Five-Stone Powder
Not long after Tang Mujin awoke, Goiyi entered.
But instead of asking how the poison pill had turned out or how his body was holding up, Goiyi started grumbling right away.
"You couldn't have woken up two days earlier? What took you so long?"
"It wasn't something that could be rushed. Did something happen while I was out?"
"Of course something happened."
Still muttering, Goiyi explained. The gist was simple: two days ago, something urgent had come up, and Namgung Jincheon had left the Namgung household.
Tang Mujin shrugged.
"That happens. He's probably busy. You can't expect him to sit around waiting days just for a spar."
"You just don't get how rare the chance to spar with one of the Six Honored Masters is."
Tang Mujin himself didn't feel much regret, but Goiyi was clearly dissatisfied. He had been looking forward to the duel with Namgung Jincheon quite a lot.
But the chance was gone. Namgung Jincheon had left, and no one knew when he would return.
Tang Mujin had no intention of lingering for months in the Namgung clan without a plan. So the group packed lightly and prepared to leave.
Once ready, the Namgung steward arranged a carriage and driver for them. It wasn't the Namgung clan's own carriage—clan members trained primarily in horsemanship, so for long journeys they usually rode horses instead.
"You're heading to Luoyang, correct? At least until you reach Henan, please travel in comfort."
"Thank you."
The three boarded the rattling carriage and set off on their way.
During the ride, Tang Mujin devoted all his focus to stabilizing his poison pill and controlling the venom within.
But it wasn't easy. The road was uneven, and the carriage never stopped jostling.
By Tang Mujin's understanding, breathing exercises were supposed to be done in a calm, stable place, with a composed mind.
After visiting the Namgung clan, he'd been even more convinced of that. Everywhere in the manor, he'd seen martial artists meditating in quiet corners or sparring with steady, disciplined posture.
But his own cultivation had never been calm.
Eight times out of ten, he trained outdoors, accompanied by the cries of wild beasts or the stings of insects. And whenever he did manage to focus, Goiyi or Hong Geolgae would interrupt him with chatter.
And now was no different. Just as he was settling into concentration inside the carriage, Goiyi broke the silence with yet another offhand remark.
"Those Namgung martial artists could cultivate in peace without any interruptions. Shouldn't you be doing the same?"
Tang Mujin grumbled irritably, but Goiyi surprised him with his reply.
"That's the way of those who hole themselves up in a sect, training all day. Maybe fine for a hermit seeking enlightenment, but I wouldn't recommend it for a martial artist."
"Why not?"
"Because being used to training without interference means you fall apart the moment variables enter the fight. Sure, you build internal energy quickly, and you're fine with rigid sparring and formal duels. But in real combat, you flounder—and end up dying to second-rate fighters. Probably with some last words like, 'How dare you fight dirty!'"
"Hmm…"
Leaning lazily against the side of the carriage, Goiyi continued. Hong Geolgae, too, listened intently.
"If you keep real combat in mind, training under such artificial conditions isn't good. That's why demonic or unorthodox fighters, even though slower to progress in rank than orthodox sect disciples, are far more practical in real battles."
"I thought unorthodox or black-path fighters grew faster in the beginning?"
Tang Mujin asked, and Goiyi gave him a strange look.
"Nonsense. They learn rough, inferior techniques under harsher conditions—how could they reach higher realms faster? Except for a few special demonic arts, disciples of prestigious orthodox sects reach new levels much quicker. But when fighters of equal skill clash, nine times out of ten the black-path wins. The difference is less pronounced past the peak stages, but at the second- or first-class levels, it's almost always the case."
"That's surprising. I thought the orthodox fighters would win for sure."
Goiyi smirked.
"They're obsessed with rank. Their internal energy must be pure, their sword qi must be refined, their sword techniques must be profound. Look at Namgung Myeong. They say he'd already reached the threshold of first-class, but only just recently left for his first real martial journey. A first-class fighter without any combat experience—what sense does that make?"
Tang Mujin recalled his duel with Namgung Myeong aboard the ship.
Namgung Myeong's footing had been unstable with the rocking deck, and he struggled to adapt when the unexpected happened, like his sword being knocked off-line.
Of course, in a serious fight, Namgung Myeong would win. But Tang Mujin didn't think he had no chance. If he exploited openings well enough, he might just land a lucky blow.
"That's true."
"If you and Namgung Myeong dueled formally with swords a hundred times, he'd win all hundred. But if it were a fight to the death, using any means necessary—you'd have maybe a 20% chance. Wouldn't you agree?"
Tang Mujin nodded. If he used poison, threw weapons, or stabbed him from behind, he might actually survive.
"Learn to fight without being bound by form. The first step is getting used to discomfort. If the first plan fails, think of another. If conditions don't allow, improvise with something else. That's how you win and survive."
"...This makes me feel like some unorthodox rogue."
"You don't learn martial arts the way the orthodox sects do anyway. They favor meditation over combat. You favor practice over contemplation. Each has its strengths and weaknesses."
Tang Mujin brooded over those words until the carriage finally stopped.
