The Two Villages
The next day, they arrived at Sangshin Village, which contrasted with Hashin Village in every possible way.
"So this is why the merchants told us to head for Sangshin Village."
"Exactly."
Unlike Hashin Village, where Tang Mujin's party had been the only outsiders, Sangshin Village was bustling with traders leading mules and donkeys, along with numerous peddlers traveling alone.
The village itself was easily five times larger than Hashin Village—so much so that it felt more like a small city than a village.
The people's faces showed ease and comfort, and even the stray dogs had enough meat on their bones to hide their ribs.
Perhaps convinced that no one would harm them, the dogs dozed lazily in the sun, a pleasant sight to behold.
Though it was still a little early for mealtime, the smell of food wafted through the air.
Hong Geolgae's stomach growled, and he clutched his belly. The three had not eaten since their last meal in Hashin Village.
"Let's head straight to an inn."
"No, wait a little longer."
Namgung Myeong wandered slowly through Sangshin Village, as if searching for something. Wide streets, narrow alleys.
But even after half an hour, he found nothing.
He grumbled.
"I thought there'd be at least a pickpocket or two, but there's nothing."
"Maybe because it's a prosperous village. All the better."
"All the better? No—it's boring this way."
"You're the only one who'd complain about that."
When livelihoods are secure, people's hearts are at ease, and those at ease don't resort to petty crimes like thievery.
Whether prosperity breeds ease or ease breeds prosperity, one couldn't say.
What was clear was that Sangshin Village thrived in a virtuous cycle, while Hashin Village was caught in a vicious one.
The three entered the largest inn in Sangshin Village and ordered food.
Just like in Hashin Village, they asked for one plate of dumplings and three bowls of noodles. At first glance they looked the same, but the taste was worlds apart.
The noodles contained small pieces of meat, and the dumplings were plump, juicy, and tender—unlike the shriveled ones of Hashin Village. Better ingredients, and more of them. Yet the price was nearly the same.
"Mujin, order another plate of dumplings."
"Sure."
Tang Mujin placed the order at Hong Geolgae's request, lost in thought.
If one orders food directly, that's not begging. But if one asks the payer to order food for them, is that begging?
Tang Mujin pondered the dilemma for some time but could not find an easy answer.
As he waited for the dumplings, he glanced around the inn.
There, he spotted a serving boy limping slightly, with a faint frown on his face.
When Tang Mujin beckoned, the boy slowly approached.
"What do you need, sir?"
"It's not about ordering food. Your leg—does it trouble you?"
The boy scowled, irritated. Pain makes all things unpleasant.
"It aches a little, nothing more."
"May I take a look?"
"And why would you?"
"I am a physician. I can't simply ignore a patient before me."
At that, the boy's expression brightened with cautious hope.
"But I can't afford to pay for medicine…"
"Don't worry about that. I only wish to examine you since I noticed it."
The boy rolled up his pant leg.
Both legs were redder than usual and badly swollen.
"Edema. Fortunately, not too severe. Stretch it out this way."
Tang Mujin massaged from the thigh down, noting the tension and heat in the limb.
After some time, his hands moved naturally, and suddenly three needles were already inserted before the boy even realized it.
From behind, Hong Geolgae whispered to Namgung Myeong.
"Why's he jabbing in needles so fast? He didn't used to be like that."
"It's his habit—killing with needles. Vicious bastard."
Tang Mujin rotated the boy's ankle gently. The boy let out a deep sigh, like basking against a warm floor in midwinter.
Soon, guests and even the innkeeper gathered to watch the curious sight of a physician treating a patient in the middle of an inn.
After a while, Tang Mujin released the boy's foot.
"Better now?"
"Yes, much better."
He compared his treated right leg to his untreated left. The redness had faded, and the swelling was visibly reduced.
The merchants murmured in awe at such quick results.
When both legs were done, the boy stood without wincing.
"…Incredible. I suffered for months, and now in less than half an hour I feel almost healed."
"It's not a perfect cure. Keep massaging your legs, rest whenever you can, wear looser pants, and replace those tight straw shoes with larger, softer footwear. That should help."
"That's all?"
"If after a month the pain persists, visit a physician and ask for Oryeongsan. The medicine alone will cost no more than twenty coins."
Tang Mujin carried no medicine—he was here to kill, not heal. But perhaps it was for the better, leaving work for local physicians.
The boy kicked his leg about, delighted.
One merchant suddenly clapped his hands.
"Of course—you're the Dragon Physician!"
"…Dragon Physician?"
"Don't you remember me? Two years ago, on the Yangtze, you cured my ship colic."
If he had treated him on the Yangtze, that was soon after his encounter with the monster.
And who remembers a patient's face from two years ago—especially for something as common as stomachache?
Tang Mujin frowned skeptically. But more merchants chimed in.
"No wonder—a young doctor treating so swiftly must be the Dragon Physician."
"…And what exactly is this 'Dragon Physician'?"
"Are you not surnamed Tang? From Chengdu, Sichuan?"
"Yes."
At his nod, the merchants burst into laughter.
"Who doesn't know their own epithet?"
There are two ways to gain a nickname.
First: boast of it until it sticks—favored by local thugs and middling fighters, though rather unseemly.
Second: wait for others to give you one—though sometimes you're saddled with a name you never wanted. Like Tang Mujin now.
Namgung Myeong's voice echoed in his ear via sound transmission.
