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“No.”
There was a tense silence in the tent where Cheong Myeong sat across from Hyun Jong. Mount Hua’s Sect Leader refilled a cup of tea and slid it over to Cheong Myeong, who made no move to touch it.
Hyun Jong sighed. “Do not be mistaken. I am not asking you to fill the role of a sect leader. However, when I am gone—”
“You won’t die.” Cheong Myeong gritted his teeth as his face contorted. “There is no need to come up with such plans, because none of Hwasan’s disciples will let that happen.”
“Cheong Myeong-ah.” Hyun Jong’s gentle voice was a bit firmer than usual, and he gestured to the teacup. “Have a drink.”
Cheong Myeong looked at the tea that came from Mount Hua’s last bottle—the last bottle of plum blossom tea that they had managed to pack from the faraway mountains of Mount Hua. It still carried a fragrant scent, as if fighting to have a presence in this unfamiliar territory.
They had been fighting the second demonic war for almost a year now. Even with the support of Cheonwoo Meng, how many disciples has Mount Hua lost once again? With a weaker martial arts foundation, Hyun Young had been the first of the elders to die, then Hyun Sang had fallen in their most recent battle as he defended the sect leader.
No matter how hard they had trained, not all of Mount Hua’s disciples could survive the grueling months of war they had been through. That was not to say Mount Hua’s disciples were weak—it was just how terrifying Magyo was. Still, Cheong Myeong could not accept it. He was the one who had known how it would end—isn’t that why he had tried so hard from the very beginning? Cheong Myeong, who made sure they didn’t miss a single day of training, and the disciples, who endured without ever questioning what exactly they were training for.
That’s why it was unacceptable for Cheong Myeong. This situation right now, that was blurring the lines between his past and current life.
“You and I both know,” Hyun Jong said quietly. “The fact that I am still here is not because of my own skills, but because of the disciples who have protected me. Everyday I feel ashamed and sorry, but I have endured it thus far because it is something I must bear to lead Mount Hua.
"However, there comes a point when I am still alive not due to the talent of Mount Hua’s disciples, but because of pure luck." Hyun Jong looked at Cheong Myeong again with a calm expression.
“Cheong Myeong-ah. Right now, what Mount Hua needs is not a sect leader who can only say useless words, but a general who can lead them confidently in battle. So—”
“Sect Leader must have forgotten,” Cheong Myeong interjected. “The Mount Hua sect is still just the Mount Hua sect. There is no need for us to turn into an army that mindlessly charges at evil. No matter how hard it gets, as long as we continue on our path, the will of Mount Hua and Cheonwoo Meng will continue to be carried out. Isn't that enough?”
“...”
“Besides, there is Baek Cheon, and the rest of Hwasan’s five swords. Mount Hua will not fall apart so easily.”
There was silence between the two. Hyun Jong picked up his cup and drank even as the tea no longer held any warmth.
Hyun Jong sighed. “That is true.”
“...”
Hyung Jong’s face was still tense, as if not satisfied with the answer he came to. But it was natural. He, who endured the pain of losing his disciples one by one in a terrible war, would eventually make a decision he would have never made in peaceful times—even if that person was Hyun Jong, the unwavering leader of Hwasan.
“Cheong Myeong-ah, it seems like my shortcomings as a sect leader have led me to burden you again. Still, I hope you would forgive my thoughts. Not as your sect leader, but just as a normal disciple of Mount Hua.”
Outside, the wind blew a little harshly, shaking the thin walls of their tent. For many of the disciples, it was their first winter away from Mount Hua; it was not as cold as the North Sea, but yet perhaps far more difficult. Come spring, would there be anyone to brush the snow away from the gates of their sect entrance?
“Even if it’s the sect leader,” Cheong Myeong said, “There is nothing to forgive.”
But Cheong Myeong could feel it—the Mount Hua that he had tried so desperately to rebuild from the ground up—he could feel it slipping from his grasp.
In the next battle, Hyun Jong falls to the demonic cult’s bishop.
Baek Cheon looked at the faces of Mount Hua’s disciples and grimaced internally.
It had been a long month since the death of their sect leader and the last of Mount Hua’s elders. Of course, he had stepped up in Hyun Jong’s place, but it was hard. After all, Hyun Jong had been the first to accept him despite his background from the Southern Edge sect and was a precious teacher and father figure to him.
