Jegal Cheom's Gap Moe
"Oh! You've truly suffered to grace our humble abode!"
A thunderous voice pierced my ear sharply just as I was stepping down from the carriage. It wasn't a mere greeting. The sheer volume was so ferocious it conjured the illusion of a tiger growling right beside my head.
The source of that voice was none other than Paeng Cheol-hwan, patriarch of Haebuk Paenga.
He had personally come out to the main gate to welcome us.
I cautiously stepped onto the carriage footboard and descended to the ground. My gaze slowly swept over Paeng Cheol-hwan and the figures arrayed behind him.
Behind him stood the core elders of Paenga, lined up like a massive mountain range of rock, forming an imposing screen. Every one of them had a hulking build. Pecs and biceps swollen to the bursting point. And on their backs, absurdly huge, thick greatswords.
They were the quintessential Paenga warriors, their faces practically screaming, 'We smash everything with brute force, not brains.'
The wild, domineering aura they exuded choked the very air. But plastered across those brutish, fearsome faces were beaming smiles stretching ear to ear—one and all. Those smiles looked painfully awkward. Like someone had grabbed their lips and stitched them up by force.
This is overwhelming, for real.
I inwardly broke out in a cold sweat as I endured their excessive welcome.
But I had a perfect 'defense mechanism' in operation right now. Deep within my dantian, the energy of the Hwalcheon Simgyeol began to surge. With utterly natural, leisurely poise, I adjusted my collar—as if the lord of mighty Paenga held no terror for me whatsoever. Synchronizing myself with that flawless mask, I opened my mouth.
"I'm honored by your welcome, Paeng Patriarch."
As brief as possible. The signature hao-che style of a murim master, teetering on the knife-edge between arrogance and courtesy. This was the refined speech of the elite—showing respect without yielding an inch, never bowing low.
Paeng Patriarch Paeng Cheol-hwan showed no offense at my haughty demeanor. Instead, he bellowed even more heartily, waving me forward with a laugh.
"Hahaha! Just as the rumors say—a man of bold spirit! Come this way."
He tried to guide me with feigned gentleness.
"We've prepared quarters for you all after your long journey. Head there first, wet your throats with hot tea, and shake off the travel fatigue..."
Before his words could finish—
"No."
I halted mid-stride, slicing through his speech with icy finality.
"Rest can wait."
At my abrupt stop, the patriarch—who'd been leading—froze and turned.
"Pardon? What was that?"
A flicker of bewilderment crossed his face, but I didn't blink, driving straight to the point.
"I've come to Haebuk Paenga for one reason alone, haven't I?"
With flawless eye-acting, I pressed on.
"Lead the way. Straight to where the young master lies."
My resolute words doused the grand entrance in stunned silence, like a bucket of ice water.
Huh?
I sensed it instinctively. The patriarch blocking my path—on his fierce face, that forced, amiable welcome smile cracked ever so slightly. But to my eyes, it was crystal clear: frozen solid.
And it wasn't just him. The horde of burly Paenga elders behind him did the same. They coughed awkwardly, stealing glances at each other, eyes darting to the void. Overt panic. Naked distress they couldn't hide.
"Ahem...! Yeon Daxia."
The patriarch hastily smoothed his stiffened expression, fumbling for excuses.
"Your fervent dedication to our patient moves even this old Paeng to true admiration... but... the young master has, just moments ago, finally fallen into a deep sleep after so long."
His voice quavered with contrived pathos.
"He's endured this inexplicable affliction night and day, wracked by chills and agony... hasn't had a proper wink in over a month now..."
The patriarch now wore the perfect mask of a pitiful father with a sick child. Deep wrinkles twisted in sorrow.
"Can't you grant him just a little time—a very little—to rest peacefully, free of pain at last? A cup of tea and unpacking in your rooms won't delay things."
Ah, what a convincing excuse. A tear-jerking plea of paternal love that anyone would nod along to. A typical murim man—or ordinary physician—would've yielded nine times out of ten.
