Chapter Text
For all her theatrics, Aeri has never been quick to anger.
It’s a rather odd trait to have in Kangho, where tempers flare hotter than wildfire and heads fly off faster than reason. Even the most disciplined of practitioners give in to heedless violence, often under the flimsy pretext of wounded honor.
Perhaps it’s a symptom of strength. Of power.
Perhaps it’s the cost.
Either way, that’s why a part of Aeri waits for the day she’d become the same. She knows the people around her wait for it with bated breaths as well, wary of her inevitable eruption as they tiptoe around her temper. It’s no better now—the look of relief on the Baek disciples’ faces as Aeri exits the dormitory says more than enough. She just hadn’t expected it to sting as much as it did.
The woman pauses, lifting her dull gaze towards the night sky.
Never once has Aeri given her disciples cause to fear her.
She does not enforce strict seniority like Wudang, nor does Aeri discipline with violence as Jin Geumryong does. Even as young as Aeri had been when she’d been given this responsibility, she’d been smart enough to recognize the festering cycle.
The strong prey on the weak, who prey on those beneath them, and so on.
And so, Aeri had deliberately, intentionally steered herself away. The last thing Mount Hua needed right now was factionalism. And yet—
They still shift underneath her gaze with visible discomfort every damn time.
Her pace quickens.
The ground beneath her boots is cold, moist against her soles. Her breath puffs faint clouds in the crisp air as she climbs Lotus Peak, away from civilization and away from her disciples. Aeri is not quick to anger, but she is angry right now, and it would be best to remove herself for now.
Unlike Chung Myung, Aeri had not had the pleasure of a good night’s sleep to buffer the travesty that would be their return to Mount Hua. By the time she had wrangled the truth out of Yoon Jong and the other third-class disciples, the sun was already setting. Dinner was an uncomfortable affair—with Baek Cheon ignoring her and the second-class disciples avoiding her gaze—which certainly did not help her mood.
Only once the doors of their dormitory closed behind her did Aeri turn towards her junior siblings. She had kept the storm inside her chest tightly bound, hoping to give them the same space to speak up about their concerns that Aeri had given the third-class disciples.
Not that it made much difference. The room quickly filled with sharp edges—defenses raised, furious protests and accusations thrown like daggers. Aeri had said nothing .
Perhaps it spoke to their own self-awareness; their voices swelled in the silence she maintained, as if her quiet was a mirror reflecting their own unease and guilt more clearly than any words could. The man of the hour—Baek Cheon—conveniently misses taking any responsibility.
The dark-haired woman had looked at them then—really looked—and was struck, almost unprepared, by the sheer amount of vitriol burning in their eyes. It bloomed there like wildfire, bright and ravenous, with no clear beginning and no sign of stopping.
One she’d seen before—on Jin Geumryong, on Baek Cheon, on far too many martial artists—right before their blades were drawn.
Aeri had spent years bracing for the day it might bloom in her own reflection.
But there was nothing. The fire had never come. Aeri was still herself—sharp-tongued and incisive, yes, but also mild-mannered and even-keeled.
And so, staring at the ashes of her own undoing, she’d thought almost hysterically.
‘I thought it ended with me.’
Her pace falters at the blooming realization that it didn’t —and Aeri sucks in an unsteady breath.
The cold air fills her lungs immediately, nearly making her flinch. For a moment, Aeri pauses, lifting her dull gaze toward the night sky once more.
Lotus Peak lies cold and silent this time of year, after the last of the plum blossoms has bloomed for the season. There’s little to see without them, which is why disciples often prefer training on the grounds rather than atop the cold mountain.
And yet—Aeri’s eyes catch a few petals drifting over the cliff’s edge. Once again, she is wrong.
The blooming never stopped; Aeri had only believed that it did.
The realization sticks to her bones in an unsavory manner. Beneath the disappointment and doubt, something colder lingers—an unexpected prick of betrayal. It catches Aeri off guard, fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword before she even notices.
Aeri is not quick to anger.
And yet here she is, more bitter than reflective.
Why?
The disconnect between her junior siblings and herself is not new. It is easier to bear with the third-class disciples who are essentially her successors—there always will be a sense of distance formed by respect and age—and both sides of the equation respect that boundary. But those of the generation that are meant to be her *peers, her equals, and her comrades—*the disconnect is far more than just an awkward reality to bear.
Aeri knows this.
And yet, it seems like she might not have fully grasped the sheer extent of that rift.
It makes her balk, and then look inward.
How well do I really know the people around me?
Not the elders, nor her sasuks—not those who raised her from infancy—but the ones she acquired later in life: the other second-class disciples, the recently inducted third-class disciples, and those beyond.
Just how lost have I been in myself to be blind to such potent resentment?
The question unsettles her more than any anger ever could.
She clenches her eyes shut, gritting her teeth.
Just how much have I sacrificed chasing that back?
The embodiment of her perfection, of her plum blossoms. It makes her pause and wonder about just how long she has deluded herself into thinking that pursuing that greatness would be directly equivalent to Mount Hua’s prosperity.
Guilt is a strange emotion to mix in with betrayal as Aeri stares Chung Myung down, her sword aimed at his neck.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Iseol shift—subtle, uncertain—her lips parting like she might speak, might explain. But Aeri doesn’t look away.