Yet war leaves no time to mourn the dead. The moment he lets grief overcome him and dull his senses might as well turn into his last breath. So how can Baek Cheon mourn openly in front of the disciples whose will was shaking? Because that was the position of a sect leader—to be strong even when he is weak, and to shoulder the weight of his predecessor’s legacy without a word of complaint.
But now it was time for their last stand against the demonic cult. Forces of the Cheonwoo Meng were gathered in front of him with grim faces. Maybe if Hyun Jong was still here, he would have said a couple words that would instantly solidify their will and purpose.
“This is no different from our previous battles.”
Baek Cheon’s voice was not particularly strong, nor were his words meant to bring some type of enlightenment or comfort.
“There. Right there.” His sword pointed to the Hundred Thousand Mountains. “That is where the Heavenly Demon is. What we have to do does not change. You understand, right?”
“Yes, Sasuk!”
As Baek Cheon scanned the disciples, he tried to remember everyone’s faces. Because he knew and understood too clearly that some of them would not be able to return.
“If you ask whether I am afraid, I will say I am terrified. No matter how many times we fight them, I will always be afraid. But fear is what makes us human.”
The disciples’ faces, which had been wearing a brave expression, started to tremble.
“Everyone here has done everything they could. No one here has been allowed to slack off even a little bit. So trust in your efforts, and point your sword strongly.”
“Yes!”
Well, efforts mean nothing in the face of death. Cheong Myeong looked ahead at the mountains where the thick demonic energy pervaded the air like a disease.
Just wait. He will make the graves of those Magyo bastards a flowerbed of the plum blossoms they hated so much.
Song Woo was a third-class disciple of the great Mount Hua sect.
He wasn’t sure how he survived this far, but here he was, fighting in the last battle between the forces of the Jianghu and Magyo.
A battle that had lasted three days and was now on the third night.
Song Woo could feel it—he wasn’t making it to the fourth day. He was bleeding from a stab wound to his side, his ankle was broken, and dark spots were clouding his vision.
Song Woo was secretly glad. He was tired, and dying would mean that the ache would disappear, and if he’s lucky enough, he could meet his sahyungs again.
How long has it been since he saw them?
But in the midst of this chaos of death and blood, there was a monster. Cheong Myeong’s sword, which had been blooming plum blossoms continuously for the past three days, filled the whole battlefield endlessly with red flowers—plum blossom techniques that were so flashy and splendid, no one could miss it.
Plum blossoms bloomed differently depending on the wielder and the battle. For example, against the Wudang Sect, Song Woo’s plum blossoms may be a bit heavier, and against Maninbang, his plum blossoms might bloom a bit faster and sharper.
Cheong Myeong’s plum blossoms were bright and full and angry. They bloomed not only to kill his opponent, but to cover the battlefield. As if saying, look at me! Mount Hua is alive and well. No matter how much we’ve been hurt, Mount Hua’s plum blossoms will never stop blooming.
The other disciples’ plum blossoms started spreading too. Far away from their own individual battles, they started drifting, following Cheong Myeong’s style diligently just like they had always done.
Whenever Song Woo wanted to give up, he saw those plum blossoms and swung his sword another time. His bleeding does not slow down, yet his arm moves once again and he blinks through the haze.
One more attack, and then he can rest. No, one more swing might save another disciple. No, if he holds on just a bit longer...
Because although he cannot explain why exactly, no one’s suffering can be compared to Cheong Myeong—Cheong Myeong, whose plum blossoms carry so much sorrow and hurt, it felt suffocating to even his allies.
There comes a moment when Song Woo loses his sight completely, and his swings are purely guided by instinct. Somehow, the scent of plum blossoms around him had started to overcome the smell of blood and rotting corpses that had stuck onto him like skin for the past year.
And in his vision, he sees his sahyungs training back on Mount Hua—on their tiled training grounds surrounded by vivid plum blossoms in spring.
“Song Woo-ya, it seems as if you’ve been slacking!”
“Me?? Sahyung, you’re too much sometimes! Do you think any of us have the luxury to slack off, huh??? The mad dog of Mount Hua breathes over our backs every day!”
“Aigoo, it seems like our Song Woo has grown a troublesome snout these days. What did you say, you brat?!! Head! Head!”
“Ahhhh! Cheong Myeong, you bastard!”
Song Woo laughs. In the present, a sword punctures cleanly through his stomach.
He was parrying with his sahyung, using only the basic sword techniques as Un Geom monitors their progress.
