42. Are Your Nostrils Flared?
In Jegal Cheom's hand was an item symbolizing the Mu-rim-meng, the heart of the righteous martial world.
Among them, it belonged to an absolute being counted among the top three of the Ten Great Masters. Alongside the Bungcheon KwonhwangHwangbo Daeryeok, known as one of the Two Emperors, it was the supreme command tablet of the Mu-rim-meng Lord, the Cheon GeomhwangYoo Dae-un. A token imbued with his unassailable authority.
"Th-this is...!"
Paeng Cheol-hwan, patriarch of Haebuk Paenga, personally verified the command tablet, and thick beads of cold sweat began streaming down his furrowed brow.
In this perfect situation, I screamed inwardly with mad exhilaration.
Yes! That's it! Jegal Cheom's gap moe is off the charts! This is the flawless development I dreamed of!
Ignoring the crowd's reactions, Jegal Cheom shouted.
"By the supreme authority of the Meng Lord, I demand!"
His voice rang out clear and resolute. Gone was the sleazy, goofy young master who flirted shamelessly with Hwangbo Suyeon in the carriage, cracking lame jokes to win her favor.
At this moment, raising the command tablet high, his eyes gleamed sharp as a hawk's. The aura emanating from him was cold and overwhelming, befitting the bloodline of the prestigious Jegal family.
As expected, that sly old fox, Cheoni-gak leader Jegalmugeom, wouldn't have sent his nephew along just because of family ties. This guy played the fool in front of Hwangbo Suyeon, but in critical moments, he was the most reliable joker card to perfectly wield the Mu-rim-meng's authority.
"Reveal the condition of Paenga's young master to us immediately! Allow the investigation of this incident to proceed without the slightest delay!"
As Jegal Cheom's bellow ended, a heavy silence descended over the Paenga warriors.
Though Haebuk Paenga was a venerable righteous clan among the Five Great Families, they lacked any justification to defy the Mu-rim-meng Lord's command tablet outright.
"Khrm...!"
Patriarch Paeng Cheol-hwan clenched his fists until blood welled up, his body trembling with rage. But in the end, he had no choice but to bow his head deeply.
"Clear the way."
At the patriarch's order, the burly Paenga guards parted smoothly to either side.
The massive gate, sealed tight with lies, cover-ups, and flimsy excuses, had finally been forced open by the justification I provided and the overwhelming authority Jegal Cheom wielded.
They turned away with twisted, resigned expressions.
And then, they began escorting our group toward the heart of the issue—the deepest, most secretive chamber where the young master supposedly lay ill.
With shoulders slumped, Patriarch Paeng Cheol-hwan led the way as we ventured deep into Haebuk Paenga's main compound.
To my left walked Hwangbo Suyeon, her icy expression scanning the surroundings warily, pressed close to my side.
To my right, Seol Muyeong accompanied us, exuding chilling frost, ready at any moment to draw the eternal snow sword Seola from her embrace.
Ahead, Jegal Cheom blazed the trail reliably, backed by the Mu-rim-meng's absolute authority.
Not a bad party composition, all things considered.
I strolled along like a tourist admiring a prestigious clan, taking in Paenga's grand halls.
Our destination was the most secluded spot among Paenga's numerous ornate buildings—deep in the rear, a hidden annex where access was strictly controlled, even for regular warriors and servants.
The walls were abnormally high, and the perimeter was guarded so tightly not even an ant could slip through.
Or rather, it felt less like guarding and more like total isolation from the outside world.
Just how horrific is his illness to warrant this level of drama?
My mind raced with the intel from Jegalmugeom's letter and the hypotheses I'd pieced together. Parasitic neigong absorption? Forbidden drug trials? Or a deliberate trap to kidnap a divine physician?
My wild theories spiraled endlessly—until our footsteps halted before the grand doors at the innermost sanctum.
Kkiiigiiik.
Patriarch Paeng Cheol-hwan roughly unlocked the heavy padlock on the doors.
Then, as if opening the gates to hell itself, he shoved the thick wooden doors open with brute force.
The instant they parted—
"Gasp...!"
I involuntarily sucked in a breath and froze.
A blast of suffocating heat surged out like a storm the moment the doors opened.
This wasn't the sweltering midsummer sun. It was the dry, vicious inferno you'd feel ripping open a blazing furnace lid—enough to scorch your skin raw.
And amid that hellish heat, the first sound from within: a mad, bellowing roar.
