An Artist's Longing and a Thief's Rebirth
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The Time-Limited Elixir of the Ruined Clan
Chapter 76
"Can I go see some paintings with Seong-ah later?"
"Of course. The whole family is so busy, and here I am idly sketching flowers... it's a bit embarrassing."
Seok Ban-an smiled faintly, and passersby startled to a halt before shuffling away at half-speed.
Ryeon could see why Seok Ban-an and Danmok Hyeon-yo had married. Their shared anguish and pain must have appeared to others as mere fragments of beauty.
"Ah, Auntie's been swamped lately with sending word to the branch families."
"That's right. Your aunt throws herself into everything with such vigor."
"She was saying someone should help her write those cheonggan notices..."
"Cheonggan?"
"Yeah, the letters summoning the branch families. She says our clan's writing is a bit... rough around the edges. Not that she'd put it so bluntly."
"Ah... I see..."
Seok Ban-an trailed off, unable to deny it outright. But a strange spark lit his eyes.
Born the third son of the mighty Pungrim Jeonjang, he was the youngest of a wealthy house where succession was settled early—he'd never inherit. Bright but not overwhelmingly so, ambitious but not fiercely, he'd found contentment in poetry, books, and painting. Yet he had eyes, ears, and a heart like anyone.
He's surely overheard plenty at Pungrim Jeonjang.
If she could draw him gradually into the family affairs, Ryeon could learn how vast merchant houses like Pungrim Jeonjang made their money and managed people, adapting it to their own clan. They could even launch ventures leveraging his artistic eye.
For instance, if he painted a small pine tree invoking longevity and health, and she infused it with spiritual energy, it would truly grant those blessings.
Ah, that might not even need much artistic flair. But he paints beautifully anyway!
Setting that aside, for all that theirs wasn't a political marriage, it was bold to take in someone from a great merchant house and treat him like a guest all these years just because he knew no martial arts. Even his wife, Danmok Hyeon-yo—who surely loved Seok Ban-an—had excluded him from household matters, thinking, He's no martial artist.
It was inevitable, growing up in a murim clan. But how could anyone live on love alone? Merely being the beloved spouse had sustained Seok Ban-an this long—an impressive feat. People can't survive without water, but water alone won't do.
Unaware, Seok Ban-an quickened his pace to match Ryeon's, then slowed, trying to mask his excitement.
Ryeon beamed proudly at him.
* * *
Baek Ui-myeong's eyes snapped open.
They stung fiercely. He scanned his surroundings—dusk was falling, the low, deep crimson of the setting sun assaulting him.
"Gah!"
His last memory: that pretty boy thrashing him like a rat.
Baek Ui-myeong paled. He bolted upright.
Despite lying insensate on the cold autumn ground and the prior pummeling, moving was effortless.
I've gotta run!
He scanned for escape routes. Not nearby—that old monster with the youthful reversion would hunt him down if he fled.
Far away... as far as possible!
His granddaughter was in Hangzhou; the old man wouldn't chase that far.
How far, then...?
Namjikryeong Fortress was practically next door. Henan Province with the Murim Alliance? Not far either. Sichuan Province? Decent distance, but a single boat on the Yangtze would get him there in a blink.
Farther!
Qinghai Province?
Kunlun Sect territory... But that only heightened his dread. Those daoists bordered Machun-gyo, ruthless as any orthodox murim folk. Caught pickpocketing there, he might lose a hand.
Tianshan! Yes, Tianshan Mountains.
Machun-gyo's heartland, but maybe safe enough. Their horrors abounded—pitting children to kill until one survived as heir, brainwashing locals as arrow fodder in crises—but the scariest tale for martial artists was the Seongseong Daebeop, the life-force absorption art known only to the cult leader.
Ascend to leader, drain your aides' inner power, become an even mightier murim master! Even now, with Blood Valley claiming most worldly terrors, the Machun-gyo leader's art inspired dread.
But I have no inner power!
Who'd have thought he'd rejoice over that someday? And why would a Hangzhou-rooted master trek ten thousand li for him?
Baek Ui-myeong was willing to pay that distance as his life's ransom.
Calm settled. Maybe Tianshan had a place like Hwanbyeokru. With his savings, he could live similarly...
"My money!"
En route to Hwanbyeokru at a near-run, he froze, rummaging his waist, chest, and rear cloth.
His money pouch was gone!
The sky turned yellow.
"My... my money... my money!"
Stolen? By a passerby while unconscious? Or dropped in that alley?
He raced back, digging every puddle. No pouch.
That brat!
Trembling too terrified to speak aloud, he knew: the boy had beaten him and taken it.
That old coot... stealing from the young!
He had a bit stashed at the brothel—enough to scrape by—but realizing the thrashing and the loss burned.
Back at Hwanbyeokru, he waved halfheartedly at the greeting attendants and guards, then headed to his room. Few belongings; he ditched the unmissable, crammed dried candy into his mouth, grabbed clothes and shoes.
Leapt from the window, slipping away unseen. Announcing departure risked tails endangering his life.
He dashed to the riverside dock, shoved double fare into the ferryman's hands, barking to go fast.
The boatman rowed indifferently but swiftly, without retort.
Huddled in a corner, leg jittering, pondering his future, Baek Ui-myeong suddenly noticed his condition.
Huh? Why aren't I tired?
Beaten to pulp, crying and wailing, round trip to the brothel and alley, then here for the boat... yet no fatigue.
Lighter than usual, even—he'd run more nimbly.
Baek Ui-myeong groped himself head to toe.
The rowing boatman flinched, speeding up slightly.
But Baek Ui-myeong had no attention for that.
What, what, what?!
His twisted dantian region, warped from brutal childhood dojo training, stood rigid.
A deep breath, and suddenly he sensed dozens of crickets by the distant riverbank.
Then plop—a fish thrashing. Sounds from realms he'd never touched.
He stroked his lower abdomen gently. Faint, almost imperceptible, a tiny presence: his dantian.
Crushed, twisted channels straightened, pulsing; the scraps of inner power from futile tonap breathing exercises flowed in...
"Uwaaaaaah!"
"Uh, uwaaaaaah!"
The boatman, rowing fiercely in his wary passenger's intimidating aura, screamed back at the cry.
After prolonged mutual shrieking, Baek Ui-myeong pleaded desperately.
"Turn the boat around! Please turn it back!"
"W-what?"
"I have to go back!"
"What nonsense—n-now...?"
The baffled boatman refused at first, but facing this leg-twitching, self-groping oddity, his voice quavered.
"I-I took you 'cause you said you had a home downriver. Turn back now, where do I sleep...?"
"Double again."
"Let's go. Back the way we came?"
"Y-yes."
As the boatman energetically reversed, Baek Ui-myeong's legs jittered anew.
No wonder it hurt like hell—that was the legendary Chugung Gwahyeol!