Hong Geolgae and Hong Jusan
The hour was so early that even the sun had not yet risen. Tang Mujin stepped out into the backyard to boil decoctions.
There was little to do while brewing medicine—just adjust the fire now and then, and occasionally check the state of the boiling liquid.
Yet, since one could not stray far from the cauldron, physicians usually spent the long hours of decoction lost in idle thoughts. Tang Mujin was no different.
He absentmindedly replayed the memories of the previous day.
If only every day could be like yesterday.
It had been so satisfying that he felt glad he had left home.
He had treated the sick, uncovered a sinister plot he had only heard rumors of, received the people's gratitude, and ended the day amidst boisterous celebration. What could be more perfect?
And, of course, the Black Peony was good as well.
While watching the cauldron carefully so as not to ruin the medicine, he turned a bit of attention inward toward his dantian. Thin threads of the Black Peony's inner strength were slowly unraveling, seeping into his meridians.
Overnight, he could feel his internal energy had grown.
By absolute measure, it wasn't much.
But because his reserves had always been meager to begin with, even a small gain felt enormous. A jujube placed beside a watermelon looks tiny, but put it next to a plum and it seems impressive enough.
And with that growth came desire.
I should ask the old man to teach me swordsmanship, too.
He recalled the mysterious old man's display of martial might yesterday.
The martial skill of a master at the peak was beyond imagination. One moment his shoulders twitched white, and in the next, the fearsome Ja Yangssangsal was cut down in a single stroke. Even Physician Yeom, fleeing at full speed, was caught before the blink of an eye.
Not long ago, when Tang Mujin had first set out following the old man, his ambition had gone no further than becoming a second-rate martial artist.
A second-rate martial artist was competent enough to play a role in a mid-tier sect. In Qingcheng Sect's Chengdu branch, the lower instructors who taught swordsmanship to children were second-rate martial artists. In the main sect of a great clan, of course, they were as common as weeds.
If Tang Mujin had been born a natural warrior, he would not have set his sights so low. But he was, at the core, a physician.
A physician rarely needed to grapple with anyone—maybe a patient who tried to run off without paying, or a drunk who caused trouble at the clinic.
For such scuffles, second-rate skills were more than enough.
Though… I did sometimes dream of becoming a first-rate master.
But to reach first-rate, one needed not only diligence but also talent. That was why such people earned respect wherever they went.
Jin Song, the head instructor of the Qingcheng branch in Chengdu, had been a first-rate master. Before being sent down, he had held the post of Elder or Deputy Elder at the main sect, so he had been someone who could walk proudly even among his peers in Qingcheng's headquarters.
Yet Tang Mujin's dreams had gone no further than that.
Even though the old man had confidently guaranteed his potential, there was still a vast wall between first-rate and peak-level mastery.
A peak master was the dream of those who devoted their entire lives to the martial path. Even among hundreds who threw away their lives for it, perhaps one might reach that realm.
But after yesterday, Tang Mujin found himself seized by a strange confidence.
After all, he had consumed an elixir. With enough effort, surely he could reach first-rate. And if fortune favored him, perhaps even attempt the peak.
And it hadn't been some mediocre medicine like a century-old Polygonum root or the inner core of a python as thick as a forearm. No—he had taken the Black Peony, the flower of heroes.
As Tang Mujin let his imagination run, the old man appeared.
The smell of liquor wafted from his clothes, a testament to how much he had drunk the night before.
Yet his face looked perfectly clear. He showed no sign of hangover. They said true martial masters could control even intoxication at will—perhaps the tale was true.
Without preamble, the old man said something startling.
"Have you packed your things?"
"Huh?"
"'Huh' what? We're leaving by midday."
"But there are still patients!"
"Besides brewing medicine, what else is left? The decoction uses no rare ingredients, and the method isn't complicated. Teach them properly, and that's enough."
It was true. And yet, Tang Mujin had no desire to leave so soon.
He wanted to stay three, five days at least—ten, if possible—while brewing medicine for the villagers. The atmosphere of Jueul Village was simply too pleasant.
Back in his hometown, people hadn't called him 'physician.'
He had only been Mujin, or 'the physician's son.'
But here in Jueul Village, people respectfully called him Physician Tang and treated him with courtesy.
Just yesterday, someone had even called him a divine physician. Granted, it was from a man red-faced with drink, but still.
That wasn't all. More important than the title was the way the village maidens looked at him.
Their gazes toward Tang Mujin had been anything but ordinary.
Some shyly tried to strike up conversation, while others were bolder in their approach.
One invited him to share aged ginseng wine her family had stored away, another offered to cook him dinner, boasting that her culinary skills were the best in the village even if she had no fine ingredients.
Such things had never happened in his life before, and he was eager to accept those invitations.
But the mood last night had prevented it.
All eyes had been on him and the old man, so he couldn't very well decline the village headman's invitation only to slip away with a young woman.
Had he done so, gossip would have spread across the whole village in a single night.
But attention never lasts. Today, he thought, the spotlight would fade.
He was already looking forward to supper, thinking he might not resist the invitations tonight, and finally share a cup of ginseng wine.
So Tang Mujin pleaded earnestly:
"Can't we stay just five more days? I should check the patients, too. To see if the decoction works well, or if there are side effects—things like that."
But the old man was unmoved.
"The root of the sickness is gone. If they drink clean stream water and eat properly, they'll recover in a week. With the decoction, they'll be out of bed in three days."
"Then let's leave in three days!"
