Fabre in Sacheon’s Tang Novel - Chapter 33

Chapter 33

The fading sunlight shimmered across a landscape dotted with beautiful lakes, like the East Lake, while the powerful Yangtze River curved and wound its way past Wuhan.
At the summit of Hubei Province’s Wuhan’s tallest structure—the Tianwu Pavilion, held in high esteem by the righteous martial artists of the Central Plains—Zhu Jung-hak, the Fist Emperor and Leader of the Martial Alliance, stood observing the river as it disappeared into the distance.
Hailing from Zhujiazhang, a minor martial family in Nanchang, Jiangxi Province, Zhu Jung-hak was a man of legend. Without the backing of a major sect, he refined his family’s humble martial arts to ascend as one of the Three Martial Sovereigns.
Now in his sixties, he watched the Yangtze’s endless flow, his mind adrift in contemplation.
“Just as the river’s currents usher out the old to make way for the new, so too must I relinquish my position as Alliance Leader,” he reflected.
He had been propelled into this role fifteen years prior, a result of his heroic deeds during the Blood Cult Bloodbath three decades ago—a catastrophe that had endangered the Central Plains. Though he belonged to neither the Nine Great Sects nor the Seven Great Families, his peerless skill and resolute leadership secured him the title.
But now, his time to retire had arrived.
As Zhu Jung-hak looked upon the flowing water and resolved to retreat into a life of solitude, a servant’s voice broke his reverie.
“Alliance Leader, I have your tea.”
He turned to the doorway and said, “Enter.”
A young woman in her early twenties walked in, one of the new attendants assigned to the highest floor of Tianwu Pavilion. She had taken the place of the previous attendant, who had left to care for sick parents.
*Clink.*
“I’ve brought West Mountain White Dew.”
“West Mountain White Dew?”
Hearing this, Zhu Jung-hak’s eyebrow faintly quivered.
That tea came from West Mountain in his hometown of Nanchang, where the Zhu family estate had once stood before its fortunes declined.
Though he occasionally yearned for the tea of his youth, he never asked for it, wishing to avoid seeming particular. He usually drank the more common Mengding Tea or Fangshan Dew Buds.
Now, with nostalgic feelings awakening within him, he took the cup.
The tea’s fragrance brought back memories of his younger years, and he wondered if the attendant had somehow perceived his longing.
His eyes settled on her face—her dark eyebrows, elegant eyes, and the small beauty mark beside her lips.
For the first time, he noticed she bore a resemblance to someone from his past.
“Now that I see it… she looks just like her…”
The attendant’s face reminded Zhu Jung-hak of his wife, who had died in his arms thirty years ago during the Blood Cult Bloodbath. Even with her final breath, she had begged him to forsake vengeance and protect their family.
“My lord, please do not seek revenge. Safeguard our family…”
*Thump.*
This realization stirred something in Zhu Jung-hak’s heart, which had long been still.
Yet, his profound discipline allowed him to swiftly master his emotions.
“Perhaps it is merely my age…”
Setting aside his thoughts, he raised the tea to his lips.
Before he could drink, another voice cut in.
“Alliance Leader, it is your strategist, Jegal Hu.”
Startled by the disturbance, Zhu Jung-hak looked out the window. The sun had nearly vanished—surely it was time to rest.
“What brings you here at this hour? Enter,” he called out.
Jegal Hu rushed in, offering a deep bow as he approached.
“Please forgive this interruption of your rest, Alliance Leader. I believed it necessary to report to you at once—there is news from the Tang Clan in Sichuan.”
“The Tang Clan? What news?”
If the strategist had come himself, it had to be urgent. Zhu Jung-hak gave a slight smile and gestured for him to proceed.
Jegal Hu set a letter on the table and delivered his startling news.
“The Tang Clan has retrieved the severed head of Tak Wonyang, the Blood-Handed Rakshasa, along with the manual for the Blood-Water Venom Claw.”
“Blood-Water Venom Claw!?”
*Crack!*
The teacup in Zhu Jung-hak’s hand fractured, spilling tea over the table.
The Blood-Water Venom Claw was a martial art born from the Blood Cult. Thirty years prior, it had ended the lives of innumerable righteous martial artists, his wife among them.
Struggling to contain his surge of feeling, Zhu Jung-hak demanded, “Where? Where was it recovered?”
Jegal Hu elaborated, “After being struck by the Heavenly Poison Deity’s palm, Tak Wonyang fell into the ocean and was carried to Hainan Island, where he had been concealed. The Tang Clan found and dispatched him there.”
“Hainan Island!?”
“Indeed. I learned the particulars from the Tang envoy—they are quite remarkable. It appears a young swordsman and several venomous creatures were instrumental.”
“A young swordsman and venomous creatures?”
Captivated, Zhu Jung-hak leaned forward as Jegal Hu relayed the story.
The account of the Blood-Water Venom Claw’s recovery, intertwined with the tale of the young hero who vanquished Tak Wonyang, held him spellbound. It was a narrative of daring and mystery that echoed his own adventures from thirty years before.
***
“We have matters to discuss, so you may go now,” stated the Alliance Leader.
“Yes, Alliance Leader.”
The attendant left the Alliance Leader’s office wearing a courteous smile and made her way to her living quarters.
Her room was situated directly below the Alliance Leader’s in Tianwu Pavilion.
At this late hour, nearly everyone in the pavilion had retired for the night, except for the guards making their rounds. On her path, she passed a guard who had propositioned her multiple times before.
By the time she arrived at her door, her entire bearing had transformed.