Her gaze stays fixed on the boy before her, cold and unreadable.
“Take Baek Cheon to the infirmary,” She says, voice like frost. “Now.”
Iseol visibly hesitates, bouncing uncertainly on her heels as she looks between them with wide eyes. Her mouth opens once, then closes again, jaw working around unsaid words. The hesitation is so uncharacteristic of her usual detached and apathetic self that it makes Aeri pause for a second.
On any other day, Aeri might’ve applauded the girl’s initiative. Would’ve celebrated it even.
But not now. Not while Baek Cheon lies in a broken heap between them, his blood soaking the earth.
Iseol finally gathers herself, shoulders squaring with quiet resolve as she takes an urgent step forward. Her voice is low, hoarse with tension, but clear. “Sajo, he was—”
“I know.”
The words slice clean through the air, stopping Iseol mid-step.
It stuns her into silence, and for a moment, she simply blinks, lips parted around whatever explanation she had so carefully summoned. The unspoken defense hangs suspended in the cold night, never voiced.
Even Chung Myung looks surprised.
His eyes flick up to meet Aeri’s—and for the first time since she found them like this, something flickers across them. She can’t help but relish the crack in his unnerving composure, revealing the genuine shock underneath.
It’s gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a gaze unreadable and cold, but with a strange edge—predatory and tense, as if ready to strike should words fail.
And Aeri—she matches his ferocity unflinchingly, her expression impassive but sharp, as if daring him to ask how much she’s already seen.
But she doesn’t give him the chance.
“I saw everything,” She says, voice low, taut with something that isn’t quite rage. “From the moment I stepped onto the ridge.”
Her grip on her sword does not loosen. Not yet.
Baek Cheon and Chung Myung dueling, a blank-faced Yu Iseol standing at a distance as if absorbed in a trance, and then finally, the sight of Chung Myung beating Baek Cheon—his senior —like a dog. The ease with which he had done so—the lack of hesitation, the ease of demonstration.
Slivered eyes harden, the strange pinprick of apprehension festering deeper. There are plum-colored eyes on her, but Aeri ignores them vehemently.
“Iseol.” The girl jerks her head up as if stung. Aeri still doesn’t look at her, but her words are final. “Go. Now. Take Baek Cheon with you.”
This time, Iseol does not argue. She moves without a word, kneeling beside Baek Cheon and lifting him carefully. After one last, hesitant glance at Aeri—her eyes flickering with a mix of concern and worry—she turns silently and disappears into the trees, carrying Baek Cheon down the mountain.
For a long moment, neither of them moves.
Chung Myung is still kneeling on the ground, and Aeri’s sword is still pressed against his bare neck.
They regard each other in silence, Chung Myung refusing to speak—let alone offer any excuses—as if they’re at a stalemate. The very thought is laughable, as if he has any leverage over Aeri that could possibly make her stop.
And yet, despite the cold steel pressing against his neck—a threat that could and should unsettle even the most seasoned martial artist—Chung Myung remains unnervingly composed. Calm, collected, as though he has experience .
Suddenly, Aeri is transported to a fortnight ago—the day they left for Hua Yin.
“Don’t slow down on my behalf.” His low voice, somehow older—deeper. “I’ll keep up with you.”
Then later, after they reached Hwang Jonghui’s residence. The screaming, the sound of wood snapping, and Aeri breaking through the doors to the sight of Chung Myung knocking a man a full foot taller than him out cold in one strike.
Meeting his hysterical gaze immediately afterward, panting heavily.
“I am going to kill this bastard—”
And then finally, on their way back home. The moment that had stung the most. The moment she had bared her soul to him—had shown him the perfection she's worked so hard to make her own. Beyond third-rate, second-rate, even first-rate martial mastery—beyond the sword-body unity, the plum blossom techniques, and internal energy cultivation.
Her plum blossoms.
"It's empty."
He had announced blankly, voice devoid of any emotion other than disappointment .
Up until now, Aeri had dismissed that comment as either arrogance, ignorance, or a mix of both—the words of a child that knew no better. But looking at him now, kneeling in a puddle of Baek Cheon’s blood, Aeri is not so sure.
Un Am Sasuk’s voice rings in her ears.
“A beggar from the streets. An orphan, apparently; no mention of parents. It's been barely six months since he began learning martial arts. I’m amazed at his progress!”
Baek Cheon isn’t perfect. Aeri will be the first to admit it. He’s stubborn, reckless, and enjoys his influence over the second and third-class disciples a little too much.
He’s also the only one at Mount Hua who could possibly hope to match Aeri blow for blow.
Chung Myung lets out a sigh, and Aeri’s grip on her sword stiffens, unconsciously edging the blade closer.
Baek Cheon was and is the only one who has ever truly kept pace with Aeri herself in the endless push of training and technique. Even placing that aside, he’s still nearly ten years older than Chung Myung—that’s ten years of experience shaped by battles and discipline that no novice could simply overcome.
No fifteen-year-old just starting out could have broken him like this.
Not with something else at play.
“Hey.”
Plum eyes flick up to meet hers, flat and unreadable.
Aeri presses the sword closer, presence thickening the air like a tightening noose, and grey eyes flashing with a cold, seething fury.