"Wake up. We never planned to come to Jueul Village in the first place. We only stopped because of Hong Geolgae's request."
At that, Tang Mujin remembered Hong Geolgae.
"Where is Hong Geolgae? He wasn't at the headman's house yesterday either."
"After burying Elder Ma Jeonggae, he's probably been fasting till now."
"Fasting? Why?"
Yesterday Jueul Village had been in a festive mood. People had shared food freely, celebrating their triumph over hardship. Surely Hong Geolgae could have eaten his fill—after all, he had been one of the heroes who fought Ja Yangssangsal.
The old man furrowed his brow.
"The people know Hong Geolgae killed a man."
"So what of it? He struck down an evil villain! And with nothing but a club against a man wielding blades, no less!"
"The problem is that Hong Geolgae is a beggar."
A completely incomprehensible statement. When Tang Mujin gave him a blank look, Goiyi clicked his tongue.
"Hong Geolgae survived his whole life by begging. Ma Jeonggae also lived that way, I'd bet. But the question is—can someone who's killed people still beg?"
"Why not? Actually, wouldn't it be easier? Just square your shoulders and say, 'Spare a meal,' and—"
"Getting food wouldn't be hard. But would that be begging? Put yourself in the shoes of someone from Jueul Village. Imagine the guy who beat a man—an actual martial artist—to death with a club just this afternoon comes up and asks you for food. Do you think you could refuse?"
"Ah."
Only then did Tang Mujin understand Goiyi's point.
Begging was something only the lowly and wretched could do.
But killing was among the greatest taboos. A killer, consciously or not, intimidated others.
If a killer held out a bowl in the name of begging, it wasn't begging—it was extortion. What was given wasn't charity; it was tribute.
"You people live a hard life. Are all Beggar Sect members like that?"
"No. Even among Beggar Sect disciples, there are all sorts. To put it precisely, Hong Geolgae and Ma Jeonggae would be closest to the 'Dirty Clothes Faction' within the sect."
"Dirty Clothes Faction?"
"Think of it as the real, ragged beggars who wear filthy clothes. Unless you plan on becoming a Beggar Sect disciple yourself, you don't need to know more."
"Anyway, what happens to Hong Geolgae now?"
"Well… that's for him to decide."
Tang Mujin frowned and scratched his head.
Someone who killed a man in a small village like Jueul would never be accepted.
Even if the killing was for the villagers' sake, the aversion toward a murderer belonged not to reason but to instinct and emotion.
It was laughable, but not incomprehensible.
The world was twisted, and sacrifice and devotion didn't always receive their due reward.
Tang Mujin let out a deep sigh.
By midday, the villagers of Jueul gathered to see Tang Mujin and Goiyi off.
In less than a day, the patients' conditions had improved remarkably. Among them, Wilip stood out as he appeared with his wife and daughter.
"We truly owe you both a great debt."
"We only did what needed doing. Those still bedridden will be on their feet within a week at most, so try not to worry too much."
While Goiyi spoke with the village chief, Tang Mujin glanced around with a pained expression.
The faces of the village maidens caught his eye.
"I should've at least said a few proper words to them instead of acting like a blockhead."
After a brief farewell, Tang Mujin and Goiyi set off.
Behind them, the villagers' cries of "Thank youuu—!" echoed for a long time. The warmth of their gratitude filled Tang Mujin's heart.
But before the two physicians went far, they made their way to the village graveyard.
At the far edge stood a small grave. Unlike the grassy mounds, its raw red earth was still exposed.
It was small, humble, and in a poor location—the most remote corner, as if even the grave itself weren't sure it belonged there. Under the shade of a willow tree.
In front of the grave lay a familiar object: Ma Jeonggae's oak club, broken in two while blocking Ja Yangssangsal's attack.
Goiyi and Tang Mujin bowed in respect before it.
It was an honor stripped of all notions of rank or status—an honor for a warrior who had given his life for righteousness.
Then Tang Mujin called out:
"Hong Geolgae! Where are you?"
The willow branches rustled, and a figure leapt down.
It was Hong Geolgae. His hands were covered in cuts, his nails packed with red earth, as if he'd spent the night digging his master's grave with bare hands. His ragged clothes and weary face completed the picture.
Seeing that the two had not forgotten his master, Hong Geolgae immediately bowed his head in gratitude.
"I'm deeply indebted to you. May your journey be safe."
Just as he was about to turn away, Tang Mujin asked:
"Where are you going?"
"Going? Nowhere. I've lived in Jueul my whole life, so I'll keep living here."
Unlike the day before, when he treated Tang Mujin with stiff formality, Hong Geolgae now spoke a bit more casually.
Tang Mujin preferred it this way. After all, they were about the same age.
"How are you going to make a living?"
"Well… somehow."
"'Somehow' isn't an answer when it comes to survival. You planning to farm?"
"Don't think so. I don't know the first thing about farming."
"Then trade?"
"Trade? With empty hands?"
His voice lacked conviction. It wasn't that he disliked farming or trading—it was that he still seemed intent on living as a beggar. Why he clung to such a life, Tang Mujin couldn't fathom.
After a moment's thought, Tang Mujin grabbed Hong Geolgae's wrist.
"Come."
Startled, Hong Geolgae asked, "Where?"
"To a place where you can beg without anyone looking at you sideways. So follow me."
Hong Geolgae hesitated for a long while.
Then, finally, he grinned.
"All right. Let's go."
The three of them headed east, toward the rising sun.
The villagers of Jueul only realized days later that Hong Geolgae had vanished.