A Letter
Some time had passed since Eom Soyul had been thrown into the dungeon.
On a distant peak of Mount Hua, far from the main sect, Hwayeon the Divine Priestess and Sang Anbul were spending time alone together. As usual, Sang Anbul sat cross-legged, while Hwayeon lay sprawled across his lap.
People often assumed that when the two were alone, they would engage in some scandalous behavior. In reality, their time together was mostly spent in relaxed companionship.
After a long silence, Hwayeon suddenly spoke up.
“Remember that story Namgung Jincheon told us?”
“Hmm?”
Despite his rugged appearance, Sang Anbul was a man of manners, always showing proper respect to Hwayeon in front of others. Those who knew them well were aware of their relationship, but he still had to consider the high status of the Divine Priestess.
When they were alone, however, formality was set aside. Sometimes Sang Anbul took the lead, but they usually interacted comfortably, as they were doing now.
“I heard you, Namgung Jincheon, and Yeombo made a pact on Wudang Mountain.”
“A pact? What kind of pact?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You promised to save the others, even if it meant sacrificing yourselves.”
To Sang Anbul, the term “the others” seemed a bit off.
Hwayeon was referring to Namgung Myeong, Hyeongong, and Manryeokseung. The problem was that they were hardly children. Namgung Myeong and Hyeongong were over thirty, and Manryeokseung was nearly twenty years older than that, not much younger than Namgung Jincheon himself. Only Hwayeon would call a monk in his fifties a child.
Regardless, the conversation had indeed taken place. Sang Anbul nodded.
“Yes, we did.”
“That’s it? Just ‘yes, we did’?”
“Why?”
When Sang Anbul answered nonchalantly, Hwayeon swiftly kicked his chin, her speed far surpassing that of an ordinary person. Though her kick wasn’t imbued with inner power and she wasn’t particularly large, it wasn’t very threatening.
Still, Sang Anbul feigned injury, rubbing his chin dramatically.
“Ouch, you almost broke my jaw.”
“Don’t play dumb. Do you remember what you said when you first held my hand? You promised to consult me on important decisions.”
“You weren’t there to ask.”
“If you couldn’t ask, you should’ve done nothing. Those kids…”
Sang Anbul scratched his head and chuckled. It was rare for him to be called a kid, especially when even the elders and leaders were mostly younger than him.
Hwayeon, however, wasn’t amused.
“Don’t just laugh it off.”
“Things were tense, but no one died, so let’s just let it go.”
“You were going to draw out your primal energy. Is that something to just brush off because no one died?”
Sang Anbul rarely kept secrets from Hwayeon. He hadn’t hidden the fact that he had considered drawing out his primal energy on Wudang Mountain. He thought she might be pleased, given her love for martial arts stories. But when he told her, she had glared at him as if she might kill him.
She had made it clear: as long as he was alive, he was never to attempt drawing out his primal energy again.
Recalling that conversation, Hwayeon sighed deeply. Sang Anbul looked at her with an apologetic expression.
“I’m sorry. But it was the only option. Those young ones were fighting with their lives on the line. How could I just stand by? As the elder, I had to do my part…”
Hwayeon hesitated, then resumed her scolding.
“Who said to just stand by? It’s fine to fight hard, but one person is enough. Don’t take unnecessary risks just because you’re the elder.”
”…I understand. Calm down.”
Sang Anbul tried to soothe her. Hwayeon didn’t respond, lost in thought rather than anger.
Sang Anbul, too, was deep in thought. If such a moment came again, could he be satisfied with just one person’s sacrifice, as Hwayeon suggested?
He wasn’t sure. And he secretly wondered if, in the upcoming battle with the cult leader, he might have to draw on his primal energy once more.
As the time for the last Grand Martial Tournament approached, Seonwuja, the head of the Mount Hua Sect, found himself bowing daily before the ancestral tablets of the sect’s past masters.
The problem was that too many of the sect’s key masters had perished in the tournament. A sect that loses its core masters inevitably declines, and it seemed certain that Mount Hua would soon follow that path.
Every time he stood before the tablets, Seonwuja felt as if he could hear the elders’ reproach.
“We entrusted the sect to you after overcoming countless hardships, even surpassing the Zhongnan Sect. Yet, instead of flourishing, you let it wither away.”
In those moments, a thought always crossed Seonwuja’s mind.
“Master, the Zhongnan Sect is in just as bad a shape, so at least Mount Hua won’t fall behind them.”
He often stopped himself from voicing this excuse before his master’s tablet. It wasn’t something to say to his teacher.
Given the circumstances, Seonwuja’s heart had been heavy for some time. But recently, he had been able to face his master’s tablet with a confident, even slightly arrogant, expression.
“Master, trust in your disciple.”
The turning point came when renowned martial artists from across the land unexpectedly gathered at Mount Hua to train. It had been over two months since this began.
Even just watching a superior master spar can lead to enlightenment. But those gathered at Mount Hua were not just superior; they were far beyond that. These masters trained, sparred, and shared insights daily, and they didn’t block the Mount Hua disciples from approaching them, perhaps out of sympathy for the sect’s plight.