The pleasant expression she had worn earlier was gone, replaced by a face completely empty of emotion.
Bathed in the cold moonlight pouring through her open window, her now impassive features seemed almost eerie.
Staring out into the night, she uttered words that would be incomprehensible to any listener.
“Blood-Water Venom Claw… it is undoubtedly from the Cult…”
Her chilling demeanor remained as she murmured these enigmatic phrases.
She seated herself at her desk and took out a sheet of paper. Without employing a brush, ink, or any writing tool, she started to write.
*Scratch, scratch.*
Every movement of her hand left a deep red trace on the paper, visible in the moonlight.
Anyone witnessing her actions would have been terrified.
She was writing using her own blood, which she drew from her fingertip.
Using the blood welling from her pinky finger, she swiftly wrote a few short lines on the paper.
When she was done, she took an owl from a cage by her window.
After securing the blood-marked message to the bird’s leg, she whispered to it softly.
*Flap, flap.*
The owl took flight into the night, disappearing into the darkness above Wuhan.
***
Five days had passed since Grandfather departed to rescue the Lord of Sichuan.
I was practicing my lightfoot techniques in the training yard late at night. The moon was hidden behind clouds, making the darkness deeper, so I had lit a lantern to see.
Having observed my father-in-law, Grandfather, my sister, and other Tang Clan experts performing lightfoot techniques with such ease, I had initially thought it simple.
It was not.
The difficulty was in managing the expenditure of internal energy: too much increased speed but burned through energy rapidly, while too little conserved stamina but made you slow.
Judicious allocation of internal energy was vital.
Chasing a foe with unchecked fervor only to exhaust your energy would mean certain defeat.
Timing and rhythm were just as critical. Without limitless internal energy, efficiency and precision in movement were paramount.
Each step needed the precise release of force the instant your foot touched the ground, similar to a rhythm game. Mistime it, and the flow would shatter, causing a stumble.
One misstep, and you would be sent tumbling to the earth.
Thanks to my experience with rhythm games at arcades in my past life, I picked up the concept faster than most might. But it was still exasperating.
‘How in the world do they run for days without a single error? Are they not human?’
As I practiced, I found a new level of respect for my sister, who had once run for days using lightfoot techniques with minimal pause. To me, it was as if she had perfectly cleared every level of a rhythm game for days on end.
Occupied with these thoughts, I was on my second lap around the yard, appreciating the cool night air, when I heard my sister’s voice from the entrance.
“So-ryong?”
“Ha-Hwa-eun?” I stuttered.
Her sudden appearance startled me, and I mistimed my movement. Instead of pushing forward, I launched myself awkwardly into the air and crashed down.
*Thud!*
“Agh…”
The jolt traveled through my body. My internal energy prevented serious injury, but the shock was still significant.
As I lay curled on the ground, I heard my sister’s concerned voice.
“So-ryong, are you hurt?”
I looked up to see her standing in the shadows, her worried face illuminated by the soft glow of the lantern.
“Y-Yes, I’m alright. Just a minor fall,” I said, dusting myself off and trying to act unbothered.
“What are you doing out here so late?” she asked.
“Oh, I was just practicing lightfoot techniques. I felt I wasn’t getting it right during the day,” I answered, feeling a bit embarrassed.
Her eyes widened slightly, and though her face was partly hidden by the lantern’s backlight, her tone held a note of awkwardness.
“Practicing even now… to keep your promise…”
“Well, yes…”
An uncomfortable silence settled between us.
Before it could lengthen, my sister broke it by inquiring about the problems I was having with the technique.
“So, which part is giving you trouble?”
‘Good save,’ I thought, appreciative of her shift in topic, and responded at once.
“Well, I keep failing to time the energy push through my feet correctly. A single mistake ruins my balance.”
“Ah, it sounds like you’re trying to take steps at perfectly even intervals,” she noted.
“Isn’t that the correct method?”
I had assumed a steady rhythm was essential, but my sister shook her head.
“Not at all. That would only work for a machine, not a person. I envision a song instead, matching the length of my strides to its rhythm. Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. It feels more natural that way.”
‘Oh, that makes sense! It’s like following the song’s rhythm, not forcing the steps to be uniform.’
Her advice clicked with me, and I immediately tried moving to the beat of a song in my mind.
*Tap, tap, tat, tap-tap.*
After finishing a circuit of the yard, I returned to my sister, who nodded in approval.
“Yes, So-ryong, that is much improved! But…”
Though my form was correct, her expression became slightly questioning.
“But what?” I asked, tilting my head in confusion.
“Well… what kind of song were you thinking of? It seemed a bit… showy, or perhaps too energetic?”
Her remark made me aware that I had been picturing a lively club dance track. No wonder it seemed flamboyant.
‘Her sense of rhythm must be amazing to detect that…’
I decided to try a more classical piece next, but before I could begin, an odd noise disturbed the quiet night.
*Buzz, buzz.*
The faint beating of wings reached us from the adjacent training yard where the Golden Bumblebee Kings had built their hive.
At this hour, they should have been asleep.
“Eeeeek!”
A piercing scream cut through the cold night, immediately followed by the shrill blast of a warning whistle.
*Beeeep! Beeeep!*
“An intruder! Intruder in the training yard!”
The shouts of warriors resonated through the compound, announcing an invasion.
My sister and I exchanged a look before springing into motion, using our lightfoot techniques to dash toward the training yard.
Someone had been bold enough to invade the Tang Clan.
‘Whoever it is, they must have a death wish. This will not end well for them.’