The Medical Immortal
The je-won branch leader of Salmak paced nervously in a cramped room.
The sun was already up, yet the assassins who had left the day before had not returned.
Had things merely gone a little awry, at least the scout should have come back to report.
But none of the seven returned. That could only mean one thing—the mission had failed.
"Did the Baek clan head set a trap?"
No. Impossible.
Baek choo-seo was neither strong enough to oppose Salmak, nor did he have reason to. For decades they had coexisted in je-won. He would hardly suddenly explode with chivalrous fervor now.
If only one or two of the assassins had died, the branch leader might have swept it under the rug.
But all seven, gone—this was beyond his authority to conceal.
In the end, he dispatched a carrier pigeon, with a brief report attached.
***
The branch leader thought the note would be handled by middle management. But contrary to expectation, it passed up the chain until it landed in the hands of Salmak's master himself—Black Butterfly.
Black Butterfly read the report.
The target's name was Lee Gyun. A swordsman disguised as a healer.
He had graying hair at his temples, and six low-ranked assassins armed with paralysis-poisoned daggers had failed to kill him. Worse yet, even the scout had been lost.
Black Butterfly immediately knew who it was.
"…So it's Goiyi Chong."
The reason came without thought: of all martial artists in the Central Plains, none had attracted more assassination requests than Goiyi Chong.
Even off the top of his head, Black Butterfly could recall seven or eight commissions. The man drew grudges as if he carried his life around on a platter.
And yet, Salmak had never killed him. The reason was simple: profit and loss.
Goiyi Chong was a strange, uncanny figure, even among peak masters. His true abilities were hard to gauge. Salmak had once sent two top assassins after him, only to retrieve two corpses.
Sending more was troublesome.
High-level assassins scattered across the land could not easily be recalled without disrupting other assignments. Even if successful, the costs outweighed the profit. And with even a small chance of failure, it was worse still.
If a sum beyond imagination had been offered, Salmak would have acted regardless. But the fees proposed so far were far from that.
So Black Butterfly had always declined, merely watching from afar. He was a master assassin, but also a leader who valued pragmatism.
"But this time… the money is substantial."
According to the je-won branch's report, the Baek clan head was prepared to pay handsomely—at least a couple of bars of gold.
It was a vast sum, but still insufficient on its own to justify killing Goiyi.
What mattered was that all the previous commissions on Goiyi's life remained unfulfilled.
Black Butterfly imagined stacking those unpaid fees atop the Baek clan's gold.
He weighed them against the risk of killing Goiyi.
At last, the balance began to tip.
His decision made, he summoned a subordinate.
"Black Cat."
From the seemingly empty wall, a figure slid forth.
"You called?"
"Check every commission that was placed on Goiyi's head. See which clients still wish to pursue it. Then send someone to the Baek clan head—find out just how much more he's willing to pay."
"Yes, master."
Salmak was about to sweep the pot of wagers long left to gather dust.
***
On a low mountain path in Fengxiang, Shaanxi, an old man trudged through autumn rain.
His hair was pure white, not a trace of black. His face was lined deep with wrinkles.
At an age when most would wear smile-wrinkles from watching grandchildren's antics, his mouth was set hard, his eyes filled only with stubbornness.
The old man's steps carried him to a lonely grave on the mountainside.
The grave of his son, gone these fifteen years.
The son had died young. Not of illness—such would have been less bitter—but unjustly.
He had left home, set up as a physician in a distant town.
For several years, he lived honorably, healing the sick. But then came the Great War of Righteous and Demonic.
Martial artists of both factions swept through, killing in droves. The young physician found the dying, and saved them.
Unbeknownst to him, those he saved were demonic sect fighters.
When the demonic side seized the town, there was no trouble. The trouble came after, when the righteous sect drove them out.
A few righteous warriors hunted down the physician who had aided their enemies—and cut him down in cold blood.
That is the madness war brings.
After months of breathing blood, even the most upright warriors of the righteous sect, even the swaggering men of the demonic sect—all became red-eyed beasts.
The world splits into my side and yours, and anyone not mine is shown no mercy.
The old man, too, had been a physician.
When he received his son's body, he closed his heart to the world. He healed no more.
When the war ended, the righteous sect came to him, apologized, and laid the head of his son's killer at his feet.
"Elder, will you not treat the sick again?" they pleaded.
But the old man never returned to medicine. His son still lay in the grave.
Now, as he climbed, he thought of his son's face. His steps faltered often; he paused to catch his breath.
Then he sensed footsteps approaching from behind.
Go ahead if you wish, he thought, without turning.
But the presence did not pass him. Instead, it matched his pace at his side.
He glanced over.
