Heart disease

Tang Mujin came to his senses while still sitting.

He wasn't sure what was behind his back, but it was definitely not just an ordinary wall.

To make matters worse, both his hands were bound behind him.

He shifted his shoulders and wrists, fumbling to touch what was behind him. A table. His hands were tied to the table leg.

As he squirmed, wondering what in the world had happened, someone lying in front of him sat up and looked at him. It was Namgung Myeong.

The memories from before he lost consciousness flickered faintly—Namgung Myeong in a mask. An unknown chill, then a surge of killing intent. That was as far as his memory went.

Namgung spoke indifferently.

"You're finally awake?"

"What happened? I think I can guess, but…"

"You had a fit, and I subdued you."

"Subdued?"

"When someone has a seizure from heart-sickness, their body stiffens up. Some faint, others thrash around like you did. Either way, it makes it easy for binding techniques to work."

Only then did Mujin realize something was wrong with his body. Both wrists, elbows, and shoulder joints felt wobbly and out of place. Fortunately, nothing seemed broken or dislocated.

"Doesn't seem like it was just once or twice."

"Six times. Six seizures, and six times I had to pin you down."

"What? Six times? How much time has passed?"

"Today's the third day."

Of course, he had no memory of eating anything in those three days. He felt the deep pangs of hunger.

Yet paradoxically, he didn't feel an urgent craving for food. Sometimes when one endures hunger long enough, the body grows numb to it. That seemed to be the case now.

"You could've at least given me something to eat."

"If you had eaten your fill and gained strength, then thrashed about again, it would've been more work for me."

A terribly self-serving logic. But not wrong. And Mujin wasn't in any position to complain.

Strange as the situation was, Namgung was clearly taking risks for his sake.

"So, what were the results?"

Namgung shook his head. No improvement.

But his expression wasn't grim. If anything, he seemed expectant.

With a cheerful voice, Namgung said:

"No need to worry. I wasn't cured by the first method either."

"And the second?"

"I'll explain that later. For now, let's go eat."

"Not here?"

"I've already tried every dish this inn serves. The cooking's awful."

As soon as they stepped outside, the innkeeper glared at them with great displeasure. Clearly, Mujin and Namgung had been troublesome customers, interfering with business.

Mujin fished out a few silver coins and handed them over. Instantly, the innkeeper's frown turned into a bright smile.

Of course, Mujin didn't feel burdened by such an amount. Ha Ryeong had provided him with ample funds.

Namgung led Mujin as they wandered through the village.

It seemed they had no specific destination. Sometimes they retraced a street they'd just walked, and sometimes they ignored decent-looking eateries entirely.

It almost felt less like looking for food and more like scouting the whole village.

Since Mujin wasn't unbearably hungry, he strolled leisurely after Namgung, taking in the surroundings. After three days indoors, the fresh air felt especially pleasant.

But unlike the refreshing weather, the village atmosphere was strangely gloomy.

Was it simply because he'd just come from familiar Chengdu and bustling Chongqing?

It didn't seem so. Everyone's faces were clouded, and even the village children weren't running about noisily but huddled quietly in corners.

If even children could sense it, something was definitely wrong.

Mujin asked,

"Why's the mood so heavy? Did someone die?"

"It's been like this since we first arrived."

"Then what's going on?"

"I know someone who can explain. Come with me."

Namgung led him to a small food stall tucked in the marketplace.

Two little pots on a brazier served as the kitchen, and rough wooden blocks served as chairs and tables. It was the cheapest way to get a meal.

Since it was late, there were no customers.

"…Are you short on money?"

"No. I came here on purpose."

The elderly stall owner recognized Namgung and waved.

As soon as Mujin and Namgung sat, the man brought out two bowls of wheat noodles without asking a thing. Apparently, noodles were the only dish he sold.

The broth had no grease, and there were no fancy toppings.

But the moment Mujin smelled its plain aroma, hunger crashed over him like a wave. He finished the bowl in the blink of an eye. Precisely because it was so mild, it felt clean and satisfying.

'I could eat some more.'

He raised his empty bowl toward the stall owner, who quickly brought him another serving.

Just as the owner was about to turn back to the fire, Namgung stopped him.

"Old sir. Those fellows with swords—what's their story?"

Namgung pointed to two men swaggering about with blades at their waists.

Judging from their gait, they had some martial training, but likely only a faint whiff of true skill.

Still, swords always drew wary stares.

The villagers clearly avoided them, and the two seemed to enjoy that attention.

The stall owner replied,

"Those louts? They're hangers-on the Jo family head brought in."

"The Jo family head?"

"If you follow that alley, you'll find the biggest house in the village. That's the Jo family estate."

"A few buildings, tiled roof, high walls, and mulberry trees in the yard?"

"That's the one. Keen eyes you have."

"It was the only house here big enough to be called a 'family estate.' Anyway, why did the Jo head bring in men like that? They don't look like quality people."

The stall owner couldn't hide his displeasure.

"He wants to do just what his father did."

