Chapter: 430
Death.
Guyangcheon’s brow furrows at the words that feel familiar yet distant.
“What the heck….”
It was such a sudden statement.
Are you saying I’m going to die soon?
As I looked at the god with wide eyes, he continued his explanation calmly.
“Everyone has a vessel. You know that too.”
“…yes.”
Every human has their own vessel.
It can be a frame that holds energy, or it can be the source of the sense of presence that each person possesses.
What is the purpose of the god bringing up such a vessel?
Guyangcheon waited for further words with slightly sunken eyes.
“Your vessel is now at its limit.”
I feel a cold rush through me at the god’s words.
“…That is what I said.”
“It’s one thing to be able to use multiple energies at the same time, but having a vessel that holds them reach its limit is another matter.”
Even if the risk of energy colliding and exploding is resolved, it is another story altogether if the vessel overflowing with energy breaks.
What I wonder is…
“I remember hearing that story… but I don’t recall hearing it before.”
I’ve never heard anything like this, despite the countless examinations I’ve had with the doctor before.
Shin-ui, upon hearing Guyangcheon’s words, gasped in disbelief.
“I didn’t think you would be foolish enough to invite another energy in. Do you really think it’s reasonable for a normal person to push a vessel to its absolute limits?”
“…”
“Your vessel isn’t small compared to others, yet it’s filled to the brim, about to overflow. Do you not comprehend what this signifies?”
If the water spills over from the vessel, the uncontained energy will explode out of the body.
Even if it doesn’t overflow, it suggests that you can never tell when the vessel might break and create chaos.
“Is there no way?”
“As I mentioned before, the quickest method is to close your danjeon.”
The fastest and safest way is to block it by cutting off the energy.
“… That won’t work.”
This was a choice no different from death.
There are more than just one or two things that will happen in the future.
For Guyangcheon, the option of breaking his danjeon and becoming an ordinary person was simply unacceptable.
“Is there no other way?”
At Guyangcheon’s words, Shin-ui’s brow furrowed deeply.
He was lamenting the foolishness of needing to protect his martial arts in this manner.
To the gods, martial artists have always been like this.
‘Those fools who value power more than their own lives.’
I must protect my life right now so I can see my precious ones.
You have to survive to look forward to the future.
These fools were still no different than moths drawn to a flame.
Since Shin-ui didn’t know the details of Guyangcheon’s situation, he could only feel exasperated.
Are you saying that something like that is more important than death?
Thinking of those who met their demise like that, Shin-ui only frowned.
“If you don’t like it, there are two ways.”
Still, a method is proposed.
At least that’s what I think a member of parliament ought to do.
As Guyangcheon’s expression shifted at those words, Shin-ui continued, “You just have to stop increasing the amount of energy. If you maintain your current state, and if luck is on your side, you may live to see your days come to an end.”
“…”
What I mean is this: stop training and don’t raise the stakes any further.
Even if it’s not a competition, stop thinking about increasing your other energy altogether.
Are you telling me to stop growing and just stay in the present?
Perhaps that’s indeed valid advice.
If we just fixed the uncomfortable parts that feel like flawed scenery, we were in relative good shape.
Given that there are only a few thousand martial artists in the Central Plains, it might just be possible to get by while keeping a low profile even if the current state is maintained.
But….
‘That’s also futile.’
I knew better than anyone that such a thought was impossible.
Seeing Guyangcheon’s troubled expression, Shin-ui let out a deep sigh.
Because he realized that this, too, wouldn’t suffice.
“You’re no different from those other fools. Can’t you give up on martial arts?”
“…I’m sorry.”
The god will never know.
Guyangcheon was ready to give up his martial arts at any moment.
If he wanted to, he could close his danjeon right away and live as a normal person.
‘But who will save you?’
This is something that must be done.
It isn’t some flowery statement about saving the world.
The person you must save is anyone around you.
This was the martial arts for that.
Hence, he could never abandon the prospect of growth.
“Isn’t there another… way?”
I mentioned that there was still one more way.
Is that the only hope?