A demonic cult member cuts off his arm.
Song Woo grits his teeth as he climbs up Mount Hua with double the amount of weights because Cheong Myeong had woken up that morning on the wrong side of the bed.
The arm that had been cut off still grips onto his sword, but Song Woo could no longer feel it. He kneels down and fumbles around, trying to find his sword.
Somewhere, far away and long ago, Song Woo blooms his very first plum blossoms on an unassuming spring day. The wind was warmer than usual, but that could have been the pride climbing onto his cheeks and the rough hands of his laughing sahyungs on his head.
In the present, Song Woo’s head falls to the ground silently.
No matter how many disciples had fallen, Mount Hua was still doing considerably well compared to the first war. Well, it should be this much. Cheong Myeong hadn’t come in expecting Mount Hua to be unscathed, but still, it hurts. So he had created a bit more plum blossoms than practical to fill the battlefield with a different kind of red. Because where plum blossoms bloom, that is Mount Hua.
Because when the disciples die, he wants the last thing they see and smell to be familiar plum blossoms, not the rotting flesh of their sahyungs and sajaes.
Cheonma was looking down at Cheong Myeong again.
“I told you, disciple of Mount Hua. The Heavenly Demon sect will rise again, no matter how hard you try to stop it.”
“Forget it.” Cheong Myeong spit out a mouthful of blood. “No matter how many times you Magyo bastards try, you will always fall to Mount Hua. You must have a hard time learning, seeing how eager you are to get killed again.”
Cheonma continued to look at Cheong Myeong with those eyes—those eyes that Cheong Myeong hated so much because they showed no emotion, and no remorse for the countless deaths he caused. Eyes that didn’t show the slightest fear despite having died once to Cheong Myeong’s sword.
Here on the battlefield, only the two of them know of the war one hundred years ago. And the thought of having anything in common with Cheonma at all made Cheong Myeong sick to his stomach.
Cheong Myeong pointed his sword at Cheonma. Despite his muscles screaming in pain from fighting for three days straight without rest, his sword was steady.
“...It is my fault for failing to end your pathetic life properly. Now, these greenhorn brats are having to suffer a hundred years later because of their incompetent ancestors.”
Red plum blossoms bloomed from the tip of Cheong Myeong’s sword. Small ones grew into bigger ones, until they filled up the whole sky. For a moment, Cheonma’s eyes flickered in front of the Plum Blossom Sword Saint.
“Heavenly Demon, Cheonma. I will show you the plum blossoms you wanted to see so badly. This is the will of Mount Hua you think so lightly of, and the way your life will end.”
Cheong Myeong’s sword moved. And he entered into what was seemingly an endless battle because no matter how much harder he had trained in this life, Cheonma was not the Cheonma of a hundred years ago.
Cheong Myeong was not Cheong Myeong from back then either. For the first time in this life, Cheong Myeong fought with the intention to die. His sword swung a bit faster, and plum blossoms bloomed recklessly in hundreds and thousands. He could hear the shouts of his sahyungs and sasuks behind him even as the plum blossoms separated their fight from the rest of the battlefield.
A sense of peace started to overcome Cheong Myeong. Once he killed Cheonma, he could see his sahyungs and sajaes again. They would welcome him with open arms and tell him they missed him, and he would brag to them all about how he revived the Mount Hua sect while drinking alcohol to his heart’s content, and he would tease them for falling to such idiots like Magyo.
And they would have to accept it all, because were they the ones who had to help Mount Hua at its lowest? Were they the ones who single handedly recovered and passed down Mount Hua’s plum blossom sword techniques? Were they the ones who lived day to day remembering fresh, painful memories that no one else could understand?
His sahyung…Cheong Mun sahyung would probably tell him he was proud of him, and that he had done well. And Cheong Myeong, for all that he blamed himself for Mount Hua’s downfall, wanted an apology.
From someone. Anyone. Was the sin he committed so great? Why was the fate of Mount Hua a burden he had to shoulder alone?
Ah, Cheong Myeong was crying again.
When Cheonma’s head falls for the final time, Cheong Myeong almost collapses. He could feel nothing on his body, but there was still one thing Cheong Myeong had promised himself to do before the battle had started.
Using the last remaining qi he had left, Cheong Myeong planted his sword into the ground. His pure qi flowed from his core to his hands, then to his sword and deep into the ground where it formed solid roots.
