Demonic religion
The Great Dharma Protector approached the Three-Eyed Buddha with a genial smile.
"What brings you here?"
"Bring me? I just happened to run into you while passing by."
"When someone of your stature comes near, I can't help but be cautious. Makes me reflect on whether I've done something wrong."
As the Great Dharma Protector joked, the Three-Eyed Buddha laughed heartily—though it was hard to say which part of the remark he found so amusing.
Then the Great Dharma Protector turned to Tang Mujin.
"So this is the guest you brought?"
"That's right. He possesses both remarkable talent and rare gifts. You may call him Young Master Tang."
"For the venerable Three-Eyed Buddha to rate him so highly… I suppose I ought to overlook that arrogant remark I just heard."
"Oh? So if I said I aimed for the seat of Great Dharma Protector, it would be considered arrogance?"
"Is that what you're saying?"
The two men laughed even louder than before, and Tang Mujin gave an embarrassed smile. From the way they brushed aside his slip of the tongue so easily, the Great Dharma Protector did not seem like a man of scheming nature.
"Young Master Tang, I hear you've been keeping yourself endlessly busy without rest. Do remember to pause from time to time. Nothing is more important than proper rest."
"I understand."
The Great Dharma Protector gave him a warm smile, then circled behind the cult leader and quietly resumed his station.
Tang Mujin let out a small sigh. With the Great Dharma Protector gone, it felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders.
Every supreme master he had met carried an aura of their own.
Namgung Jinchun had been sharp, as if ready to cut down anything at a moment's notice. The Three-Eyed Buddha was taut and volatile, as though he might erupt at any second.
But the Great Dharma Protector's presence was different—like morning mist, or like a heavy storm cloud. He pressed upon those around him naturally, enveloping and suppressing them by his very being. Truly, no one suited the title of Great Dharma Protector better than he. With such a man guarding the cult leader, who could possibly dare to challenge his authority?
Tang Mujin steadied himself and turned his attention back to the cult leader, who spoke in a calm, aged voice:
"—There is nothing more important than moderation. Before sleep each night, reflect upon yourself. Do not fixate on appearances, but rather on the inner self. Not on this life, but on the next."
A man raised his hand.
"What exactly should we restrain, and how?"
"Whatever feels excessive to you. Restrain it as much as you can. If you are overly fond of drink, reduce your drinking. If your temper runs hot, learn to suppress it."
"That alone is enough?"
"If I asked for more, there would be none left in Tianshan who wouldn't flee."
A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd.
Several more questions followed—some about doctrine, others born of mere curiosity. The cult leader answered all with the kindly manner of a neighborly elder. It hardly felt like a sermon or catechism at all—more like a simple fireside chat.
"—All we need is to know where we are meant to go. If we know the destination, then even walking with eyes fixed only on the ground, we will reach it someday."
With each finished tale, he shifted to a new subject and mood—sharing amusing stories, folk tales, or even posing questions to his listeners.
When disputes arose, people brought them before him, and he heard them out patiently, offering wise judgments. Truly, he resembled a village chief more than a cult leader.
After listening a while longer, the Three-Eyed Buddha and Tang Mujin left together.
"I expected the cult leader to be far more imposing. He's quite the opposite."
"In rough lands like these, a man with wit and a generous nature is rarer, and thus more precious."
Breaking free of the crowd, they came to a street lined with shops. People filled the lanes, strangely exuberant.
Tang Mujin soon realized why—they were drunk.
In front of taverns and wine shops stood large jars filled with a violet liquid.
"What sort of wine is that?"
"Grape wine. Made from grapes."
"There's such a thing?"
"Near Tianshan, fruit wines are as common as grain wines. You'll get used to it quickly. I've even heard the Emperor of Wei was fond of it."
The Three-Eyed Buddha flicked a silver coin to a nearby tavern keeper, who filled four large ladles with wine and handed them over. For wine, the price was surprisingly cheap.
Tang Mujin sipped. The tannic bitterness was strange at first, but soon he grew accustomed to it.
As night fell, shopkeepers hung lanterns in front of their stores instead of closing. Street vendors appeared, selling snacks—mostly sweet, and astonishingly cheap.
"From the first day, I thought this—your Demon Cult—seems quite prosperous."
"Rice doesn't grow well in the cold, but the soil is rich, so other crops flourish. Traders from the West come and go often, too. Hunger's not a problem here."
"I see."
"Of course, it's not always like this. Right now the mood is brighter because the festival draws near."
"Festival?"
"Yes. Once a year, at the end of the slack farming season—the Mani Cult's festival. It's next month."
Their conversation trailed off. They sat at a street corner, watching the lantern-lit road. Tang Mujin thought of the tavern alleys of Chongqing.
At length, the Three-Eyed Buddha rose.
"As the Great Dharma Protector said, there's no need to rush. Rest when it's time to rest, and results will come."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll head back first. Take your time. In three days I'll bring you some griffon by-products."
When his figure disappeared, Tang Mujin also stood and wandered aimlessly. The gentle intoxication, along with the sound of a distant pipa, left him buoyant.