While Guyangcheon swallowed his anxiety, Shin-ui sighed and began to explain.
“It may not be a cure, but I can extend this period.”
“What do you mean…?”
“It’s possible to mitigate the risks through medication. However, a cure is out of reach—something I cannot accomplish with my own hands.”
“…”
Guyangcheon listened to Shin-ui’s words, lost in thought.
Shin-ui quietly observed him with interest.
Throughout their conversation, a strange sense of alienation lingered in Shin-ui’s mind.
After pondering for a moment, Guyangcheon touched his lips with his hand as if he had reached a conclusion.
“…Is that medication something only you can create, God?”
“Yes. It’s something that only I can make in the Central Plains.”
That must be true.
Guyangcheon had never heard of a medicine capable of stabilizing a vessel on the verge of breaking.
It might even sound good news, but something more crucial remained.
“Will you give it to me?”
It all boiled down to whether the god would truly make that medicine for Guyangcheon.
“No, I have no intention of doing that.”
The god firmly asserted that he had no such plans.
“At best, I will only extend the period. I won’t do anything for you if you insist on not opting for the other, better methods that exist.”
“…”
In response to the god’s voice, filled with anger, Guyangcheon simply remained quiet, watching him.
Shin-ui found the look in his eyes to be uniquely subtle and upsetting.
“God.”
In the tense atmosphere, Guyangcheon asked, “If that could prolong my life, how long would it last?”
Even at this point, Shin-ui felt increasingly frustrated with Guyangcheon for asking such a question.
“No matter how well you respond to the medication, you won’t live past forty. If your body fails to absorb it properly, you might barely last a decade.”
Having heard those words, Guyangcheon fell deep into contemplation, as if trying to lay out some calculations.
Watching him, Shin-ui added, “And please, give up on the idea of stretching your life and waiting for a cure. This medicine is….”
“…At most, ten years, right?”
Even as Shin-ui attempted to explain the dangers, Guyangcheon looked at him with indifference, as if this issue didn’t particularly concern him.
– That’s enough.
“…”
The thin, dry voice and the rhythm-less tone lingered in the air.
As the sun began its descent, a banquet was being held in the square to celebrate the return of the Poison King.
Shin-ui sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarters, pouring himself a drink.
“So….”
Shin-ui reflected on his conversation with Guyangcheon, pondering why he continued to feel alienated from him.
After much thought, he finally had a revelation.
No, perhaps he had known it from the start.
‘That kid hasn’t changed.’
It wasn’t that the thorns had withered and the tension had dissipated; they were simply concealed.
He recalled when he first saw Guyangcheon.
The boy he met back then had lifeless eyes, despite his fierce demeanor.
The eyes of warriors who had abandoned their lives due to the incident in the Demon Realm.
Guyangcheon bore those same eyes.
Shin-ui considered this as he poured a drink into his mouth.
‘You…’
From the beginning, he had no attachment to life. That’s how Guyangcheon appeared to the god.
He should have realized it sooner.
While discussing his own death, he seemed to be mulling over something.
There was no trace of fear there.
Only the complexity of organizing his own timeline.
The instability of his vessel must undoubtedly have psychological effects as well.
He may have experienced severe pain or headaches from time to time even on regular days.
Yet, in the god’s eyes, Guyangcheon seemed calm, even in such a tumultuous situation.
‘It wasn’t peace. He had just been worn down.’
A mind unshaken by pain.
The fear of death.
Those feelings had faded away from that boy.
The moment Shin-ui faced Guyangcheon, who had come with the Poison King, he could see it clearly.
If you’re a martial artist, you might be oblivious, but the eyes of a god are discerning.
It wouldn’t have been surprising if Guyangcheon had dropped dead at any moment.
That’s precisely why he had requested Guyangcheon to extend his wrist when he only meant to greet him.
Inside, chaos reigned.
While Guyangcheon’s energy managed to maintain a form of harmony, it was nearly forced.
Harmony created through sheer will would inevitably induce ripples within the body.
Even if one tries to keep a lid on it, there wasn’t much time left.
Could it be possible that the boy was unaware of this?
