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Translator: Vine
Chapter Title: [Side Story] How Those Men Reached the Peak (2)
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Woonhak felt shame.
He was ashamed of his pettiness, unable to genuinely celebrate his friend's achievement from the bottom of his heart.
He was ashamed of the frustration that he might be the last among his friends to reach the peak—or perhaps never reach it at all.
He was ashamed of his arrogance, having believed that he had trained harder and more diligently in martial arts than anyone else.
But the shame was fleeting.
Stronger than that, however,
pettiness, frustration, and humiliation overwhelmed Woonhak's mind.
He had believed that effort never betrayed.
While others rested, spent pleasant times with women, or idled away their days gambling, he trained.
Of course, he had neglected his training somewhat recently, spending time with his friends.
No, that's not it.
We played together!
Why are you the only ones reaching the peak?!
I want to reach the peak too!
His honest feelings, like thorns, pricked at his chest.
The clouds (雲) where the crane (鶴) soared grew heavy with moisture, as if rain would fall at any moment.
* * *
Woonhak confined himself to the training hall all day.
He felt no hunger.
How could he blame his hunger?
Perhaps his effort was insufficient.
Perhaps they had seen something he had not.
He simply stared at the wall.
Only when he was so famished he felt he might collapse at any moment did he finally chew and swallow a single grain of Biyokgokdan, without water.
Instead of satiety, a sense of guilt surged through his spine.
Whenever he grew restless, he would pick up his Beggar's Staff and swing it countless times at the wooden dummy in the training hall.
A hundred times, a thousand times, and then countless more.
Blisters formed on his hands, burst, and just as they began to heal, they would tear open again, bleeding profusely, yet he paid them no mind.
But.
No enlightenment came.
Thus passed a day, then two.
There was no change in his physical condition.
The clothes he was wearing slowly began to reek.
The pungent odor of his body, permeating the entire training hall, made Woonhak suddenly frown.
The stench bothered him.
The stench.
The stench bothered him.
The stench had finally bothered him.
"Ah—"
He finally realized.
What he had been missing.
How could he, born a mere beggar,
have found a stench bothersome?
Was he truly a beggar?
Did he even have the right to call himself a Beggars' Sect disciple?
What was the meaning of the knots he wore on his body? Were they a symbol of a prestigious righteous sect, not a beggar?
Woonhak left the training hall as if possessed.
"Are you alr—"
"Geum-hyung, I am clearer now than I have ever been."
His friend, whom he had met at Baekhwahakgwan.
Though they hadn't spent a particularly long time together,
this friend, with whom he could open his heart, genuinely worried for him.
That sentiment filled him with immense gratitude.
Judging by his appearance, it even seemed as if he had been waiting outside for him to emerge.
Woonhak simply smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and continued on his way.
Indeed.
How could he have harbored even a speck of jealousy towards such a friend?
Just because someone else had taken a step further than him, did that prove his own inadequacy?
Everyone's starting line could be different.
Their innate capabilities could differ,
and their individual talents could also vary.
For a mere beggar,
what did the height of one's cultivation matter, or whether the academy's food tasted good or bad?
He casually cast off the long robe embroidered with the symbol of the Beggars' Sect.
He left the academy, relying only on a single, once-clean garment that was now stained with grime and reeked of sourness.
* * *
Most of the Beggars' Sect disciples in Xi'an belonged to the Clean Garment Faction (淨衣門).
They wore clean clothes and lived lives as martial artists, bound more by the name 'Beggars' Sect' than by being actual beggars.
Thus, the places they frequented were not the slums where beggars congregated, but rather taverns, gambling dens, and other places tied to various interests.
Woonhak also belonged to the Clean Garment Faction.
Until now, he had been a Beggars' Sect disciple, not a beggar.
But.
At this very moment,
he wished to become a beggar, not a Beggars' Sect disciple.
He went to the dampest, most polluted part of the slums, ignored by people, where even those not affiliated with the Beggars' Sect lived, and lay down on the ground without a word.
"Tsk, tsk, young man, how did you end up here looking like that?"
"Haha… life hasn't been easy, sir."
Woonhak, having cast off the cord that tied his hair and even the shoes that covered his feet, was now the spitting image of a beggar.
Though his soles were blistered and bleeding profusely, he casually wrapped them with dirty rags he wouldn't have even glanced at before.
In the lowest place, he found his own spot.
And he naturally blended in, as if he had been a native resident there all along.
The one who took particularly good care of Woonhak was an unnamed Uncle Jang.
"I'm going to try and get a dumpling or two at Old Park's inn. Care to join me?"