“Just who the hell are you?”
Regret was a funny thing.
Chung Myung lives and dies. And then miraculously, he lives again.
Between the folds of time, throughout each lifetime, there is only one thing constant. It’s not his regret, heavens no—Chung Myung is a case study in irreversible mistakes and horrified realizations made far too late in life to do anything about them. His past life is the greatest evidence; the decades of lost potential, of indulgence in his vices, of drowning himself in alcohol while scorning his sect.
In the eye of the storm, steel unfurls from beneath black linen, glinting dangerously in the moonlight as it’s pointed towards the one person Chung Myung knows it was never once meant for. Not in this life, not in the last. Plum eyes meet stormy grey ones, and Chung Myung knows well.
In both lifetimes, there is only one constant.
It is her .
Chung Myung watches Yu Iseol leave, and makes no attempt to soften the sting of the blade pressed against his throat.
He hasn’t really thought this through.
For some fucking reason, in both of his lives, Chung Myung has always had shitty luck with the Baek disciples. To be perfectly honest, Chung Myung’s perception of Baek Cheon has changed a little as a result of this little spat of theirs. All that was left to be seen was whether or not the little bastard had the integrity to hold up his end of the bargain.
As for the ghost girl, she was and still is incredibly weird, but Chung Myung can admire the frankly terrifying amount of dedication she had to pursuing the sword. Forgetting the ease with which she’d cast aside hierarchy to ask for instruction from a junior, it was the way her martial arts shines in every movement. Perhaps that’s why Chung Myung finally gives in and quietly guides the girl through her sword trance.
Both of these little chicks are his troublesome descendants.
But Baek Aeri is an entirely different matter.
Within her, Chung Myung would be loath to see only a descendant. The word implies a connection, yes, but one far too distant for him to bear. A stranger , for all intents and purposes . He dislikes the notion deeply. That, and the implication that as his descendant, she is somehow below him.
When Chung Myung looks at her, it is not Baek Aeri he sees—it’s Kim Aeri .
His samae, who once trailed after him like a duckling, her small hand clutching the edge of his sleeve whenever he felt kind enough to allow it. His samae, who used to watch him train with wide, awestruck eyes, always smiled when he came through the gates of Mount Hua, no matter how late he was. His samae, who was far beyond someone like him—yet still turned back to look at Chung Myung as if he were the only real thing in the world.
“At least to me, you are my Mount Hua, Sahyung."
" You are my plum blossoms."
His samae, who waited and waited for him.
It’s not fair to Baek Aeri to compare her to a ghost she’s never known. And yet still, Chung Myung can’t help it. The few traits that have carried over between lifetimes only drive the knife in deeper. Discovering them, one by one, is even worse.
That’s how he knows.
Chung Myung is well and truly fucked .
His irritation had gotten the better of him. The ghost girl’s trance, educating that shitty sasuk—it was all just an excuse. A flimsy reason for Chung Myung to let off some steam. He’d been careless.
And now, he’s on his knees before his reckoning. Her sword is pressed close enough to his throat to cut, but it’s the look in her eyes—the quiet, resigned betrayal—that wounds far more deeply.
Their eyes meet—hers, carved stone and cold steel, and his, pink and burning with buried memory. In the moonlight, he thinks she looks less like a goddess and more like judgment given form. When Aeri parts her lips, Chung Myung allows her judgment to wash over him.
“Hey.”
Chung Myung’s a good liar.
For all his fondness for solving problems with excessive violence, he does know tact. Especially if it can get him food, booze, and a way to avoid a grand walloping by his fearsome sahyung’s broomstick. But if there’s one trait Chung Myung knows for a fact has carried over across lifetimes—across both Baek Aeri and Kim Aeri—it’s this.
“Just who the hell are you?”
Aeri will always see through his lies.
Chung Myung lowers his gaze, a bitter scoff at the tip of his tongue.
Who is he?
What a question to pose to a man out of time and body. What is Chung Myung after all—ancestor, swordsman, disciple, sahyung, sajae, savior, sinner —
So many responses he can give her, none that will truly soothe the displeased curl of her lips. For a moment, Chung Myung sits back and thinks, truly, for an answer. In his mind’s eye, a wraith embraces him, the ghost of someone long gone.
- You already know what you must do, no?
Chung Myung scoffs sardonically.
Before someone who will always see through his deceit, there is nothing to do but to be truthful.
He tilts his chin towards the skies, calm and unflinching.
“I am Chung Myung of the Mount Hua Sect.”
Baek Aeri does not like the answer. It is very obvious, judging by the look on her face. Chung Myung tries not to snort at the befuddled knit of her brows lest her sword dig deeper into his neck. It’s an easy evade if he wishes it—and Chung Myung knows Aeri knows that too—but Chung Myung elects to remain still.
“What, Sago?” Instead, he gives a cocky grin. “All this suspicion is hurting my heart! Aren’t I your junior?”
“You think I’m an idiot?” There’s a flash of annoyance across her features, voice sharpening. “A beggar who joined a few months ago, with no prior formal training, somehow ends up beating one of the strongest disciples at Mount Hua like they’re a novice? Don’t make me laugh!”
Chung Myung remains silent.