All Shin-ui felt was doubt.
“…”
Meanwhile, the fact that he seemed somewhat pleased at the prospect of extending his life by ten years was genuinely terrifying for Shin-ui.
That wasn’t the expression of someone who had a will to live.
‘What on earth….’
What has wrecked that boy so thoroughly?
It was too chilling for someone merely approaching adulthood.
‘What exactly do you intend to do?’
Shin-ui recalled Guyangcheon leaving from the last seat.
Guyangcheon exited, forgetting the declaration he would never provide medicine, assuring he would return another day.
As he gazed at his departing figure, Shin-ui felt a heavy rock lift from his shoulders.
To observe someone with such little attachment to their life was unsettling for a god.
“Eh, tsk.”
Even so, God wouldn’t give the medicine as previously stated.
Manufacturing it wasn’t straightforward, and gathering the ingredients was hardly a walk in the park.
The batch he had now was only sufficient for Wi Seol-ah.
Of course, even if he had the ingredients, he couldn’t offer them to the boy; and once commenced, this medicine could never be undone.
Even if he tried to close the danjeon later, it would mean death.
Once started, if one ceased taking it, it could cause problems with one’s innate energy flow.
Such a medicine is something a physician could never dispense.
It was a somewhat anticipated encounter.
Thus, it felt incredibly unsettling and bothersome that it unfolded in this manner.
Just as the god took another sip of his drink—
knock knock
Someone’s presence was felt entering the room.
Reacting to the sound, Shin-ui sniffed derisively.
“Hmph, you said you wouldn’t return for a while, yet here you are crawling back in?”
It was a rather sharp retort, yet the listener merely offered a brief laugh in response.
“It turned out to be more difficult to locate you than I anticipated. You do seem to hide away rather well.”
His deep yet gentle voice betrayed wrinkles betrayed the passage of time, indicating an elderly man; but the well-defined shoulders and straight back made it clear he was indeed a warrior.
“Well, if the child doesn’t want to be found, you should try thinking a bit harder. Do you really think this aggression will work?”
Hehe.
The old man chuckled, seemingly entertained by Shin-ui’s statement.
“Though he’s a bit older to be called a child.”
“What does the age even matter?”
“If you’re that attached to him, why not go see him? I can’t possibly be the only one with family.”
“If you dare to venture near, I know exactly what you’ll do to them, and I can’t let you see those children.”
The old man didn’t respond to God’s words, merely taking a stride towards the veranda.
Swish.
With a subtle hand motion from the old man, a bottle of liquor floated into the air before being quickly seized by his hand.
An effortless display of mana, yet Shin-ui showed no surprise.
“You’re looking downright pitiful, all alone. Not characteristic of you. Has something happened?”
“Don’t mind me. I was simply parched for a drink.”
“Hmm…very well.”
The old man’s interest appeared to dwindle at that, and he dropped the conversation there.
Tap tap.
As the old man walked towards Shin-ui, the folds of his martial arts robe fluttered behind him.
The name 南宮 (Namgung) was boldly emblazoned on the robe.
“Oh, you’ve seen that kid?”
“…”
At the words of the old man, Shin-ui’s shoulders trembled slightly.
“Soyeom-ra… was that the name you mentioned? That child.”
“If you wish to see him, go ahead. It seems the girl from that clan is also with him.”
At Shin-ui’s cue, the old man grinned as he sidled up beside Shin-ui.
“Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed to have missed him, but I’m alright with waiting. Eventually, I’ll get my chance, and I suppose delaying the fun a little won’t hurt.”
“Your personality is still as peculiar as ever.”
“You find that tiresome to hear, I see.”
With laughter accompanying his words, the old man shook the liquor bottle.
It was cheap alcohol, one he rarely indulged in, but it wasn’t half bad to enjoy with the moon as a companion.
Soon, the sun set, and the full moon floated high in the night sky.
The living history of the Namgung family and one of the absolute authorities of the orthodox martial world.
The victor of the south.
Heavenly Sovereign Namgung Jeolcheon savored a sip of wine while gazing at the moon.
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