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Chapter 82 - CHAPTER 82

Hometown

"I truly thought only Lord Red-Faced Old Beggar would be coming!"

The master of Deungseon all but prostrated himself as he lowered his posture.

Even so, his anxious gaze flickered toward Tang Mujin, watching closely. Whenever Mujin's eyes so much as drifted toward the Thousand-Armed Guanyin carving, his whole body tensed noticeably.

It seemed he had realized Mujin was toying with the idea of sanding that wall flat.

"…Couldn't you… leave that be?"

Tang Mujin looked at the tavern master with a curious expression.

A man who always bore an air of serenity—as if the word leisure were engraved on his brow—was now this desperate.

In truth, Mujin didn't think the tavern master had set him up. After all, he hadn't forced matters but left the choice of whether to receive the guests in Mujin's own hands.

Still, gall is gall.

Dragging the tavern master down the stairs, Tang Mujin raised his voice to the crowd filling the first floor.

"Everyone! Tonight, the tavern master has declared there will be no charge for drinks. Eat and drink as much as you like!"

"For real?!"

"Don't you see him standing right here beside me?"

The tavern master forced the most awkward smile in the world, and once the patrons confirmed his identity, they erupted into cheers.

Though the loss would be great for him tonight, he seemed relieved the matter ended with just this.

He waved to the servers, ordering the doors shut so no more customers could come in, then followed Tang Mujin back up to the third floor.

There, Mujin, Namgung Myeong, and the tavern master sat facing one another across a low table.

Mujin was the first to speak.

"I hear the name Hao Clan being thrown around. What exactly is that supposed to be?"

"They call it a clan, but it isn't truly a martial sect. People don't gather there to learn martial arts. 'Hao Association' or 'Hao Union' would be a more accurate name."

"Whatever you call it—what do they do?"

"They care for the underclass of society… inn boys, ferrymen, cart drivers, porters, courtesans, and the like."

"Care for them?"

"Yes. They raise funds from tolls collected in taverns or gambling dens, and use that to provide a footing for those at the bottom. When strength is needed, they lend it as well."

Lend their strength, hm…

Sure enough, that white-haired woman—whether she was Ha-ryeong or Hwa Yeonsinni—could by herself wipe out one or two mid-tier sects without trouble.

With someone like that watching over them, it was no wonder no proper martial sect had taken root in bustling Chongqing despite all the people and wealth.

Yet Mujin still had a question.

Wasn't Chongqing a city where even beggars had to pay a silver tael as entrance fee before they were acknowledged by the Beggars' Sect? That didn't exactly match this talk of aiding the downtrodden.

"Aren't beggars the lowest of the low? Why are the bridge beggars excluded?"

"Because those under the bridge lack the will to move forward. And Chongqing is a prosperous city—they don't starve to death even there. Different place, different life, but they stay where they choose."

The tavern master continued.

"Of course, beggars too would like to live more comfortably, but Lord Ha-ryeong and Lord Red-Faced Old Beggar prioritize those who strive to better themselves."

He went on with an anecdote. A courtesan had once been abducted by a martial man and nearly raped, but Hao intervened and punished the culprit.

After a few such cases, molesting or assaulting courtesans in Chongqing had markedly decreased.

Mujin listened, lost in thought.

He recalled Hong Geolgae and Majonggae, who had said beggars should remain beggars—wear ragged clothes and survive by begging.

Tradition and contentment in one's lot, versus striving forward and actively helping those in hardship.

Which was right? Mujin couldn't say. Any rash judgment would be presumptuous meddling.

A thought suddenly struck him.

Will Hong Geolgae be disappointed in me for this?

After all, Red-Faced Old Beggar had ousted his father and seized Chongqing. By rights, he was Hong Geolgae's enemy.

Yet somehow, Mujin had come to be on speaking terms with the man, even forming a small indirect connection.

Mujin shook his head.

Well, it wasn't like I had any choice. I couldn't just storm out, nor can I now seek out Red-Faced Old Beggar and fight a duel to the death on Geolgae's behalf.

He set aside the tangled thoughts and returned to enjoy his dinner, albeit belatedly.

He and Namgung Myeong ate their fill of fresh hot dishes, then descended the stairs.

The reveling patrons, drinking as if to last till dawn, cheered at the sight of them, and Mujin answered with a light wave.

The next morning, the two departed Chongqing.

***

Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong traveled swiftly. Unlike before, they had no merchant caravan nor ship passengers to mind, so they could move as they pleased.

They sprinted with lightness techniques, paused to rest, then rose and sparred with each other.

"Come on. Try to land a strike this time."

Each wielded a smoothed branch, their killing intent sharp as if with real blades, exchanging techniques they had mastered.

Yet the result was always Mujin's defeat.

Namgung's swordsmanship was two full levels above his. The name of Namgung's eldest son was not one carried lightly.

"I thought I could win at least once…"

Mujin tossed aside the branch, flopping onto the ground and panting. The cool spring breeze dried his sweat.

"You've only studied the sword for a year. I've been swinging mine since childhood. Wouldn't it be unfair if you beat me already?"

"…True."

Could poison, combined with his sword, tilt the scales?

Unlikely. Namgung's internal art, the Great Derivation Divine Art, was free and fluid, ever-changing. It could expel venom while still matching Mujin blow for blow.

If Mujin truly wanted to win, his best bet was not to cross swords directly.

Like the assassins of Salmak, keeping distance, attacking from the shadows with poison and hidden weapons—only then might he stand a chance.

