Traces
When Cheongwol emerged dressed, Seomun Hwi found himself staring, utterly lost.
Outwardly, the woman before him was devastatingly beautiful — yet in essence she was a man, his dearest friend.
To entertain even a single improper thought was something that must never be allowed.
He repeated this to himself, trying to settle his heart, but it was useless.
The clothes clung to every curve of her body so frankly that he could scarcely keep his eyes on her.
Why in the world did they dress her in something only a woman of the unorthodox sects would wear?
It suited her remarkably well — which only made it worse. He could not keep looking.
He had no choice but to turn his head, hide his expression, and focus solely on quieting the hammering in his chest.
He never imagined that doing so would leave Cheongwol with such a deep wound.
If he did not help that wound heal now, Cheongwol would live the rest of her life collecting scars just like it.
That was why Seomun Hwi was pouring out words so embarrassing he could barely stand to hear them himself.
"I made a pathetic spectacle of myself — unable even to look at you, much less speak."
Cheongwol lay half-buried in the blankets, face faintly flushed, turning his words over and over.
...Because I was beautiful? Not because I was disgusting?
Being a man, she could not simply be glad to hear such a thing — and yet her lips kept wanting to curve upward.
"I know you still wish to live as a man. I respect that wish. But today I realized it is not as simple as it sounds."
Seomun Hwi's hand came to rest lightly atop the blanket.
"Cheongwol. If you deny the woman you have become, you may spend your whole life in torment."
"..."
"So do not force yourself to choose only one side. And if someone treats you as a woman, or if you wear a woman's clothes — that does not mean you are denying who you truly are."
The calm that had begun to settle over her heart plunged once more into the mire.
She understood what he was trying to say. It was a question she herself had turned over countless times at the Kongdong Sect.
And at the end of every such thought, there had always been only one conclusion.
"...I'm afraid."
Cheongwol's voice slipped out, thin and fragile, from beneath the covers.
"If I accept that I've become a woman — if I grow used to living that way — I'm afraid the person I originally was will disappear."
As he said, there was no need to choose only one side. But in the end, wouldn't the heart lean toward whichever life became familiar?
And if that happened, the man she had been would be gone forever.
Just as Cheongwol was about to bury her face in the bedding, Seomun Hwi yanked the blanket away.
"...!"
Startled, she tried to snatch it back — but the moment she met his grave, unwavering eyes, the words died in her throat.
"Do you think the passing of years will ever make you forget your grandfather?"
How could she ever forget the grandfather who had been both master and parent to her?
"...Of course not."
She lowered her head, the old man's face rising in her mind, and a faint smile touched Seomun Hwi's lips.
"This is no different. As long as you remember, nothing disappears. And your master and Senior Brother Unhak both know who you used to be."
A large, steady hand — a man's hand, broad and trustworthy — settled on Cheongwol's shoulder.
"Even if every one of them forgets, I alone will remember until the end. That you were a man."
"Hwi..."
Cheongwol gently laid her own hand over the back of his, where it rested on her shoulder.
Truly, the man before her had a gift for saying exactly the words she most needed to hear.
"Really... no matter what happens, you'll treat me as a man until the end?"
He had only said he would remember — not that he would treat her as a man. The distinction left him slightly flustered, but the weight of the moment carried him forward, and he nodded slowly.
"Of course. So never again let me hear you call yourself disgusting."
He had no idea how much that casually spoken promise would come to cost him in the days ahead.
Only those who had thoroughly mastered the Beggar Association's secret codes, whose five senses were sharp and whose judgment was sound, could wear the six knots.
They wandered the jianghu dispensing mercy with upright hearts, and the Beggar Association called them the Law Beggars.
One such Law Beggar — Hong Chilgong — appeared before the inn at Wuhuahai.
He cast a wary glance over the desolate scene, then bent and picked up a piece of gravel that looked as though it had been split clean through by a razor-edged sword aura.
Looking again, there are parts that feel wrong for Qingcheng Sect martial arts. I was too hasty.
Qingcheng techniques raised the wind, yes — but their rough energy never left a cut this clean.
Which meant someone had deliberately tried to deceive him.
