The Physician of the Inn
It was a hard world to make a living in. To an ordinary person, even stepping over the threshold of a physician's clinic felt like a luxury.
Worse still, there wasn't even a physician in this village, so people couldn't even find such a threshold to cross.
Then one morning, word spread that a young physician had saved a man who had been half-dead.
The villagers all rushed to the patient's house.
It wasn't just a rumor.
The man, whose body had been so swollen he couldn't even rise from his bed, was now shuffling about, the swelling already subsided in just a single night.
Naturally, those suffering from various ailments flocked to the inn.
The innkeeper generously gave up space for the patients. Of course, he wasn't at a loss—he steamed up batches of dumplings and sold them to those waiting in line.
When the menu is simplified, a lone man can run a decent business.
As the number of patients gathering outpaced Tang Mujin's speed of treating them, the old man who had just been observing—Goiyi—naturally began to help with treatment.
Dan Seol-yeong whispered to Tang Mujin with a worried voice.
"Old man, is this okay?"
"Why?"
"He suddenly started seeing patients too."
"…Do you remember his name?"
"Of course. He said he was Yi Chung ."
That was the extent of Dan Seol-yeong's reaction. She clearly had never heard his nickname, Goiyi.
"Why? Was he famous?"
"Goiyi Yi Chung . He's counted among the three greatest physicians in the world."
Some sharp-eared people overheard and quietly slipped from Tang Mujin's line into Yi Chung 's. Yi Chung , saddled with extra patients, gave Tang Mujin a sidelong glare.
Dan Seol-yeong shook her head.
"They say you can't tell people by appearances."
"What's wrong with mine?"
Yi Chung gave a light protest before resuming his treatments.
He set needles, made small pills on the spot, and handed them out.
But decoctions were another matter—there was no time to boil them, nor the preparations. For patients who truly needed them, he explained the simplest way to prepare the medicine and its ingredients, or told them to seek out another physician.
Tang Mujin and Yi Chung both charged for treatment in the same way, as if they had agreed beforehand: by placing an empty dish on the table and accepting whatever people could spare.
Naturally, the coins piled up very slowly. A single coin felt stingy, two coins seemed lacking, so three became the usual.
"Is this even enough to cover the cost of the herbs?"
"Probably not. But it's fine. I'm not exactly hard up."
Through his travels, Tang Mujin had realized he didn't need to strain himself to earn money.
Money flowed in whether he chased it or not.
The purse the Namgung family's steward had given him, the one from Shaolin's Chubo Hall Master, even the loot from when he raided the group selling Woseoksan—all had been full enough.
Now he understood why Yi Chung wasted money freely and didn't cling to it.
If you had skill, money rolled in by itself. If he ever needed quick cash, he could forge a sword and sell it to a martial household.
Tang Mujin's plate slowly gathered coins, but Yi Chung 's often showed its bare bottom.
"The reason you're hungry, lacking appetite, always tired when awake—it's because you haven't been eating properly."
"I did eat…"
"You call choking down watery gruel or foraged berries eating? That's not food."
Yi Chung called the innkeeper over and handed him a handful of coins, then spoke to the patient.
"For the next five days, do no work. Eat dumplings stuffed with meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I've already paid the innkeeper."
"…Can I have noodles instead?"
"Unless you want another beating, just eat the dumplings."
While treatment continued, a large man entered the inn and joined the line.
His face was swarthy and hardened, the kind that looked tough even in illness.
But his condition wasn't what drew people's attention. Rather, it was the way others kept throwing furtive glances at him.
One of the patients being treated whispered to Yi Chung .
"Can't you just not treat that thug who just came in?"
"Why not?"
"He's the worst troublemaker in this town. Drinks, steals, beats people for no reason—does everything he shouldn't. The cripple who came earlier? He's the one who smashed his ankle. Looks like the spirits finally came to drag him away…"
Yi Chung only shrugged and, as a matter of course, treated the man as well.
By evening, the line had thinned. As darkness fell, the innkeeper sent the patients home.
Though they hadn't asked for it, the innkeeper served food and wine for the three travelers.
The dishes were plentiful and elaborate—clearly prepared ahead of time to be ready when the work was done.
After the three ate their fill, Dan Seol-yeong nodded off and collapsed against the table, unable to resist sleep. Tang Mujin then asked Yi Chung :
"That man earlier—I thought you'd just pretend to treat him, but you healed him properly."
"I did."
They didn't need to specify who. There had only been one patient worth hesitation.
"Wouldn't it have been better not to?"
"Why?"
"Because he's not just some petty troublemaker. He broke an innocent man's ankle. Fixing him might only mean more people getting hurt."
There are people like that. The kind that, once healed, you can feel certain more patients will follow. And such instincts are rarely wrong.
"Have you ever seen me refuse treatment based on who the patient is?"
"No, but that man's different. Heal him, and more will suffer."
Yi Chung refilled his cup and spoke.
"When I was young, less than a year after I began learning medicine from my master, I got into trouble with martial artists."
It was the first time he had ever spoken of his teacher. Of course, for him to become a physician, someone must have taught him.
Tang Mujin was curious about his master, but the point of the story wasn't his teacher.
"What was the trouble?"
"They said it was because I treated a vicious black-path outlaw. Apparently, he'd murdered eight innocent people."
