The Strange Physician, Yi Chung
How could I throw this away?
Seok Ji-seung shut himself in the forge, staring at the dagger blade Tang Mujin had left behind. Its form was plain, incomplete.
It had only gone through the forging stage. Though he had quenched it in water before it cooled, that could hardly be called tempering. It was nothing more than a perfunctory cooling.
The reheating and gradual cooling that should follow quenching—the tempering—had not been done at all. After pulling the blade from the water, Tang Mujin had lost all interest in it.
To someone with a superficial knowledge of smithing, Tang Mujin might have looked like a novice ignorant of proper procedure.
But Seok Ji-seung had the discernment to judge his true skill.
This unfinished dagger did not conceal Tang Mujin's ability.
He flicked the blade's flat with his finger.
Tick. The sound was faint, yet clear. Through his fingertip came a subtle rebound, whispering of the dagger's uniform strength—of the potential it held.
Seok Ji-seung slid the tang roughly into a wooden hilt, then balanced it on his finger. The weight fell naturally, slightly inclined toward the handle. Of course—it was perfect.
Unbelievable.
This was no inferior piece. It was merely unfinished.
Not something that had fallen short on the road to perfection, but something that had halted deliberately, mid-stride.
Seok Ji-seung recalled his father's words: there is no perfection in the way of the blacksmith. With endless effort, one can advance endlessly.
But Tang Mujin had shown him the process of advancing toward perfection—only he had mischievously refused to complete it.
Desire welled in Seok Ji-seung's chest. He wanted to finish this dagger himself.
The foundation laid was too solid. Even with his inadequate skill, the finished product would still be a fine weapon.
And what if he slipped the finished dagger among other wares, setting it out carelessly before the forge?
The Daoists of Cheongseong Sect, who never failed to bring up his father's name whenever they looked at him, would surely ask if this too was the elder Seok smith's work.
Then he could shake his head lightly and reply:
"My father never touched it. I may be lacking, but I honed the edge myself."
What kind of expression would those haughty Daoists wear then? The very thought thrilled him.
Seok Ji-seung picked up the dagger. If he heated it, let it cool slowly, and sharpened the edge, it would already be a splendid piece. It could change the way people saw him.
But after a brief struggle, he set it down again.
The guilt of marring something so close to perfection was too heavy. He feared that rushing to finish it might ruin everything.
So he stored the dagger deep within the forge, resolving: when his skill grew just enough not to spoil it in the final stage, then he would complete it. At year's end, or next year—soon, surely, he would finish it.
By then, the world had already fallen into darkness. Normally he would have gone to bed.
But instead, he locked the forge doors and rekindled the fire, replaying in his mind the sight he had seen that afternoon.
Unlike Seok Ji-seung, who steeled himself anew with yesterday's memory, Tang Mujin had returned to his clinic, set the fresh needles in the case, and promptly lost interest. To him, needles were not special objects. He had even let someone else finish the work.
And so what Tang Mujin felt was not satisfaction, but regret.
If only my body were trained enough, the result would have been far better.
He didn't need the thick, iron-hard arms of a dwarf—if he had only the stamina of Seok Ji-seung, he could have produced something much finer.
But it would take years for Tang Mujin's arms and shoulders to reach Seok Ji-seung's level. And that was only if he devoted himself entirely to smithing. Splitting his time as a physician, dabbling in the forge here and there, he might never reach it in his lifetime.
Isn't there some other way?
The only idea that came to him was cultivating inner strength, as martial artists did, to harness greater power.
Of course, it was absurd. Cultivating qi just for blacksmithing?
The next day, Tang Mujin went about his life much as usual.
He wandered here and there, brewed herbal decoctions, and delivered salves to those in need.
By evening, his father Tang Jesun called him.
"Mujin."
"Yes, Father?"
"The needles have changed. Did you put them there?"
"Yes. Was there a problem? Did one break, or bend?"
"Problem? No. Nothing like that. I only asked because these are remarkable."
"I see."
