The Myunglyeon Incident
Tang Mujin awoke in an unfamiliar room.
It was not lavish, but spacious.
The bedding was plain yet carefully made, and a faint bitter scent of herbs lingered in the air.
But far more important was the fact that Jin Song was seated cross-legged, watching him.
Tang Mujin flinched inwardly—he had been avoiding Jin Song lately.
'He's not here to complain about the sword being delayed… is he?'
When forging Huang Ryeongja's blade, Tang Mujin had pretended to need months of preparation, only to finish the sword in barely three days.
There were two reasons for stalling: first, to avoid drowning in commissions by showing off too much speed; second, because people value things more when they feel they're hard-won.
And just as with Huang Ryeongja's sword, Tang Mujin had no intention of spending longer than necessary on Jin Song's. At most, two or three days to shape the blade.
But Jin Song had already been waiting nearly half a year. Irritation was only natural.
Tang Mujin hurriedly prepared an excuse.
'I'll say I still haven't found the right iron.'
Yet Jin Song wasn't here to demand his sword.
"Young Tang. You're awake. Please wait a moment."
He stood and left, soon returning with quite a crowd.
Most were familiar faces—Huang Ryeongja, Namgung Myeong, Dan Seolyeong, Tang Mujin's father, Seok Jiseung. Only one stranger was among them.
With so many eyes on him, Tang Mujin felt uncomfortably like a child on display.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Huang Ryeongja answered.
"What's going on? Young Tang, don't you recall what happened last night?"
"Last night? There was some small commotion outside my house."
"No. After that."
Tang Mujin tried to recall, but the memory eluded him, like something half-forgotten.
"I don't know."
"I see. So that's how it is."
At Huang Ryeongja's signal, six more people entered. Among them were Banyonggweol and Hu Wancheong—the ones who had loitered outside his home.
Five of them looked little different from usual, perhaps only nervous in the elder's presence.
But Banyonggweol was visibly shaken. His legs trembled as he entered, and he kept his head down to avoid Tang Mujin's gaze.
After much hesitation, he suddenly dropped to his knees before Tang Mujin, disregarding everyone watching.
"I'm sorry! Please, just forgive me this once!"
For someone who usually strutted about so arrogantly, his posture now was humiliatingly low—especially with his gang right beside him.
Tang Mujin had intended to punish him, but with so many witnesses, things were different.
If he didn't accept the apology, he would look the villain.
So, reluctantly, he nodded.
"Well… fine. I wasn't badly hurt. But never again. If I hear you've done this to anyone else, I won't let it pass so quietly."
Banyonggweol lifted his head, his expression conflicted—relieved to be pardoned, yet oddly aggrieved, as though accused unjustly.
Tang Mujin didn't understand.
Waking in this strange room, finding Banyonggweol apologizing before a crowd that included Huang Ryeongja, Jin Song, and even an unfamiliar Daoist—it was all too strange.
"But really, why have so many gathered here?"
"Wait a moment," Huang Ryeongja said.
He gestured to Hu Wancheong, who reluctantly left and returned dressed in black clothes with a dark mask over his face.
All eyes turned on Tang Mujin. The atmosphere grew even more awkward.
'What do they expect from me?'
Then, suddenly, a chill pierced Tang Mujin's very bones.
***
In front of Hu Wancheong lay Tang Mujin—collapsed, pinned by Huang Ryeongja's knee.
"Uh… urgh!"
Hu Wancheong, terrified, tore the mask from his own face and hurled it aside.
Huang Ryeongja exhaled in relief. A heartbeat slower, and Hu Wancheong would have been mauled to death.
When Hu Wancheong had first entered masked, Tang Mujin hadn't reacted.
But in an instant, everything changed—he lunged at Hu Wancheong with killing intent so palpable it needed no explanation.
"My heavens… what is this…"
The most shaken of all was Tang Jeseon, Tang Mujin's father.
He had heard his son practiced martial arts, but he never dreamed he had grown strong enough that even Huang Ryeongja struggled to restrain him.
