Chapter 19
Chapter 19
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: Hong Geolgae, Hong Jusam
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It was early morning, before the sun had risen. Dang Mujin stepped out into the backyard to decoct the herbal medicine.
The only tasks involved in boiling the decoction were occasionally adjusting the fire and checking its progress midway through.
But since he couldn't stray far from the medicine boiler, physicians like him always passed the time with idle thoughts while preparing it. Dang Mujin was no different.
Dang Mujin blankly recalled the memories of the previous day.
'I wish every day could be like yesterday.'
It had been such a satisfying day that he felt glad to have left his hometown.
He had treated the patients, uncovered the dark plot he'd only heard about in stories, and ended the day amid the villagers' grateful cheers. What could be more perfect?
'Of course, the Black Peony was great too.'
While keeping a close eye on the decoction to avoid ruining it, Dang Mujin subtly turned his attention inward to check his dantian. The Black Peony's energy, thin as a silken thread, was slowly unraveling and seeping into his meridians.
He could feel his internal energy growing overnight.
Of course, in absolute terms, it wasn't a huge increase.
But since Dang Mujin's internal energy had been so modest to begin with, even this small change felt like an enormous boost. A jujube looks tiny next to a watermelon, but respectable beside a plum.
And as his internal energy accumulated, so did his ambitions.
'I should ask the old man to teach me swordsmanship too.'
Dang Mujin recalled the strange physician's exploits from the day before.
The martial arts of an Absolute Peak Expert surpassed his imagination. In the blink of an eye, the old man's shoulders had blurred, and the terrifying Ja-yang Twin Killers lay dead from a single stroke. Even the fleeing Yeom Physician had been captured before anyone could bat an eye.
Not long ago, when he'd set out with the strange physician, Dang Mujin's goal had been to become a second-rate martial artist.
A second-rate martial artist could hold their own in a mid-tier sect. The low-level instructors teaching swordsmanship to children at the Qingcheng Chengdu Branch were second-raters. Of course, in the headquarters of a major sect, they'd be a dime a dozen.
If Dang Mujin had been born a natural martial artist, he wouldn't have settled for merely second-rate. But at heart, he was a physician.
A physician didn't need to grapple with many foes. Just the occasional runaway who skipped out on payment or a drunk patient causing a ruckus.
Subduing such people didn't require skills beyond second-rate.
'In truth, I've thought it'd be nice to reach first-rate.'
But becoming a first-rate expert demanded not just effort, but talent as well. That's why first-raters commanded respect wherever they went.
Jin Song, the chief instructor at the Qingcheng Chengdu Branch, had been a first-rate expert.
Before coming down to the branch, he'd held a position like some kind of deputy leader, so he could probably walk tall even at Qingcheng headquarters.
Still, Dang Mujin's imagination had stopped at first-rate.
Even though the strange physician had confidently guaranteed his potential. There was a massive wall between first-rate and Absolute Peak.
Absolute Peak was the dream of those who devoted their lives to martial arts. A realm that perhaps one in tens or hundreds might barely touch after a lifetime of toil.
Yet after yesterday, Dang Mujin found himself gripped by a strange confidence.
With a spiritual herb like this inside him, couldn't he at least reach first-rate with enough effort? And if luck was on his side, maybe even aim for Absolute Peak.
Especially since the herb wasn't some middling century-old snow lotus or the inner core of a forearm-thick serpent, but the Black Peony, flower of heroes.
As Dang Mujin spun these flights of fancy, the strange physician appeared.
He must have drunk heavily last night, as the smell of alcohol wafted strongly from his clothes.
Yet his face looked perfectly fine. No sign of a hangover. They said martial experts could control their intoxication at will, and it seemed that was true.
Without preamble, the strange physician brought up something bewildering.
"Have you packed your things?"
"Pardon?"
"What's with the 'pardon'? Aren't we leaving around lunchtime?"
"But there are still patients."
"Aside from boiling the decoction, there's nothing left to do. No rare ingredients, no complicated methods—just explain it well and go."
It was true, but Dang Mujin didn't want to leave just yet.
Three or five days of boiling decoctions. If possible, he'd linger ten days. Zhuul Village's atmosphere was too satisfying.
Back in his hometown, no one called him physician.
Just Mujin, or the son of the Dang physician.
But here in Zhuul Village, they addressed him as Physician Dang with utmost respect.
Yesterday, someone had even called him a divine healer—granted, by someone drunk off their ass from early evening booze, but still.
And that wasn't all. More important than the title was the gaze of the village maidens.
The way they looked at Dang Mujin was anything but ordinary.
Some sidled up subtly, trying to strike up a conversation. Others were bolder in their approach.
One mentioned aged deodeok liquor at home and wanted to treat him. Another boasted the best cooking in Zhuul Village despite no fancy ingredients and offered dinner.
All this was new in Dang Mujin's life, and he desperately wanted to accept the invitations.
Yet he hadn't followed any village maiden home, purely because of last night's atmosphere.
With all eyes on him and the strange physician, he couldn't decline the village head's invitation for some nameless girl's.
Sneaking off would have spread rumors through Zhuul Village by morning.
But interest doesn't last forever. Today, the stares would fade.