The face was older, but familiar still. A middle-aged man.
Goiyi Chong.
"Master. It has been a long time."
"Yes, Chong-ah. Long indeed. Have you fared well?"
The old man's name was Yang Heun. To the world, he was known as the Medical Immortal.
Whether he still deserved the title after fifteen years without treating a patient, he did not know. But the world still remembered him as one of the Three Great Physicians under Heaven.
"I have fared well enough."
"You don't look it. Your complexion is poor, your eyes clouded."
"Your eye for detail is as sharp as ever."
Thirty years ago, when he knew nothing of medicine, the young martial artist Goiyi Chong had become disciple to the Medical Immortal. Until the day the old man's son came home a corpse, and the master turned his back on medicine.
"And where have you been these days?"
"Much the same as always. Wandering."
"No special matters?"
"There were."
Goiyi smiled gently.
"Don't be surprised. I've taken on a disciple. Not formally, perhaps, but… in my heart, I call him so."
"That is good. Then your wound of spirit is a little healed?"
Goiyi shook his head. The old man nodded. The grief of losing a child never dulls easily.
"A pity. So what brings you here to me?"
"Master. I hear you still refuse to practice medicine."
"Indeed."
The Medical Immortal's disappointment in the world ran bone-deep. But he was just one physician, without the power to overturn the world.
At times, martial artists would bring their suffering families to him, begging him to look just once.
Each time, the Medical Immortal only turned his head in silence—hoping they might understand his pain, if only a little.
Goiyi asked his master,
"Do you truly never intend to practice medicine again?"
"No."
"I see."
Goiyi nodded, and shifted the subject.
"Master. Not long ago, I passed through a small village and witnessed a curious sight."
The Medical Immortal did not reply, nor did Goiyi expect one. The two walked on through the rain.
"The land was barren, no crops could grow, no wild game to hunt. Yet none of the villagers starved. In the village center stood a great peach tree. On it grew the peaches of the Queen Mother of the West, fruiting endlessly. But the tree stood a hundred jang tall—without a ladder, no one could reach them."
"The man who owned a ladder would set it up. The nimblest would climb and pick the peaches. Those with baskets caught them below. For generations, that was how the village survived."
"But one day, the man with the ladder smashed it to pieces. The only ladder the village had, passed down for centuries. When hunger drove the people to rage, the man said, 'What I do with my ladder is my choice.' Tell me, Master—what do you think of the man who destroyed it?"
"There must have been a reason he felt worth destroying it."
They walked in silence for a long time.
"Medicine is not something you created alone, Master. From Emperor Huang and Shennong, countless people have added their knowledge, piece by piece. Just because one branch of it reached you does not mean you can claim it as yours alone. To inherit medicine is a choice. But having inherited it, to practice and pass it on—that is a duty."
The Medical Immortal sighed deeply.
"I did not abandon the people. It was they who abandoned me."
"What does that matter? Even if the people abandon us, we must not waver in practicing medicine."
Goiyi had been a remarkable disciple. Easygoing when needed, gentle when needed, and in ten years of study he had rarely clashed with his master.
But once—only once—he had flared at him in fury.
The day the master embraced his son's corpse and sealed away medicine.
Goiyi had pleaded that he must not do so. The master had refused.
Goiyi had begged again—if he could not bring himself to treat patients, then at least pass down all his knowledge.
But the master had refused again. "These people are unworthy of healing."
That day, Goiyi left his master's side.
Now, he spoke once more:
"Master. My disciple is clever. He does not grasp ten from one, but what he learns once, he never forgets. He pities all who suffer, and his heart is upright."
"And why boast of your disciple now?"
"Because if the entirety of the world's medicine could be gathered and given to him, I am certain the sick of this world would benefit for generations."
Goiyi stepped before his master and asked,
"So I ask you—where have you hidden the Manbyeong-seo?"
The Manbyeong-seo was the medical tome passed down through the generations of Yang Heun's family. Its knowledge was so vast and precise that his family had inherited the title Medical Immortal time and again. Though now, perhaps, none would bear it again.
Yang Heun fixed him with a rigid gaze.
"Do you think I would tell you?"
"Master. Do you think so little of me?"
Goiyi's mouth twisted into a crooked smile.
"I, too, am a martial artist. I know a few ways to force shut lips to open."
"Yi Chong… you've become a monster."
"A monster for the sake of all the suffering people of this world. What shame is there in that?"
***
Five days later, the Three Great Physicians under Heaven became Two.
But Goiyi cared nothing for that.
The Medical Immortal's medicine would live on—through Tang Mujin, and through future generations.
Goiyi took the Manbyeong-seo and departed Fengxiang.