Chapter Text
To Sahyeong Sect Leader,
My last letter seems to have arrived a little late, didn’t it? Stop nagging. The fact that I’m even willing to put pen to paper is already a miracle. After all, I’m older now than you ever were back then.
Years have passed since that war. I couldn’t be bothered to count—maybe a century already?
The world’s mostly recovered, I suppose. The only thing that hasn’t changed is those brats from the Ten Great Sects—they still get on my nerves, but… this isn’t my era anymore. I’ll just turn a blind eye and let these old bones rest.
Speaking of this, do you remember that guy who claimed the Cheon Ma would return after a hundred years? I’ve waited well past that, and nothing ever came. That—
(ink smeared)
He’d better never show up.
Those youngsters have been stirring up trouble again lately. Annoying, as always. But whatever. It won’t concern me for much longer.
How old am I now? Two hundred years? Two hundred and fifty? I’ve lost count. I spent too much time dragging those little whelps back onto their feet to keep track.
The Baek generation is recruiting again—the next batch in the sect’s naming order. Back then the kids kept shouting about early recruitment. Now, they’ve only just reached their second round. I doubt anyone’s done this before.
Bad things never die. If that’s the case, I probably won’t make it to the Celestial Realm even after I’m dead.
Don’t just sit up there laughing at me, Sahyeong Sect Leader. If you’ve got the time, bring those useless brats of yours into my dreams. I’m getting moldy down here.
Enough. In another ten years, I’ll write again.
If I’m still alive.
－
For Dongryong, this was perhaps the most reckless act of his short ten years—a moment he would look back on as the turning point of his life.
Whether it was driven by the fragments of a hazy dream or the lingering sting of a quarrel with his brother, the result was the same: Dongryong had resolutely turned his back on the Jin family. To any outsider, it was madness. As the son of a Zhongnan elder—even if only a concubine's son—leaving his sect was scandalous enough; choosing to join their archrivals, the Mount Hua Sect, was practically a death wish.
But Dongryong was ready. He didn’t fully understand his own obsession with Mount Hua, but he had steeled his heart. He would kneel, he would endure their curses, he would cling to their gates even if they drove him away, until they had no choice but to take him in.
Yet, reality had a far more chaotic twist in store for him.
Before he could even set foot through the main gates of Mount Hua, he encountered the man.
The Plum Blossom Sword Saint.
It was a name even a child raised in the Zhongnan Sect knew—a name spoken in reverence, in whispers, in awe.
The man who had cut down the Heavenly Demon a hundred years ago.
The number one under heaven.
The living legend of Mount Hua.
A true immortal walking the mortal world.
Or so the stories said.
No one could help but worship such a being.
That was, until Dongryong—no.
Until the boy now called Baek Cheon saw him with his own eyes, seated at the center of the great hall.
The man wore a faded green robe, the collar carelessly loosened, a sheathless longsword hanging at his waist. His hair was white as snow, yet his features were young—a handsome face of perhaps thirty. His left sleeve billowed empty in the wind, yet there was no sense of frailty in it. If anything, it made his presence colder, more untouchable.
This was the Plum Blossom Sword Saint of Mount Hua—Cheong Myeong.
His seniority was so high it was impossible to calculate; even calling him “Great-Great-Grand-Ancestor” felt oddly irreverent. Surrounded by the Sect Leader and elders, the hall should have been solemn.
And the moment he opened his mouth, all dignity shattered.
“So what’s the big deal about taking in one kid?”
“…”
The current Sect Leader, Hyun Jong, pressed his fingers to his temple.
Master… of all people, why me?
He tried to reason with the ancestor. “Grand Elder, this is far too sudden—”
“Sudden?”
Cheong Myeong arched a brow and craned his neck toward the ceiling, raising his voice.
“Brother Jangmun, open your eyes and look! You used to call me trouble—look at these useless brats now. I want one kid, and suddenly it’s rules, rules, rules. So who’s the elder here, huh?
Two hundred years! And I’m still getting lectured by my own disciples! What a miserable life—”
Somehow, on that absurdly young face, every “elder” and “disciples” sounded perfectly sincere.