“So who are you? Are you a spy sent by the Beggar’s Union? Or a runaway disciple from another sect?”
There’s something about her tone that tickles the back of his brain. A strange sort of urgency underpins it, haunting the steely demeanor she presents before him. Chung Myung simply watches the way Aeri unravels before him in a way he’s never seen Kim Aeri do.
Then again, never once has Kim Aeri had cause to doubt him.
Privately, he thinks she never could either way.
But this is not Kim Aeri.
“Then…” He sees—no, feels her sword falter. The resignation and the growing ice. “….Are you a spy from the Southern Edge Sect?
The suspicion stings just as much as the idea of being associated with Southern Edge infuriates him. Something on Chung Myung’s face just shows, for Aeri seems to believe his revulsion as genuine, at least.
“Chung Myung.” His eyes flicker up towards the woman in front of him, the way her voice softens. “If you tell me honestly right now, I will let you go. We will never speak of this again.”
As if giving him a chance.
To confess, to admit— to lay his bleeding heart bare before her to inspect.
And oh, how he wants to.
I am your ancestor.
I am your sahyung.
I am your perfection
I—
Chung Myung sucks in a shaky breath.
I am yours.
But the words never come.
Because Kim Aeri lived and died. And Chung Myung had hoped that if ( once ) she lived again, she would no longer be tied down to the name of Kim Aeri. Because he didn’t want her to regret. He wished for her to rest. And so he knows well, even if it means damning himself to a wretched life of longing.
You, of all people, can never know the truth of us.
And Chung Myung watches Baek Aeri fracture in real time.
“Chung Myung-ah, please.”
Chung Myung stares at her trembling blade, then raises his eyes to hers.
“I am a person of Mount Hua.” He says calmly. “I have only ever been a disciple of Mount Hua.”
Once, a baby would be left abandoned on the steps of a great sect. An elder would come out and take pity on the newborn, bringing him inside and raising the child as their own. That child was Chung Myung. Everything he has and ever had—his name, his life, his soul—all of it belongs to Mount Hua, all of it has come from Mount Hua.
This is his truth.
Aeri’s eyes narrow, disbelieving. “You may be now. But what were you before ?”
Chung Myung doesn’t answer right away. Then slowly, a bitter smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“I have never been anything else.”
I have never been anything other than yours.
The first few days as a nameless beggar—the weeks that had crawled past with the crippling fear of Mount Hua’s extinction. Chung Myung was nothing—nothing without Mount Hua. If his mistakes had resulted in the fall of the sect, then who was he if not a vengeful wraith left to wander the earth, cursed for his sin by never being allowed to join his people in the heavens? “The Mount Hua Sect is all I have ever had, and all I have and will ever know. All of me—begins and ends with Mount Hua.”
Aeri is silent for a long time.
He watches her, already knowing what is coming.
“Your words are moving.” Pink eyes clench shut, callused fingers reluctantly twitching towards the sword strapped to his side. He knows Aeri is looking—is watching all of the emotions crawling across his face. “But I cannot believe them. Draw your sword, Chung Myung—for it will reveal the truth you hide from me.”
Chung Myung bows his head. “I don’t want to fight you, Sago.”
“You have no choice.”
Her words were calm, but final.
“I won’t kill you.” Her voice softens slightly, almost regretfully. “But I won’t stop until you reveal what your affiliation is.”
That is the only warning Aeri gives him.
Without another word, she lunges—fast, like lightning.
Chung Myung deflects the first strike, barely. His blade scrapes against hers with a screech, the sheer force behind her movement sending a jolt down his arm. He retreats, steps light and careful.
Aeri just jerks up harshly, eyes burning with rage. “Get back here, you menace!”
"Yah? I'm the menace here?!"
She doesn't answer. Her sword is already coming again, a blur of steel under moonlight. She pivots on her heel, robes swirling around her like petals caught in a windstorm. It's beautiful— too beautiful. For a moment, Chung Myung forgets to breathe.
And nearly loses his eye.
The blade hisses past his face, so close he feels the kiss of cold steel whisper across his lashes. Chung Myung yelps, recoiling as if burned.
“Eek!” He screeches. “I thought you weren’t going to kill me!”
“Never said anything about maiming."
Without missing a beat, she pivots on the balls of her feet, the fabric of her robes fluttering like plum blossoms caught in the wind, and launches into another lightning-fast strike.
Chung Myung freezes for a heartbeat, watching the fierce storm of a girl bearing down on him—her silver eyes alight with a wild, reckless determination that almost frightens him.
Ah, he realizes then, smiling a little deludedly. She’s completely lost her mind.
Like, full-on bonkers.
Chung Myung drops into a guarded stance, arms tight around his sword as he parries her next furious strike, steel ringing sharply in the night air.
“Ack!” He hisses at the strain. “Sago, please!”
But Aeri doesn’t answer, and Chung Myung barely twists his hips in time to deflect a quick slash aimed at his ribs. The ground beneath their feet is uneven—jagged stones and fallen branches—but Aeri moves like the wind, light and unrelenting.
Despite himself, Chung Myung is caught in the beauty of it all—the dance of blades, the fluttering robes, the sharp scent of plum blossoms and earth mingling with the crisp air. Aeri fights like a storm breaking over the highest peak of Mount Hua: fierce, wild, and breathtaking.
