39 — It Is No Big Deal. (4)

“Huh…”

The elder scholar let out a hollow, baffled laugh.

“Heh heh heh heh heh heh! Hahaha—! Well, well.”

The hollow laughter swelled into a boisterous guffaw.

“What do you mean, ‘what should we do for you’? Hey, young Taoist.”

The elder who’d been talking to Chung Myung shook his head as he spoke.

“Do you think we have more wishes at our age? Young Taoist, we’re just waiting to die. For us to…”

“In any case, those scholars—when they’re about to die, they still put on airs.”

“…What did you say?”

Chung Myung met the elder’s gaze and said.

“There are no people who get all their wishes fulfilled and then die.”

At that cold tone the elder fell silent; the anger about to burst was instantly suppressed—there was an unknowable weight to the speaker’s voice.

“They turn away and die because they know it’s impossible, as if they’d never wished for it in the first place.”

“…”

“Isn’t that right?”

The elder stared, his long years seeming to pierce through Chung Myung, meeting his eyes without flinching.

In the end, the one to look away first was the elder.

“I simply… I can’t understand.”

“…”

“He’s clearly just a young kid…”

A sigh escaped the elder—like a knife to the chest. After a long silence he turned to So Jung-Gyeong.

“I think I understand why you brought this fellow, teacher.”

So Jung-Gyeong, who had been watching, nodded silently.

“Then…”

For a moment, Baek Cheon felt a flicker of hope as the tension oddly eased.

“You’re right. There are no people who achieve everything and then die.”

“…”

“We’re the same: there are always things left undone. We turned away, thinking it impossible.”

The elder regarded Chung Myung with subdued eyes.

“If you could truly fulfill our wish, breaking a rule once wouldn’t matter. The question is whether you actually have the power to grant it.”

Chung Myung lifted his chin slightly.

“So?”

“We’ll test you—to see if you’re as remarkable as you claim. Pass, and we’ll tell you our real wish; fail…”

Killing intent crept into the elder’s eyes—not the crude hostility of warriors, but a lethal aura from those who wield influence rather than swords, who use words like blades.

“You will pay for that arrogance. By any means necessary, we will hold you responsible for all of this. You, the teacher who brought you here, and your sect as well.”

“Ugh, these old men talk too much. After all, they weren’t even born a hundred years ago.”

The elder made a deflating noise—astonished to the point he couldn’t even be angry.

Chung Myung remained nonchalant; he’d lived too wildly to be cowed by such threats.

“It’s a bother to indulge such ridiculousness, but oh well, can’t be helped.”

He crossed his arms and nodded.

“Do it. A test or whatever.”

“…”

“For those who only believe what they see, we must show them. When—now, or after a night’s sleep?”

“…Follow me.”

The elder scholars who had been staring at Chung Myung rose from their benches and began to walk ahead.

Baek Cheon exhaled in relief and grabbed Chung Myung’s head, shaking it.

“You crazy bastard! What on earth are you doing!”

“Ow! That hurts!”

“What if we fail the test! It doesn’t look like something we can handle on our own!”

“What obvious nonsense are you spouting? If we pass, that’s the end of it.”

“Is that as easy as you say!”

“Good grief. You worry too much.”

Chung Myung clicked his tongue.

“Don’t worry. We’ll make the test reasonably passable.”

“How can you guarantee that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? If we just leave as we are, those people gain nothing.”

“…Huh?”

Baek Cheon flinched and stared at Chung Myung.

“They’d get nothing?”

“Yes.”

Chung Myung continued as if it were nothing.

“But what if we pass the test?”

“Well…”

“They’d at least get something. We’ll grant them one favor. What would sasuk do in a situation like this?”

“Uh…”

“Of course they’d pass us. Even if they make it difficult, they won’t be absurdly unfair. Who wants to take a loss? If a gourd rolls into your lap, you hold onto it.”

Baek Cheon stared blankly at Chung Myung, then turned to meet the eyes of Mount Hua’s disciples.

“So, uh… Am I the strange one? Somehow it kind of makes sense.”

“Well, is that for the first or second time he’s being like this?”

“At this point I don’t even know if it’s sophistry or not.”

“Even those old men might hear it and think, ‘That sounds plausible.’”

“…Right?”

Baek Cheon made a bubbling noise and scratched his head.

It’s clearly nonsense, but somehow the sort you can’t refute.

“That’s not the important part right now.”

Tang Soso, trailing the elders, turned to So Jung-Gyeong.

“Sir. Do you have any idea what kind of test they’re talking about?”

“Hmm. I have some guesses, yes.”

So Jung-Gyeong put on a deliberately troubled expression.