Hong Chilgong furrowed his brow and reconstructed in his mind the slaughter that had taken place here at Wuhuahai two days prior.
— Covertly observe what the Alliance Leader is doing in Sichuan.
He had received the mission from headquarters, but his target was a martial artist closer than almost anyone to being the greatest under heaven.
To stay clear of the man's sensory range, Hong Chilgong had been forced to keep roughly a day's distance.
And it was precisely because of that distance that he had witnessed another suspicious scene.
Eight figures in black. One woman.
And beside the woman, a middle-aged man collapsed and bleeding.
He was still breathing — but already beyond the help of even the Immortals of the Great Net.
Should he abandon the mission and save the woman from the men in black?
But if his identity were exposed, not only he but every other beggar on the trail would lose the chance to follow an Alliance Leader whose vigilance had been raised.
Law Beggar of the Association, or righteous martial artist of the orthodox path — he was still torn between the two when the woman flashed her sword with a chilling ferocity, and one of the black-clad men went tumbling across the ground, clutching a split throat.
The remaining seven began to waver at the sight.
Not professional assassins, then.
True killers would never rattle so easily at a comrade's death.
Sure enough, two of them lost their heads entirely, roaring as they charged the woman. The others tried to join in, but the first two were already flailing their blades so wildly that no one could easily close ranks.
In a fight to the death, moving on pure emotion erased every advantage of numbers.
The clash of steel rang savagely across the lake.
Hah... hah...
Blood ran from the woman's head as she gasped for breath. Her arms and legs bore deep gashes — but the heads of both black-clad men had left their shoulders.
Eight against one, reduced to five. An almost unbelievable turn.
The one who seemed to lead them would tolerate no further blunders. The five black-clad figures pressed in with a precise combined assault, and deep and shallow cuts bloomed across the woman's body.
Ugh!
Moments later she cried out once and toppled forward.
Her forms had been exquisite — but the years had rusted the edge of that blade.
And yet, even after all of this, the apparent leader merely pressed her pressure points to stop the bleeding, left her breathing, and slung her over his shoulder.
— Collect the bodies.
At those words the remaining four moved briskly, cleaning the blood-soaked ground.
Had a martial artist attacked ordinary civilians, it would have been different. But the woman had used martial arts — this was a dispute among people of the jianghu.
Consoling himself with that thought, Hong Chilgong held his breath until every last black-clad figure was gone.
...I can't do this anymore.
He had endured on nothing but the pride of walking the path of justice under the banner of chivalry — and now, faced with a self that looked no different from the hypocrites he so despised, a long sigh was about to escape him when one of the black-clad men he had thought long gone reappeared. Hong Chilgong dropped low at once.
The man lingered a moment, sweeping the surroundings with a casual glance, then began leaving sword marks on the fallen middle-aged man and the ground around him.
Trying to muddy the trail and avoid discovery?
Even so, there was no reason to desecrate a man already dead.
When that last figure finally left, Hong Chilgong stepped out of the brush with a grim face.
This has nothing to do with the mission — but as a man who claims the orthodox path, I cannot simply look away from such cruelty.
After combing the area thoroughly, Hong Chilgong found something that did not sit right.
Care had been taken to conceal the internal energy used — yet the traces themselves were not hard to identify.
Not clean cuts, but savage sword paths that looked as though something had clawed through.
In all of Sichuan, the only people he knew who used such forms belonged to the Qingcheng Sect.
...A clumsy mistake born of inexperience?
Members of a renowned house among the Nine Great Sects would never commit so careless an error.
And for what reason would the orthodox Qingcheng Sect don black robes, hide their identities, and commit such an act?
Perhaps someone had staged the whole thing to frame Qingcheng.
But if it truly was not them — did that mean others had imitated Qingcheng forms and left these sword paths behind?
The techniques steeped in the traces were far too refined for that.
"..."
As suspicion chased suspicion, Hong Chilgong shook his head hard.
The enemy had deliberately left evidence in plain sight as a deception. The moment he strained for answers here, he would be walking straight into their trap.
First, continue the mission. And I should look into this inn as well.