He bought candied hawthorn skewers from a vendor, not because he craved them, nor knowing their price, but simply because—drunk men instinctively want to buy food to bring home.
The vendor gave him eight skewers for a single silver coin, filling both his hands.
Tang Mujin thought of his father and Dan Seol-yeong. But he could not return to them now. So he trudged back toward the Poison Cavern, the two gourd flasks at his waist clinking with the scent of grape wine.
When he arrived, Mok Wana was crouched in a corner, chewing on a half-eaten Bigu Pill, her cheek bulging. Her eyes fixed immediately on the candied hawthorns.
Without a word, Tang Mujin handed all eight skewers to her.
"All mine?"
"They're not mine."
Her eyes lit up as she accepted them.
Crunch—the sugar shell cracked loudly under her bite.
Tang Mujin also offered her a flask of wine. She didn't refuse. With wine as her chaser, she devoured all eight skewers, as though tasting sweets for the very first time.
Tang Mujin sipped his wine and asked,
"You like sweets so much, why do you eat only Bigu Pills every day? Why not just buy something in town? It's not like you lack money."
Her answer was short.
"I don't go outside."
"Why not?"
She didn't reply, and he didn't press.
Instead, he spoke idly—of the larch forests blazing red each autumn around Sichuan, the luxurious tavern streets of Chongqing, the breathtaking sights from boats drifting down the Yangtze, the snowy winters of Qinghai, and the sticky sea breezes of Guangdong.
Not one of these landscapes did Mok Wana know. But that didn't matter. He wasn't telling them for her—only retracing his own memories.
Eventually his flask ran dry, and so did his stories.
Nodding off, he slumped sideways, chin propped on his hand, and drifted to sleep.
Mok Wana gently shifted his arm so he could rest more comfortably.
***
Of course, nothing special happened between them.
After one restful day, they returned to work.
Receiving griffon feathers from the Three-Eyed Buddha, they resumed their experiments. But again, no progress—and the feathers were soon used up. They would need to wait several days for more venom.
Frustration weighed on Tang Mujin. Nearly a month in the Demon Cult, and still no breakthrough.
The giant griffon perched above the cult hall remained like a statue, while others occasionally flew in to circle it.
When will I be able to return home?
At last, Tang Mujin chose a bolder path. If he could not analyze the poison in the air, he would inhale it directly, then study its effects by consuming herbs and toxins to formulate an antidote.
Mok Wana grew tense at his plan.
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"It's fine. I won't die."
Carefully, he edged near the cult hall to breathe in the poison.
As before, its nature was unlike any toxin he had ever encountered. Not even its opposite existed—there was no way to counter it by pitting poison against poison.
All the more, his desire burned.
If only I could truly grasp this venom…
Yet because the toxin disrupted his qi circulation, he could not simply draw it in and expel it at will.
So Tang Mujin settled for inhaling the venom once by day and once by night, little by little.
After about ten days, he discovered something new.
Compared to the first time, he could now approach much closer to the cult hall.
His body was beginning to adapt to the griffon's poison. At this rate, perhaps soon he could even approach the beast itself.
'Even if I can't make an antidote, I just need to solve the problem.'
Tang Mujin changed his approach, focusing on adapting his body to the poison of the jimsæ.
Compared to making an antidote, this path was far better. While solving the problem, he could also train his poison arts.
***
Time passed, and one night when Tang Mujin had drawn within a hundred jang of the Cult Leader's Hall, he sensed an unfamiliar presence.
'Did I imagine that?'
He doubted his senses. He hadn't seen a single soul, not even a wild beast, in this area.
But the presence grew clearer. While he held his breath and waited, a man wearing a wide-brimmed bamboo hat appeared in the distance, moving toward the Cult Leader's Hall.
Tang Mujin's thoughts tangled.
'Who is that man, and why is he heading into the Cult Leader's Hall?'
But before that question came another: How did he even get close?
The jimsæ roosted on the Hall's roof, and the densest miasma of poison gathered around it. Even Tang Mujin, already steeped in poison, could not recklessly approach.
Of course, if the man wished for death, entering would be simple. But the bamboo-hat man didn't look like he was heading there to die.
'Whatever it is, that guy must have some method of resisting the poison.'
Tang Mujin crept in the direction from which the stranger had come. If there wasn't a special reason, he'd most likely leave the way he entered.
Concealing himself behind a large tree, Tang Mujin thought,
'Am I sticking my nose where it doesn't belong?'
Probably not.
Even if the Cult Leader wasn't the most authoritarian figure, the Cult Leader's Hall was not a place anyone could come and go as they pleased. And a man with a clear conscience wouldn't sneak in at night.
Besides, a little trouble was acceptable.
The Great Protector, the Three-Eyed Buddha, and Old Man Soulshackle all knew why Tang Mujin had come to the Demonic Sect. They could smooth over most incidents.
While thinking, he saw the bamboo-hat man again.
Was he here to steal something? Tang Mujin scrutinized him, but the man carried nothing in his hands, nor was his chest bulging with stolen goods. If theft was his goal, he'd come up empty.
