'…Huh?'
"What's wrong, miss? Don't like alcohol?" His voice cut through the haze, laced with that easy amusement, as if my distraction was just another ripple in the evening's flow.
"No, it's not that… uh…" I blinked, the tavern's clamor crashing back over me like a wave—the low rumble of dice games, the sharp tang of spilled ale, the laughter of off-duty laborers weaving through the smoke. We'd slipped inside without me fully registering the threshold, and now here I was, perched on a worn bench in this den of Shaanxi's finest swills.
It wasn't that I despised the stuff. Far from it—I could savor a cup or two in measured sips, letting the warmth uncoil like a secret shared. But solitude and company? They painted drinking in strokes worlds apart. Alone, it was a quiet unraveling; with another—especially a man whose shadows hid more than they revealed—it whispered of intimacies I hadn't signed up for.
How long have we even known each other?!
Regret prickled at me like a poorly aimed needle. I shouldn't have yielded so readily to Namgung Jin's proxy plea, letting this veiled stranger tug me along on a whim. A few honeyed words, and he'd reeled me into a tavern's glow—what, had he charmed half the rivers before this?
…What do I do?
In my usual skin, this tangle never would have snared me. I'd have sidestepped with a laugh or a steel-edged quip, leaving no room for missteps. Against anyone else? A firm no would have sealed it, clean as a dagger's kiss. But him? Rejection here risked more than bruised egos. A harsh rebuff could fracture the fragile bridge we'd started building—he was still rooting in unfamiliar soil, debts piling like unspoken vows. It might not erupt into fury overnight, but why court thorns when his gifts dangled so temptingly close?
That foresight of his... it was a siren's call, too potent to dismiss.
If only I could confirm it's true prophecy…
Certainty would shatter my hesitations like fragile jade. I'd dive headlong into the fray, weaving him into the Tang Clan's tapestry as a prized son-in-law, no qualms spared. Sure, I stood among my generation's brightest flames—a first-rate martial artist, teetering on the peak's edge—but at my years, "genius" rang hollow without the clan's immediate bite. Prophecy? That was alchemy turned to gold. Its worth eclipsed even transcendent masters in the now and forever, a blade that cut through veils no sword could touch.
Ughhh…
The storm of maybes churned within, a whirlwind of gambles and gains, until one anchor steadied me amid the froth.
"Miss? Not drinking?" He nudged the clay jug my way, his posture loose, unhurried. "This spot's the whisper of Shaanxi's top sots—the liquor's divine, on my hidden honor."
He'd already conquered a full bottle solo, the empty vessel lolling like a fallen soldier on the scarred table.
…This guy.
Now that my gaze sharpened, the truth gleamed plain: his attention hadn't strayed my way at all. From the moment we'd crossed the threshold, his focus locked on the amber tide, not the woman beside him. A drunkard's north star, unwavering.
"…Hey, why'd you drag us here, anyway?"
"Huh? Tavern. Drink. Obvious, no?" He blinked—or at least, the tilt of his cowl suggested it—genuine bafflement threading his tone.
"Oh… right…"
I'd caught tales of the breed before: souls for whom liquor eclipsed all else, a fire that burned brighter than kin or coin. Apparently, this fortune teller wore the mantle true.
"You like alcohol that much?"
"Lately? It's the spark that reminds me I'm breathing."
Even veiled, sincerity bled through his words, raw and unguarded—a rare crack in the enigma.
"…The Tang Clan brews some legendary vintages, you know."
It wasn't idle chatter. Our clan's liquors carried renown on merchant tongues and poet's scrolls. In chasing venom's secrets, we'd birthed byproducts that hooked the palate fierce—smooth fires laced with subtle bite. Whispers even joked that poisons were mere cover for our true calling: the still and the cask.
"…How do I get my hands on some?"
"Well… if you became part of the Tang Clan, we might gift a few bottles as welcome—call it a joining toast…"
"How do I do that? Sign a contract? Blood oath?"
I'd lobbed it light as a feather, a half-jest to test the waters, but his lean-in was all earnest hunger, no trace of jest.
