Wudang Mountain
As they neared Wudang Mountain, Hong Golgae remarked with a grin:
"Charming little place."
"So it is," Tang Mujin agreed.
Of course, he didn't mean the mountain itself. Wudang was one of Daoism's sacred peaks—so vast that it would take months to explore in full.
The "charming" thing was the small village at its base. Villages attached to sects tended to scale with the sect's size and prestige.
Hyeon-gong shrugged.
"Small, yes—but everything one needs is here. Just like Wudang itself: modest in scale, rich in substance."
"That's a flowery way of putting it."
"Haha."
Perhaps because he was back on familiar ground, Hyeon-gong looked far brighter than usual.
The four didn't linger in the village, but headed straight into the mountain.
The weather was pleasant, the scenery beautiful, the paths gentle. With a native guide leading the way, it was practically a luxurious stroll.
As birdsong accompanied their walk, Namgung Myeong asked:
"So, Hyeon-gong—how did you end up a Daoist?"
Tang Mujin had been born into a physician's family. Namgung Myeong, into the Namgung clan. Hong Golgae, son of a Beggar Sect leader, had been raised by the sect itself.
But Hyeon-gong's path was different. Daoists rarely married, let alone passed on a family line.
Smiling easily, Hyeon-gong began his tale.
"When I was about four or five, my mother brought me here, to Wudang Mountain."
"Your mother left you at the mountain?"
"Something like that."
"'Something like that'?"
"Yes. She led me as far as that elm tree over there."
He pointed at an ordinary elm—neither especially tall nor distinctive.
"She told me that if I went up the path, I'd find some of her good friends. If I stayed with them for twenty nights, she'd come back for me."
But when the Daoists saw the boy, they had no idea who his mother was.
They coaxed him gently down the path, keeping the child calm.
But by the time the little boy had toddled back down the mountain in their hands, the nameless woman was gone.
The Daoists faced a choice: turn the child away, or take him in and raise him as a disciple.
They chose the latter. New initiates were due soon anyway—what harm in one more?
But another problem arose.
At that time, Wudang's youngest disciples bore courtesy names with the syllable "Jung" (중). Jung-seon, Jung-gok, Jung-hyeon… The next incoming disciples were slated for the "Jin" (진) generation.
By rights, the boy should have been named Jin-gong.
But who could explain to a small child that his mother had abandoned him, that he must forsake his name and live as Jin-gong? The Daoists were too soft-hearted.
So they found a clever solution: why not skip the "Jin" generation entirely, and give him the next syllable, "Hyeon" (현)? No one objected.
Thus, the youngest generation of disciples bore the name-syllable "Hyeon" instead of "Jin."
And so his name—Hyeon-gong—became both his given and courtesy name.
"As a child, I thought it strange that all the new disciples just happened to have 'Hyeon' in their names. It took me a while to realize it was a courtesy name."
He laughed.
Twenty years had passed since then. The snot-nosed child had become the eldest of the Hyeon generation, a full Daoist priest, a martial man of stature—the "Rising Dragon Sword."
But for that four-year-old boy, the twenty nights his mother promised had still not ended.
There was a time he believed that once he made his name famous across the land, his mother would return. But the years had worn away that hope.
It was hard enough to abandon a child. To go back for him was harder still.
Just as his tale wound down, the party arrived at Wudang's majestic mountain gate.
Before it stood a small structure—not quite a building, more an annex to the gate itself.
Only Hyeon-gong had ever been here before, but all recognized what it was.
"That must be the Haegumji, right?" Tang Mujin asked.
"Correct," Hyeon-gong nodded.
The Haegumji—the Sword-Releasing Pool.
Those not of Wudang must surrender their blades there before entering.
The problem, of course, was that martial artists cherished their swords as their lives. To relinquish one's weapon was to entrust one's life to another. Even if no insult was meant, it was not easy to do.
Namgung Myeong scowled openly.
