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“Will he survive?”
The words are asked softly, steadily, without a hint of wavering—but his tone fools no one. The worry in the Righteous Sword’s narrowed eyes are as plain as day. His sword does not dip, sway, nor promise anything other than an threat.
The question of competence should stir something up in Tang Gunak. Fury for the impertinence. Bloodthirst for the threat, but neither come. They have no right to. Not when he, the loser, is standing.
Tang Gunak nods. “We will save him,” he answers sternly, and the conviction of his words is not to be tried, because it isn’t just the reputation of the Tang Clan on the line, but also his dignity as a martial artist. “Even if we have to use every secret technique at our disposal."
The silence reigns heavier than any mountain, and it takes a moment—two, for the Righteous Sword to weigh their options. The decision comes clear. When he slides his sword back into his sheath and turns on his heel, Tang Gunak feels his shoulders loosen. It’s almost laughable.
The merchant’s son, cradling their fallen brother’s body with as much ferocity as a wild animal, is reluctant to let go, but his grip loosens and pushes forward as the Righteous Sword crouches down, a wordless exchange between them.
With as much care as the world could ever spare, the Righteous Sword lifts the unconscious Divine Dragon into his arms. He takes a moment to stare at his martial brother’s face. The blood from his mouth. The blood pooling at his gut.
When the Righteous Sword opens his mouth, Tang Gunak knows the words before they even come.
“You better keep that promise of yours.”
After such a duel—after such a defeat, Tang Gunak thought he couldn’t be surprised anymore, but Mount Hua doesn’t pull their punches.
Not long ago, when he waltzed into the Four Seas Merchant Guild, killing intent rolling off his soul, the disciples of Mount Hua met him unsteadily—a herd of sheep to a sole wolf. They kept their greetings up. Kept their eyes low. Kept their tones and body language and persons as respectful as they could ever be, because they feared for their lives, well within reason.
Not a single shred of fear holds them back now. The four sheep that once greeted him with courtesy now greet him with a fury only reserved for war. They crowd around the Divine Dragon, a palisade that clutches him tight—tends to him close, and Tang Gunak has no doubt they’d shield him from the very world if they needed to.
It’s a battle to get them onto the Tang Clan’s premises. An even fiercer one to get the Divine Dragon—Chung Myung, Tang Gunak has since learned—onto the offered bed and to the help he needs, and it’s only the concern for their martial brother that manages to override their need to protect him from anything and everyone. Even so, they don’t make it easy.
When someone approaches with a needle, swords come up and out.
When someone takes out a medicinal pill, they demand to have it tested for poison.
When someone attempts to bandage the wounds, the roll is ripped away and given to one of the disciples to do themselves.
Claws out. Teeth bared. They surround and shield their own with such a fiery rage that it burns gentle.
They turn away every meal they are given. They draw their swords to search for a single excuse to trade an eye for an eye, and even as sleep pulls at their body, their eyes, their souls—they do not give, because the last thing they would do would be to leave Chung Myung’s side.
They berate and scold and let their swords do the talking, and no one tells them to do otherwise.
Ultimately, it’s concern that forces Tang Gunak’s hand, and with a quick jab of their meridians, they drop like flies. It’s not much of a challenge. After all, they’re young, inexperienced, and, most notably, dead on their feet, because three days of constant vigilance aren't as easy as they sound.
Tang Gunak wonders how much longer they would’ve lasted. He wonders if they would’ve gone forever.
Standing in the corner of the room, staring at the four disciples snoring away their exhaustion at Chung Myung’s side, a swell of envy surges in Tang Gunak’s chest. He purses his lips.
In the Tang Clan, survival of the fittest is the ruling authority, and compassion has no place amongst their ranks, but seeing Mount Hua defend one of their own with such grueling conviction, unwavering devotion, and stone-cold stubbornness—
Tang Gunak’s gaze strays up to the man in the bed.
Chung Myung slumbers away, ignorant and unaware of the care that cradles him close. Curiosity is what keeps Tang Gunak from leaving.
Beyond his exceptional martial prowess, his potential as a rising star, Tang Gunak wonders what kind of man Chung Myung is to garner such loyalty, because while it’s common tendency for the weak to flock toward the strong, the relationship between the four disciples and him is not of that kind.
It is rather… heart-touching, that childish word, to see such a close-knit group of young people—ready to willingly give their lives and challenge the very world for each other, as if there have never been any other options.
Tang Gunak doesn’t quite understand.
If they were family, perhaps he would, but they aren’t even blood-related, so what is the reason they gravitate around each other with such pull? And what kind of man stands at the center of this chaos?
It’s only when he finds himself sitting across a table, a teapot, and two empty cups from the very source of his curiosity, listening to a request unheard of—a request of friendship in a land of martial arts and mercy, does Tang Gunak learn the real meaning of the word charisma.