The Greatest of All Time (2)
Seomun Hwan strode straight to his father with the scroll clutched in his hand.
“Father!”
As he entered the clan head’s study, Seomun Dam paused, brush hovering over the paper he had been writing on.
“What is it, Hwan? This is rather sudden.”
“Father. About this scroll.”
He thrust it forward without preamble. Seomun Dam’s brows drew together slightly.
“A scroll? What are you talking about?”
“This is the landscape painting that used to hang on the study wall. You remember it, don’t you?”
“That was…”
Seomun Dam glanced around the room, noticed the empty space on the wall, and gave a slow nod.
“Indeed, that side of the wall does look rather bare. But why have you taken it down?”
“Do you happen to know its history?”
“Its history?”
Seomun Dam thought for a moment, then shrugged as if the matter were trivial.
“What history could a mere scroll have? It has simply hung there for generations.”
“Was there no special story behind it? Some great value, perhaps? Or maybe a keepsake left by an ancestor? It isn’t a family heirloom, is it?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard. Nothing of the sort.”
Seomun Dam answered calmly, but Seomun Hwan’s eyes sharpened.
“Then why would such an ordinary thing have hung in the clan head’s study for generations—and in the most prominent spot, no less? We have plenty of far more valuable paintings. Why this one?”
Seomun Dam fell silent, momentarily at a loss. It seemed he had never considered the question from that angle.
“I’m not sure. It has always been there. It simply… felt like it belonged in that spot.”
The answer came readily enough, yet his eyes betrayed confusion.
That very uncertainty only confirmed Hwan’s suspicions.
It was too natural, too instinctive to be explained by mere habit or indifference.
The scroll carried something that clouded human perception.
It prevents people from unconsciously assigning meaning to it… disrupting emotion, memory, and attention. A sophisticated illusion technique.
There was nothing more to be gained from his father.
“I understand. I’ll borrow this scroll for a while, if I may.”
“Do as you wish.”
Seomun Hwan rolled the scroll once more and set off to find someone else.
In a quiet annex of the Seomun Clan residence, an old man lounged in a peaceful garden.
He was none other than Mok Sa-cheon—once the leader of the Mosan Sect, now reduced to a servant in the Seomun Clan.
“Mok Sa-cheon! Are you there?”
Driven by urgency, Seomun Hwan barged straight into the old sorcerer’s quarters.
Yet the person waiting inside was not Mok Sa-cheon, but an unexpected face.
It was Jegal So-dam.
“What are you doing here? Where did Mok Sa-cheon go?”
“Brother! Hehe! You’re here!”
Jegal So-dam was a guest of the Seomun Clan and held a position similar to Seomun Hwan’s disciple. Since they were not in a formal master-disciple relationship, their speech remained casual.
“What’s with that look?”
Jegal So-dam was practically buried under three pets. They were, astonishingly, a puppy, a three-headed snake, and a toad.
These were the very great yokai that had been in the cave when they rescued Ggamangi. Normally they took on these small, deceptively cute forms.
“They’re so adorable. And they listen so well.”
“…You do know what they really are, right?”
“I heard all about it. But if they’re cute right now, that’s what matters.”
Mok Sa-cheon and Jegal So-dam sat on a wooden bench, surrounded by scattered scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting.
Upon closer inspection, they were all Taoist spells and martial arts passages from the Mosan Sect.
“This is…”
As Seomun Hwan picked up one of the sheets to examine it, he saw Mok Sa-cheon approaching from the other side, arms laden with even more papers and books.
The old man flinched visibly upon spotting Seomun Hwan.
Hwan strode up to him and demanded, “What exactly are you doing?”
Mok Sa-cheon’s face flushed with guilt. “W-what do you mean?! You stuff me away in a place like this and never visit, then suddenly show up and—”
“You’re giving martial arts lessons to this little brat? Planning to recruit him into the Mosan Sect?”
Every scrap of paper contained core Mosan Sect techniques—secret arts normally reserved for elders alone.
Why would he show such forbidden knowledge to an outsider unless he intended to lure the boy in as a disciple?
At least he has a good eye for talent.
Jegal So-dam possessed the fraudulent innate ability known as the Heavenly Eye. Even without that, his martial talent was exceptional, and his intellect occasionally astonished even Seomun Hwan.
Of course Mok Sa-cheon would drool over such a prospect—so much so that he had dragged out every hidden secret of the Mosan Sect.
“What?! Why not?!”
Mok Sa-cheon straightened up again after his initial flinch. “You said he wasn’t your disciple. First come, first served, isn’t that how it goes?”
“So you’re trying to make him your disciple?”
“To rebuild the Mosan Sect, I obviously need disciples.”
Since So Ji-myeong had killed all the others, he needed to gather new ones. And since the sect’s primary focus was sorcery rather than swordsmanship, a talent like Jegal So-dam was nearly impossible to find.
“Enough. I have something to ask you.”
“W-wait a moment. Let me clean this up first. And don’t look!”
Mok Sa-cheon hurriedly gathered the papers containing the secret manuals, clearly unwilling to let Seomun Hwan see them.
From Hwan’s perspective, the entire situation was absurd.
The so-called secret arts of the Mosan Sect were nothing but child’s play compared to what he already knew. He could improvise far superior techniques on the spot if he felt like it.
While the old man busied himself with tidying, Hwan quietly asked Jegal So-dam, “Are you really planning to become his disciple?”
“Of course not.”
Jegal So-dam smiled brightly.
“To rebuild the Jegal Clan, I’ll need many capable people. He seems quite useful.”
A cunning light far too mature for his age flickered in his eyes.
“His martial arts are strong, and he has many other abilities. If someone like him agrees to serve as a guardian for my clan, I won’t have anything to worry about. Hehehe!”
