To the East
Tang Mujin wished to examine the symptoms of those suffering from the plague, while Chusam couldn't shake from his mind the people who hadn't been given proper funerals.
But unless the patients left Guangdong, even if their symptoms subsided for a time, the plague was almost certain to return. That was the most frightening aspect of a plague.
Worse still, if they lingered too long in Guangdong to tend the patients, not only Chusam but even Dan Seol-yeong could contract the disease. Tang Mujin abandoned his regrets and decided to leave Guangdong.
The four headed north.
When they reached the outskirts of a refugee village on Guangdong's edge, quite a few people glared at Chusam, seeing him as a grave robber or thief.
Chusam had committed no crime, so he forced himself to stand tall. Yet the people seemed to resent even that defiance.
"Look at that fellow, lifting his chin so shamelessly."
"He looks like one bound for divine punishment. Who are the people walking with him?"
"Must be his gang."
Not long after, Chusam whispered to Tang Mujin.
"It would be better if I walked some distance away."
Since Chusam had decided to treat Tang Mujin as his master, he spoke respectfully despite their age difference.
"If it's just because of their stares, pay them no mind."
"It feels like I'm causing trouble. It weighs on me."
"As long as your conscience is clear, that's enough."
Tang Mujin carried himself with even more dignity. After all, what could those people do beyond glare?
Yet among those glaring, there were some with shady connections.
***
Once they left Guangdong Province, few recognized Chusam, and at last the four could move with ease.
Just as the eccentric physician had once taught him, Tang Mujin now began to instruct Chusam in medicine.
Tang Mujin asked about a simple passage from Shanghanlun.
"Inhoganjoja, bulgabalhan . What do you think this means?"
"It means, 'One whose throat is dry must not be induced to sweat,'" Chusam replied confidently.
He hadn't fully understood the medical texts, but had memorized them word for word. This line was short and contained no difficult characters.
"If you read only the words, yes. But what about the meaning? Why does a dry throat mean sweat cannot be induced?"
"That isn't written, is it?"
"Not directly. But that doesn't mean there's no meaning beyond the words."
"Then what does it mean?"
"A dry throat means the body has already been scorched by invading external evil, or that conflicting activity of the stomach has produced heat, which accumulates and damages the fluids. If you force sweating in this state, those vital fluids will be depleted further. That's why the body cannot sweat."
Hearing this, Chusam looked flustered. The gap between his shallow understanding and Tang Mujin's explanation was vast.
Tang Mujin continued.
"A medical text is interwoven with other texts like a spiderweb. You cannot understand it by reading literally."
"…It seems I have much to learn."
"You'll even dream of study."
Tang Mujin had resolved to honor the eccentric physician's will by spreading medical knowledge far and wide.
At first glance, copying and distributing the texts seemed best. But that was not wise.
Medical texts carried immense meaning between the lines. If someone with shallow knowledge learned only a book or two and tried to treat patients, they would misinterpret the words and worsen the illness—just as the saying goes: a half-learned shaman kills the sick.
Thus Tang Mujin's idea was to increase the number of trained physicians, one by one.
Tang Mujin would teach Chusam, Chusam would take disciples, and those disciples in turn would pass on the art. By then, far fewer people in the Central Plains would suffer from illness.
Chusam agreed in principle, though his expression was troubled. It was hard enough just to receive Tang Mujin's teachings—how could he imagine passing them on?
***
Five days passed after they entered Hunan.
Unlike the rushed journey to Guangdong, their return was more leisurely.
Chusam studied medicine while walking, and Dan Seol-yeong learned simple self-defense and movement techniques from Namgung Myeong. She had no great talent, but once learned, such skills would always be useful.
Their pace was not fast, and with the southern villages sparse, nights of camping outdoors were inevitable. Tonight was such a night.
They lay down on soft earth with scattered grass and fell asleep.
Just before dawn, three figures stood on a nearby hill, gazing at them. In the moonlight, the faint outline of black-butterfly tattoos showed. They were assassins of Salmak.
It had been nearly a year since Salmak lost the eccentric physician's trail.
They couldn't stay hidden forever, and now had to resume activity. They had only been cautious, fearing the eccentric might suddenly appear again.
Then came reports that the eccentric had surfaced. More than one, in fact, all pointing the same way. So three assassins were dispatched.
Their mission was not to kill him. Five master assassins had once attacked together and been annihilated—what could three first-rate killers do?
Their task was simply to verify if the reports were true.
Whether Salmak would avoid or target the eccentric again was undecided—and not for them to decide.
Since all they needed was confirmation, only one needed to approach. The other two would stay back and watch.
The leader of the three spoke.
"Wait as far back as possible. Far enough that if I'm discovered, you can still escape alive."
"Understood."
They exchanged glances. As seasoned assassins, little more needed saying.
The leader crept closer. The night was dark, and faces were hard to distinguish. At about twenty paces, the pale moonlight let him glimpse them: three young men and women, and one older man with graying sideburns, resembling the eccentric.
'Eccentric Lee Chung? No… someone else.'