"Where did you get them? They don't look like Seok Ji-seung's work. Has Master Seok returned to the forge?"
Tang Mujin almost said, I made them, with Seok Ji-seung assisting. But he stopped himself.
If he said that, his father would ask where he had learned smithing. Then he would have to speak of the bell tower, the mushrooms, the dreams.
So he decided not to tell Tang Jesun the truth.
Even if his father might believe the dream, he could never mention the mushrooms.
Tang Jesun despised anything that muddled the mind. Unlike other physicians, he would never prescribe the Five-Stone Powder, and he wouldn't even touch common alcohol.
If Tang Mujin admitted he had eaten strange mushrooms, dreamt of smithing, and even taken more out of regret—his father's reaction was all too easy to predict.
"…I complained to Brother Seok that I wasn't satisfied, and he must have taken it to heart. He spent the whole day making them. Seems his pride was pricked."
A ridiculous excuse—such quality couldn't come from mere effort.
But like most people, Tang Jesun knew little of smithing.
He nodded in satisfaction.
"These are treasures I've never seen in all my years as a physician. Convey my thanks, and brew a fine decoction with quality kudzu root to deliver to him."
"Yes, Father."
That was supposed to be the end of it.
Tang Mujin brewed the kudzu root decoction and delivered it to Seok Ji-seung, but Seok Ji-seung refused to accept it for free. He paid for it—five to ten times more than the usual price of such medicine.
Having received unexpected money, Tang Mujin happily stowed it away.
And he thought the matter would end there.
But contrary to Mujin's expectations, things did not end so simply.
It began when the Zhizhong Congshi (Administrative Officer), after hearing the Jiechuang Jiaowei Congshi's (Military Adjutant) complaints, raised a question.
"So, the Tang family's needles hurt that much?"
"Don't even get me started. I couldn't tell if he was trying to insert needles or poke holes clear through my back. If it hadn't been for your introduction, I would've stormed out after raising hell."
Although he had already voiced his displeasure to Tang Jeseon, by his standards that was letting the matter slide. The man's temper was notoriously prickly.
The Administrative Officer, however, found the story difficult to accept.
"That makes no sense. I've met over twenty physicians in my time, and none surpassed the Tang family in acupuncture."
"Well, I may not have endured as many treatments as you, but it was certainly nothing praiseworthy. Absolutely not."
"Hm."
That evening, the Administrative Officer, intrigued, paid a visit to the Tang family clinic. He happened to be suffering from a light headache, and thought to receive both acupuncture and a prescription.
The needles he encountered were nothing like the thick ones the Adjutant had described. They were so fine that he couldn't even be sure whether they had been inserted.
Whether it was real or just his impression, his pain vanished after just a few pricks.
The following day, the Administrative Officer told the Adjutant:
"I went to the Tang clinic yesterday. If anything, their skills have improved. Even a three-year-old child wouldn't cry from such needles."
"Impossible! My clothes had bloodstains from the punctures."
"Don't exaggerate. I was just there myself. Their acupuncture was so deft I couldn't even tell if the needles had gone in."
Suddenly painted as a whiner, the Adjutant returned to the Tang family clinic.
This time, Tang Jeseon applied the needles with particular care, and even the Adjutant felt no pain.
Of course, Tang Jeseon's skill hadn't changed at all. The difference lay in the needles themselves.
Normally it is said that a true craftsman does not blame his tools—but every so often, the tools are what elevate the craftsman.
"Not only was it painless, but my shoulders and back feel looser. As if the tension melted away."
"That's good to hear. I'll prepare a decoction for you as well. Drink it before bed, and within half a month your condition should improve."
The Adjutant's chronic back pain vanished within days.
Freed from the torment that had plagued him for years, he spread the word enthusiastically.
And because praise was rare from someone of his difficult temperament, the officials in his circle, skeptical yet curious, began to visit the Tang family clinic as well.
The number of patients steadily grew—until eventually, even appointments became necessary.
And it was then, passing through Sichuan, that another physician happened to hear the rumor of the Tang family's clinic.