Luoyang
After only a few days of working with Tang Mujin, Jong-sam realized that Tang Mujin's medical skill was not at the level where he could still be taught by him.
But every person has something to learn from another, and Jong-sam, too, had things to teach Tang Mujin.
"Since we often use denglongcao, keep it outside and neatly organized. As for kushen (Sophora root), it's vulnerable to dampness, so put it on the shelf in the side storeroom where the air circulates well."
"Yes, sir."
"Before you use any medicinal herbs, always smell them first. If there's even a faint sour scent, it means the processing went wrong or the herbs are too old. Don't hesitate—just throw them away."
Unlike Tang Family Clinic, where there was always a shortage of helping hands and small tasks were often handled roughly, Guisong Clinic was large in scale and properly systemized. Tang Mujin thought that when the day came for him to inherit the Tang Family Clinic, this experience would be of great help.
Jong-sam carefully taught Mujin everything he could, and Mujin listened intently. It brought back memories of working back in his hometown. Looking back, it hadn't been all that long ago.
Mujin also made strides in medical practice.
"Mujin. Brew Danggui Jianzhong Tang for this patient."
"Isn't this the person who previously took Linggui Gan Cao Tang?"
"Yes. The bentun (abdominal qi rushing upward) has calmed, but morning and evening spasms in the limbs remain. The remaining symptoms should be treated with Danggui Jianzhong Tang."
Guisong Clinic had as many as three consulting rooms and three physicians attending patients.
That meant they could see three times as many patients as Tang Family Clinic, prescribe three times as many prescriptions, and observe three times as many prognoses.
During his time with the eccentric physician, Mujin had seen many patients, but since they traveled constantly, it was difficult to follow up on their progress over time.
The experiences gained at Guisong Clinic were precisely what Tang Mujin needed.
I was right to come to Luoyang.
In addition, the three physicians—including Son Sung-gyeom—mostly prescribed according to the medical texts, but occasionally an unusual prescription would appear.
At first glance, one might doubt if such prescriptions were correct. But when he retraced the connection between symptoms and treatment principles, each had its own reasoning—and surprisingly, most were effective.
So this is why the old man traveled across the Central Plains to collect medical knowledge.
Just as Mujin was settling into life at Guisong Clinic, one of the three physicians failed to appear. Mujin went to ask Son Sung-gyeom.
"Physician Bok didn't come in today. Is there some issue?"
"He's gone back to his hometown. He'll rest until winter ends. Likewise, Physician Gong will only come in until today, then he'll also take a break."
"Both at the same time? That seems oddly timed."
Son Sung-gyeom looked at Mujin for a moment, then spoke as if realizing something.
"Ah, that's right. You're not from Luoyang, so you wouldn't know."
"Know what?"
"Haven't you noticed an unusual number of martial artists roaming the streets lately?"
Indeed, Luoyang was crowded with martial artists these days.
In the past, he might see one or two with every turn of the head, but now the number had more than doubled. It was no exaggeration to say martial artists were everywhere.
"There must be a reason?"
"Martial artists without fixed residence flock to Luoyang or Chang'an in winter. When the cold sets in, it's hard to wander about, and making a living becomes difficult. So they settle in big cities."
"And what does that have to do with the physicians taking time off?"
"When martial artists gather, practicing medicine becomes troublesome. Physician Bok and Physician Gong would rather give up their income than deal with the unpleasantness."
"Unpleasantness?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
***
The weather grew colder by the day, and the types of patients visiting Guisong Clinic gradually changed.
Previously, the most common complaint was abdominal pain. Now, more and more came in torn and broken.
The reason was obvious—when martial artists gather in one place, fights break out for all sorts of reasons.
This isn't good.
Not all patients are the same.
Physicians specialize in treating conditions like abdominal pain, headaches, or coughs—imbalances within the body. External trauma, on the other hand, was much harder to treat.
Wounds of torn flesh or strained muscles could be tended so they wouldn't fester, but broken bones were beyond the physicians' skill.