"Ah, Patriarch, your profound fatherly love is truly admirable. I'll return later then." Something polite like that, meekly heading to their prepared quarters.
But.
I'm no ordinary murim man. Nor some third-rate hack doctor.
I'm a web novel author from South Korea, who's devoured countless stories crawling the scene. Haunted by plots. Enslaved by clichés. That razor-sharp instinct forged bone-deep in my past life—my frontal lobe screamed warnings like mad.
Suspicious.
This reeks, bad. Stalling with excuses instead of showing the patient now? "Later yes, but not now"? Textbook 'time-buying cliché'!
But human psychology is so contrary, so perverse. The more you're told "don't," the more you crave it. Hide something away with "don't look," and a storyteller's primal urge kicks in—to peek, probe, unearth the truth!
My dopamine-addled brain had already decided.
"Hahaha."
I kicked aside the flimsy shield of his paternal affection without mercy.
"You may excel in martial arts, Patriarch, but you know nothing of medicine's basics."
Chin raised, looking down on him, I continued.
"Taking a pulse when the patient writhes in agony? That's the folly of third-rate quacks. The body's qi and blood constrict and warp under pain."
I brazenly spouted fabricated medical wisdom.
"The ideal time? When the body relaxes fully in deep sleep! That's prime for reading the pulse and tracing inner flows. Only then can you expose the disease's rotten roots—without a single error."
I fixed him with unyielding, piercing eyes.
"So if the young master's asleep as you say, it's perfect timing. No more delays—lead on!"
A refreshing smackdown, armed with justification and 'logic.'
At my shameless, relentless push, the patriarch's face darkened to mud.
He worked his lips like a mute with honey in his mouth.
"Th-that is..."
I pressed the attack harder.
"Why drag this out with excuses?!"
The elders behind him visibly panicked, murmuring among themselves.
That was the moment.
Swish.
Someone approached silently, without a footstep. The same guy who'd spent the carriage ride ogling Hwangbo Suyeon with pathetic come-ons.
Jegal Cheom, blood of the Five Great Families' Jegal Sega and nephew to Mu-rim-meng's Cheoni-gak leader.
He drew close and murmured quietly.
"Yeon Daxia. What's the real reason you're forcing this meeting now?"
I startled inwardly. What? This was a world away from the goofy chatter he'd babbled in the carriage before Hwangbo Suyeon. The perpetual dopey grin wiped clean from that fool of a young master's face—like a lie.
His eyes gleamed with cold, rational sharpness, like a hawk eyeing prey's throat. His firm lips radiated overwhelming intellect.
This guy's gap moe is no joke.
Well, duh. Would a sly old fox like Jegalmugeom stick me with this seemingly useless punk for no reason? The Cheoni-gak leader commands all Mu-rim-meng intel and foresight. Blood nephew or not, he wouldn't entrust such a post to dead weight.
A hidden dagger of the alliance, unleashing Jegal Sega's devilishly precise insight at crucial moments. That was this Jegal Cheom's true value, standing right beside me.
Surprised by my sharp partner's shift, I smiled faintly and laid out my thoughts straight—no holds barred. Whispering low for our ears only.
"Jegal young master. Look at their rotting, ashen faces. They're clearly hiding something from us."
He nodded, eyeing the whispering elders.
"To resolve this bizarre mess completely, we must uncover the ugly truth they're desperate to bury."
He met my eyes again.
"If they buy time to dress it up pretty, package it with lies... we'll never spot the vicious rot at the bottom."
His gaze deepened in satisfaction at my flawless logic.
With a quiet nod, Jegal Cheom turned slowly toward the patriarch.
In a deliberate, oppressively slow motion, he drew something from the deepest, most secret fold of his robes.
He raised it high toward the Paenga crowd's heads.
Glinting brilliantly in the direct sunlight—a large, hefty plaque, exquisitely wrought in pure gold. At its center: an immense, majestic sword emblem cleaving heavenly clouds.
"Th-this is...!"
Paeng Patriarch Paeng Cheol-hwan recognized it at once, his face twisting in dismay.