"Hehe, let's go, sir."
He followed Uncle Jang to his begging spot, bowing his head with a cynical smile.
"These dumplings are the best in the world, sir!"
He took a bite of a dumpling that, at best, contained nothing inside, and felt a flicker of happiness from the sweet sugar seeping in.
"Ugh, get away, you're bringing bad luck!"
Splash!
"Phew, just shaking off the dirt again, sir."
"Haha, Woon-beggar, you certainly know the flavor of life."
Even as his body was drenched in carelessly scattered filth, he didn't lose his bright smile.
He then followed Uncle Jang to a creek that could hardly be called clean, hastily washed himself, wrung out his clothes, and dried them in the shade.
Covered only by his undergarments and a straw mat, he casually picked off the lice crawling on his body in a sun-drenched open lot before drifting off to an afternoon nap.
Woonhak let go of himself.
A day passed.
Then two.
He suddenly remembered why he was here.
It was attachment.
If one could reach enlightenment simply by wishing for it, how could it be called enlightenment?
Sometimes, only by letting go could one truly see.
The moment Woonhak's mind was completely emptied,
he unknowingly sat cross-legged.
"Huh? Woon-beggar, what are you doing?"
"Hey, you idiot! Hands off! Our Woonhak, I knew he was extraordinary from the start, he's ascending to immortality!"
"Ascending? Can beggars become immortals too?"
"Stop spouting nonsense and get lost! You're disturbing him!"
The beggars with whom Woonhak had shared hardships were utterly uneducated and knew nothing of martial arts,
but they weren't so cold-blooded as to ignore the sudden change that had come over Woonhak.
No, they were warm-hearted people, rather.
As the surrounding beggars, each holding a club too embarrassing to be called a Beggar's Staff, stared fiercely into empty space where no one was coming,
Woonhak finally filled the vessel he had thoroughly emptied with new water.
What settled at the very bottom was his essence.
He didn't know if the cycle of reincarnation (六道輪回) existed, but at the very least, it was his first cry as a human being.
The culmination of his desperate cries, alone after his mother had passed from this world at the end of childbirth, with no one to hear his voice.
— "Hoh ho, for a newborn, his voice is truly unmatched under heaven."
His adoption, whether by chance or destiny, his nursing by others, and his growth.
Though he was the lowest of beggars, unable to even write a single character, he was his life's benefactor and his father.
It was also his father who, without even understanding the meaning, simply gave him the name 'Woonhak,' which sounded the coolest among the names he'd heard through rumors.
But unfortunately, the martial world was a ruthless place for an old beggar without a shred of internal energy to survive, and by the time he was weaned, he was left alone in the world.
Was it thanks to the mother who bore him, or the father who saved him?
Possessing excellent physique and outstanding perception, he eventually caught the eye of the Beggars' Sect.
From then on, he never had to eat raw rats out of hunger.
He never had to bury his head in muddy puddles out of thirst.
His skin never chafed and bled from worn-out clothes.
To the point where his early childhood felt like a dream.
His boyhood and youth were clean, noble, and dignified.
While that couldn't be said to be wrong,
it undeniably robbed him of deprivation.
And so, Woonhak let go.
Of status, of honor.
He shed all the shackles that defined him, returning to being just a mere beggar.
Though not as noble as a crane (鶴) soaring above the clouds (雲) in the highest reaches,
it was enlightenment gained at the end of a learning (學) journey that circulated (運) in the lowest places.
* * *
"...So you donated all the money you've saved up until now to the other beggars living there, and now you want to borrow living expenses?"
Watching his friends, who had somehow picked up enlightenment every few days, all spouting nonsense, Geum Sihyeon wore an incredulous expression.
Ignoring him, Woonhak muttered with an enlightened expression.
"As the saying goes, 'empty-handed we come, empty-handed we go.' If you give, greater blessings will return to you—" "Ugh! Urgh!"
"Get out, get out, you beggar! Does money grow on trees? Just because you've been begging and living off handouts, does the world seem easy to you? Do you know how much money our family invests in relief efforts?!"
Even under Geum Sihyeon's beating, Woonhak, though screaming, smiled like a noble crane.
Looking back at his friend's eyes from the height of his enlightenment, he saw only concern for him.
"Geum-hyung, if you get that angry, you might be consumed by darkness."
Geum Sihyeon sighed.
"Alright, just write down how much money you need, and how much you need to feed your friends. I can manage that much."
At the warmth hidden beneath his gruff words, Woonhak couldn't help but burst into laughter.
That sentiment filled him with immense gratitude.