And the roots would reach the surface where it would grow into a tree, and the tree would grow buds in the winter that would bloom into beautiful plum blossoms in the spring.
And the plum blossoms would fall with time, covering the Hundred Thousand Mountains with numerous petals where the disciples of Mount Hua and their friends lied in rest. And given long enough, seeds could spread and the lone tree could become a forest.
Bodies that couldn’t be recovered and brought back to Mount Hua a hundred years past and a hundred years forwards from then. However, wherever plum blossoms bloomed, that was also Mount Hua.
This was the last thing Cheong Myeong could do for them. His body falls to the ground, but no one was fast enough to catch it.
Cheong Myeong was walking through a forest of plum blossoms. There were trees with small budding flowers, and trees where plum blossoms had bloomed to the peak of their beauty.
And at the end of the path was Cheong Mun.
“Sahyung!” Cheong Myeong ran to him, and suddenly his appearance was not of Mount Hua’s Divine Dragon nor the Plum Blossom Sword Saint, but of a third class disciple of Mount Hua no older than ten.
“Sahyung, I’ve looked for you so much,” Cheong Myeong whined. “Where were you? Why didn’t you tell me where you went?”
Cheong Mun smiled and patted the unruly hair of Cheong Myeong gently. “Cheong Myeong-ah, it seems like it has been a long time since I saw you. You have grown up well.”
Cheong Myeong tilted his head in confusion. Well, it was unusual praise, but after all, he was still just a child. Had his sahyung gone senile at an early age? Cheong Myeong shook his head.
“Sahyung, where are the other sahyungs? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Dang Bo in a long time too.”
Cheon Mun smiled as if knowing something he didn’t. “You will be able to see them soon, Cheong Myeong-ah. But it is still a little early, don’t you think? Haven’t you forgotten something?”
“…”
Cheong Myeong’s face grew sullen as he pouted. “...Sahyung is leaving again? You didn’t even miss me at all! Was it something I did? If it’s that Cheong Jin brat, you already made me apologize! Isn’t this too much? Sahyungg whyy—”
The sound of Cheong Mun laughing made Cheong Myeong shut his mouth and his eyes grew wide. He was getting goosebumps seriously, was his sahyung ill? No, did it make sense that a young martial artist was sick?
“Aigoo, it seems I was wrong. Our Cheong Myeong is still a child at this age.” Cheong Mun gazed at the plum blossoms around them and then stopped walking. He looked at Cheong Myeong with a warm expression that was full of sincerity. “But that’s alright. Whatever you decide, you are still just a precious sajae to me.”
Cheong Myeong opened his mouth to question Cheong Mun, but a strong breeze blew a wall of red plum blossoms between them.
Cheong Myeong was older now, and he was sitting on the roof of a bar in the Sichuan province with Dang Bo.
“What took you so long?” Cheong Myeong complained. “Anyways, did you bring it?” He grinned at Dang Bo and made a drinking motion, eyes sparkling at the thought of some expensive, high quality alcohol from the Dang family.
Dang Bo smiled at him with an uncharacteristic tinge of fondness that gave Cheong Myeong the creeps. “You’re the same as always.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Cheong Myeong snapped impatiently. “Do you have my alcohol or not? Is an elder of the Dang family going back on his word? Oh, this yangban really, messing with the Plum Blossom Sword Saint, it seems like you really want to die? When I tell the people of Sichuan this, the reputation of the Dang family will really—”
“Thank you, Cheong Myeong-ah.”
A vein popped on Cheong Myeong’s forehead. “This brat, are you really dropping the honorifics? Why, I—”
“When the time comes, I promise you we will share a drink again.” Cheong Myeong stayed silent as an unusual seriousness came over Dang Bo’s expression.
“However, until then, I can still wait a little bit more, so don’t worry too much about me.”
Cheong Myeong wanted to ask him what he meant. Wasn’t it him who was waiting for his deserved drink? This brat, really—they must not teach manners in the Dang family at all.
Cheong Myeong, the third class disciple, sat across Hyun Jong in the sect leader’s room at Mount Hua. Outside the window, plum blossoms swayed gently in the wind.
“Ahem.” Hyun Jong coughed a bit awkwardly. “I thought I’ve been through many things, but still this is an awkward situation. I and the Mount Hua sect are deeply indebted to you, Plum Blossom Sword Saint.”
Cheong Myeong sat a little stiffly. “There is no need for such formalities, Sect Leader. You can speak as usual.”