“If I told you now, it could compromise the test’s fairness. Besides, no need to give those irritable old men an excuse to pick on us.”

“Hmm. Now that you mention it, you’re right.”

Finding sense in it, Tang Soso nodded.

They didn’t have long to ponder—the two elder scholars ahead soon stopped, not far from the small cottage.

“Here?”

Mount Hua’s disciples all furrowed their brows at once.

Before them stood a massive hall, whose form seemed like…

“A martial sect?”

“Seems like it, right?”

“Indeed. Is this their main base?”

“No, that’s not it!”

At that, Jo Gul let out a sharp cry.

“What sect? It’s an academy! An academy!”

“Huh? An academy? It looks nothing like a sect to me either.”

A large main gate, long walls stretching left and right, and several halls rising irregularly beyond them—no matter how they looked, it felt familiar…

“Well, they’d be similar.”

“Why’s that?”

Jo Gul sounded as if it were obvious.

“Because their purpose is the same: a sect gathers buildings to teach disciples, an academy equips students to learn—their layouts naturally resemble each other.”

“Ah…”

Yoon Jong nodded.

“So it’s the same root—many roads lead to the same end.”

“I’m not sure if that’s the right place to use it here… but the meaning fits.”

“I see. An academy…”

Baek Cheon’s nod froze.

“But why an academy?”

“Who knows. They said a test—do they really intend to hold something like a civil service exam?”

“…Then we won’t pass, will we?”

“Are you serious right now?”

As the tense chatter dragged on, the elder scholars glared at them.

“This way.”

The Mount Hua disciples nodded and, with tense faces, headed into the academy.

They passed through a large gate into a wide plaza—like a great training ground surrounded by multiple halls.

“Oh…”

Strangely, it felt a bit like Mount Hua.

Old but well-maintained halls, and for such a scale, surprisingly few people.

But one decisive difference stood out.

“The sound of people reading…”

“Exactly.”

The disciples glanced around, bewildered; clear voices recited texts here and there.

“…Wow.”

“This is almost like music, isn’t it?”

Each recitation was soft, but dozens—hundreds—combined into an indescribable grandeur.

“No, rather than music… it’s more like mantras. Chung Myung is almost about to ascend, isn’t he?”

“…Why does this kind of sound exorcise him? I don’t understand.”

“Grr…”

“If anyone has any leftover alcohol, feed it to him. It’s better than letting him ascend.”

“…Yes, sasuk.”

As they supported the nearly collapsing Chung Myung, the elder who had led them spoke.

“I’m not sure how much the teacher heard, but people like you once called this place ‘The Confucian Grove.’”

“…We heard.”

The elder’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Indeed… personally I’m not fond of it, but even scholars should cultivate the strength to protect themselves.”

“Hmm…”

“However, nowadays it can no longer be described as mere existence.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ideas become voices, voices become writings, and writings inevitably gather people. To have a voice is, essentially, to form a scholastic lineage.”

“…”

“You’ll see soon enough. I’ll say this in advance: be careful.”

Just as Baek Cheon was about to speak again,

“Guests have arrived. Disciples, attend to the visitors.”

When the elder announced it, silence fell over the academy that had been filled with recitations.

Then.

“Footsteps…”

Bang. Bang.

The doors of the tightly shut halls burst open, and people in plain white study robes surged out like a tide.

“Eek…”

“Whoa.”

White garments with black-dyed sleeves and collars, topped with large ceremonial headpieces.

“…What is this? Hundreds of Green Forest Kings.”

Figures resembling Im So-Byeong swarmed like an army of ants, forming a ring around them.

Baek Cheon swallowed hard.

“The pressure…”

Watching hundreds in oddly formal attire straighten and stare at them at once, Baek Cheon felt an unprecedented pressure.

It wasn’t his first time; as a Mount Hua disciple he’d been surrounded like this countless times.

But the sensation now was clearly different. If previous pressure came from their numbers and strength, this pressure seemed to arise from ceremony and propriety.

“Sasuk, these people…”

“Yes. I felt it too.”

No—perhaps not only that.

He felt a subtle aura from them—without a hint of hostility.

“Is this the martial knowledge of the scholars?”

The martial artistry felt unlike any he’d known: not as explicit as Taoist arts, not as weighty as Buddhist techniques, nor as unrestrained as secular styles.

If he had to describe it, it was like a calm lake.

An aura like gazing into a bottomless lake—deep and unfathomable—and he knew instinctively that their martial skill was formidable.

And that unfamiliar shiver had not even subsided.

One scholar stepped forward slowly toward the Mount Hua disciples, who stood with their backs to the main gate, without a trace of hesitation.