Nor that his son would so readily attempt murder.
Namgung Myeong cracked a jest at Banyonggweol.
"Brother Ban, I suppose you'll never wear a mask again. A shame, really."
Despite his brutish size and face, Banyonggweol trembled pitifully, haunted by last night's terror.
"…Last night, I wasn't wearing a mask."
"So even unmasked, you're unsafe. Looks like your neighbor will keep giving you trouble. But what can you do? You brought it on yourself."
Namgung Myeong's barbed words deepened the gloom on the faces of Banyonggweol's gang.
Though Banyonggweol bore no lasting wounds, the horror of that night left him unable even to speak of it properly.
From his state, one could infer only the depth of fear Tang Mujin had inspired.
The gang too could not shake their unease—if Tang Mujin could attack so suddenly once, he might again.
Watching all this intently was one more figure: Gong Ryeongja.
He was Huang Ryeongja's elder brother in the sect, usually residing at Cheongseong Mountain, though he often visited the Seongdo branch.
Huang Ryeongja asked him,
"What do you make of this?"
"Hm."
Gong Ryeongja placed both palms on Tang Mujin's back.
He sensed several peculiar things.
First, an internal energy vast for someone his age—proof of some rare and precious elixirs consumed.
Second, a heavy poisonous energy dwelling in his dantian. Likely created with the help of his monster companion.
But there was no demonic qi.
'Strange.'
Martial artists who suddenly turned violent were often said to be in deviation of fire or seized by heart demons.
Such conditions nearly always came from demonic qi seeping into the marrow through the practice of unorthodox arts.
But Tang Mujin bore not a trace. His inner energy was, if anything, purer than that of most orthodox disciples.
Nor was the poison in his dantian to blame—it was utterly stable, with no sign of leaking.
"I cannot say," Gong Ryeongja admitted.
"Then tell me, Brother—does anyone at Cheongseong Mountain know of such a case?"
"Our sect leader is not versed in such matters. Jeok Ryeongja knows many things, but I doubt even he could explain this."
If anything, such conditions might be better understood among the demonic sects—for deviation was practically their domain.
But neither Huang Ryeongja nor Gong Ryeongja had ties with them.
After brief thought, Gong Ryeongja suggested,
"Why not seek help beyond Cheongseong? Sichuan has more sects than ours."
"You mean to ask Emei Sect."
"Yes. They might know something."
Emei belonged to the Buddhist line. Not wholly pure like Shaolin—they carried some Daoist flavor—but at their root, they were Buddhist.
And the essence of Buddhist martial arts was dispelling evil and upholding righteousness.
This made them natural counters to demonic qi.
There were even cases where mad demonic lords, fighting a Shaolin or Emei master, had regained their senses and turned to the Buddhist path.
Better to seek their aid than to wrack their own brains in vain.
Huang Ryeongja did not relish admitting Cheongseong's limits. But he remembered Tang Mujin's great favor, and to cling to pride now would be ungrateful.
With resolve, he nodded.
"We must contact Emei Sect at once."
***
Heading southwest from Chengdu, one comes upon Mount Emei, its mid-slopes wrapped in clouds.
Mount Emei was unlike other peaks in one regard.
Like all famed mountains, it bristled with precipitous cliffs, but however daunting its summits seemed, there was always at least one path to climb them.
And these paths were not carved by men. They had existed since ancient times, trodden by beasts and herb-gatherers alike.
People, seeing these countless trails, thought of immortals, of the Buddha's mercy.
That was surely one reason Mount Emei was counted among the most revered mountains in the Central Plains.
Thus its history was peculiar.
Long ago, it was a sacred site of Daoism. But gradually, it became one of the Four Great Buddhist Mountains.
If one roamed its ridges, one could still find Daoist temples standing alongside Buddhist monasteries—sometimes even hybrid buildings that were neither quite Daoist shrines nor Buddhist halls.