"Ughhhh... C-cold... It's cold! Cold! So COLD!! Bring thicker blankets right now! Make this room hotter—warmer!!"
The eerie voice—scream or wail?—filled the boiling chamber.
One cautious step inside, and the insane shrieks assaulted our ears mercilessly.
This was no normal sight. It was utterly deranged.
The room brimmed with four or five massive iron braziers ablaze in every corner, crimson coals roaring wildly.
The heat was so intense it choked your breath, making every inhale a struggle. Just standing there drenched your forehead and back in pouring sweat.
Yet—
"Y-young master! Please, calm down!"
"Any more braziers, and you might truly suffocate!"
Servants and Paenga's exclusive physicians, soaked in sweat, frantically tried to dissuade him.
But the young master's state on the bed was far from whole. Grotesque, even.
In this steam-cooker hellhole, he was bundled under three or four layers of thick cotton quilts fit for midwinter, piled like a mountain.
Head to toe swaddled tight, only his face barely peeking out—and still, his body convulsed uncontrollably like a leaf in the wind.
He rampaged, demanding more blankets, screaming about the cold.
"Ughhhh... C-cold... My bones are freezing...!"
His chattering teeth clacked like a sinister percussion, echoing through the room.
The group's reaction to the bizarre sight was shock.
Seol Muyeong, ever the ice queen, furrowed her brow deeply and gripped Seola's hilt unconsciously.
Hwangbo Suyeon stared wide-eyed in disbelief, frozen solid. Jegal Cheom stood speechless.
All overwhelmed by the incomprehensible affliction and grotesque scene, holding their breath.
But my reaction, watching this absurdity, was utterly different.
My eyes bored into the young master's face—sweating buckets under the quilts yet thrashing in frenzied chills.
My first impression? Horror? Pity? No.
Something far more instinctive, familiar, searing into my brain.
Huh...?
I tilted my head inwardly.
That grotesque, wretched seizure. The uncontrollable shudders, the total loss of temperature sense.
I'd seen it before—crystal clear.
Where? In ancient medical texts or wuxia setting books I dug through pre-isekai?
Qi deviation variant? Backlash from botched extreme yin technique?
No.
My past life on Earth? Nope.
Precisely: not reality, but a massive theater screen.
Those bloodshot, dilated pupils. Muscles jerking and twisting beyond his control. Burrowing into quilts amid boiling heat, cerebral thermostat fried, racked by phantom chills.
It perfectly evoked a legendary scene from a noir blockbuster that drew millions in old Korea.
Yes. Not mere illness.
Withdrawal symptoms.
No matter how I looked, ten times over—it was that.
No natural disease or overtraining qi deviation could produce this.
A victim shattered by a vicious narcotic that wrecked the brain's nerves.
The living hell when supply cuts off—skin-crawling agony gnawing flesh and bone.
Exactly like actor Yoo Oh-seong's legendary drug-freakout in Friend, writhing on the floor!
That scene replayed before me in real-time 4D, no CG needed.
"Are your nostrils flared?"
The iconic line slipped from my lips unconsciously, a faint mutter drowned by the braziers' roar and shrieks.
But my mind brimmed with certainty.
Haebuk Paenga's young master, panting beast-like in seizure before me—his wretched form overlaid perfectly with Yoo Oh-seong's holographic meltdown.
Hunched posture, unfocused face, even the subtle jaw tremors. Eerily identical.
Whoa... insane.
In this grave, tragic moment, I nearly applauded inwardly with genuine awe.
Seeing it here hits different, but Yoo Oh-seong's drug acting details were god-tier. How'd he capture it so perfectly? Legends have class.
I almost lost myself reminiscing past-life reviews.
But I shook my head, snapping back.
No time to fanboy now. The real priority: the truth before my eyes.
Paenga's young master wasn't struck by mundane ailments like qi blockage or blocked meridians.
He was hopelessly addicted to something horrific, lethal, insanely potent.
A narcotic potent enough to demolish human reason and body whole.
This wasn't just a medical consult for a Great Family heir's ailment.
Someone dosed him deliberately, and now supply's cut—triggering this hellish withdrawal.
Puzzle complete.
A web novel author's flash of insight—no, my vast cliché big data from devouring modern media—delivered the verdict!
Then, as if by chance, three characters caught my eye.
On the corner of the young master's bed: tiny scratches, like from a sharp tool.
Easily mistaken for scuffs, but definitely writing.