Mount Wudang, Yangyang, and Chengdu
Tang Mujin asked in return:
"Do you mean there is a flaw in the sword art itself?"
Elder Yeongbo shook his head.
"No. The sword art itself is not flawed. It doesn't demand especially profound mysteries, but it is fierce and effective. The problem is not the art—it's that someone with your nature is the one practicing it."
"What does the nature of the sword art have to do with mine? Swordplay is just the skill of wielding a blade."
When Tang Mujin asked, Elder Yeongbo clicked his tongue.
"Haven't you ever seen how those who learn the same sword art often grow to resemble each other in character? Those who learn the Mad Sword become mad. Those who learn the Illusory Sword all grow sly and cunning. The warriors of the Namgung clan never waver—they walk straight ahead on their chosen path."
Tang Mujin thought of Namgung Myeong and Namgung Jincheon. Their behaviors were different, yet there was undeniably a common steadiness in both of them. Namgung Jincheon, of course, and even Namgung Myeong, despite his odd detours, had an unshakable will.
Elder Yeongbo went on.
"The swordsmen of Wudang are too soft-hearted. The warriors of Mount Emei live lives unrestrained. Men choose their sword art, but the sword art, in turn, reshapes the men who chose it."
"I think I understand."
When Tang Mujin answered, Yeongbo smiled, his eyes narrowing gently.
"Good. You have a gentle, mild nature. If you are to study the sword, it should be the righteous sect's sword. The sword arts of the Qingcheng Sect, the Huashan Sect, or Wudang itself would suit you well."
"Are you saying the sword I've learned is not the sword of a righteous warrior?"
"Anyone can see it is not. That sword is full of nothing but resentment and rage. It is the one least suited to you. So ill-suited that even a demonic art of raw power and tyranny would be better."
It was a disconcerting thing to hear—that the sword he had labored so long to train in did not suit him at all.
But he could not dismiss Yeongbo's counsel lightly. Hadn't he already come too far down a mistaken road?
"If I work harder, achievement will follow."
"Achievement, yes. But not greatness. Only one whose nature matches their sword can master it fully. For you, to reach true mastery, you'd have to become a man filled with hatred and resentment. And if you did, that would be an even greater problem. Tell me, Tang—what is the name of that sword art?"
"It is called the Heart-Soul Piercing Sword (Jasim-geom)."
"A sword that pierces the heart... for a physician who pierces the heart..."
Elder Yeongbo murmured for a moment, then closed his eyes, lost in thought. In the courtyard behind Hyuncheondang, only the sound of insects and the evening breeze remained.
When he opened his eyes again, he spoke:
"Tang Mujin. From now on, forsake the Heart-Soul Sword and learn the Taiji Sword instead. Become one who contemplates the universe, who steps back half a pace from the storm. Your talent is outstanding—it will not take long for you to catch up to your old attainments."
"Are you asking me to become a disciple of Wudang?"
"If you wish it, that too would be fine."
It was a subtle answer. As though he would teach Taiji Sword even if Mujin did not become a Wudang disciple.
For the head of Wudang himself to offer a sect's core sword art to an outsider—such a decision was nothing short of extraordinary.
Knowing the weight of such an offer, Tang Mujin hesitated deeply.
All this time, as he avenged Goiyi's grudges, he had felt strange emotions. When he killed Baek Choo-seo, his body had thrilled with excitement. Yet as time passed, his killing intent had dulled.
He still bore hatred for the assassins, yes. But turning that hatred into the resolve to kill required a great leap.
And as time went on, that leap only grew wider. For one of his gentle temperament, even more so.
In truth, lately it had begun to feel like a burden. Tang Mujin was not a man who could endlessly burn with the fire of killing. Perhaps he was only killing because he had decided to, not because he truly desired it.
Yet it was too late to step back. The vengeance had only one final step left. If he caught the escaped Master of the Assassins and killed him, it would be over. Goiyi had never asked for more than that.
And for that last step, he could not abandon the Heart-Soul Sword. To put it down felt like putting down his vengeance as well.