"Haegumji. Nothing more cunning than that."
"Cunning?" Hong Golgae asked.
"Of course. Asking people to give up their blades naturally provokes resistance."
"So?"
"So Wudang gains the perfect pretext to impose their rules by force. When you can coerce others under the guise of tradition, your authority only grows stronger."
In his view, the Haegumji was a contrivance—an invention to showcase Wudang's dominance.
"It's just tradition," Hyeon-gong protested awkwardly.
"Tradition? My grandfather said there was no Haegumji in his day. My father met the Sect Leader with his sword still at his side."
"Then how—?"
"The Sect Leader came out to meet him personally, rather than let him cross with a blade. He wouldn't leave such a precedent."
Authority was relative, and even Wudang's could not overrule the Namgung clan's patriarch.
Tang Mujin listened intently. He always enjoyed these behind-the-scenes tales.
Worried the debate would drag on, Hyeon-gong waved his arm.
"Come, let's just go in."
Inside the Haegumji, two Wudang disciples awaited. Their martial skill was no higher than Tang Mujin's, but he obediently set his sword on the rack.
Namgung Myeong, on the other hand, locked eyes with them in silent contest before finally surrendering his weapon. As the disfavored son of the Namgung clan, his half-fallen authority couldn't outweigh Wudang's.
It was only then Hyeon-gong noticed something and asked in surprise:
"Wait—your swords are identical. Were they forged by the same smith?"
Tang Mujin replied simply:
"Yes. I made them both."
Hyeon-gong chuckled, assuming it a joke. A physician making blades? Impossible.
But Hong Golgae was next.
He tried to stride past without relinquishing his Green Bamboo Staff.
"Hold," one disciple stopped him. "Young Beggar Sect man. Leave your weapon."
"…Weapon? Why? This is just a staff."
"This is the Haegumji."
"And this is no sword. It's just a walking stick."
Hong Golgae leaned casually on his Green Bamboo Staff—his Taegu Staff—like any common cane.
Hong Golgae's attitude was flippant, but his reasoning was sound. The Taegu Staff had no edge, no blade—it was nothing more than a bamboo pole.
Hyeon-gong gave a discreet glance to the two Wudang disciples on guard at the Haegumji, silently asking them to let it pass.
The disciples hesitated.
Not long ago, the Abbot of Shaolin himself had visited Wudang. He too had refused to leave his staff at the Haegumji—citing the very same reason as Hong Golgae.
But that was the Abbot of Shaolin, the guards thought bitterly. How could a Beggar Sect youth presume the same privilege?
They were just about to enforce the rules more strictly when Hyeon-gong signaled again. The disciples followed his eyes—and noticed the five knots on Hong Golgae's staff.
They could not, like Hyeon-gong, instantly deduce his exact status. But it was enough to recognize that this was no ordinary man.
After a moment's consideration, they relented.
"Pass."
And so, after a brief standoff, the group stepped inside Wudang's domain.
The sight that greeted them was as expected: a well-kept Daoist monastery, its halls orderly and elegant. Not all the buildings were new, but none bore signs of serious decay.
As they walked, Tang Mujin asked:
"When will I be able to see the Songmun Ancient Sword?"
Hyeon-gong replied, "The Sect Leader keeps it. I can't promise when, but…"
Seeing Tang Mujin's disappointed expression, he quickly waved his hands.
"Don't worry. I'll do everything I can to arrange a meeting with the Sect Leader soon."
Of course, Hyeon-gong had his own motives. He wanted to introduce Namgung Myeong and Hong Golgae to as many people as possible, to display his circle of connections. Bringing Tang Mujin's group here was as much about flaunting ties as anything. Naturally, that included the Sect Leader.
Stopping before the Reception Hall, Hyeon-gong asked cheerfully:
"Since you're here, shall I show you around Wudang?"
Namgung Myeong and Hong Golgae showed interest, but Tang Mujin shook his head.