In the midst of their musings on martial arts, Mujin asked,

"So, when are you going back home?"

"I haven't decided. The real question is when I'll be a son my father can be proud of."

To Mujin, Namgung already seemed worthy of Namgung Jincheon's recognition.

But Namgung's standards were higher than his, and it wasn't Mujin's place to tell him to go home or not.

"What if it takes too long? Five, ten years before you return?"

"That could happen."

"What if they think you're dead and pick someone else as the next patriarch?"

Namgung merely nodded lightly.

"That could happen too."

"…Huh?"

"Someone else might inherit the seat of patriarch."

"But you're the eldest son."

"In Namgung, the headship passes to whoever has the qualifications, not simply from father to son. My cousins are no less talented, and if it comes to it, even my uncle could inherit."

Namgung was, it seemed, a far more cold-blooded household than Mujin had thought.

And yet, oddly, Namgung spoke without any regret.

"…Didn't you want to become the next patriarch?"

"Well… At first, I coveted the seat of patriarch. But after leaving home and wandering the world, I've come to feel it might all be meaningless. Is the patriarch's seat really so important?"

Namgung Myeong showed no lingering attachment to the position itself, yet his desire for recognition from his father clearly remained.

What exactly did his father mean to him?

Their destination was just ahead, but the mood suggested the conversation could drag on.

Tang Mujin lightly nudged Namgung Myeong to shift the atmosphere.

"Come on, let's get moving. We're almost there."

Rising to his feet, Mujin looked down the hill to see a familiar view.

After a year away from home, Tang Mujin had returned to Chengdu.

***

Those who wander far from home often fall prey to a common delusion—that upon their return, crowds will rush out to greet them, fussing and welcoming them back with open arms.

But that is an overly self-centered thought. The world moves on fine without a single person, and with time, every absence is slowly filled.

That didn't mean there was complete indifference, however.

As Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong walked the streets of Chengdu, a few familiar faces approached to speak with them.

"Hey, aren't you the son of the Tang physician? Heard you went off somewhere?"

"Ah, yes. That's right."

"What was it you went for? I think I heard, but can't recall exactly…"

"A physician from another province came to teach medicine, so I followed him."

"Oh, that so? Come to think of it, my eyes have been blurry these days. If you learned from a skilled doctor, could you fix that?"

"Come by the clinic later. I can't promise, but I could at least take a look."

"Went to see your father last winter, but nothing really improved."

At first the talk seemed about Mujin, but soon the man had shifted entirely to speaking of his own ailments.

"And who's that young man standing behind you?"

"His name's Myeong. He's a friend from Anhui."

"Anhui? You said you went to learn medicine, and you went that far?"

"I didn't go there specifically for medicine. It just turned out that way."

"Sounds like you just picked up bad habits from wandering. A doctor strutting around with a sword at his waist—doesn't look right…"

Others, of course, enjoyed pointing out faults and offering unsolicited lectures.

"Mujin-hyung! I heard you even went as far as Henan?"

"What, how'd you know that?"

"There's that girl from Henan, remember? Besides Henan, did you go anywhere else? Have you been to Shaanxi?"

"Let's see. Chongqing, Hubei, Anhui, Henan, Shanxi, Shandong, Gansu, and all the way to Qinghai."

"In just one year?"

"Yeah."

"Mujin-hyung, that's too much bragging."

Curious townsfolk, some nosy, some cheeky—it was all just as Mujin remembered Chengdu.

Before long, the familiar sight of the Seok family forge came into view.

Thinking he should drop by later to greet Seok Jiseung, Mujin was about to pass when their eyes met. Jiseung's eyes went wide, and he shouted back toward the forge:

"He's here! He's here!"

The forge erupted with commotion, and five soot-covered smiths rushed out.

"He's here?"

"Which of those two?"

"Bring them both!"

Strangers suddenly surrounded Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong.

Had there been any hint of hostility, they might have drawn their swords—but instead of malice, their eyes burned with a strange eagerness.

Startled, Mujin turned to Jiseung.

"Brother Seok, what's going on?"

"They're smiths who came to learn. Some waited and left, but this many still remain."

"And why are they looking for me?"

"Last autumn, Elder Hwangnyeongja of the Chengdu branch of the Qingsheng Sect took a dagger you forged. After that, word spread somehow, and smiths started seeking you out."

Since the Seok forge, like the Tang clinic, lived under the patronage of Qingsheng Sect, it seemed Elder Hwangnyeongja had taken notice of Mujin's work.

Mujin instinctively stepped aside with deft footwork, creating space between himself and the eager smiths as he spoke.

"I'll visit again soon. Please give me a few days. I can't very well be dragged straight into a forge the moment I return home after a year away, can I?"

Someone muttered softly, "Couldn't he, though?"—but the rest seemed satisfied enough just to have gotten a promise.

On the way home, Namgung Myeong chuckled.

"Not the kind of popularity I expected, but still popularity."

"I didn't think it would be like this either. Anyway, here we are—this is the Tang Clinic."

Mujin stood before the small fence enclosing the family practice.

Once, it had seemed fairly spacious, but after a year away traveling the world, the Tang Clinic now looked terribly narrow to his eyes.

Opening the door and stepping inside the treatment hall, the familiar scent of medicinal herbs rushed to greet him.

His father, now with a few more strands of white in his hair, sat sorting herbs alongside Dan Seolyeong.

Both turned wide-eyed at the sight of him.

Tang Mujin, his face more mature than a year ago, smiled confidently and spoke.

"I'm back."

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