Tang Mujin looked at Elder Yeongbo.
"Now is not the time. But if one day I need such teaching, may I return to seek it?"
"Of course. Come anytime."
Yeongbo nodded.
And yet Tang Mujin felt certain that he would never come to Mount Wudang for the Taiji Sword.
***
Tang Mujin left Wudang and headed for Yangyang.
It was a short journey, but during it, Hyeongong's attitude changed drastically.
Where before he had subtly looked down on Namgung Myeong and Hong Geolgae, now he acted with easy familiarity, as though nothing had ever been different.
That change came from one realization:
How many points do I have right now?
Indeed. The loss of points was not only for Namgung and Hong. Hyeongong's own "score" had dropped too, now that his Wudang background had faded.
With a cold and objective eye, he assessed himself.
And so he concluded: there was little difference between him, Namgung, and Hong. Among the four of them, it wasn't just two "dead weights"—there were three.
But then he changed his perspective.
No. There's no reason to think of myself as a dead weight.
The standard was himself. His score had gone down, which meant Namgung and Hong's had risen relatively.
Namgung, once "the idiot expelled from his clan," became instead "a rising young master with talent."
Hong, once "a beggar with middling skill," became "a promising Beggar Sect disciple, already an O-knot leader at a young age."
With the standards lowered, everyone's evaluations rose.
And there was one man who profited the most from this relative gain—who suffered no deductions, only bonuses, even in this era of chaotic re-evaluation.
That man was Tang Mujin.
In front of him, Hyeongong grew very humble.
Rubbing his hands together, he approached.
"Mujin. This thing you left in Yangyang—unless it's something private or secret, I could go fetch it for you first."
"The head of the Taeui Sword Sect's head."
"...What?"
Hyeongong stared, trying to see if he was joking.
Tang Mujin's face remained calm.
"I warned him. He ignored it. Worse, he tried to use Wudang's strength to seize me. I must give him the price of ignoring my warning."
Hong Geolgae responded hesitantly.
"So you mean to kill him? But you weren't injured, you didn't even fight..."
Namgung, by contrast, seemed to find Mujin's resolve appropriate and simply nodded.
Hyeongong thought quickly.
I must stand by Mujin.
Even if I don't, the Taeui Sword Sect's master is worthless. If not for him, I wouldn't have been expelled from Wudang.
Would killing him cause trouble?
If discovered, yes—it would ruin my reputation. But if not discovered? Then it ends there.
With sharp calculation, Hyeongong spoke immediately:
"Good. I'll go to Yangyang and bring you the Taeui master's head. It won't take long—just wait comfortably."
"No. Such things I will never leave to others."
"True. My mistake."
That day, before nightfall, the group arrived in Yangyang.
They made camp at a distance from the Taeui Sword Sect and began to observe its surroundings.
***
Their plan was simple: they weren't going to annihilate the sect. As soon as the Taeui master appeared outside, they would seize him and exact his punishment.
But five days passed in Yangyang without a single sighting.
Evening fell, shadows deepened. Another day wasted, with nothing gained.
Tang Mujin frowned.
"If he left Wudang when we did, he should've reached Yangyang long before now. Where could he be?"
"Maybe he arrived first, but shut himself in and hasn't come out."
"Or maybe he never returned here at all."
Namgung offered:
"We're not going to wait here for months. Why not storm the sect itself? Search every corner—he'll turn up."
"That's too dangerous. Let's find another way."
Hyeongong's response was curt.
Not because he feared losing to Taeui's disciples or being captured—but because of his own reputation.
Namgung snorted.
"I know what you're worried about. With this, there's no need to be."
When Namgung Myeong flipped open his pack, several black outfits and masks spilled out.
"Why on earth are you carrying things like that around?"
"Important matters always happen in the dark."
The four of them donned the black garb, hid themselves in the night, and vaulted over the wall of the Taeui Sword Sect.
Since it was a sect established right in the middle of the city, many disciples lived in their own homes.
As a result, there weren't many presences sensed within the compound, and most of those seemed asleep.
