The first thing Hong Cheon-gang noticed was that he wasn't cold.
This was wrong.
A proper beggar should wake up cold, hungry, and preferably with at least one body part numb from sleeping on cobblestones. These were the three pillars of a beggar's morning, as essential as breathing.
Instead, he was warm. Disgustingly, sinfully warm. Comfortable. And—he cracked open one eye in growing horror—lying on silk sheets.
The fabric felt like liquid against his skin, smooth and expensive. He could probably sell these sheets and feed a street full of beggars for a month.
"Young master, your morning bath is prepared."
Hong Cheon-gang's other eye snapped open.
A servant stood at the foot of his bed. A young man, maybe twenty years old, dressed in clean cotton robes with the Namgung family crest embroidered on the chest. He was bowing.
Hong Cheon-gang sat up so fast he nearly launched himself off the bed. The sudden movement made his head spin—this body was weak, untrained, soft from years of luxury. His hands shot out to steady himself, gripping the sheets, and that's when he saw them.
"What the hell happened to my beautiful, dirt-crusted hands?!"
They were soft. Uncalloused. The fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. Not a single scar, not a trace of the hard-won calluses from decades of staff training. These were the hands of someone who had never done a day's work in his life.
These were useless hands.
The servant blinked, clearly taken aback. "Young master, are you feeling unwell? Should I summon the physician?"
"Unwell? UNWELL?!" Hong Cheon-gang looked down at himself, and the horror only deepened. He was wearing sleeping robes. Silk sleeping robes. With embroidery. There was actual gold thread stitched into the collar. "I'm clean! I smell like flowers! There's not a single flea on me!"
"Young master, that's... that's generally considered a good thing—"
"Good?! GOOD?!" He started patting himself down frantically, checking his arms, his chest, his legs. "Where are my rags?! Where's my begging bowl?! What happened to my lucky patch—the one with the hole shaped like a duck?!"
"Your... begging bowl, young master?"
The servant's voice had taken on a distinctly worried edge now, the kind of tone people used when they were wondering if they should fetch someone with medical expertise. Or perhaps someone who specialized in restraining violent lunatics.
Hong Cheon-gang barely heard him. Memories were flooding his mind like a broken dam, cascading over each other in a chaotic rush. These weren't his memories—they belonged to someone else.
Namgung Jinhyuk.
He was Namgung Jinhyuk, seventeen years old, only son of Namgung Geosung, patriarch of the Namgung Merchant Guild. Heir to one of the Five Great Merchant Families. Born with a jade spoon in his mouth and never once had to wonder where his next meal would come from.
Rich. Pampered. Spoiled rotten.
Completely, utterly useless.
"Fuck."
"Young master!" The servant looked genuinely scandalized now.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Hong Cheon-gang—no, Namgung Jinhyuk now, he supposed—jumped out of bed. His feet hit the floor, but he wasn't prepared for how soft it would be. Carpets. Expensive carpets. His feet sank into them like he was walking on clouds.
He tripped.
His sleeping robes, which had enough fabric to make a tent for a small family, tangled around his legs. He stumbled, windmilling his arms, and crashed into a decorative vase on a side table. The vase wobbled precariously.
The servant lunged forward with impressive speed, catching the vase just before it fell. "Young master, please be careful! This vase is worth three hundred gold!"
"Three hundred—" Jinhyuk's voice came out as a strangled wheeze. "Three hundred gold for a VASE?!"
He could feed an entire beggar district for a year with that kind of money.
Ignoring the servant's protests, Jinhyuk stumbled to the window, yanking open the silk curtains (more silk, naturally) and looking outside.
The view took his breath away, but not in a good way.
A magnificent estate stretched before him, easily the size of a small village. Manicured gardens with flowers that served no practical purpose whatsoever. Ornamental ponds with actual fish in them—fish that could be eaten but instead were just swimming around looking pretty. Pavilions and courtyards and buildings constructed from expensive wood and decorated with enough gold leaf to forge a small army's worth of weapons.
And Servants everywhere. Sweeping paths that were already clean. Trimming bushes that were already perfect. Carrying things that probably didn't need to be carried.
It was obscene.
It was wasteful.
It was, Jinhyuk realized with mounting horror, his home now.
"No. No no no no no." He turned back to the bewildered servant, who was still clutching the expensive vase like his life depended on it. "Tell me the truth. Did I die and go to hell?"