"I'm tired. I'll rest. I doubt there's much I'd find entertaining anyway."
"Fair enough," Hyeon-gong said easily, before leading the other two away.
Left in peace, Tang Mujin lay down inside the Reception Hall, lost in thought.
What kind of sword is this Songmun Ancient Sword?
When he first heard Wudang possessed the greatest sword in the world, his first thought was that it might be one of his own works—like the blade he had forged for Pyo Chung, as a gift upon completing his first great journey through the martial world.
After all, there was no smith in the Central Plains he believed superior to himself.
But the name was wrong. "Songmun Ancient Sword" —the "Ancient Sword of Pine Patterns." He had never named a blade so. Nor would anyone call a new sword "ancient."
Perhaps it's like the Xuanyuan Sword of the Namgung clan, he thought. A legendary relic from long ago, crafted by a smith of myth. Such a thing might indeed surpass my own.
He closed his eyes, wondering: Was it forged from ordinary steel? Or some rare material? If it's only the latter, that would be disappointing.
Pondering thus, he drifted into a light sleep.
***
Tang Mujin woke at the sound of footsteps. More than five—too many for Hyeon-gong returning.
From outside came a call:
"Physician-Dragon Tang Mujin, are you within?"
Opening the door, he found a group of young Daoists—some his age, some younger. Likely fellow disciples of Hyeon-gong's generation.
So Hyeon-gong must have spread word of me, Tang Mujin realized at once.
Their expressions made it plain: they were curious about the famed outsider, especially one known as one of the Three Great Physicians.
As expected, a slightly younger Daoist stepped forward, hesitating as he spoke:
"Forgive me for such a forward request… but I've developed a boil on my back. Might you take a look?"
"Show me," Tang Mujin said.
The youth bared his back, revealing a boil no larger than a thumb joint, flushed and pointed. Clearly not serious, but more an excuse to engage him in conversation.
Tang Mujin smiled faintly. The scene reminded him of childhood—village children trailing strangers for gossip, seizing any pretext to strike up talk.
Producing a fine needle, he spoke gently.
"Wudang has no physician of its own, I take it?"
"No, sir. If we fall ill, we must go down to the village."
"I see. Then we're done."
"…Eh?"
In the space of those few words, Tang Mujin had already pricked the boil, drained the pus, and applied light acupoint treatment.
"The pus is drawn and fresh blood has flowed. It will not worsen. Still, wear clean clothes the next day or two, and if you can, boil some adlay seeds with kudzu root and drink the decoction. No need for old, thick roots—any will do."
The Daoists stared. Treatment over before the conversation had begun.
Sensing their disappointment, Tang Mujin turned to another.
"And you—you've come about that rash on your arm, haven't you?"
"Eh? Y-yes."
Of course, the rash was no reason to seek him. Few would trouble a physician for such trifles.
But Tang Mujin feigned ignorance, applied several swift needles, and said smoothly:
"Take cudweed, akebia, and baekryeom (白斂). Toast them lightly over a low flame, then grind into powder and take it. Cudweed grows everywhere, so no need to buy. A coin will get you a handful of baekryeom. Akebia—skip it if you must."
The Daoists' mouths fell open.
They knew well that mild ailments weren't necessarily easy to treat. Ordinary village physicians often overlooked them altogether.
Yet in a short time, Tang Mujin treated all five of the visitors' minor ailments. With a clap of his hands, he concluded:
"I'll be here another day or two. If you have further troubles, come again."
The young Daoists bowed deeply, leaving reluctantly.
Not long after, Tang Mujin sensed more footsteps.
This time, he opened the door before they knocked. Seven new faces stared at him eagerly.
Tang Mujin scratched his chin.
Well… sleep will be hard to come by tonight.
But such was a physician's life.
"Come, come. One at a time."
He swung the door wide, welcoming Wudang's disciples inside.
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