It’s so different and yet so similar to the Kim Aeri he remembers.
His mind reels with memories of Kim Aeri—the quiet, composed girl who had once watched him train with wide, wistful eyes. But this Baek Aeri—the fierce, untamed spirit before him—is nothing like that fragile memory. She is alive. She is burning.
She is the plum blossom blossoming in the cold, beautiful and deadly.
“Eek!”
He ducks with a startled yelp and bellows skyward. “Sahyung! Do something about this mad niece of yours!”
A phantom voice floats down from the heavens, dry and amused.
- This, my dear sajae, is what they call divine retribution.
“Yah, you shitty sahyung!!”
But there's no time to keep whining. Aeri doesn't let up.
“Who are you calling out to?” Suddenly, she’s in Chung Myung’s face. He flinches back, eyes going wide. “There’s no point in praying to the ancestors.”
Yeah, the hell do you know? I am the ancestor!
Aeri launches forward again before Chung Myung can muster a response, sword flashing with merciless precision. Her footwork is impeccable, every step calculated, every strike flowing into the next like water finding cracks in stone. Chung Myung parries, dodges, evades—but she’s relentless, and he’s not being given a single breath to retaliate.
She’s faster than she was before. More focused. And worse—she’s learning .
“She took notes?!” He wheezes, barely blocking a low slash to his ribs. “What the hell, Sago?!”
Every technique he had once used to humble Baek Cheon, she’s twisted into her own. A barrage of rapid strikes, too fast to predict, too fluid to break. It’s maddening. Infuriating. Disrespectful!
Half of him is fuming. He , the Plum Blossom Sword Saint, the Demon of Mount Hua, is on the defensive! If his fellow disciples were alive, they’d rise from their graves just to die of shame again!
But the other half of him—gods damn him—it’s thrilled .
His blood sings with every clash. The strain in his muscles, the sting of near-hits, the sting of sweat in his eyes—it’s been so long since he’s felt this. Since someone truly pushed him to the brink. Since he was reminded that martial arts is not just tradition—it’s life. And Baek Aeri is giving him life .
Under the moonlight, with her blade singing and her robes fluttering, Aeri embodies the very essence of what Kim Aeri had once dreamed of. She is every bit the warrior she had yearned to become.
She lives and breathes the Mount Hua Sect.
And she’s beautiful in battle. Like a spirit of vengeance, her movements honed by discipline and desperation. Her blade comes in from the right, leaving a soft opening on the left. His instincts roar, body moving faster than his mind. Chung Myung retaliates—fast, surgical.
She’s on the same level as me.
Their blades crash.
The moment they do, Chung Myung sees Baek Aeri come alive .
“Yes.” A mad smile stretches across her lips, lighting up her features. “Yes, fight back .”
Her eyes flash, wild and alight with exhilaration. And within her, Chung Myung sees himself reflected back .
“Yah, you madwoman…” Despite his words, Chung Myung finds himself grinning. She’s good . “Why are all the women in this sect like this?!”
“Where did you think Iseol learned it from, brat?”
Where indeed?
Who didn’t know the tragedy of Kim Aeri? The girl abandoned by the sword, who bled in the dark chasing beauty she could never touch. The girl who watched from afar, worshipping the plum blossoms she thought were out of reach.
And yet here she is. Reborn. Alive. Her sword sings as loud as his.
Samae.
Chung Myung ducks a sweep to his legs, turns, and strikes for her throat—precise, practiced. His blade catches flesh—a shallow cut blooms crimson across her neck.
It’ll scar.
His breath catches. His sword falters.
I’ve marked her.
But Baek Aeri only grins, eyes gleaming like twin blades of silver. No hesitation nor any fear. Her footwork trudges forward unbidden by the sting of pain, and with every clash, she seems to rise , like a storm gathering momentum. Joy radiates from her—undeniable, radiant joy.
Is this the life you wanted, Aeri?
Torn sleeves, bruised wrists, and battles in the moonlight. Scarred beyond belief, rolling the dirt and tanning under the beating sun. The life of a warrior hardened by the cruelty of the world, by the blood shed by their sword.
Is this what you saw in my plum blossoms?
When Aeri had seen them for the first time, he cried and called them—him—pretty. When she had painstakingly bent over faded parchment, she had drawn her very world in the shade of the color of his eyes. When she had let him thrust the ribbon into her hands, fingers lingering a tad too long, and answered his selfish demand with a soft, devoted, and reverent,
“Always.”
Another clash, steel against steel. Chung Myung looks up and sees himself in her eyes.
Is this what you saw in me?
A sharp sting draws blood from his cheek. Chung Myung stumbles—and before he can recover, Aeri’s breath is in his ear, a low murmur tinged with something like mischief.
“Focus.”
She lets him retreat. For the first time, she pulls back.
Chung Myung doesn't chase. And neither does she. For a moment, the night holds its breath. Her expression is calm now, but questioning.
“Are you going to be truthful now?” Aeri asks, some of her lost reason returning as the adrenaline calms. “Or will we continue this fight?”