Next, Tang Mujin examined the man's face. Only the lower half was visible beneath the hat—an unusually large jaw.
'No… not a big jaw. His mouth is open.'
The man's mouth gaped slightly, holding a gray bead about three or four chi in diameter between his teeth.
Two possibilities: either the man was a master of extraordinary poison arts, or that bead had the power to resist the jimsæ's venom.
The stranger moved closer. Tang Mujin instinctively reached into his robe and touched his hidden needle case, then thought better of it.
'No use for needles now.'
His poison reservoir was empty; even a precise throw would do nothing.
So instead, he rested his hand on his sword hilt. As long as he didn't kill the man outright, his actions would be excused.
Tang Mujin waited, breath held.
When the man passed by, Tang Mujin swung his sheathed sword at the back of his head.
It was a perfect ambush—yet the stranger moved like lightning, parrying the blow.
'Shit. A master.'
From the first clash, Tang Mujin knew: this man had surpassed the wall of perfection. His chest tightened.
The stranger seemed to sense Tang Mujin's level as well, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a mocking smile.
Tang Mujin found that smirk intolerable, as if it whispered, "Ah, you're only first-rate? What a pity."
He hurled the scabbard aside and slashed sideways.
The bamboo-hat man tilted lightly and blocked. If the ambush had failed, there was no chance a frontal attack would succeed.
'Need to pull back.'
Unlike his opponent, who had some method to neutralize the poison, Tang Mujin had to fight while honestly breathing it in.
As he tried to slip away, the stranger cut him off, blocking the path back to the village.
'Crafty bastard.'
Then came a flurry: a downward diagonal slash, an upward swing, a deep thrust—each strike flowing into the next.
The man wasn't aiming for a killing blow. His purpose was to force Tang Mujin into more movements, deeper breaths, dragging more poison into his body.
Tang Mujin twisted, deflected, and parried desperately, like a fish caught in a net.
Worse, the poison restricted his inner energy circulation, making defense even harder than usual.
But then he noticed something odd: for someone who had surpassed the wall of perfection, the stranger's sword strikes weren't particularly sharp.
'Why?'
Watching closely, Tang Mujin found the answer.
Martial arts begin with breath. Circulating qi, executing techniques—all start with breath.
Every art had its proper breathing method. Even seasoned second-rate fighters rarely lost rhythm.
But this man breathed only through his mouth, drooling obscenely, unable to close his lips because of the bead clenched between his teeth.
'So the bead neutralizes the poison.'
The bead's color even seemed darker than when he first saw it. Though it was hard to be sure in the night's gloom.
The stranger, eager to end things quickly, unleashed a murderous slash, sword raised high like it could split a mountain.
Tang Mujin rolled backward, dirt clinging to his hands.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a handful and hurled it.
"Eat this, bastard!"
The stranger shielded his mouth with his hand, creating a brief opening.
Enough.
Tang Mujin reached into his robes, fingers brushing a long object.
Before his fight with the Three-Eyed Buddha, Dan Seolyeong had given him two Heavenly King Needle Cases.
He pulled one free and fired.
Thwack!
The case spat a storm of iron shards and needles with a thunderous crack.
Caught off guard, the stranger flinched—and dropped the bead. It rolled across the ground, stopping beside Tang Mujin.
The bamboo-hat man made a swift choice: rather than inhale more poison and fight, he'd retreat.
But Tang Mujin wasn't about to let him go.
'I've trained in poison arts and adapted to the jimsæ's miasma for half a month. I can endure a little.'
He lunged, seizing the man's pant leg.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Let go! Let go!"
The stranger flailed, but his inner energy control was sloppy—ruined by the poison seeping in, too afraid to steady his breath.
In the end, neither man could circulate their qi properly.
Tang Mujin hauled him down, wrapping both arms around his legs, toppling him, and mounting his chest.
The last time he'd straddled someone like this was in boyhood brawls.
Too close to swing swords, the two resorted to wild fists, pounding each other without finesse.
For a duel between a first-rate fighter and a master, it was ugly. Luckily, no audience was there to see.
Tang Mujin had the advantage from above. His fist cracked across the man's face, knocking his hat aside.
The face revealed was painfully ordinary, save for one thing: his nostrils were twice the size of a normal man's.
'Breathing poison through those nostrils would be suicide.'
Still, even a rotten fish stinks. The stranger's elbow caught Tang Mujin's chin, snapping his head back.
His vision rippled, mind dazed.
'Damn it…!'
He toppled, and the stranger scrambled up, fleeing without finishing him.
Lying flat, Tang Mujin thought:
If he lost consciousness here, he'd keep inhaling poison. That could be fatal.
He flailed his arm, and his hand struck something hard. Reflexively, he grabbed it—a round bead.
Instinct screamed:
Put it in your mouth! It will purge the poison!
But reason shouted back:
Isn't it wet? Remember whose mouth it was in. That bead was soaked in another man's spit. Better death than putting it in your mouth.
Tang Mujin wrestled with himself—life or pride.
In the end, he could not bring himself to put that saliva-soaked bead between his teeth.
His body went limp, and he lost consciousness.
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