Then it clicked.
Oh, right. He said he came from the mountains.
He grasped the broad strokes—the Nine Great Sects, the Five Great Families' loom of power—but the world's finer filigree? It slipped past him like mist. An outsider's map, sketched in broad, innocent lines.
This was an opportunity.
I could nudge him toward the clan while his ignorance lingered, a gentle current steering the unwary ship—
"…Kidding. We peddle some beyond the gates too. I'll snag you a bottle later."
"Really?"
"I'll tally it as debt. When the scales tip my way, I'll call it in—be ready."
"Of course!"
Better the honeyed path than a snare's snap. We'd cross paths often in the days ahead, and if fortune favored, these layered favors could forge chains strong as clan law—binding him legal and loyal someday. Not impossible; just patient as poison's brew.
"Oh, so how's the liquor? Tasty, right?"
"Well… the taste…"
No emperor's nectar, this—nothing to inspire odes or duels—but in its humble way—
"It's decently good."
"Glad you like it."
The true savor lay in the air between us: the tavern's pulse syncing with our traded words, a fragile ease blooming unbidden.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours when memories uncoil like smoke, I wonder.
What if I'd pressed the advantage then, in that haze of jug and jest? What if I'd pried loose his secrets sooner—learned of the tether pulling him home in three years' span? Could I have spun a different weave, one less frayed at the edges?
"Urghhh…!"
"I told you to listen."
I was a knot of limbs in Tang Ayeon's grasp, every twist met with unyielding precision. The first lesson in joint-locking: less a tutorial, more a humbling siege.
"You can't just think joint-locking is all about the hands—that's a mistake," she murmured, her breath warm against my ear as she adjusted the hold. "You have to pay attention to every joint in your body, your legs included, to call it proper joint-locking."
My bullheadedness bore the brunt of this tangle. Insisting on practicing cloaked had been greed's folly—a veil for my secrets, but a sailor's curse in motion. The fabric billowed like a traitor, snagging holds and tangling steps, turning every feint into a fumble. Sure, the chasm in our skills yawned wide as a ravine, but this? Pinned and planted face-down before the basics even whispered? It grated like salt in a fresh wound.
"Alright, I'll take it off. This just isn't working."
Pride be damned; I swallowed it whole this time. She'd carved time from her whirlwind days for this—squandering it on half-hearted flails would dishonor her effort.
"…You're taking it off?"
"Yeah. Wait a sec—I'll go change."
I left her blinking in faint daze and slipped through the shop's side door. No true changing nook, but it sufficed—a cramped alcove stacked with forgotten ledgers and dust-kissed relics.
Rustle.
It's been a while since I last took it off.
The cloak peeled away like a shed skin, heavy with the weight of secrets and stares averted. In its absence, the air felt raw against my scars, and then—
A translucent window flickered to life before my eyes, crisp as frost on glass.
[Hermit's Cloak]
The hermit 'Hermit,' whose past remains unknown to all. One of the heroes who played a major role in the war against the undying with his elusive movements. It's said that no one ever saw his true form until he finally returned to the goddess's embrace amidst those who lost death.
The sole inheritance from my plunge into this cursed realm.
The shop window.
Not some grand status ledger, no—more a merchant's ledger etched in ether, practical in its quiet way. One thread of hope stitching me through this forge of blood and blades. Without it? The flame might've guttered out long ago, leaving ash where will once burned.
It took a hell of a long time.
Points fueled its wares—elusive currency, doled in drips.
This cloak? A king's ransom at 2,000.
Don't bother prying at the why of it—a martial world's veins laced with a shop pane, English blooming amid Hanzi script. Pointless riddles. If we're splitting hairs, the whole transmigration gig defies unraveling from the start.
For the record, points trickle from two veins alone:
Time's slow bleed: one per dawn.
Or coin's gleam: one gold equals one spark.
A decade in those forsaken peaks, gold untouched like a monk's vow, meant I clawed this prize from the first—2,000 days, a hair shy of six years' grind.
There's a reason I cling to the veil like breath itself.