Chung Myung studies her—not Kim Aeri but Baek Aeri, but this one. This— Baek Aeri , panting, bloodied, proud. The sweat on her back, the bleeding cut on her ear, the shaky rise and flash of her chest from exertion. And yet, the brightness in her eyes. As if Chung Myung is the light that has illuminated the darkness of her life thus far.
In this life and in the past.
Something in his small, fragile heart trembles.
Chung Myung knows what he must do.
“I am a person of Mount Hua, Sago,” Chung Myung hears himself saying, voice hoarse. At her rising skepticism, he adds quickly, “But I will prove it to you.”
Without waiting for her reply, Chung Myung shifts his stance. One hand grips his sword. The other rises—two fingers extended in that familiar, signature formation. The stance of his prime. The stance that defines Mount Hua.
The stance of the Plum Blossom Sword Saint.
The perfection you pursue haunts you.
His eyes flicker with something quiet and reverent.
That perfection is flawed, Sago.
With a deep breath, Chung Myung draws his blade through the air in a wide, slow arc. The motion is delicate, fluid, blooming open like a flower at dawn.
But if you must obsess,
He shifts into familiar movements, sharp but fluid and graceful at the same time—the Seven Plum Blossoms Technique. She’s still too fractured to be shown the full extent of her potential; showing her so early will only blind her.
But Chung Myung can show her this at least.
Then obsess over your future, my samae.
This technique isn’t his own. It’s not Mount Hua’s either.
It’s changed. Softer in some places, sharper in others. It flows more like her.
Every line, every breath, every flick of the wrist designed not to display his perfection—but hers .
Look.
Chung Myung dances.
And he mourns.
For someone so close and yet so far away at the same time.
So light it barely seems real, Chung Myung draws his sword down in a sweeping arc. A pulse of qi spreads outward, invisible but undeniable. The world itself seems to hold its breath.
Then—
The sky bursts into plum blossoms.
This is the life you have been granted, this is your potential—the path to your greatness.
They erupt like fireworks, illusions born of qi and memory. Petals spiral into the air from every stroke of his sword, painting the cold mountain night in hues of soft pink and ghostly violet. They fill the space between them—weightless, silent, shimmering in the moonlight.
There is no need to chase after dreams any longer.
These are plum blossoms that bloomed only for one person.
‘There is no need to chase after me.’
Within the midst of a tempest of petals, Chung Myung finds her.
Aeri stands motionless beneath the illusion. Her sword is lowered, her lips parted in a silent breath. He sees the light in her eyes, the awe softening every line of her face. And in that moment, Chung Myung sees not the ghost of Kim Aeri—but the living, breathing truth of Baek Aeri.
This is his apology. And his greeting.
‘Aeri-ya, I’m home.’
It took him a hundred years, a death, and a chance at a second life to do so. But right here and now, in another life, Chung Myung shows Aeri his plum blossoms once again.
He watches her, surrounded by the very vision that once belonged only to him.
Now it is hers.
‘If you’ll have me, I’ll walk by your side. And we’ll both chase it together.’
He parts his lips, carves this truth into the very fabric of the universe.
“The perfection that is you.”
Years prior, in the middle of Mount Hua’s long, seemingly eternal winter, a single, lonely plum had bloomed.
It had weathered the torrential rain, borne the rage of the scorching sun, and endured the bitter frost, and yet still, it had continued to bloom. It had taken the bleak reality of a barren world and overwhelmed it with the scent of plum blossoms, refusing to entertain any other possibility.
It was a beacon of light, leading the next generation into a future of glory.
But could anyone have known then, just how selfish this plum was?
Could anyone have known then the thoughts that underpinned every curve of the sword that had split the heavens and the earth in half? Nothing but blind pursuit—of greatness, of perfection, of nature?
What is duty or responsibility, in the face of greed?
The day Aeri defeated Jin Geumryong was the worst day of her life.
When her blade stilled, the plum blossoms kissed the skies their final goodbyes, and she’d breathed herself back into reality—Aeri had turned her head and seen them .
Her elders, so weathered down by decades of decline that it was all they could do, were to cling to the past. Her sasuks, so beaten down by the harsh world that they didn’t even bother to entertain a reality otherwise anymore. And her juniors, still achingly young and bright-eyed, only just beginning to get used to hunching their shoulders and caving beneath the weight of failure.
Their extinguishing hopes suddenly set alight with the promise of more .
Baek Aeri had looked back at her people, at their prideful grins and relieved tears, and had faintly, fearfully thought.
What do I do now?
She had climbed those steps as just another nameless, forgettable disciple of the declining Mount Hua Sect. When she stepped down half an hour later, she did so as less human and more symbol— the key to Mount Hua’s revival, the leader of Mount Hua’s future generations, the guiding light that would rebuild Mount Hua to its past glory.
That very same day, seated before the gleeful elders, Aeri had quietly handed off the duties of the head disciple to Baek Cheon.
And she had stepped back.
Her aversion was well-noted—of leading, of bearing the responsibility, of failing to do well— and they’d made do in the wake of her rejection. It was easier to be passive, to stand back and be a reminder of what could be achieved—of what could be Mount Hua’s reality should the generations strive for more. They had long become complacent with failure, comfortable with discomfort, and compliant with ridicule.
The lone flame, burning in the darkness, would be enough guiding light to help them navigate their path towards self-discovery.