Physicians of the Tang family never faced such dilemmas. Hidden under the wing of the Qingcheng Sect, their work was to treat Qingcheng's warriors; rarely did they even cross paths with black-path outlaws.
But stories from other regions told otherwise. Physicians accused of healing the enemies of their accusers, martial artists storming in to cause havoc.
The worst of it had been during the Great Righteous–Demonic War.
Tang Mujin remembered the uproar when he was a child. Chengdu had remained safe, but in Dazhou to the northeast of Sichuan, it was another matter.
His father, Tang Jaeseon, had once told him that during that time, a physician living in Dazhou had treated an orthodox martial artist and was killed by demonic-path warriors for it.
As a child, he had thought only of how frightening demonic warriors were. But now, thinking back, it wouldn't have been strange if the roles of orthodox and demonic had been reversed.
Anger paralyzes reason and makes one see the world only in terms of enemies and allies.
"So what did you do?"
"I just said I hadn't known and somehow managed to smooth things over. It was my first time in that kind of situation, and there were far too many people crowding in. After that, I started paying attention to the atmosphere and only treated people who didn't seem like they'd cause problems."
That was unlike Goiyi. Back then, he hadn't been as strong, nor as reckless, as he was now.
But his story didn't end there.
"Two or three years later, I got into trouble again. This time, they claimed I'd treated the child of a demonic cultivator. In broad daylight, they tossed me the boy I had treated earlier—he was a bloody mess."
"So did you apologize again?"
Goiyi smirked.
"Of course not. I drew my blade and overturned the place. Back then, I didn't even think of apologizing, nor did I think I shouldn't treat such children in the future. As I caused a ruckus and fled, I wondered: why did I act differently this time? What standard had I been following?"
Dan Seol-yeong, who had seemed to be asleep, stirred and slurred,
"You're a physician, but you pulled a sword? Wasn't it just for show?"
"I may not be the greatest physician, but among physicians, my swordsmanship is unmatched."
"So… like being the best arm-wrestler among innkeepers?"
"Something like that… No, never mind. Just go back to sleep."
But Dan Seol-yeong, now a little more awake, leaned back drowsily in her chair with half-lidded eyes.
Tang Mujin urged Goiyi to continue.
"Anyway, go on."
"Where did I stop?"
"At why you acted differently. You said you were wondering what your standard was."
"Ah, right."
Goiyi downed his cup of liquor.
"The reason I acted differently was simple. I couldn't stomach that they had half-killed a child, or that they'd turned one I'd healed into a patient again. But the matter of standards was another issue. I couldn't define what my standard was."
"Even if the child belonged to a demonic cultivator, you thought a child should still be treated, right?"
"And what exactly counts as a child?"
"Well… maybe around ten years old or so?"
"So do I save them until they're eleven, then let them die at twelve? Should an eleven-year-old live while a twelve-year-old is left to die?"
The question was unsettling. Tang Mujin scratched his chin.
"That does sound strange."
"Let's say you decided not to treat the children of demonic cultivators. If one who had killed many brought a child and begged you to heal them, would you?"
"No."
"But what if he said the child wasn't his own?"
"Then I'd treat them."
"And if the child looked like him?"
"Uh…"
Even before Tang Mujin could answer, Goiyi kept pressing.
"What if the eyes resembled his, but the nose didn't, so you weren't sure? What if it was an adopted child he had taken in recently? What if the demonic cultivator was notorious for lying? What if he had genuinely reformed?"
Goiyi's questions poured out, each broadening the issue.
"How many people must someone kill before being called evil? Is killing always evil? What if it was done unavoidably? Is a man who kills one person worse, or a man who cripples ten?"
Tang Mujin was lost in thought. Goiyi had skimmed through examples, but none admitted a clear answer. They weren't the kind of questions that had a definitive solution.
After a long pause, Tang Mujin asked back,
"So what did you decide, old man?"
"Since I couldn't create the perfect standard, I made the clearest one: treat every patient without exception. Age, morality, reputation, public opinion—none of that matters. From that day on, my world became clear again."
Tang Mujin refilled Goiyi's cup and remarked,
"It's simple, but I imagine it caused a lot of trouble."
"It did. A respected orthodox martial artist can become a traitor to his sect, and a lofty title can be replaced with a ridiculous one like 'Goiyi.'"
"And if your standard ever clashes with another one?"
Dan Seol-yeong, who had been quietly listening, cut in. It was a sharp question, very much in her nature. But Goiyi answered bluntly,
"That will never happen. Because I only have one standard."
Silence settled over the table.
Goiyi toyed with his cup for a while before changing the subject.
"Tang Mujin. Between what I've given you and what you've given me, which weighs more?"
There was no need to think long.
What Tang Mujin had given him amounted to a flask of medicine and a single sword.
But what Goiyi had given him was vast: travel expenses, black peony, martial arts he had taught, medical knowledge, countless pieces of advice. Without Goiyi, Tang Mujin could never have achieved anything he had since leaving Sichuan.
"I'd like to say otherwise, but I've received far more."
Goiyi smiled in satisfaction.
"Good. Then you're in my debt."
"Want me to forge you a new sword? Something bright and splendid? I still have that meteoric iron Hong picked up."
"No. Don't need it."
"Then what do you want?"
"Nothing. Just remember that you owe me."
Dan Seol-yeong muttered to Tang Mujin,
"I think we've been traveling with a very strange old man."
"Good thing you realized quickly."
Goiyi smirked.