist King as dearly as your lives, we offer our deepest gratitude on behalf of the Sangdan.
- The great author Yul-gong, who poured blood and toil into this world-shaking epic over eight long months, is currently taking a very brief rest to recover his depleted energies.
- But do not despair or grieve!
- Our esteemed Yul-gong will return to your side with a completely new and wondrous 'next work' unlike anything before, as soon as this sweet respite ends.
- We stake Danga Sangdan's honor on promising a new release before the year is out.
- We ask for your unwavering anticipation and burning passion, dear murim readers.
The instant they finished the miraculous poster's content.
Nakyang's drab, rough men, sighing like the world had ended in collective depression, snapped their eyes wide open in unison.
"Wooooaaah!"
The roar erupting from the square's center ignited it—a massive, overwhelming cheer exploding simultaneously across Nakyang's streets, threatening to shatter them.
"Author Yul-gong is coming back! Fist King wasn't the end! A new work before year's end, guaranteed!"
"Hurray! Glory to Danga Sangdan for keeping promises! Eternal light, Author Yul-gong, hurray!"
Danche Ryeong, that blood-and-tear-proof fearsome merchant woman, had toyed with the weak psyches of ignorant readers in her palm, amplifying hype for the next work to the max.
"Come on! No time to just cheer here! Starting tonight, full binge from volume 1 to 30—beginning to end again!"
"Brilliant idea! This time, beyond the plot—chew deep into the meanings Yul-gong hid between lines, dissecting to the bone!"
Clinging to Danga Sangdan's ironclad return promise like gospel truth, hundreds of wilted reading groups regained massive vitality, blazing like furnaces.
They devoured their books until covers tore ragged and pages yellowed and frayed from grimy fingers.
Like cult fanatics studying holy scriptures, they gathered nightly under inn lanterns, counting days in fervent wait for Yul-gong's glorious return, pulling all-nighters.