Hyun Jong’s cheeks grew subtly warmer. “Ah, to have an ancestor call me Sect Leader is a little bit, ahem.”
The sect leader’s room was just as Cheong Myeong had remembered it, though it had been long since he’d been back at Mount Hua. There was a peace in the air that was foreign to him, yet he had longed for it so much.
Cheong Myeong was tired. Anyone who lived more than a hundred years consecutively would be, but Cheong Myeong had lived through two wars as well. He fought and won and lost, and grew to be a great swordsman in both lives.
But just because he had lived two different lives, does that mean he was not still human?
Cheong Myeong is still human. And just like any other human who has been through many different and difficult ordeals, his soul was a bit weary.
“Cheong Myeong-ah.” Hyun Jong wore a gentle smile not unlike his Cheong Mun sahyung. “It must have been lonely.”
Perhaps others would have asked him if he was tired, or if it had hurt incredibly. But not many would have asked him if he was lonely—because hadn’t he always been surrounded by Ogum and the rest of the disciples every day in the sect?
But to Cheong Myeong, it was the loneliness that was most unbearable. In happy times and in desperate battles, wasn’t it him alone who consistently shouldered the knowledge of the past and the burden of his shortcomings?
Cheong Myeong was silent. Slowly, his cheeks grew a bit wet and made his clothes a little damp.
Hyun Jong was crying too. Who in Mount Hua would not understand the depths of Cheong Myeong’s sacrifice? He poured Mount Hua’s plum blossom tea into Cheong Myeong’s cup.
“I will not pressure you to return,” Hyun Jong said. “No, you most of all deserve to rest and be free from the aftermath of war and such.
“But if your decision is because you think your time is over, or that your work in Mount Hua is done, then I ask you to reconsider. Mount Hua is not so selfish a sect that it only clings onto you when it is in trouble. You may have belonged to a time we can't begin to understand, but there is still and will always be a place for you in Mount Hua.
“Time flows like water. The dead will always remain the same, but time with the living is something you can’t get back so easily.” Then, Hyun Jong seemed to have remembered himself and flushed.
“I have said something unnecessary. Please forgive me.”
Cheong Myeong was quiet for a bit. Then he asked, “Sect Leader.”
Hyun Jong looked at him expectantly.
“Are you and the others doing well?”
“...”
A breeze blew through the window on the side of the room, and it seemed to carry the sounds of the disciples training outside. Maybe just a few steps outside the door were Hyun Young and Hyun Sang, who were on their way to update Hyun Jong as usual on how the sect was doing.
Hyun Jong smiled quietly. “It is strange. Whether you are Mount Hua’s Divine Dragon or the Plum Blossom Sword Saint, you are still the same.” As if embarrassed, Hyun Jong was looking at the plum blossoms outside and not at Cheong Myeong.
“Cheong Myeong-ah, it’s fine to think about yourself first sometimes. Are you doing well?”
A small smile finally returned to Cheong Myeong’s face as he wore an expression of peace.
“...Sect Leader is the same as well.” He picked up the cup and drank the tea that he never got to finish so long ago.
When Cheong Myeong opened his eyes on top of the Hundred Thousand Mountains, he was immediately assaulted by the cries of Mount Hua’s disciples.
“Cheong Myeong!”
“Sahyung!”
“Cheong Myeong is awake!!!”
“Wahhhh Cheong Myeong-ah are you okay?”
“Cheong Myeong, you bastard, really!”
“Cheong Myeong how could you be so reckless, I thought I was going to die, seriously!”
“What the hell do you mean you were going to die, it was him who was going to see our ancestors! Him!! Cheong Myeong!!”
The disciples were fighting each other through their tears. It was a funny yet heartbreaking sight.
It still hurts—the numerous wounds on his body and the broken bones that haven’t gotten a chance to heal. But Cheong Myeong’s heart was at ease for the first time in many years as he watched the disciples that have managed to survive clamor loudly around him, their clothes dirtied with blood and sweat, but their eyes still managing to stay bright even after having gone through too much.
The sun began to rise over the tips of the mountains, and the long war was coming to an end. But this time, Cheong Myeong wasn’t alone.
Far away, spring had started to arrive in the mountains of Mount Hua. Plum blossom buds that were a little late this year were blooming quietly and slowly, as if waiting for someone to come to finally reveal their full splendor.
And this time, someone would be returning. Definitely.