Demonic religion
Mok Wana no longer ignored Tang Mujin as she had before. When he spoke, she listened attentively, and sometimes even asked him questions herself.
But despite her more cooperative attitude, there was no real progress in researching the Zim Bird's poison.
There were a few reasons for this: they lacked sufficient byproducts from the Zim Bird, and they had no proper references to consult.
Yet the most disappointing factor was something else—Mok Wana's skill in handling medicine and poison was far below expectation.
"You can't just use monkshood (Cheono) raw like that!"
"I told you, we used up the processed stock already. Besides, this one's dried well enough."
"Drying it isn't enough. Monkshood has to be boiled with detoxifying ingredients like licorice or black beans, dried, then repeated at least three times before it's safe. Go fetch some licorice first."
Mok Wana was strange in many ways.
It was clear she wasn't ignorant about medicine and poison, but flaws constantly showed the longer he watched her.
For instance, the basics of pharmacology and toxicology required combining herbs with similar properties step by step, carefully comparing their effects.
But Mok Wana often mixed herbs with completely opposing natures just because they looked similar, or confused the properties of basic ingredients.
She didn't even bother to record her results. The brushes and inkstone in the cave were covered in dust.
…Did the Demonic Doctor have no interest in teaching his disciple?
If not that, perhaps his skills were simply inferior to Goiyi's.
Tang Mujin suspected the master, not the disciple—because Mok Wana's talent wasn't actually bad.
Her senses were sharp; by tasting even a small amount of a herb, she could often discern its properties.
She had a decent amount of internal energy, and a strong constitution by nature, so minor poisons could be driven out with little effort.
Perhaps because of this, she had the habit of popping things into her mouth whenever she was uncertain about them.
"I told you, stop shoving everything in your mouth. If you're unsure, ask me first."
"It's just a habit."
Testing things directly on her body to understand their effects… She reminded Tang Mujin of the legendary Emperor Shennong.
A thought struck him: Could it be that the Demonic Doctor's Compendium of Poisons never reached her, leaving her training incomplete?
Feigning nonchalance, he asked,
"Say, did your master ever leave behind a medical text?"
"No."
"How could that be? Any physician has at least a few books."
"I wouldn't know. But it doesn't matter. I don't need one."
Her voice carried not even a hint of regret. Only then did Tang Mujin feel relieved.
***
Several days passed with Tang Mujin assisting her, and before long the feathers, bone dust, and other byproducts of the Zim Bird were completely used up. Their supply had always been scant, so even sparing use hadn't helped much.
Since Mok Wana showed no concern, Tang Mujin spoke up instead.
"We need more of the bird's remains. Where do we get them?"
Heading toward the Cult Leader's Hall, the air was already thick with the bird's poison.
But using airborne poison for research was the lowest of low methods. It meant subjecting one's body directly to it, hoping to discover a solution. Not entirely useless, but certainly a last resort.
For proper work, they needed something with form—feathers, bone, blood, or venom sacs.
Mok Wana answered vaguely,
"I'll request more. If we wait, it'll come."
"How long?"
"Um… about ten days? Two weeks at most."
Tang Mujin balked.
"Two weeks? That long?"
She waved her hands.
"No, no, not necessarily that long. Could be much sooner. But we've worked hard these past few days. Can't we take it easy? I'm tired too."
Hard work or not, all they had to show for the past few days was a pile of failures.
For Mok Wana, living in the Demonic Cult meant there was no rush. But Tang Mujin only wanted to finish quickly and go home.
"Take it easy? If we had even a lead, a slow pace would be fine. But we've got nothing. What'll you say if others come asking about results?"
"There's no need to worry."
Mok Wana said it with confidence.
"No one expects much. Everyone knows my master is gone."
"That may be true. But right now, we're the ones tasked with this."
"Honestly, there's a higher chance the problem solves itself when the Zim Birds eventually fly away. They won't live atop the Cult Leader's Hall forever, right?"
Tang Mujin's brow furrowed.
From the past few days of observation, he could see her approach was halfhearted. It wasn't just a lack of ability—she seemed uninterested in achieving results at all.
He stood up.
"I don't like that way of thinking. I'll go myself."
"What? What are you planning to do?"
"I'll get as close as I can and look for dropped feathers at least."
"Do you really have to? It's troublesome—and dangerous. Just wait a few days."
"Don't worry. I'll manage."
He was about to leave the cave when footsteps sounded outside. Then came a knock. Thud, thud.
"You inside?"
It was Sam Anbul's voice. Tang Mujin still felt uneasy around him, but Mok Wana was more than uneasy—she shrank back and hid in a corner.
Tang Mujin opened the door.
"What brings you here?"
"I brought you here myself, so it's only right I check in now and then. Do you need anything?"
"Yes. I need some of the bird's poison. A feather, or anything imbued with it."
"All right. I'll see what I can find. By the way, they say you've stayed in this cave the whole time?"
"Yes, it turned out that way."
Sam Anbul fixed him with a stare—then spotted Mok Wana trying to hide in the corner.
His already fierce face scrunched even more. Anyone else would've been terrified, but Tang Mujin knew that expression was playful.
With a big elbow, he nudged Tang Mujin in the side.
"You haven't been up to anything in here together, have you?"
"Of course not. I already have someone in my heart."
"Heh… just a joke. Anyway, care to come with me for a while?"
"What for?"
"I brought you all the way to Mount Cheonsan, and it bothers me leaving you cooped up in this cave. Let's walk around a bit. See the sights."
Wondering if there was some hidden agenda, Tang Mujin studied his face. But there was no trace of malice—just genuine thoughtfulness.