Naturally, Goiyi used training as an excuse to dump cooking duty on Tang Mujin.
Several days later, the group left Anhui and entered Henan.
"Safe travels."
The carriage provided by the Namgung clan had done its duty, and turned back.
Tang Mujin figured they'd just walk the rest of the way to Luoyang. But before half a day had passed, they ran into a merchant caravan—over ten people strong, with five carts piled high with goods.
Tang Mujin quickly approached the merchants.
There wasn't much room in the wagons for passengers, but traveling with the caravan still had advantages. The pace might be slow, but they wouldn't lose their way. They could usually find lodging indoors. And if they did have to camp outside, sticking close to the merchants would make meals far easier—especially since they had money to spare right now.
"Excuse me, where are you headed?"
"Who goes there?"
Maybe it was the sword at his waist that made him look so threatening, but the merchants' wariness was obvious.
"We're travelers bound for Luoyang. If our paths happen to match, might we join you?"
"Our trade run is nearly finished, and we're planning to head back near Mount Baekam. The direction matches, but…"
Tang Mujin spoke with the calm, courteous manner of a physician.
"Since our paths overlap anyway, isn't it better to travel together than awkwardly avoid one another? Besides, I'm a physician. I can look after small ailments if the need arises."
"A physician, you say?"
"Would you mind offering your wrist?"
Tang Mujin took the merchant's wrist, drawing out the medicinal qi of mugwort stored in his poison pill and gently pushing it into the man's pulse. Mugwort carried a pleasant, familiar fragrance, and even when used roughly, it caused no harm.
As the subtle aroma spread and the refreshing energy seeped in through the wrist, the merchant's expression noticeably softened.
"Well now, you're no ordinary physician. To treat an illness with just a pulse reading!"
Of course, what Tang Mujin had just done had little to do with pulse diagnosis—but there was no need to point that out.
Unseen by anyone else, Tang Mujin slipped a silver tael into the merchant's sleeve.
"So, might it be possible?"
The merchant's face brightened even more. A tael of silver earned from trade was one thing, but a tael of silver slipped quietly into one's pocket held another kind of value altogether.
"Hmm. If it's a chance to travel with a skilled physician, it's we who should be asking you."
The merchant went back to persuade his companions, and before long, Tang Mujin's group was accepted into the caravan.
The merchants were cheerful, sociable folk who laughed easily, and they quickly grew close with Tang Mujin's party.
After two days, the caravan arrived near a village of about five hundred households. The merchants spoke warmly to Tang Mujin's group.
"This is the last village we'll visit before wrapping up our trade run."
"Is that so."
Judging by the look of the place, there would likely be decent lodgings and good food to be found.
But before entering the village, an odd sight caught their eyes.
A man in fine silk garments appeared. Yet his hair was wild and unkempt, his robes half undone. His staggering gait looked ridiculous.
Hong Geolgae, amused, remarked:
"A beggar? Doesn't look like one of the Beggar Sect. For a beggar to wear clothes like that, this must be quite a wealthy village."
Unlike Hong Geolgae, Tang Mujin narrowed his eyes. He had heard of such a person before—but the memory wouldn't surface clearly. As he struggled to recall, the strange man lurched toward them.
"Did you bring the goods?"
"Of course. Shall I deliver them now?"
At the merchant's reply, the man's face lit up. Clearly, he was expecting something.
"No, no… Not now. There's no wine. Come to me later."
With that, the man stumbled off.
Tang Mujin frowned in thought. The man's appearance was odd beyond just his clothing.
His face was pale to the point of looking sickly, yet the skin glimpsed through his open robes was flushed red, mottled with heat rash. He panted heavily as if even half-dressed he was still unbearably hot. His tongue was thick, and the stench of wine hung about him.
"A fever illness? …No. That's not it."
Wondering if Goiyi might know, Tang Mujin glanced at him. Sure enough, Goiyi's expression was grim. But rather than pity for a sick man, his look brimmed with anger and irritation. Why such a reaction?
A thought struck Tang Mujin—wine, and "goods."
He leaned toward Goiyi and asked quietly:
"Sir… was that Five-Stone Powder?"
"Only a pulse reading could confirm it, but from what I saw—yes."
Tang Mujin's face darkened. The only one who remained clueless was Hong Geolgae, who asked:
"What's Five-Stone Powder?"
"It's also called Cold-Stone Powder or Cold-Food Powder. Made by grinding five minerals—sulfur, cinnabar, stalactite, white quartz, and red ochre. Usually taken with wine. At first, it makes you feel good, and heat rises in the body."
"Sounds like a fine medicine."
"No. It's dangerous. If you don't vent the heat by wandering around, you die. If you eat anything hot, you die. Even if you manage the heat, your mind grows clouded. In the end, your skin rots and you die."
"...Then why take it?"
"Once you touch it, your body craves it whether you want it or not. You can't quit."
Hong Geolgae looked after the staggering man, then turned his head away.
Meanwhile, Goiyi's hand rested on his sword hilt as he fixed the merchants with a cold, accusing stare.