"Young master, you're the heir to the Namgung Merchant Guild, one of the most prestigious—"
"That's what I said. Hell." Jinhyuk grabbed the servant by the shoulders, perhaps a bit too forcefully judging by the way the young man's eyes widened. "Listen carefully. I need you to do something for me."
"A-Anything, young master!"
"Throw me in the gutter."
Silence.
The servant stared at him. Jinhyuk stared back.
"...Excuse me?"
"The gutter," Jinhyuk repeated slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "You know, the drainage ditch where all the waste water goes. Preferably one with garbage in it. And some rats would be good."
He nodded seriously, like this was the most reasonable request in the world.
"I need to remember who I am."
The servant's face had gone from worried to pale. "Should I call the physician? Did you hit your head? Fall down the stairs? Eat something poisonous?"
"The only thing poisonous around here is this wealth." Jinhyuk released the servant and began pacing, his mind racing even as his weak body struggled to keep up. His legs felt like jelly. This body had probably never run more than ten steps in its entire life.
"Okay. Okay. Think, Hong Cheon-gang. You've been in worse situations. Remember the Three Year Famine? You survived that eating nothing but tree bark and optimism. Mostly tree bark. You can handle being rich."
He paused mid-step.
"Can I handle being rich?"
It was a genuine question. In his previous life—lives, actually, counting his time in heaven—he had faced demon lords, corrupt officials, natural disasters, and that one time a entire mountain had fallen on him. He'd survived it all through grit, determination, and an unwavering commitment to the principles of poverty.
But luxury? Comfort? Having more than he needed?
This was uncharted territory.
A soft knock at the door, and another servant entered. This one was older, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and the bearing of someone who had been with the family for years. She carried a tray, and the smell that wafted from it made Jinhyuk's stomach growl traitorously.
Food.
Not scraps or leftovers or the moldy buns that restaurants threw out at the end of the day. Fresh, hot, expensive food. Roasted duck glistening with glaze. Steamed buns so white and fluffy they looked like clouds. Exotic fruits he couldn't even name, arranged artfully on porcelain plates that probably cost more than the food itself.
His mouth watered.
No. No, no, no.
"Young master, your breakfast," the woman said warmly, setting the tray on a low table near the window. "Cook prepared your favorites. The duck is seasoned with—"
"Stop." Jinhyuk held up a hand, but his eyes were locked on the food. "Don't tell me what's in it. If I know what's in it, I'll want to eat it."
"But... that's the general idea of breakfast, young master."
"No! Body, don't betray me!" But his feet were already moving toward the table, drawn by a force stronger than his will. "We don't eat like this! We eat half-moldy buns and we're GRATEFUL for them! We—"
His hand reached out, seemingly of its own accord, and grabbed a steamed bun.
It was still warm. Soft. Perfectly seasoned with just a hint of sesame oil. The texture was like biting into a cloud made of happiness.
"...Maybe one bite won't hurt the revolution," he muttered weakly.
One bite became two. Two became three. Before he knew it, he was sitting at the table, duck grease on his chin, working his way through his third steamed bun while the servants watched in a mixture of relief and confusion.
"At least young master has an appetite," the older woman said softly to the younger servant. "He barely touched his dinner last night."
"He also asked me to throw him in a gutter."
"...I'll inform Master Namgung."
Jinhyuk barely heard them.
He was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with a piece of duck. It was so tender it fell apart in his mouth. The glaze was sweet and savory at the same time, with hints of spice that made his taste buds sing.
This was dangerous.
Because part of him—the part that was currently residing in Namgung Jinhyuk's spoiled, pampered body—was enjoying this. The comfort, the luxury, the not-having-to-wonder-where-his-next-meal-would-come-from-ness of it all.
It would be so easy to just... accept it. To sink into this life like he was sinking into these silk cushions. To forget about cold streets and empty stomachs and the harsh lessons of poverty that had forged him into the Beggar Immortal.
But he couldn't.
Because Hong Cheon-gang—the Beggar Immortal, founder of the Heavenly Beggar Sect, one of the Ten Heavenly Immortals before he'd gotten drunk and stolen the Jade Emperor's prized wine and been kicked out of heaven for his troubles—he founded an entire sect on the principle that understanding suffering created strength.
That true power came not from having everything, but from having nothing and thriving anyway.
That the beggar who could smile while his stomach was empty and his feet were frozen was stronger than any rich man who trembled at the thought of losing his wealth.