He recognized quickly that it was not the eccentric. The eccentric was a famous figure, and he had seen him long ago.
'Seems there was confusion in the reports. But since multiple people all reported the same, this man must have been deliberately impersonating him.'
Now the assassin had two choices: withdraw quietly, or eliminate the imposter.
Most would choose the first. But this was different.
The eccentric's trail was Salmak's top concern, and this man was faking him. Leaving him alive would only create more false reports and confusion.
'Dying for running his mouth—hardly unjust.'
He crept toward Chusam, silent as a shadow.
Just as he crouched and raised his dagger to Chusam's throat, a young man's voice spoke at his ear.
"So that's why the stench grew so heavy. A night guest, eh?"
Startled, the assassin spun around. The young man who had been asleep moments ago stood right behind him.
He had trained with killers long enough never to miss another's presence—but this time he had been caught with no warning. Cold sweat ran down his spine.
Unthinking, he asked:
"How did you notice me?"
"I told you. By the smell."
"What smell?"
"The sour reek unique to first-rates."
Namgung Myeong slowly stretched out his arm. In his hand gleamed a dagger, disturbingly familiar.
The assassin frantically searched his chest, arms, waist, thighs—every hidden spot where he kept blades. But not a single dagger remained.
'Where in the world did all my daggers go?'
The startled assassin had a dagger driven straight into his brow. As he collapsed, his fading eyes caught sight of the five daggers clenched in Namgung Myeong's left hand.
'…When in the world did he—?'
With that unanswered question, the assassin fell and died.
Thud. The dull sound of the body hitting the ground stirred Tang Mujin awake.
"What's all this noise in the middle of—huh?"
He saw the dark-clad man collapse with a blade jutting from his forehead.
Namgung Myeong didn't realize it, but that sight was eerily similar to the eccentric physician's final moment. Tang Mujin's chest dropped with a sickening lurch, and then an all-consuming fury flared up.
Barely restraining himself, he turned his head.
When encountering Salmak assassins, the first priority was always the scouts.
Tang Mujin sprang to his feet and scanned the surroundings. In the distance he spotted faint outlines—two scouts, positioned far apart, with plenty of ground between them and his party.
He shot forward like an arrow, shouting to Namgung Myeong:
"Take the one on the left!"
The shout woke Dan Seol-yeong and Chusam.
They saw Tang Mujin charging like an enraged bull, while Namgung Myeong melted silently into the darkness.
***
By the time dawn began to break faintly, Tang Mujin trudged back, shoulders heavy.
Now there were two corpses before the group. Namgung Myeong had slain the fleeing scout, but Tang Mujin's hands were empty—without even a drop of blood. He had failed to catch his target.
Namgung Myeong nodded calmly.
"It happens. You're only first-rate."
The words stung, but Tang Mujin admitted Namgung had the right to be smug—he had brought back a kill.
Taking a deep breath to smother his anger, Tang Mujin said:
"My movement skill was faster. If he hadn't fled into the woods, I'd have caught him."
"I get it. For a first-rate, you did well."
Tang Mujin shot a sharp palm strike at him, but Namgung Myeong smoothly deflected it with a golden-hand technique.
Though his chest still felt heavy, Namgung's nonsense oddly eased his mood. Scowling wouldn't solve anything.
Tang Mujin spat to the side and sorted his thoughts.
Now that Salmak assassins were on them, they needed a strategy—fast.
And only he and Namgung Myeong knew that the eccentric physician had been killed by Salmak. The decision was theirs alone.
Namgung suggested, "Since they're on our tail, we should hurry back to Sichuan."
But Tang Mujin shook his head. Though still unsettled, the turmoil helped him think clearly.
"No. Going to Sichuan now isn't wise."
"Why not?"
"Because we've never run into them in Sichuan. I thought it was because they didn't know my face or identity."
"You mean there was another reason?"
"Yes. I was never their target to begin with."
Namgung Myeong paused—then realized.
The one who had joined them only recently. The one who drew stares. The one the assassin had tried to kill. Chusam.
'Could Chusam have earned such deep hatred from assassins?'
Maybe—many disliked him. But enough to draw three first-rate killers?
No.
The thought struck: it wasn't about Chusam's past—it was about him impersonating the eccentric physician.
Namgung murmured, "So Salmak's grudge with the eccentric isn't over after all."
"Looks that way. I've been misreading the whole situation."
Chusam didn't know all the details, but he understood one thing—the assassins were after him.
His hands trembled. He was the most endangered. And the simplest way for Tang Mujin's party to survive was to abandon him.
Until now, Chusam had thought dying after doing his part would be enough. But lately, he had found a dream—becoming a respectable physician, tending to people, making a name for himself.
And he had even grasped the lifeline that could make that dream real. He didn't want to die.
Tang Mujin glanced at him and said flatly, "We won't abandon you. So don't worry."
Namgung asked, "Then what now?"
"Sichuan's too far, and others could get dragged in. Let's head somewhere we have allies."
"Where to?"
Tang Mujin rose and declared, "East."
Namgung's face tightened. His clan, the Namgung family, was in the east.
Something about it felt ominous.
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