He was planning to butter up Mok Sa-cheon and recruit him for his own family.
As expected of someone from the Jegal Clan—his scheming mind was second to none.
He wouldn’t be easily manipulated.
“What a ridiculous situation.”
Each was trying to recruit the other.
Only time would tell whose scheme would prevail.
“Anyway, I have something important to discuss with him, so leave us for a while.”
“Yes, Brother.”
Once Jegal So-dam had left, Mok Sa-cheon returned.
“What do you want?”
Mok Sa-cheon’s position within the clan was rather ambiguous. Although Seomun Hwan had introduced him as a servant, no one dared treat him lightly after seeing his extraordinary appearance and aura—not the other workers, nor even the clan members themselves.
Having done no work and simply eaten and slept, he had already put on a plump, well-fed appearance.
“You seem to be living quite comfortably. The clan’s meals must agree with you.”
“Shut up! What do you want to ask?”
“Have you ever seen something like this?”
Seomun Hwan handed over the scroll.
Mok Sa-cheon accepted it and casually unrolled it, then asked in genuine confusion, “What is this? It’s just an ordinary painting.”
Although he had been defeated by Hwan, Mok Sa-cheon was still a Transcendent expert.
Even he had failed to notice anything special about the scroll.
Just how high does one’s realm need to be before it doesn’t even register?
If even Mok Sa-cheon fell short of the standard, how many people in the current Murim could possibly recognize the scroll’s true nature?
Probably no more than could be counted on two hands.
Or perhaps only reincarnations of the Phantom Demon like myself…
He was certain the scroll’s presence in the Seomun Clan was no coincidence.
“Did the Mosan Sect never possess anything like this?”
“Of course we did. We had too many, if anything. You can find these commonplace paintings by the dozens in any tavern.”
“Then… what about So Ji-myeong? Did he never have a scroll like this?”
Seomun Hwan had brought the scroll to Mok Sa-cheon not because the old man was a Transcendent expert, but because he had been So Ji-myeong’s master.
Mok Sa-cheon clapped his hands together as if something had suddenly occurred to him.
Clap!
“That’s right! Now that you mention it…”
“What? Do you know something?”
“A few months ago, I heard that So Ji-myeong suddenly took an old decorative painting from the archive. It was an ordinary painting, or so they said. It seemed strange at the time, but since he was always doing bizarre things, I let it slide.”
“Was it similar to this scroll?”
“…I’m not sure. The size was about the same.”
It was a vague answer, but Seomun Hwan felt certain now.
So the Mosan Sect had something similar after all.
So Ji-myeong must have experienced the scroll’s illusion as well.
This proved that the reincarnations did not appear in random clans or sects without purpose.
The real question is what exactly this scroll is.
Who had created it?
Who had he encountered within it?
It was definitely not the Phantom Demon.
The scroll had existed for well over a century.
More importantly, the being he had faced was clearly different from both his past self and his current one.
To put it plainly…
It may have been even stronger than me…
It was astonishing.
He had never imagined he would entertain such a thought.
The Phantom Demon was the greatest martial artist of all time.
Who could possibly compare to someone capable of shaking the very laws of the universe?
His pride soared as high as the heavens.
Yet the moment he had stepped into that scroll, that conviction had been thoroughly shaken.
Seomun Hwan voiced these thoughts to Mok Sa-cheon.
The old man’s reaction was immediate.
“Puhahaha! You think you’re the greatest of all time?”
Mok Sa-cheon clutched his belly and began to laugh mockingly.
“Oh dear. So even you aren’t immune. Every so-called supreme expert of the age thinks the same thing. ‘I am the greatest of all time,’ ‘I am the strongest in the entire universe,’ ‘I am a being who will be remembered throughout history.’”
“Are you saying that’s wrong?”
Seomun Hwan made no effort to hide his displeasure.
“Then let me ask you this. Among all the masters of the past, was there anyone who could stand shoulder to shoulder with me?”
“…”
“Bodhidharma? Zhang Sanfeng? Those founders of Shaolin and Wudang?”
Seomun Hwan snorted.
“I respect them. But their skill is another matter. Still, if I were to face them across time… could they truly contend with me?”
It was a reply brimming with confidence.
Unlike the arrogant So Ji-myeong, Seomun Hwan had reached this conclusion through rational analysis of everything he had read, seen, and heard.
Throughout all of human history, there was no one stronger than him.
Mok Sa-cheon remained silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
The laughter vanished from his face as he spoke more seriously.
“Martial arts are like a vast field of study. It is only natural that their level rises with the passage of time. When Bodhidharma discussed Zen at Wudang and Zhang Sanfeng created the Taiji principle, they may have stood at the pinnacle of their era, but that is no longer the case today.”
“Descendants are bound to surpass their ancestors?”
“With research, experimentation, accumulation, and inheritance all building upon one another, if you faced both Bodhidharma and Zhang Sanfeng at their peaks simultaneously, it would be strange if you couldn’t win.”
“Hmph. At least your tongue is still sharp.”
Seomun Hwan gave a satisfied snort.
But Mok Sa-cheon was not finished.
“However.”
“…?”
“There is one person you would not dare claim superiority over.”
Seomun Hwan frowned.
“Who?”
“A figure whose records are so absurd they are treated as legend rather than history. A person whose very existence is doubted.”
“Stop playing word games. Who is it?”
“Hah! You should know better than I. Didn’t you once worship him as well?”
“…It can’t be.”
Seomun Hwan’s eyes trembled—very slowly, very slightly.
Mok Sa-cheon curled his lip and delivered the final blow.
“That’s right. The Heavenly Demon.”