28. A Holy(?) Resolve
Rumble.
The massive wheels of the top-grade carriage heading from Yodong to Nakyang jolted over a rock on the rugged mountain path. With each faint vibration, the migraine pounding in my skull throbbed in perfect rhythm.
"Sunsengnim, ah—"
To my left in my field of vision. Hwangbo Suyeon—Hwangbo Daeryeok's forbidden treasure, the pride of the Hwangbo family, and one of the Ten Great Masters—gently held a piece of apple she'd neatly carved with her silver dagger to my lips.
"Writer-nim."
This time, to my right. Seol Muyeong, the mad survivor who'd leaped off Manjangae on faith in a single scrap of my writing and claimed her fateful encounter. She stared at me with eyes cold as ice yet seething with obsession like molten lava beneath.
"Just a little longer, please."
She stroked the blade of her Millennium Snow Sword, Seola, cradled in her arms, her voice resolute.
"I'll fully master the frigid energy dwelling in this body and rework the principles of my martial arts to completely eliminate the chill that manifests when I unleash my techniques."
I'm losing my mind.
The suffocating affection and glaring contest from these two beauties. Any typical wuxia protagonist would've smirked in delight, savoring the flowers on both hands. But I'm Yeon Woon-ryong, web novel hack and bottom-feeder among bottom-feeders.
All I need is safety for my life and a peaceful workshop to hit my deadlines.
Even these two alone were choking me half to death, but crammed in this carriage was one more ultimate headache-inducer clinging like glue.
"Cough! Cough! Kuhuk!"
In the opposite corner. Jo Myeong-hwan—one of the Ten Great Masters, the Physician Saint of the death line—clawed at his chest, hacking like he was about to keel over any second.
"Aigoo, my fate... I've devoted my life to saving the world's souls..."
He muffled his mouth with his sleeve, muttering pitifully.
"Now this old man's thread of life is nearly spent, and my secret art—holding everything I am—will die with me, lost to the dirt..."
Transparent tears welled in his wrinkled eyes. I inwardly stuck out my tongue at the sight.
What a ham. This geezer who just finger-flicked the bandit chief's acupoint to paralyze him from the waist down moments ago?
His dantian still brimmed with vigorous pure energy. So why the terminal patient act?
One reason.
"Yeon Teacher! Please! Please become my disciple!"
Jo Myeong-hwan suddenly flattened himself on the floor, clutching my pant leg.
"It's this old man's dying wish! It has to be you!"
Yeah. The old coot had gone nuts trying to make me his successor.
It started a few days back.
To treat the horrific torture aftereffects from my brain prison stint, Jo Myeong-hwan unleashed his signature ultimate technique: Spectrum Needle Blood Hand.
I watched his hand movements with bulging eyes, and this insane Cheonpa Mugyeok Jiche talent perfectly mimicked the complex motions' form on the first try—a miracle.
His eyes flipped at the sight.
Since then, he's stuck to me like gum.
A pitiful old man who'd wandered the jianghu his whole life squeezing pus from patients and doing good deeds, never starting a family or even raising a single disciple.
It killed him that his Spectrum Needle Blood Hand—like his own child—would vanish into murim history with him.
Honestly? The offer tempted me like crazy.
Being the Physician Saint's disciple meant an ironclad shield—no sect could touch me. Plus, mastering hand techniques to write at light speed?
But two fatal snags held me back.
First, I couldn't care less about medicine. Healing the sick, washing bloodied hands, finding fulfillment in noble sacrifice? Bullshit.
I croaked from overwork in my past life, chasing deadlines without self-care. Selfish slob who values my comfy, full-belly life a hundred times over some selfless crap.
Whether he sensed my thoughts or not, Jo Myeong-hwan tempted:
"Don't wanna learn medicine? Skip it! Just inherit my martial art—even the shell. Please!"
Even so, as the Physician Saint's heir, ignoring patients to hole up writing novels? My flimsy conscience would prick a bit.
But that was just an excuse. The real thorny mess?
My two fanatic disciples flanking me.
The instant I wavered under his desperate gaze, lips twitching—
"Physician Saint, sir."
Hwangbo Suyeon struck first. Her clear, massive eyes blazed blue as she skewered him.
"Our sunsengnim writes works brimming with world-changing wisdom."
No compromise in her voice.
"Do you intend to sully those noble hands squeezing pus and pounding herbs?"
Her logic was ironclad: Yeon Woon-ryong, paradigm-shifting thinker and freak of murim—why drag him into some back-alley doctor's yoke?
"Lady Hwangbo's right."
Even Seol Muyeong, always snarling at her, allied perfectly here.