"Let's end this quietly if possible. Be careful not to wake anyone."
Nods all around. The four split up and searched the Taeui grounds thoroughly. But nowhere was the sect master to be found.
"Looks like he never came back to Yangyang."
When Hyeongong spoke, Namgung Myeong nodded.
"Seems he guessed we might come for him. He never struck me as a fool."
All eyes turned to Tang Mujin.
"What will you do?"
Mujin thought it over.
No bloodshed. Only a vague killing intent. A sense of revenge that felt more like duty than passion.
And Elder Yeongbo's words came back to him.
In the end, Mujin sighed.
"What can we do if he sensed it and fled? We can't slaughter all the disciples of Taeui, and we can't linger in Yangyang forever. We'll just have to return. Let's go."
Just as they had slipped into the sect unseen, the four vaulted out again without leaving a trace.
***
At the same time—
Just as Tang Mujin had come to Yangyang seeking vengeance, another was racing to Chengdu, burning with the desire for vengeance against him: the Assassin Lord, Black Butterfly.
At his side were two more assassins, clad in black. On the way to Chengdu he had stopped by two regional branches of the guild, bringing their branch leaders with him.
At least men of the branch-leader level, being first-rate, could handle themselves. Anyone below that would only be baggage, so he hadn't bothered bringing them.
The three crouched atop the roofs of houses near the Tang Family Clinic, watching.
"That the place?"
"Yes. It's the only clinic in Chengdu run by someone with the surname Tang."
Indeed, it was just as he had heard: a plain, ordinary clinic. The faint bitter scent of herbs drifted from it.
Just then, the clinic door opened and a woman came out into the yard.
Even in the darkness, her pale skin stood out. After glancing around, she slipped into the storage room and came out hiding dried jujubes, smoked plums, and apricots in her skirt—midnight snacks to pass the long night.
She looked nothing like Tang Mujin, so she wasn't his sister. Being of similar age, she was likely his wife. Perfect as the first target.
Black Butterfly spoke.
"Kill everyone else. Leave that woman alive."
"You'll kill her anyway, won't you?"
"No. Killing them all would be boring. We'll cripple her, then give her a child."
The branch leaders, already stirred by her beauty, felt their hearts pound faster.
Just as the three assassins were about to move on the clinic, a man staggered out of the very house they stood upon and looked up.
"You three up there—what are you doing on my roof?"
The branch leaders couldn't gauge his martial level, but Black Butterfly did. The man had surpassed the wall of the pinnacle realm.
Damn. What rotten luck. What's a master of that level doing in a shabby place like this?
Black Butterfly could suppress him if he had to, but there would be noise. Too much risk of the plan collapsing.
Before the branch leaders could leap at the man, Black Butterfly ordered:
"Scatter."
Absolute obedience was the assassin's code. No one questioned it.
The three launched from the roof in different directions.
But the moment the two branch leaders landed, the doors of those houses flew open—and figures emerged.
In an instant, blades flashed upward to the rooftops. Blood sprayed in the dark, heads fell and rolled.
What—?
Three assassins had leapt. Only Black Butterfly landed safely.
To cut down first-rate assassins in one stroke—these foes were at least pinnacle experts.
Meaning: from three ordinary houses, three pinnacle masters had suddenly emerged. Even for a veteran like Black Butterfly, this was utterly unexpected.
And he knew well: when you encounter the inexplicable, the first rule is to retreat.
He glanced down. Fortunately, no one had emerged from the house he had landed upon. Even if a decent master appeared, they wouldn't be able to stop him.
Just as he bent his legs to leap away—
A huge gray hand burst up through the roof and clamped his left ankle.
What now—!
He kicked with full force, but the pull was stronger than his legs.
With a crash, his body was yanked down through the roof into the house.
Thud-crash—
As Black Butterfly rolled violently and tried to rise, thick fingers—each as wide as a child's wrist—pressed firmly against his forehead.
It was only a single finger. Yet he could not move.
The gray giant loomed over him and asked:
"And who the hell are you, climbing onto someone else's roof?"