Jinhyuk swallowed the last bite of duck, wiped his chin with the back of his hand (the older servant winced), and stood up. His legs were steadier now, his mind clear.
He walked back to the window, looking past the estate walls to the city beyond. The capital of the Han Empire, stretching out in all directions. And there, in the distance, past the wealthy merchant districts and the noble's quarters, he could see the slums.
The poor districts where people struggled to survive.
Where beggars should have been.
But as he watched, something caught his eye. A group of men in ragged clothes, positioned at a street corner. At first glance, they looked like beggars. But Jinhyuk's trained eyes saw the truth.
They weren't begging.
They were watching.
A merchant walked past, and one of the "beggars" stepped forward. Words were exchanged. The merchant's face paled, and he handed over a coin purse. Too large to be charity.
Extortion.
Jinhyuk's hands clenched on the windowsill.
He focused, using a technique he'd perfected over two lifetimes, extending his senses beyond his body. And there, faint but unmistakable, he felt it.
Internal energy. Martial arts training. These weren't real beggars.
They were martial artists pretending to be beggars. Using the guise of poverty to prey on people.
And the way they moved, the signals they gave each other, the organization of it all—he recognized it. It was based on the formation techniques he'd created. The territorial control system he'd designed to help beggars protect each other, twisted into something ugly.
His disciples.
His sect.
The Heavenly Beggar Sect he'd founded to protect the poor and the weak had become something that exploited them instead.
Corrupted beyond recognition.
Hong Cheon-gang's eyes narrowed, and for just a moment, the Beggar Immortal showed through the rich young master's face. His aura flickered—weak in this body, barely a candle flame compared to the raging inferno he'd once commanded—but unmistakably real.
The servants took a step back without realizing why.
"So that's how it is," Jinhyuk murmured. "That's why I'm here."
His sect needed him. The beggars of this world needed him. And apparently, the universe in its infinite wisdom had decided that the best way to help them was to stick him in the body of a rich merchant's son.
The irony would have been hilarious if it wasn't so infuriating.
He turned to the servants, who were still hovering nervously by the door. "Listen up. I'm going out."
"But young master," the younger servant protested, "you have lessons this morning! Master Namgung specifically said—"
"Lessons?" Jinhyuk snorted. "The only lesson I need right now is how to get dirt under these annoyingly clean fingernails." He started pulling off his silk sleeping robes, much to the servants' alarm. "Find me the worst clothes in this entire estate."
"The... worst, young master?"
"Rags. Patches. Stains. I want to look like I lost a fight with a garbage heap and the garbage won." He grinned, and for a moment, something ancient and wild flickered in his eyes—something that had walked the line between mortal and immortal, something that had founded a sect in the gutters and raised it to heaven.
"The Beggar Immortal is back, baby. And I'm about to teach these fake-ass beggars what TRUE poverty looks like."
The servants exchanged worried glances.
"Should we tell Master Namgung his son has gone insane?" the younger one whispered.
"Definitely," the older woman whispered back. "But after we find him some clothes. The young master is currently half-naked."
Jinhyuk didn't hear them. He was already planning, his mind racing through possibilities. His sect had fallen. His way of life had been corrupted. His teachings had been twisted into oppression and exploitation.
Well, fine.
He'd rebuilt from nothing before. Started with just himself, a begging bowl, and an unshakeable belief that poverty could be a path to enlightenment.
Time to do it again.
Except this time, he had advantages. Money, for one thing. Resources. The backing of a powerful merchant family, even if they didn't know what they were backing yet.
He could work with this.
"But first," he muttered, turning back to the breakfast table and grabbing one more steamed bun, "I'm finishing these buns. Even revolutionaries need protein. Or carbs. Whatever buns have."
He bit into it, savoring the taste one last time.
Because if he was going to rebuild the Beggar Sect the right way, he'd need to remember what he was fighting for. And ironically, the best way to remember the value of poverty was to experience wealth and reject it.
The Jade Emperor had probably meant this reincarnation as a punishment—forcing the Beggar Immortal to live as a rich man.
Joke's on you, old man, Jinhyuk thought with a savage grin. I'm going to use this wealth to create an army of beggars who'll make my old sect look like amateurs.
Outside, in the distant slums, the corrupt beggars continued their extortion, completely unaware that their founder had returned.
And he was pissed.
[END CHAPTER 1]