Such was Boghosa at Mount Emei's Golden Summit—the main base of the Emei Sect.
Boghosa had first been built as a Daoist temple, yet over time became a Buddhist monastery.
Not merely an ordinary temple, but one of the twin pillars of Buddhist martial arts. A mystery of history.
Tang Mujin, Namgung Myeong, and Huang Ryeongja entered Boghosa.
"Where are we headed?"
"To Geumjeong Pavilion. Follow me."
Huang Ryeongja strode quickly across the grounds, with the two young men following. Namgung Myeong's eyes darted everywhere, curious.
Unlike Shaolin, forbidden to women, Emei's base was not barred to men. True, the majority were bhikkhunis, but here and there were male monks as well.
The nuns' appearances varied: some had shaved their heads completely, others wore short hair. It was very much in keeping with Emei's ambiguous identity.
Geumjeong Pavilion was a golden-hued building at the compound's edge.
Not large, but its garish color and sharply upturned eaves made it stand out.
As they arrived, a shaven-headed nun in gray robes appeared.
Unlike the gentle features of most, her expression was sharp and austere.
She pressed her palms together slowly toward Huang Ryeongja.
"It has been a long time."
"Hm… May I call you Venerable Myungryeon now?"
"I still lack much, but yes—that is so."
Venerable Myungryeon smiled faintly, satisfaction evident.
In Emei, only one who had reached the peak realm could be called Satae . Judging by the air about her, she had only recently broken through.
She turned to Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong.
"Which of you is the one said to be seized by heart demons?"
Tang Mujin raised his hand sheepishly. She nodded.
"It is best to begin immediately. We cannot know how long it will take."
"Understood. I leave him in your care. Young Tang, I hope to see you again soon."
Tang Mujin clasped fists in thanks; Huang Ryeongja smiled kindly and departed.
But Namgung Myeong did not leave.
Venerable Myungryeon asked him,
"And you, young sir—why are you here?"
"Oh, I'm his friend. I'd like to stay and watch how he is freed from his demons. Would that be permitted?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Very well. Follow me."
She led them not into the pavilion, but down the stairs beside it.
The stairway descended into a subterranean chamber, its walls built of great stacked stones.
"…This place feels strange," Tang Mujin murmured.
Namgung Myeong added, "Forgive me, but it resembles a prison."
The nun did not deny it.
"You are correct. It was first built to confine criminals. But in time, as Emei ceased to keep prisoners, it was repurposed—to treat those ensnared by heart demons."
Tang Mujin nodded unconsciously.
A prison strong enough to prevent escape was indeed suitable for restraining one driven mad.
"This way."
She led him to the innermost cell, where iron bars stood out starkly.
But what troubled him more was this: nowhere in the entire dungeon was another patient to be seen.
"Enter."
As soon as he stepped inside, she locked the door.
Clang! The sound rang through the underground.
Tang Mujin spoke lightly.
"To think I am the only patient down here—it inspires confidence."
"What do you mean?"
"Surely it means others have all been cured quickly, leaving already, does it not?"
She shrugged.
"No."
"…What?"
"You are simply the first guest in a long time. In truth, it is rare indeed for one possessed by demons to come to Emei at all."
Those who fell into madness seldom admitted it, and so never sought help.
Nor did others bring them here—for usually such encounters ended with one side dead.
That Tang Mujin had arrived in this state was extraordinary.
"How will the treatment proceed?"
"I shall teach you the art of Cheongsang Fist, said to dispel evil qi. You will train until you are freed."
Her phrasing unsettled him. "Said to" dispel evil qi? That sounded as if she had never seen it actually work.
She continued calmly,
"You will be brought two meals a day. And once every five days, you may receive visitors."
"…And how long before I can leave?"
"There is no set time. You cannot leave until you are free of the demons. So do not trouble yourself with the matter."
"…What?"
Tang Mujin instinctively gripped the bars.
She spoke as though it were only natural:
"Surely you see—we cannot release one still gripped by madness among decent folk."
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