"That sounds good to me. It's not every day one visits the Demonic Cult."
"Let's go."
Tang Mujin left Mok Wana behind in the cave and followed Sam Anbul outside. The air outside felt refreshingly crisp after several days underground.
As they walked toward the village, Tang Mujin spoke.
"Elder Sam Anbul. Did something happen between you and Mok Wana?"
"Mok Wana? Ah, you mean the Demonic Doctor's disciple. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know her that well, but she doesn't seem like the type to be so shy around others."
Then it struck him—it might not be simple shyness.
Tang Mujin had at least grown somewhat used to Sam Anbul, but to most people, seeing him would naturally inspire fear. His appearance and sheer martial presence alone were enough.
"Nothing special happened. In fact, I didn't even know her name was Mok Wana until just now."
"I see…"
"It's nothing major. She's probably just cautious because we belong to different factions."
The unfamiliar word caught Tang Mujin's attention, and he immediately asked,
"Factions?"
"Yes."
"So the Demonic Cult isn't all united as one?"
"In truth, calling them factions makes it sound grander than it is. Out of ten cultists, more than seven don't care at all. It's just the remaining few who squabble."
"Then how many factions are there?"
"Only two. The Martial Faction, and the Doctrine Faction."
The names were self-explanatory. Tang Mujin nodded.
"Of course, Elder Sam Anbul must be Martial Faction."
"No. I'm Doctrine Faction."
Tang Mujin glanced at him carefully. Was it a joke? But no—it didn't seem to be.
"Then are you saying Mok Wana is Martial Faction? Doesn't suit her well."
"Strictly speaking, it was her master, the Demonic Doctor, who was Martial Faction. Since Mok Wana is his disciple, she's categorized under them by default."
Even the factions matter? Tang Mujin's face grew more serious, but Sam Anbul waved it off.
"You don't need to worry about it. The cult's factions aren't as grave as you think. It's just a difference of opinion about which direction the cult should take. They don't fight to the death."
Sam Anbul gave him a simple explanation:
The Martial Faction wished for the cult to expand outward, even at the risk of conflict.
The Doctrine Faction believed in taking in those who fled the orthodox sects and staying content in Mount Cheonsan.
Since Sam Anbul had once fled Shaolin and taken refuge here, it was only natural that he wanted the cult to remain as it was. After all, everyone needed at least one place of sanctuary.
But unlike Sam Anbul's casual explanation, Tang Mujin found the talk of factions unsettling.
If they were distinct enough to be called factions, then they each had their own strength. And just as two nations inevitably go to war when they clash, could two groups really coexist peacefully?
When Tang Mujin and Sam Anbul entered the city, people's eyes immediately turned toward them.
Ignoring the stares, Tang Mujin asked,
"There won't be any problems, will there?"
"No need to worry. If the balance of power between the two was even, maybe. But the scale is tipped far too much."
"In which direction?"
Sam Anbul countered with a question.
"Tell me, who is the highest authority in the cult?"
It was an easy question. Tang Mujin answered at once.
"The Cult Leader."
"Correct. Then who is the strongest person in the cult?"
"…Elder Sam Anbul?"
Tang Mujin marveled at himself for how naturally the answer slipped out. So this is what they call tact.
Sam Anbul's eyes widened in surprise, then he burst into hearty laughter, clearly amused.
"Ha! I like that answer, but it's not the truth."
"Then who is it?"
"The Great Guardian."
Of course. The strongest warrior of the cult always became Great Guardian, standing beside the Cult Leader. That much was well known even to outsiders. The identity of the Great Guardian changed over time, but the principle never did.
Sam Anbul went on,
"The important thing is this—the Cult Leader and the Great Guardian both belong to the Doctrine Faction. I do as well, if you must place me somewhere. Which means the balance is so heavily skewed that conflict won't arise. There's no reason to fight, and even if they did, the outcome would be obvious. Understand now?"
Tang Mujin nodded, then added with a light smile to keep the mood friendly,
"I understand. But I am curious about something."
"What is it?"
"How strong is the Great Guardian?"
Sam Anbul scratched his chin.
"Well… the last time we sparred, I felt he was at least half a step ahead of me."
"Then it's just a hair's breadth difference, isn't it?"
"You could say that. But that single hair's breadth is never something trivial."
The two walked on, still conversing. Ahead, one of the side streets was crowded with people.
Curious, they looked over. An old man sat atop a wooden crate, leisurely spinning tales.
His voice carried without martial skill, calm and steady, and though he was aged, his friendly demeanor drew people in. Judging by the crowd's reactions, he was clearly the village's most beloved storyteller.
Tang Mujin glanced back at Sam Anbul.
"What if you challenged the Great Guardian, defeated him, and took his place?"
"A fun idea, but if I challenged him, it would only make things awkward. More so for the loser."
"Hmm."
"And you too could end up in an awkward spot."
"…Me? Why would I?"
"Because if you say such things in front of the man himself, of course you'd be in trouble."
Sam Anbul pointed into the crowd.
Behind the storyteller stood a middle-aged man with a long, graying beard. The man was staring straight at them.
As if he'd heard Tang Mujin's voice clearly, even amid the noise of the crowd.
Sam Anbul raised a hand in greeting. The man returned it casually—but his eyes remained fixed on Tang Mujin.
A strange sense of déjà vu crept over him.
There was no resemblance in face, yet the man's gaze reminded Tang Mujin of the Goiyi.
The eyes of one who revealed nothing outwardly, yet unmistakably belonged to someone already broken inside.
Tang Mujin felt a deep, inexplicable aversion to that man.
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