When treating internal ailments, medical skill counted for eight parts and time two. With fractures, time counted for nine and skill hardly even one.
Mujin remarked to Jong-sam:
"Indeed, if patients like these keep coming, I can see why practicing medicine would feel unrewarding."
"No. That's not what Physician Son meant."
"Then what?"
At that moment, noise rose outside the clinic—it seemed martial artists were fighting again.
Mujin expected one or two patients to be carried in as usual, and his guess quickly proved correct. But the patient did not enter in the way he expected.
A martial artist in bluish robes came flying over the low wall of the clinic—not by using lightfootwork, but because he had been beaten and hurled over it.
The man in blue rolled across the ground in misery, then vomited out a basinful of blood.
"Cough!"
As Jong-sam rushed toward him, another man with bloodshot eyes kicked open the front gate. Judging by the scene, he was the one who had beaten the man in blue.
Without hesitation, he drew his sword and charged at the fallen man, intent on finishing him off—despite the many witnesses and Jong-sam trying to tend the injured.
Suddenly, someone was about to die inside the clinic walls.
Patients waiting in line shrank back in terror, and fear flickered in Jong-sam's eyes.
Mujin sprang forward toward the sword-wielding attacker. Instinctively, his hand reached for his waist—but of course no sword was there; he hadn't brought one when coming to work at the clinic.
Instead, he executed the Bulyeong Seonha-bo of Shaolin and unfolded the techniques of Biseojang.
With a light motion, his raised right hand briefly stole the opponent's gaze, while his left palm closed around the man's face.
Through the gaps of his fingers, he saw the man's startled eyes.
But Mujin did not hesitate—he slammed the opponent into the ground.
Thud.
Mujin's inner force seeped through his palm into the man. Mujin's strength clearly surpassed the other's.
Yet it wasn't only Mujin's energy that transferred.
Like water splashing when a stone drops into a river, some of the man's inner force seeped back through Mujin's palm.
Normally the amount was trivial, not worth noticing. But this time the energy felt… strange.
Mujin kicked the fallen man's sword aside and waited for him to rise.
The man shook his head roughly, then got up with labored breaths.
The confusion was gone from his eyes, replaced only by fury and fighting spirit.
"I'll kill you!"
He clenched his fists and launched into fist techniques. Mujin, standing at an angle, easily brushed aside the blows with one hand.
It was a clear provocation. Mujin could do so only because the man's techniques lacked depth, and because Mujin had trained extensively in Baekryeon Shingeon.
As the wild punches dragged on, they grew slower, and the fire in the man's eyes dimmed. But Mujin suddenly changed tactics, unleashing killing intent as he lunged.
His fingers clawed for the man's collarbone, his palm thrust toward his heart, his spearhand jabbed for the glabella.
Each was a lethal move. The man flailed desperately, struggling not to die.
Though he wasn't struck down, exhaustion soon overwhelmed him. Gasping and trembling, he collapsed on the floor.
His limbs quivered. He felt at any moment Mujin's fist might smash his skull. He had no idea how things had come to this.
"So this is how I die."
But Tang Mujin did not cut off the man's breath. Instead, he simply looked down at him with a calm expression.
"Have you come to your senses now?"
"…You're not going to kill me?"
"A physician doesn't kill a man inside a clinic. Especially not someone whose mind is unsound."
"Unsound?"
"Two incompatible inner energies are mixed within you. Haven't you, by chance, practiced more than one inner cultivation method?"
The man's eyes widened. He had never admitted such a thing to anyone.
"How did you know?"
"I'm a physician, am I not?"
Mujin deflected casually, but those watching the chaotic scene narrowed their eyes. That was not the kind of thing they had ever heard from a doctor.
Taking the man's pulse, Mujin continued his explanation.
"I don't know exactly which arts you've practiced, but at least one of them is an evil art (sagong). Its baleful energy has seeped into your marrow, making your mind clouded and your temperament violent. If this continues, you will become a madman."