This was what Aeri had been told by the elders, worn hands weathered by age and harsh features softened by warmth and affection for her . The acknowledgement of her young age, of the burden on her shoulders, and the blind, fanatic pursuit of the sword no one else in Mount Hua could ever hope to match.
She had been satisfied with that reality, left to her own devices, more rumor than reality.
Aeri doesn’t know what she expects Chung Myung to do when he claims to prove his innocence. It’s not this. It’s certainly not this.
She looks at the plum blossoms lighting up the night sky, swirling viciously around the horizon like a fearsome tempest. And Aeri finds Chung Myung in the eye of that tempest, as if the incarnation of Mount Hua itself.
And she realizes, with a faint oh ,
I’m not alone.
Aeri had never stepped up to the role of head disciple, especially not after the first time she had bloomed her plum blossoms. That hadn’t meant she hadn’t looked back, slowed down, and waited and waited for someone—anyone—to climb to the same peak as her. The heavens beyond heavens were cold.
And Aeri was alone.
But no one came for her. No one came close .
Somehow, the strange, manic euphoria that realization wells up in her chest nearly triumphs over her reason.
This is the Seven Plum Blossom Sword Technique.
She’s seen it before, in the recovered books, in Un Geom hesitant demonstrations, tried to replicate it herself privately—painstakingly, obsessively—but never like this.
Never to this extent.
With each motion, plum blossoms bloom in radiant arcs. Not mere illusions, but something more—refined, alive. They trail from his blade like a comet’s tail, fluttering through the air in delicate, perfect spirals. The blossoms glow faintly, cradled in moonlight and qi.
These are Chung Myung’s plum blossoms.
Aeri tilts her head towards the heavens and confesses her sinful truth.
“I am a selfish person.”
So many years spent chasing the back of a ghost that evaded her, even to the point of neglecting her reality. The perfection embedded within those large hands and those swift movements, how Aeri had obsessed over it. All while throwing away her roots, her life, and her connections.
And yet, fool is she, for how can she not help it?
Something in her heart fractures at the sight, pupils trembling.
“Am I?” She sucks in a shaky breath, tries to compose herself. Aeri fails. “After all, am I not a swordswoman too?”
How can I not love you?
Aeri can’t bring herself to move for a long time.
How can I not love this perfection? Is this not the martial path I pursue?
She steps forward into the heart of it, helpless to resist, and the petals rush toward her—but they do not cut. They brush her skin like wind-blown silk, curling around her arms, clinging gently to her shoulders.
Aeri closes her eyes.
His qi—
It’s warm. Familiar. Like coming home.
As if she’s known it her entire life.
How strange.
Aeri thinks hysterically, eyes fluttering open. When this qi belongs to someone, I suspected not an hour ago.
When she finally tears her gaze away, towards the cause of her conflict, Aeri finds Chung Myung watching her, his expression unreadable.
“I belong to Mount Hua,” He says quietly, but firmly. “I have only ever been a person of Mount Hua.”
Aeri stares.
This time, she believes him.
Because only someone utterly devoted to Mount Hua’s Taoism could ever bloom the plum blossoms like that.
She drags her gaze back up towards the skies as if possessed, as if frantically trying to memorize the curve of the flowers. The silence stretches between them, but neither moves to break it. The blossoms are still fading when Aeri speaks again, her voice quiet, reverent.
"They’re pretty.”
Aeri’s so absorbed in her own thoughts that she nearly misses Chung Myung’s flinch.
He looks almost pained at her words, gaze flickering—not to the sky, but to her. A shadow of something older, wearier **crosses his face. Something ancient and ruined, lost in time and space. But Chung Myung never expands on it, never offers any explanations.
The very same habits that frustrated her not an hour ago.
And yet, at least for now, Aeri can’t find it in herself to push.
Not when he looks like that .
She does not like it.
“Will you show them to me again?” The words spill out of her immediately, with a strange sense of urgency. The scent of plum blossoms is still pungent, clinging to her robes. “Your plum blossoms? Please?”
Chung Myung is quiet for a long moment.
Then slowly, roughly, he groans out.
“What’re you talking about, you troublesome Sago?”
He ducks his head for a moment before jerking up harshly. Aeri blinks as grey eyes meet pale, soft pink ones.
Chung Myung smiles, soft and ruined.
“How can I ever deny you anything?”
Then he points the sword towards her and shoots forward like a bullet. Aeri immediately parries, buckling beneath the weight of his blow before ducking and retaliating. As the two swords clash once more, they both know it well.
This time, neither of them holds back.
He cannot deny her anything. Not when she looks like that .
A stupidly fragile, entranced expression as if nothing else in the world is worthy of her attention. The way she comes alive at the sight of Chung Myung’s plum blossoms, the lifeless grey lighting up like the stars scattered across the night sky.
This is an irrefutable, indomitable truth.
Chung Myung can never deny Aeri anything. In this life or the last.
Not normally, nor in any special circumstances. But especially not now—not now when she looks like she’s fallen in love for the first time.
Just like how she had in another life, snowflakes stark against the dark of her hair, bundled up in thick wolf fur, grey eyes glittering like diamonds, and small, painted lips parted in an enraptured, entralled “Oh.”
The slow upturn of those lips.
“How pretty.”
