The morning mist veiled the valley like a soaked blanket.
Ji-Hoon descended the rocky paths slowly, wrapped in a long beige cloak, woven from fibers he had cleaned, tanned, and stitched together.
A hood over his face.
A blank gaze.
Clean hands.
And a cloth bag, bottomless in appearance, from which came the faint clink of vials, powders, bandages, and three single-use needles.
His appearance was perfect.
Not too rich. Not too poor.
Unforgettable… to a distracted mind.
Forgettable… to those who think with arrogance.
---
The first village clung to the cliffside.
Three earthen houses, a rice field lying dormant, a cracked well.
He did not ask for hospitality.
He sat near the well, lit a fire.
And waited.
---
The first to approach was an old woman, gnarled fingers, yellowed eyes.
— "You're not from here."
He looked up.
— "I'm from nowhere."
— "A beggar?"
He handed her a worn piece of parchment:
"Traveling physician. Small cures, great pains. No money required. No name either."
The woman stayed silent.
Then pointed toward a distant shack.
— "My grandson has a fever. He's delirious."
He stood.
— "Show me."
---
The child was burning up.
High temperature. Rapid breathing. Dilated pupils.
A fungal infection worsened by a poorly prepared decoction.
He asked for hot water, a bit of salt, and a clay-root the woman had never even heard of.
He accessed the Library of the Soul and reconstructed from memory a formula called Gentle Purification by Subterranean Calm.
He applied the mixture to the child's belly, gave him three drops of dissolved stone-sweat, then placed his fingers on three nerve points.
The boy passed out.
Two hours later, the fever had broken.
---
The rumor spread—without him speaking.
"A doctor came."
"He doesn't say his name."
"He doesn't ask for money."
"He smells like wet bark."
They called him Bo-sun, a name with no lineage.
And he vanished before dawn.
---
In the days that followed, he visited two more hamlets.
Always the same method:
Never two days in the same place.
Never the same name.
Always a small "miracle": resetting a collarbone, stopping a hemorrhage, silencing a scream.
And always, the same phrase upon leaving:
"I am not a doctor. I merely correct the body's mistakes."
---
But behind every cure…
he was testing.
He noted reactions, skin tones, pulse variations.
He administered micro-doses of gentle toxins to some, to study effects on memory or appetite.
He repeated experiments in different contexts.
Each villager was a living page.
Each symptom, a phrase to decode.
And each success… fed his legend.
---
On the tenth day, he arrived in a slightly larger settlement.
A border village under the influence of a minor martial family: the Kang.
He was invited under a roof.
Offered rice.
And a young woman, in her twenties, said:
— "The patriarch's father has had a strange cough for months. We've paid three doctors, no result."
Ji-Hoon lowered his eyes.
He didn't speak.
But he drew out a black vial.
And smiled.
---
To be continued...