Baek Cheon quietly covered his mouth, watching the adults’ expressions twitch.
Hyun Jong sighed, “Grand Elder…please stop mocking us…”
“Mocking?” Cheong Myeong scoffed. “ Back then, people begged me to teach them. I worked myself to death for a century to drag this broken sect back onto its feet, thinking I could pass on my skills and finally rest. And now? A bunch of people who can’t learn treating me like a decoration. So what, my job now is just to trot down the mountain every few days and show my face? How did my life come to this?”
Hyun Jong fell silent. He glanced at his fellows, only to find them averting their gazes, either counting plum blossoms outside, studying the floor, anywhere but here.
Hyun Jong had swallowed enough longevity pills over the years to extend his life—yet today, it felt like every extra year was being collected with interest, right behind his ribs.
With a sigh, Hyun Jong looked toward the center of the storm.
The moment their eyes met, Baek Cheon instinctively clutched his small cloth bundle—and the two "mud pills" he’d just received from Cheong Myeong as a welcome gift—to his chest, cowering like a rabbit in a wolf’s den.
Baek Cheon tried his best to keep calm, but it was hard. He knew that martial arts built muscle, but this... this was absurd. Beneath those Taoist robes were bodies of coiled muscle. Even his father, an elder of Zhongnan who had trained for decades, would look like a frail, scrawny beanstalk next to these Mount Hua men. Baek Cheon recalled a whispered rumor from back home: “Mount Hua is nothing but a pack of mad mountain bandits in Taoist robes.” He’d thought it was slander back then. Now… maybe not entirely.
It was too much for a ten-year-old to process. One moment, he was a runaway at the gates; the next, he had been intercepted by a living legend, drafted into the sect, forcibly renamed, and handed two dubious mud pills. Now, he was caught in the crossfire of a standoff between the sect’s greatest ancestor and its entire leadership. His young mind was simply pushed to its limit.
Despite the storm of frantic thoughts racing through his head, Baek Cheon knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He took a deep breath and tried to puff out his small chest, but the sheer physical pressure of the hulking figures surrounding him made his knees buckle. He could do nothing but tremble in the shadows cast by that impenetrable wall of men.
Seeing the child’s desperate attempt to stand tall while shaking like a leaf in the wind, Hyun Jong remained blissfully unaware that his sect's collective physique had just traumatized the boy. He simply did his best to squeeze out his most fatherly, gentle voice.
“Child, don’t be nervous. We’re not rejecting you, it’s just—”
“Enough, enough. Stop preaching,” Cheong Myeong cut in lazily. “The kid climbed to our doorstep himself. Are you really going to kick him back down the mountain? When did Mount Hua become so pathetic that we’re afraid to take in a child?”
Hyun Shang couldn’t help but ask, “Grand Elder… why are you so insistent on him?”
“Oh.” Cheong Myeong nodded solemnly. “Good instincts. Fate.”
The sincerity only made Hyun Jong’s headache spike.
Cheong Myeong reached out, grabbed Baek Cheon, and hauled the kid forward. The child stumbled before his face was tilted up.
“Look at this face. Mount Hua won’t lose out,” Cheong Myeong said, pinching Baek Cheon’s cheek without the slightest care. “See? A nice, clean-faced kid. When he grows up and smiles, he’ll lure—ahem—attract plenty of disciples. A living signboard.”
The hall went dead silent.
A collective twitch ran through the elders' faces, as if a thousand protests were fighting to claw their way out. In the end, they could only bow their heads in silent defeat.
——After all, what was there left to say? He was the Ancestor.
Hyun Jong’s mouth twitched. If this ever got out, Mount Hua’s name would be buried under snow centuries.
And wasn’t Cheong Myeong himself already the biggest signboard Mount Hua could possibly have?
Hyun Young cleared his throat, gesturing toward the boy’s bag. “Grand Elder, the pattern shows that he’s the son of a Zhongnan elder, so—”
“Wow, even better!” Cheong Myeong’s eyes lit up. “The kid is smart enough to choose the right sect, isn't he? In a few years at the Huazhong Contest, let him take the stage and knock those Zhongnan bastards’ crowns clean off. Now that’s what I call victory.”