In this life, Chung Myung swings his sword in a perfect arc. As if she’s been waiting for the opening the entire time, Aeri ducks underneath the curve of his arm, and her sword aims for his armpit. Sharp and true, unflinching and unyielding.
Chung Myung tilts his head, smirking softly.
“Gotcha.”
It’s the same thing he’d told Yoon Jong and Jo Gul. The root of where all swordsmanship comes from. He’d tested the third-class disciples earlier through Jo Gul. Then the second class through Baek Cheon and Yu Iseol. None of them had particularly impressed him, too haunted by the shadow of Southern Edge looming over their heads to even conceive the importance of the fundamental.
What about this one, then, who stands apart on a completely different level from them all?
What made Baek Aeri different, made her stand out from the rest? What made her bloom singularly, tenaciously in the middle of a harsh winter that showed no signs of ever passing?
Chung Myung feels the exact moment Baek Aeri realizes she’s made a mistake, cursing loudly. He grins viciously, a wild and free thing.
“You damn brat!”
Aeri curses loudly, sliding onto her knees and bringing up her sword with both hands. But Chung Myung merely hums at the flicker of sword qi, summoning his own. This is probably not a good idea, the aftershocks alone would be enough to level a mountain, but—
“I’m going to kick your ass for this, you absolute buffoon!” Aeri shrieks. “What the hell are you thinking—”
He really, really likes the expression on her face right now.
Callused fingers grip his sword firmly, bringing it down in a slow but heavy arch, all while smiling like a madman.
“I’m going all out, Sago!”
Their sword connect, and the entire world explodes.
Chung Myung feels it more than he sees it—a pulse of raw force tearing through the clearing. Their sword qi collide and ignite, detonating in a concussive boom that splits the ground, flattens trees, and the entire world turns white.
When the dust finally begins to settle, Baek Aeri is sprawled on her back, chest heaving, limbs splayed out like someone dropped her there from the sky. Her clothes are scorched at the edges, and there’s a smear of blood at the corner of her mouth. But her eyes—
Her eyes are shining .
She’s grinning up at him, reckless and breathless, the way Tang Bo used to after getting the beating of his lifetime by Chung Myung. It’s a mad, deranged grin that promises coming back for more.
Chung Myung stands over her, just as windblown and scuffed, his blade poised gently—almost respectfully—against the pale line of her throat.
She stares at it, then at him, then lets out a hoarse laugh.
“I concede,” She breathes out.
He quirks a brow. “Are you disappointed?”
Despite his question, Chung Myung can see that Aeri doesn’t look disappointed. Not in the slightest.
There’s no bitterness in her face, no tightness in her jaw, no fury in defeat. Just the glimmer of bone-deep satisfaction, of something deeper and more visceral—like the stars aligning and finally a decades-old wish coming true.
He takes it in. Commits it to memory.
Then, slowly, Chung Myung lowers his sword and offers her his hand.
Something within his chest stirs at the ease with which Aeri takes it and lets him pull her up to her feet. Instead, Chung Myung exhales and cranes his neck back, looking up at the sky. Their summoned plum blossoms drift lazily from above, torn free by the force of their clash, now floating down like soft, oblivious witnesses. Their petals land in his hair, on her shoulder, across the ruined stones.
Neither of them speaks for a while.
Then Aeri breaks it, voice low but thoughtful.
“...What is Mount Hua to you?”
Chung Myung doesn’t look at her.
He looks at the sky instead, at the plum blossoms falling, slow and scattered—petal by petal, drifting like ash.
There are a thousand things he could say.
He could talk about duty. Their lost history. The names of people long dead. He could talk about the weight of failure, the ache of starting over, the emptiness that built itself into his bones across lifetimes. He could talk about loss, about regret, and about words left unspoken.
But he doesn’t.
Once, his Sect Leader Sahyung had asked him.
“Do you regret your decisions, Chung Myung?”
And just as he had done so thousands of times before, his sahyung had consoled Chung Myung with a warm smile. “There is no need for regret. It is the Mount Hua Sect after all.”
He tilts his head towards the heavens above and answers both the living and the dead.
“Mount Hua is Mount Hua. That is all.”
Aeri is silent for a long time. Then she snorts, dry and resigned. “You’re a strange kid.”
Chung Myung glances at her, brow twitching. “You’re weirder. Who shows up and starts attacking a kid?”
“I had to be sure.”
Chung Myung’s head tilts just slightly, and Aeri deflates instantly.
“I’m a little obsessive with the sword.” She admits reluctantly.
Chung Myung grumbles under his breath, brushing dust off his robes. “Makes sense now where Iseol Sago got it from.”
Aeri snorts, shaking her head. “She came that way.” Her voice softens, losing its usual bite. “If anything…”
Her fingers brushed over the hilt of her fallen sword, almost absentminded.
“I ended up more like her.”
Chung Myung glances at her—sharp and sudden, like he wasn’t expecting that. But Aeri doesn’t offer more, just kicks at a loose stone and watches it tumble through the cracked ground.
She opens her mouth to speak—finally, finally —
And is immediately cut off by the roar of an incensed, disbelieving voice.
“What in the world is going on? The entire left side of the peak was blown up!!”
Both of them freeze in their tracks.
Oops .