Dang Mujin was already looking forward to dinner. If invited again, he'd play coy and follow, downing some deodeok liquor.
He pleaded earnestly.
"Can't we stay just four or five more days? I need to check on people. See if the decoction works, if there are side effects, that sort of thing."
But the strange physician was unsentimental.
"The root of the illness is gone. With clean stream water and regular meals, they'll recover in a week. Keep up the decoction, and they'll be up in three days."
"Then let's leave in three days!"
"Get a grip. We never planned to come to Zhuul Village at all. We just stopped by at Hong Geolgae's request."
Only then did Dang Mujin remember Hong Geolgae.
"Where is Hong Geolgae? I didn't see him at the village head's last night."
"Burying Elder Ma Jeon-gae, then probably starving ever since."
"Starving? Why?"
Zhuul Village had been in festive mood yesterday. Food shared freely, celebrating survival of great peril. In that lively atmosphere, Hong Geolgae should've easily found a meal—especially as the main hero against the Ja-yang Twin Killers.
The strange physician furrowed his brow.
"People know Hong Geolgae killed a man."
"So what? He smashed evil bastards. Bare-handed against armed foes, with just a club!"
"The problem is that he's a beggar."
Utterly incomprehensible. As Dang Mujin stared blankly, the strange physician clicked his tongue.
"Hong Geolgae's survived by begging his whole life. Same for Ma Jeon-gae. But can a killer beg?"
"Why not? Seems easier. Shoulders back, 'Spare a meal?'"
"Getting food might be easy. But is it begging? Imagine you're from Zhuul Village. Some guy who clubbed a martial artist to death at noon comes begging from you. Think you'd give?"
"Ah."
Only then did Dang Mujin understand.
Begging is for the lowly and humble.
But murder is the gravest taboo, and killers subconsciously dominate others.
A murderer's outstretched bowl isn't begging—it's extortion. Charity becomes tribute.
"What a hassle. All Beggars' Sect folks like that?"
"No. Even beggars vary. If I had to say, Hong Geolgae and Ma Jeon-gae lean toward the Filthy Clothes Faction within the sect."
"Filthy Clothes Faction?"
"Real-deal beggars in filthy rags. No need to know more unless you plan to join."
"Anyway, what about Hong Geolgae now?"
"Who knows. That's for him to figure out."
Dang Mujin scowled and scratched his head vigorously.
In a small village like Zhuul, accepting a killer was hard.
Even if the kill benefited the village. Revulsion toward killers stems from emotion and instinct, not reason.
Absurd, but not incomprehensible.
The world was a madhouse, where sacrifice and devotion often went unrewarded.
Dang Mujin let out a deep sigh.
*
Around lunchtime, Zhuul villagers gathered to see Dang Mujin and the strange physician off.
In less than a day, the patients' conditions had visibly improved. Wi Rip standing with his wife and daughter was especially striking.
"You've done us a great service, sirs."
"Just did what needed doing. Those still down will be up within a week at most—don't worry."
As the strange physician spoke with the village head, Dang Mujin scanned the surroundings with a crestfallen expression.
He spotted the village maidens.
'Shouldn't have played hard to get. Should've talked properly.'
After brief farewells, Dang Mujin and the strange physician set off.
Shouts of "Thank youuuu!" echoed long from behind. Dang Mujin's pride swelled accordingly.
But before departing far, the two physicians headed to the graveyard outside the village.
At the graveyard's edge stood a small mound. Unlike grass-covered graves, this one's red soil lay bare.
Small, shabby, poorly placed.
As if unsure it belonged, in the most remote corner. Beneath a willow's shade.
Before the grave lay a familiar object: Ma Jeon-gae's oak club, snapped in two blocking the Ja-yang Twin Killers' attack.
The strange physician and Dang Mujin paid brief respects before the grave.
Respect transcending levels of martial prowess or status. For a warrior who gave his life for justice.
Then Dang Mujin called out.
"Hong Geolgae! Where are you?"
The willow rustled faintly, and a figure dropped from the branches.
Hong Geolgae. Hands scarred from digging the grave bare-handed overnight, nails caked with red dirt. Shabbier clothes and weary face to match.
Grateful that his master's disciples hadn't forgotten, Hong Geolgae bowed deeply at once.
"I owe you greatly. Safe travels ahead."
As Hong Geolgae turned to go, Dang Mujin asked.
"Where to?"
"Where else? Lived here all my life—I'll keep living here."
Unlike yesterday's deference, his tone was casual now.
Dang Mujin preferred it. Hong Geolgae was about his age.
"What'll you do for a living?"
"Who knows. I'll manage."
"'Who knows' won't cut it for survival. Farm?"
"Doubt it. Don't know how."
"Business then?"
"Can't do business bare-handed."
Hong Geolgae's voice lacked vigor. Less hatred of farming or trade, more clinging to beggar life. What was so great about that beggar fate?
Dang Mujin pondered briefly, then grabbed Hong Geolgae's wrist.
"Come on."
Hong Geolgae asked in surprise.
"Where?"
"To a place where you can beg without side-eye. Follow me."
Hong Geolgae hesitated long.
Then grinned.
"Alright. Let's go."
The three headed east, toward the rising sun.
It took Zhuul villagers days to notice Hong Geolgae was gone.