This wasn’t just a few crumbs falling their way; it was like being handed a whole feast. Even if they could only absorb a fraction of the teachings, it was more than enough. Seonwuja was confident that the next generation of Mount Hua would be far more prosperous than the current one.
Seonwuja himself, though not a supreme master, had managed to capture a glimpse of the highest enlightenment. It didn’t shine as brightly as those of the supreme masters, but it was undoubtedly a breakthrough.
“It’s a stroke of luck, truly. The Zhongnan Sect won’t be able to keep up with us now.”
Given the situation, Seonwuja naturally fulfilled all his duties, ensuring the guests were well taken care of.
Amidst all this, there was one person who seemed to contribute nothing to Mount Hua: Dang Mujin.
Hong Gyeolgae, looking bored, glanced around to ensure no one was nearby before approaching Dang Mujin.
“Dang Mujin, what are you up to?”
“Meditating.”
Dang Mujin replied with his eyes closed, prompting Hong Gyeolgae to chuckle derisively.
“Meditating, huh… If you have nothing to do, why not practice your hidden weapons?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then why not carve some wood or something?”
“You’re disturbing my meditation. Go away.”
Dang Mujin waved him off, and Hong Gyeolgae disappeared with a sly smile.
While everyone else was building new martial arts based on their insights, Dang Mujin was the exception. Even masters with overwhelming talent like Jang Innam were integrating hidden weapons with their insights, so there was no reason for Dang Mujin, with his modest talent, to try and do the same.
Researching poison techniques was also tricky. He had no idea which parts to improve or how. He didn’t even have any poisons on hand.
And he wasn’t particularly inclined to delve deeper into pure hidden weapon techniques.
“I’ve already reached the pinnacle of hidden weapons… Further research would be pointless.”
It might seem arrogant, but Dang Mujin believed that no hidden weapon technique could surpass his “Ten Thousand Blossoms Rain.”
Of course, the technique wasn’t without flaws. It required a thousand needles if he wanted to coat them with potent poison, it was physically taxing, dangerously risky, often left him unconscious after use, and someone else had to retrieve the needles afterward. Plus, he had to make new needles for any lost ones.
But the overwhelming power of “Ten Thousand Blossoms Rain” could easily overshadow such minor drawbacks.
Dang Mujin imagined himself confidently demonstrating the technique before the cult leader.
The cult leader, wielding a sword that gleamed like moonlight, glared at Tang Mujin. Yet, even he couldn’t withstand a thousand poison darts. In Tang Mujin’s imagination, the cult leader fell like a porcupine struck down.
“No matter how powerful he is, even the cult leader can’t withstand my Thousand Blossoms Rain.”
With that thought, Tang Mujin felt an overwhelming urge to confront the cult leader as soon as possible.
“The timing is crucial. If I can defeat him after Namgung Gong, Hong Gyeolgae, and Hyeon Gonggeo have all fallen, my rank will be indisputable…”
Perhaps this was a problem he could only solve by clashing with his peers. The cult leader was the undisputed best in the world, a man who could even aspire to the title of the greatest martial artist of all time.
“The one who defeats the world’s greatest, the Poison King, Tang Mujin…”
If he could propose to the cult leader, Tang Mujin imagined returning to his hometown as a proud husband and father.
Thinking of his family, he recalled a letter he had recently received from Dan Seolyeong.
Shortly after arriving at the Mount Hua Sect, Tang Mujin had sent a messenger pigeon to his hometown, informing them of his whereabouts. Last month, he received a reply from Dan Seolyeong. The letter spoke of the family’s efforts to rebuild, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
With nothing pressing to do, Tang Mujin decided to send another message to his family and rose from his seat.
However, just as he was about to step outside the main gate of the Mount Hua Sect, he encountered a man standing there, dripping with sweat. It was a low-ranking official he had met before.
Training messenger pigeons was not something individuals could do alone. The pigeons could only travel between official posts. Given the situation, someone was needed to deliver the messages directly to the recipients. The man before him was tasked with that role.
Could it be that Dan Seolyeong had sent another letter? Tang Mujin asked with a hopeful heart.
“Good to see you again. What brings you here?” “A messenger pigeon has brought a letter.” “Is it for me?” “Well, yes and no. But you should take it.”
The letter Tang Mujin received was different from the previous one. Unlike the last letter, which was addressed in Dan Seolyeong’s handwriting to “Tang Mujin, Head of the Tang Clan,” this one bore an official seal on the envelope.
Everyone knew that the government and the martial world were like oil and water. What could have happened for a letter with an official seal to arrive at the Mount Hua Sect?
Tang Mujin opened the letter to read its contents.
[A strange figure wielding a white sword has appeared in Bongseong, causing numerous casualties, including officials. Assistance is requested.]
The fact that the letter was addressed to “Sunwooja” on the inside rather than the outside suggested it wasn’t necessarily meant for him. The official who delivered it left immediately after handing it over.
Tang Mujin read the letter again.
A madman with a sword that shone white. Someone who would indiscriminately kill, including officials. The imperial family hadn’t intervened, but the situation was dire enough for the government to break protocol and ask for help.
There couldn’t possibly be two such people in the world.
“He came to me on his own.”
Clutching the letter, Tang Mujin headed to the training grounds.