— Are you not Tang Mujin, the Dragon Physician? Famed across the land?
Goosebumps rippled across Tang Mujin's skin.
The title was far too grand.
Young celebrities were often called "something-Dragon," but for that to be applied to him felt deeply unsettling—especially with someone nearby who might mock him for it.
The merchant, oblivious to his discomfort, went on excitedly.
"With the death of the Divine Physician line, Heaven gave us a new member of the Three Great Physicians. Following the Monster Physician and Demon Physician, now the Dragon Physician makes his name resound!"
The Dragon Physician's Fame
News of the deaths of the Demon Physician and the Monster Physician did not yet seem to have spread widely.
Namgung Myeong's voice reached him again through sound transmission.
— Heaven-sent Dragon Physician! Pride of Chengdu! Treasure of Sichuan! Dragon Physician! Dragon Physiciaaaaan!
Tang Mujin bowed his head low and replied in sound transmission.
— For heaven's sake, shut your mouth. It's not like I asked to be called that.
Unaware of Tang Mujin's true feelings, the merchants crowded around, talking excitedly.
"Even people from Anhui and Luoyang recognize 'the Dragon Physician from Sichuan.' Seems the man himself didn't know!"
"Sir, could you perhaps take a look at my skin ailment as well?"
Before long, Tang Mujin was surrounded.
Some, astonished to meet a famous figure, eagerly revealed their ailments for him to examine. With a small sigh, Tang Mujin began treating them one by one.
Those without any illness simply stood by, watching him intently.
To Tang Mujin, it was nothing remarkable—but when done by someone with renown, even the mundane appeared fascinating.
Those he treated, in thanks, ordered food and drink for him.
Whether it was the generous spirit of the villagers or simply the merchants catching the mood, the atmosphere turned ever more lively.
Hong Geolgae devoured everything within reach, while Namgung Myeong clumsily maneuvered his prosthetic hand to eat. A few martial artists present, seeing this, were struck speechless at the sight of his skill.
In the midst of the noisy meal, Namgung Myeong's sharp senses caught something.
Out of the many people present, one man stood out.
The reason was simple: his eyes were fixed not on Tang Mujin, but on Namgung Myeong's left arm. Unlike the others who lingered curiously, the man bolted from the inn as if fleeing.
Namgung Myeong thought:
Why flee so hastily? Is he hiding something?
There were plenty who disliked or feared the Namgung Clan. And many knew Namgung Myeong's face. Though most were in Anhui, it wasn't strange for one or two to be in Sangshin Village.
But that man hadn't reacted to his face—he had reacted to his left arm.
Someone who would respond to my left arm… someone with a guilty conscience.
The possibilities narrowed quickly in his mind.
Was he there the day I lost it? But he's not one of the Demon Cult's warriors.
Which left only one answer: the assassins of Salmak who had been present when he faced the Three-Eyed Buddha.
Namgung Myeong shot to his feet.
Crash—the chair toppled noisily, but he paid no mind.
"Follow me! Now!"
At his shout, Tang Mujin stopped his treatment, and Hong Geolgae abandoned his food, both reacting instantly.
No explanation was needed. The urgency in Namgung Myeong's voice was enough.
Tang Mujin shoved through the crowd and burst from the inn.
Reckless… or was it simply bad luck?
He hadn't expected such attention just for tending to a patient.
But perhaps it was stranger not to encounter Salmak's men while approaching their stronghold.
The three sprinted. Ahead, the fleeing man was visible, his lightfoot technique familiar—undeniably one of the assassins.
Without hesitation, Tang Mujin hurled a dagger.
It whistled through the air and sank into the man's calf. Poisoned, he could not escape.
The man crumpled, but quickly pulled a small wooden flute from his robe and blew with all his might.
Piiiiiii!
The sound was shrill, far too loud for such a small flute.
Tang Mujin's group halted, uncertain of its purpose.
Moments later, a nearby building—seemingly a warehouse—burst open.
From within poured more than ten martial artists, all leaping to the rooftops to glare down at them.
Hong Geolgae shouted boldly.
"Come at us!"
But they did not attack. Instead, the moment they saw Tang Mujin's group, they turned and fled—splitting in all directions.
It was plain: some would die, but others must survive to report back.
Tang Mujin barked,
"Don't hesitate! Kill them all!"
Swords drawn, the three gave chase, vaulting walls and rooftops.
Namgung Myeong was the swiftest, but Tang Mujin claimed the most kills.
Each time he flung a dagger, another assassin collapsed, poisoned steel in his flesh.
In mere moments, six had fallen by his hand.
He sprang onto a nearby roof, scanning for his next target—when suddenly, a chill ran down his spine.
Nothing seen, nothing heard—only instinct.
He leapt back without hesitation.
Crash!
A black-clad figure burst upward, claw-like blades strapped to his hands.
Sweat trickled down Tang Mujin's back. Had he stood still, it might have been his death.
The clawed man sneered.
"Young whelp, you've rushed straight to your grave."
He crouched low, confident, though clearly short of the absolute peak.
His movements were peculiar—stealthy, like a winter night's stray cat. Of all Tang Mujin had seen, only one surpassed him in concealment.
And at that very moment, that one appeared—Namgung Myeong's sword flashed silently.
The assassin's head flew skyward before he even realized what had happened.
So swiftly did he die that he never knew his end.
But the brief delay had given the other assassins precious time.
Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong looked toward the directions of escape.
Already, their quarry was too far to catch.
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