Seol Muyeong testified solemnly.
"Writer-nim's time is murim's treasure. Every moment he lifts his brush opens new worlds for tens of thousands of readers—a sacred rite. I know from experience."
She tilted her chin, glaring coldly at Jo Myeong-hwan.
"How dare you waste that precious time on patient drudgery for your personal greed?"
Air-sealing perfect defense. Their combined pressure crushed the carriage air, tension crackling.
Even the Physician Saint of the world frothed at the mouth before these two zealots' logic.
"N-no... That's not what I—"
He flailed innocently.
"I'm just heartbroken over Yeon Teacher's insane martial talent going to waste... My art's lineage dying—not turning him into some village doc!"
"No excuses needed."
Hwangbo Suyeon sliced his words.
"Sunsengnim's fleeting curiosity in your art? Mere play for an absolute seeker probing all creation."
"Don't bother Writer-nim. Give it up."
Seol Muyeong drove the nail.
Jo Myeong-hwan's face turned ashen. Lips quivering with injustice, he soon banged his head on the floor, wailing.
"Aigoo! The heaven-cursed villain's here! This great legacy from my master—cut off in my generation!"
The carriage was a total madhouse. Old man bawling, the girls radiating murder and treating him like trash.
Stuck in the middle, I massaged my throbbing temples amid the exploding headache.
Time to sort this.
One crisp line to shatter this stuffy standoff. I needed that sweet catharsis.
I closed my eyes, rapidly recalling web novel clichés and protagonist justification hacks I'd milked hundreds of times in my past life.
Hide selfish goals, parade grand ideals.
Basic for reader-thrilling hypocritical dark heroes or delusion-fueled munchkins.
I drew a deep breath, then snapped my eyes open.
"Quiet."
My low, heavy voice echoed through the carriage. Short word, but the noise vanished instantly.
Wailing Jo Myeong-hwan, murderous duo— all held breath, staring.
I slowly turned, gazing down at the prostrated Jo Myeong-hwan.
"Physician Saint, sir."
His shoulders twitched at my calm call.
"It's not lack of time or disdain for worldly affairs, as they say, that keeps me from being your disciple."
I met his eyes dead-on, unleashing my prepped bogus logic in slow, lofty tones.
"I've seen countless souls weep and laugh, finding solace in my crude writings."
Pause a beat.
"At first, a mere novelty. But now, I cannot ignore them."
I stroked my chin solemnly.
"If I learn your art and study medicine as your disciple, those awaiting my words will tire of waiting, sink into despair, lose life's joy."
Jo Myeong-hwan looked skeptical—novels that influential?
"In the brief gap finishing my first work and prepping the second, I saw Nakyang's vibrant streets lose their spark—with my own eyes."
"True. I vouch. When the first ended, our reading group wept openly, hiding regret. Some even quit jobs, hands idle."
Nice assist! Hwangbo Suyeon's unexpected backup—gold.
Back to grave tone, voice low.
"That's the real reason I hesitated on your offer."
Perfect. My massive bullshit silenced the carriage.
Hwangbo Suyeon and Seol Muyeong teared up in awe.
Jo Myeong-hwan gawked, hammerstruck.
His lips trembled. My nonsense reinterpreting in his head into something holy.
"Ahh...! I was the fool! My vision so narrow!"
He crawled close, pleading.
"If my Spectrum Needle Blood Hand aids your great writing even a little—"
His eyes blazed madly.
"Turning your daily thousand characters to ten thousand via my art, healing more souls' ailments! That's the ultimate life-saving my martial art can achieve!"
Kuh. Ideal framed perfectly. Miracle syllogism: aiding my writing saves murim, fulfills Physician Saint.
My forced sophistry, perfected by him into truth.
"Sunsengnim..."
"Writer-nim..."
Glancing aside, Hwangbo Suyeon and Seol Muyeong gazed reverently at me and him, fully convinced by the absurdity.
Their eyes, once trash-heaping the geezer, now shone with noble resolve.
Moved by the old man's devotion to aid their master's drafting.
"Haa..."
I sighed long and heavy—solitary absolute shouldering world's burden, reluctant.
"If your noble intent insists..."
I extended a hand to his shoulder.
"I'll gladly share that load."
Instantly, ecstasy exploded on Jo Myeong-hwan's face.
"Oho...! Yeon Teacher!"
He seized my hand, joyously near-dancing.
Thus, for one impure goal—boosting writing speed—I became the unparalleled direct disciple of the world's top Physician Saint, Jo Myeong-hwan.
Of course, outwardly a holy resolve to save the masses' souls.