"Could you explain more?"

"The former Jo head went outside and learned how to wield the sword. He was frighteningly fast, and he could leap onto trees in a single bound."

"I see."

"He gathered local thugs and set up a little clan called the Jo Family. But calling it a 'clan' was just a name—it was nothing but a gang."

The stall owner's expression soured. Clearly, it was not a fond memory.

Namgung prompted him with a friendly tone,

"From the way you speak, they must've been quite vicious."

"As they say, when there's no tiger, the fox plays king. They weren't outright murderers, but if there was money to be made, they butted in everywhere."

"How bad was it?"

"If someone died, they shamelessly seized the inheritance. If anyone tried to run a business, they extorted money in the name of rent. During farming season, they even lurked around the weir and demanded payment for water—though it was the villagers who built the weir, not them."

"I haven't seen anything like that these past few days. Maybe they've reformed?"

At Namgung Myeong's remark, the stall owner snorted.

"Reformed? They were forced to reform. During the last righteous–demonic war, the old Jo head got too full of himself and picked a fight with real martial artists. He was cut down. His gang scattered when they realized there was no more scrap to be had."

"Then what do you mean when you say the current Jo head is following in his father's footsteps?"

"That brat doesn't know any honest way to earn money. He grew up watching his father threaten people for coin, so now he's trying to do the same. Those thugs you saw? The Jo head gathered them from other regions not long ago. Cursed lot—they'll be struck by lightning one day."

The stall owner cleared the empty bowls before Mujin and Namgung, then pointed with a limping gesture toward a passerby.

"That fellow—he ended up like that not long ago. Beaten crippled by some unknown men, lost a valuable jade ring. And the villagers all know who did it."

Mujin looked at the limping man's face. His gaze wandered, vacant and dazed, full of grief. Just looking at him was heartbreaking.

Mujin let out a deep sigh.

Though the degree varied, sights like this were all too common while wandering the Central Plains.

Large cities fared better. There, reputable sects often held ground, and great sects cared about their reputations, so they seldom committed blatant atrocities. Even better when multiple sects competed, keeping one another in check.

But in small, remote villages, it was different.

With no sects to rival them and no need to care about reputation, fists became law.

Even if villagers gathered to protest, they fell silent before drawn swords. As long as a local power hired a few blades, they could dominate the entire village.

Such gangs and swordsmen easily earned far more than their actual skill warranted, settling down and feeding off the village. The only ones who suffered were the common folk.

Namgung rose with a meaningful expression.

"Thank you for the meal."

"Come again."

Mujin paid for the noodles. The stall owner looked visibly relieved, as though venting about the Jo family head had lightened his chest.

By then the sun had set, and dusk blanketed the village. Mujin and Namgung returned to their inn.

Mujin slowly rolled his shoulders.

"Well, now that we've eaten, you're going to start again, aren't you?"

Namgung shook his head.

"As I said earlier, the first method doesn't seem to have had much effect."

"Then you're moving on to the second?"

"That depends on your choice."

"Choice?"

Namgung spoke calmly.

"Remember how I told you I was forced to watch sparring while I had heart-sickness?"

"Yeah."

"As you guessed, it didn't help much. In fact, it only made me more terrified of swords. Just glimpsing a blade out of the corner of my eye made my whole body flinch. Do you know what my father did then?"

"No."

"He tied a real sword into my right hand. Not just gave it to me—bound it so tightly I couldn't let go."

Mujin was horrified. Even without knowing much about heart-sickness, the method sounded far too extreme.

"…Was that really okay?"

"It was drastic, yes. I still remember crying myself hoarse. But in the end, it worked. Little by little, my heart-sickness faded, until it was gone. My father's decision was right."

He continued evenly.

"If the first method doesn't work, there are only two paths left. Either give up completely, or confront it with something bolder."

Namgung opened the bundle in the corner of the room.

Now there were two sets of night-clothes, and two masks.

But since no one was wearing them yet, no killing intent welled up—only a suffocating pressure in his chest.

Mujin lifted his gaze to Namgung, searching for his intent.

Namgung's eyes were unwavering. His expression was not that of a young martial man, but one befitting the heir of a great clan.

Mujin felt the pressure. Namgung now radiated a presence that was impossible to describe.

"…What exactly is this second method?"

"Simple. You wear the mask yourself. Just as my father bound the sword into my hand."

It sounded absurd.

But at the same time, the idea filled Mujin's mind with unsettling conviction.

"Tonight is the new moon. The night is dark, and we have the perfect target: the Jo family estate. Robbing the Jo head's wealth and scattering his thugs will even help the villagers—it will be righteous action."

"But…"

"Do you feel that resistance? That is heart-sickness. That is the inner demon. The only thing you must overcome. The greatest obstacle in your path."

Namgung slid the mask and night-clothes across the floor toward him. Mujin's heart pounded wildly.

Namgung declared firmly,

"Choose, here and now. Will you overcome and move forward? Or cower and run?"

With trembling hands, Mujin picked up the mask.

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