Everyone fell silent.
“Speaking of Zhongnan…” Cheong Myeong drawled, squinting with a dangerous smile. “Didn’t a few of you lose rather badly last time? Hmm?”
This time, no one answered.
Cheong Myeong waved a hand, bringing the matter to a close. “Ok, that's it. Oh, remember to put his name in the Baek generation as the eldest, not the one under me. I know you’ll have to invent new ranks if he’s my direct disciple. I’m being considerate.”
“You call this considerate…?”
Ignoring the mutter, Cheong Myeong hoisted Baek Cheon. “Now go back to whatever you were doing. I’m taking the kid up the mountain now. Training starts.”
“Huh?! W-wait! I haven’t—”
The child’s eyes widened, like a helpless rabbit snatched by a wolf.
No one moved. No one dared.
Cheong Myeong carried Baek Cheon away from the great hall, leaving behind a room full of conflicted expressions.
“Well… it does seem like they really hit it off.”
“The Ancestor finally has an interest other than drinking and eating meat. And being chosen by him… that should count as a good thing, right?”
Someone said it quietly. Almost hopefully.
“…But is falling into the Ancestor’s hands really a blessing?”
The hall fell into a deathly silence again.
For anyone in Mount Hua who had once been subjected—fairly and without exception—to Cheong Myeong’s training before taking a master, that was a question with no easy answer.
The “victim” being pitied by the core of Mount Hua now stood frozen before a towering cliff, its sheer face rising as though it meant to pierce the heavens.
“Now, climb.”
Cheong Myeong jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“C-Climb?”
“Don’t stutter. Get up there.” Cheong Myeong flicked him a glance. “This is the beginner course at Mount Hua,” he added, like that explained everything.
The mountain mist curled around Cheong Myeong’s robes. Baek Cheon shivered, looking even more like prey that had wandered into a trap.
He really is a lunatic…
The sky was a dull gray, cold wind whistling through the narrow crevices of the cliff. Baek Cheon pressed himself against the rock face, his legs trembling. Ahead of him, Cheong Myeong walked as if the ground were flat.
The lower path could still, with some imagination, be called a trail. But as they climbed higher, even the footholds vanished. Baek Cheon watched in disbelief as the man, seemingly bored with the slow pace, braced himself against a ledge and vaulted upward. He was as light as a feather, leaping onto a rocky outcrop an entire head taller than himself in a single, fluid motion.
Baek Cheon instinctively reached forward, but the moment he felt the void beneath his feet, he recoiled, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
“I—I can’t… There’s no path here!”
“Huh?” Cheong Myeong glanced back, clicking his tongue. “What do you mean, no path? The whole mountain’s a path.”
I can’t do that!
The ten-year-old puffball looked up miserably, only to see the man withdraw his only hand and tuck it casually into his belt. Balancing on his toes, Cheong Myeong glided across the cliffside as if he weighed nothing at all.
His empty sleeve whipped violently in the freezing wind, yet he had the leisure to turn his head and let out a long yawn toward the sea of clouds.
Baek Cheon’s face flushed hot. Fear drained away, replaced by humiliation sharp enough to sting. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his hand into a crack in the rock.
He had trained with a wooden sword in Zhongnan, but his small hands were far from calloused. As he heaved himself upward, a sharp edge of stone sliced through his palm. Stinging pain radiated through his hand as blood began to seep. He took a sharp breath, his lungs filled with cold wind and the metallic taste of blood.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
But if I can’t even do this...
His father’s cold silhouette flickered through his mind, followed by his elder brother’s mocking sneers.
If I fail… will he—will he also…
The wind grew more violent. The thin frost on the rocks thawed under the heat of Baek Cheon's palms, but the melting snow only cruelly drained the last bit of warmth from his fingers. Numbness began to crawl up his fingers, turning them into clumsy blocks of ice, but he no longer cared. He didn't even dare to look down. He reached out blindly, his arms moving on autopilot, clawing at the stone like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.