It had begun with impatience. His inner energy grew too slowly, so he had trained using a dubious manual he'd stumbled upon. At first, the rapid growth of his power thrilled him. But before long, he found it increasingly difficult to control his anger, until finally he ended up like this. Looking back, even today's fight had started over nothing at all.
Shame burning within him, the man asked:
"Then… what should I do now?"
"Expend your energy completely until you collapse, venting out all the corrupted qi. Then return to cultivating your original method to rebuild pure inner strength. Repeat this several times and never touch the evil art again—then you won't go mad. You won't be quite the same as before, but it won't destroy you."
The man staggered to his feet on trembling legs, bowed his head to Mujin, and said:
"Mm… thank you. I don't know how I can repay this debt."
"You can express your gratitude with the treatment fee—over there."
Mujin pointed toward Son Sung-gyeom's consulting room. Son Sung-gyeom was staring at Mujin with wide eyes.
***
That year, winter arrived in Luoyang once more.
Countless martial artists, searching for shelter, nested temporarily in the city.
At the same time, rumors spread of a young physician who could diagnose illnesses by fusing martial knowledge with medicine. Soon, the martial artists of Luoyang began drifting toward Guisong Clinic.
Of course, disciples of great sects who trained in proven methods, or those who had a clear path in their martial journey, had no reason to seek him out.
But across the Central Plains, there were no shortage of drifters who had recklessly trained in whatever arts they could find, only to suffer for it. To them, Tang Mujin's aid was invaluable.
There were so many of this kind that Mujin ended up taking over one of the clinic's unused consulting rooms, treating martial artists full-time.
During consultations, they often gossiped about stories they'd seen or heard across the land: an official's concubine entangled with a martial man, or a duel between famous masters and who had triumphed. Useless chatter, perhaps, but entertaining nonetheless.
One day, while receiving acupuncture, a martial artist from Shaanxi province spoke up:
"Oh! I feel much better than when I came last time. In a few years, Physician Tang, you might be counted among the Three Great Physicians under Heaven. You're too young for now, of course, but someday."
Mujin's heart swelled with pride, though he carefully kept his face modest.
"The Three Great Physicians? That's too much praise."
"It isn't praise, but truth. People love to fill empty seats. Soon your name may well be on the lips of the gossips."
Mujin's eyes narrowed. There was something here he could not ignore.
"…An empty seat?"
A chilling thought flashed across his mind—could something have happened to the old man?
Thankfully, the name that followed was not Goiyi(the eccentric physician).
"Yes. The Medical Sage of Bongshan has left a vacancy. At present, they call them the Two Great Physicians under Heaven. But people are more familiar with 'Three,' so they'll soon be looking for another name to fill the missing place—and yours may be spoken."
"So the Sage passed of old age, then."
But the martial artist shook his head.
"Old age? No. I don't know exactly when, but before the start of winter, the Sage was murdered. His home was half-burned, with dried bloodstains everywhere. Strange that word hasn't spread as far as Luoyang."
"This is the first I've heard. Do you know anything of the other Great Physicians?"
"I don't."
Hearing the title Medical Sage, Mujin naturally thought of Goiyi, who shared the honor of being one of the Three Great Physicians.
Shaanxi bordered Henan; Bongshan was a fair distance away, but not unreachable. That much made sense.
But the timing was unsettling. Mujin had parted from Goiyi at the end of autumn, and not long after, the Sage was killed.
He remembered the old man's words of farewell, the assassins dressed in black they had encountered.
…Could the old man have known something? Could something have happened to him?
If the men in black had continued to pursue him—what if Goiyi had gone to see the Sage and the assassins struck, dragging the Sage into it?
Ominous thoughts spread without end. Some were baseless, others flimsy conjectures, but a few felt disturbingly plausible.
Mujin knew he was being overly anxious. Yet once born, his unease would not fade until he confirmed the truth himself.
That day, he finished work a little earlier than planned, returned to his inn, and began to pack.