Then, his frozen toes finally gave way. A loose rock crumbled, and his body plummeted into a sudden, sickening weightlessness.
The boy couldn't even find his voice to scream. He simply squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the end.
But the expected impact never came. Instead, he felt himself caught by something firm and steady.
Baek Cheon opened his eyes dazed.
Cheong Myeong had doubled back at some point. His lone right hand was hooked effortlessly onto a jagged rock, while his leg was braced firmly behind Baek Cheon’s back, physically pinning the sliding child against the safety of the cliff face.
“That’s it? You’re already scraped up?”
The man looked the kid's over—tearful eyes, bloody hands—then frowned, as if reconsidering, and sighed.
“Fine. Let’s stop fo—”
“No!”
Baek Cheon suddenly shouted, shaking his head violently. “I, I can!”
Cheong Myeong blinked.
Baek Cheon bit his lower lip hard. Though the voice was trembling, a stubborn, fierce fire flickered in his eyes.
Cheong Myeong stared at those small, reddened fingers a while, and looked back to the boy's eyes.
The man remained silent for a long time before finally averting his gaze, then let out a sharp, quiet click of his tongue, muttering under his breath.
“…Tsk, too fast.”
The pressure at Baek Cheon’s back vanished. A faint smirk tugged at Cheong Myeong’s lips. “Fine. Keep going.”
Baek Cheon inhaled deeply. He stared at the rock for a long moment before moving again.
Gravel skittered past him now and then, making him stiffen, but strangely, his mind grew clearer with each step.
He knew the man was watching him.
That silent presence steadied the terror in his chest.
Halfway up, Baek Cheon heard a voice.
“Open your mouth.”
“Huh?”
“I said, open up.”
Something was flicked into his mouth. Baek Cheon bit down instinctively. The sweetness melted on his tongue with a delicate plum tartness, cutting through the metallic taste of blood in his throat.
“You need energy to train,” Cheong Myeong said casually. “Eat and climb. Stop acting half-dead.”
Baek Cheon couldn't say a word.
His heart pounding wildly. He lowered his head, not daring to look, and pushed himself upward with everything he had.
Cheong Myeong followed alongside him with casual ease, shifting his footing now and then, crushing loose pebbles under his boot, but he did not pass the kid.
Baek Cheon, in comparison, moved like a burrowing beast, breath fogging in short bursts as he clawed his way up inch by inch.
At last—
The final stretch.
Baek Cheon squeezed out the last drop of strength in his body. His fingers dug into the dirt at the cliff's edge as he hauled himself over the rim. The next moment, he collapsed face-first onto the ground, gasping for lungfuls of the icy air. On the tip of his tongue, the residual sweetness of the plum mingled with the iron-tang of blood and the salt of his own sweat. A sudden prickle of heat stung his eyes—yet strangely, the weight in his chest had never felt lighter.
Cheong Myeong vaulted up behind him. Compared to the boy, who looked like a mess of mud and exhaustion, the man’s robes were immaculate. He stood there, as composed as if he had just climbed a flight of garden stairs.
When he looked down at Baek Cheon sprawled on the dirt, the corners of his mouth lifting.
“Not bad.”
Baek Cheon’s lips trembled, trying to answer but only a weak whimper came out.
Cheong Myeong laughed, resting one hand behind his back while the other patted the boy’s head lightly. “Get up, get up. Don’t lie there like a dead fish. If you catch a cold, I’ll have to nurse you—and that’s a pain.”
“I can’t… really…not any more now…”
Baek Cheon’s voice trembled, with the lingering shock of his near-death struggle.
He heard a chuckle.
“The hell you can’t.” Cheong Myeong gazed out at the sea of clouds, a rare hint of cheer in his voice. “This is just the beginning. You’ve got plenty of screaming left in you.”
Wind surged up the mountainside, tossing his silver hair.
Baek Cheon looked up at that figure, bathed in pale light. For a moment, it felt as though he were looking upon an immortal.
And that being saw him.
He opened his mouth, letting the last trace of sweetness slide down his throat.
Lying there in the dirt, Baek Cheon laughed softly, at ease for the first time.
→To be continued……