Chapter Text
“Hyung-nim, would you still love me if I were a worm?”
“I would step on you.”
“You’re supposed to say yes!”
“Huh? Why would I like a worm? You wouldn’t either.”
“I would if the worm was hyung-nim.”
“As if you could even tell it was me.”
“I could.”
A pair of bright green eyes stared back at him with ridiculous sincerity.
“I’d recognize hyung-nim even if he turned into a worm.”
Tang Bo ended up with a sizeable lump on his head after Chung Myung smacked him, the swordsman immediately turning away to hide his burning red face while Tang Bo laughed quietly beside him.
It was a memory from long before the war.
Maybe because it had been so long since he last dreamed of something so gentle, Chung Myung found himself unable to shake the lingering ache in his chest afterward.
Now, leaning against the railing on the second floor of a busy restaurant in Sichuan, he gazed absentmindedly at the endless sea of people moving below.
The streets are lively as always.
Merchants shouted over one another.
Children run recklessly through crowded alleys.
The scent of food drifted warmly through the air.
Life continued forward without pause.
And yet, without realizing it, Chung Myung’s eyes searched through the crowd again.
He did that sometimes.
Unconsciously.
As though some stubborn part of him still refused to let go.
If he had been granted another chance after death… if someone already buried a hundred years ago like him could open his eyes again in a different era…
Then maybe,
just maybe,
Someone could too.
It was a foolish thought.
But hope had always been more persistent than reason when it came to certain people.
So from time to time, Chung Myung would catch himself searching faces in crowded streets, lingering a little too long whenever he spotted dark hair or familiar green robes, only for disappointment to quietly settle back into his chest afterward.
Today was no different.
An entire afternoon passed like that.
The crowd changed again and again beneath him, strangers flowing endlessly through Sichuan’s streets.
But not the person he wanted.
Never the person he wanted.
Eventually, Chung Myung let out a quiet sigh and pulled himself away from the railing.
Then, just as always, he turned back toward his life and kept walking forward.
Chung Myung had only just returned to the Tang Clan estate in Sichuan when he spotted Tang Zhan and Tang Soso speaking with the rest of Mount Hua disciples.
The atmosphere felt unusually serious. Even Jo Gul, who normally could not stay quiet for longer than three breaths, was listening with a frown. So focused were they on the conversation that none of them noticed Chung Myung slipping silently behind them.
“Is that really true?” Baek Cheon asked, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Yes.” Tang Soso nodded seriously. “Most records from a hundred years ago were destroyed or badly damaged during the war. But since it’s urgent, I’ll ask father for permission to meet with the elder.”
“Sister, I’ll go with you,” Tang Zhan immediately offered.
“No.” Tang Soso shook her head at once. “You stay with the others. Speaking to the elder is difficult enough already. If too many people come, he probably won’t even agree to meet us.”
After a few more exchanges, Tang Soso hurried off to seek the permission she mentioned, leaving the remaining disciples murmuring amongst themselves in disbelief.
“What’s going on?”
“AAAH—!”
Jo Gul nearly jumped out of his skin. Yun Jong instantly slapped a hand over his mouth while Baek Cheon visibly fought to stop his heart from leaping out through his throat.
“You scared us!”
“Tch. Weak.”
Baek Cheon’s eye twitched dangerously at the immediate insult.
“So?” Chung Myung asked lazily, glancing between them. “What are you all talking about?”
Tang Zhan answered this time.
“Sister wants to prepare a new medicine, but one of the ingredients requires a special processing method. The technique was supposedly lost a hundred years ago.”
“So who’s she planning to ask?” Chung Myung snorted. “If it disappeared a century ago, I doubt the elder from that blacksmith would still remember it clearly.”
“No, not Elder Jo Pyung.” Tang Zhan hesitated slightly. “There’s… another elder.” His words trailed off uncertainly, as though debating whether he should continue.
Chung Myung raised an eyebrow.
“Who?”
Tang Zhan swallowed.
“The Dark Saint. Elder Tang Bo.”
Chung Myung frowned.
Then tilted his head slightly, as if convinced he had misheard.
“…Who?”
This time, his voice came out quieter. Almost a whisper.
Something in his expression shifted into something…..unreadable.
Tang Zhan looked increasingly uncomfortable beneath that stare.
“You may have heard of him. One of our elder, that is also one of the great heroes from the war a hundred years ago, the Dark Saint,” he repeated carefully. “He is still alive.”
Chung Myung could not remember anything else that followed.
Not the questions he threw after confirming those words.
Not the startled reactions slowly turning into concern around him.
Not even the sound of Tang Zhan shouting behind him as Chung Myung abruptly bolted to the very place he mentioned where the elder's currently reside.
Nothing remained except those four impossible words echoing violently inside his head.
Tang Bo is alive.
Even compared to the countless absurdities Chung Myung had experienced since returning from the dead, this was without question the greatest shock of all.
Tang Bo,
who should have died during that war.
Tang Bo,
his one and only friend.
The world blurred around him.
His thoughts dissolved into chaos.
By the time Chung Myung regained his senses, he had already crossed deep into the inner grounds of the Tang Clan estate. He stood before a secluded building hidden within a small poisonous forest that formed part of the Tang Clan’s territory.
The air smelled thick with herbs and venom.
Rare plants twisted around old stone paths, their beautiful colors hiding deadly properties beneath delicate petals. The rustling within the undergrowth hinted at venomous creatures crawled in their natural habitat.
And in the middle of it all stood a small, quiet residence beneath the shelter of an overgrown tree whose sprawling branches curved protectively over the roof. Beside it stood a beautiful gazebo, elegant despite its simplicity, weathered gently by time.
Chung Myung stared at it silently.
He knew this place with unbearable clarity. Every corner of it lived vividly within memories he thought had been buried a century ago. This was Tang Bo’s private residence.
A place meant for research, for brewing poisons and medicines in peace, for escaping the suffocating politics of the Tang Clan whenever Tang Bo grew tired of people.
A quiet place for only two of them.
Chung Myung remained standing motionless outside the residence until faint sounds drifted from within.
His breath caught instantly.
A shadow moved behind the door. Slowly, someone stepped outside.
And suddenly, Chung Myung could hear nothing except the violent pounding of his own heart.
This was a scene he had replayed inside his mind countless times over.
What if we could meet again?
The thought had haunted him more often than he cared to admit.
Sometimes during lonely nights.
Sometimes in crowded streets when he caught sight of someone with familiar eyes.
Sometimes after dreams too gentle to survive waking up.
He had imagined it all endlessly.
The journeys they promised to take together.
The quiet house they once joked about living in.
Their reunion.
Over and over again, Chung Myung wondered how it would happen.
Would Tang Bo find him first again, just like he always used to?
Would he complain first?
Would he laugh?
Would he be angry?
What should Chung Myung even say after?
There were too many things he wanted to tell him.
Too many stories.
Too many regrets.
Too many apologies that came far too late.
Chung Myung’s heartbeat thundered painfully against his ribs, anticipation and desperation twisting together until he could barely breathe. He needed to know if this was real or if this was merely another cruel dream born from exhaustion and too many sleepless nights.
After several seconds that felt like an eternity, Chung Myung finally see him.
A figure dressed in dark green robes stepped quietly out into the frontyard, silver hair spilling loosely down his back and swaying gently with the wind. The sunlight filtering through the trees caught against those pale strands, making him look almost unreal.
His footsteps were soundless.
If one looked away for even a moment, it felt as though he might disappear entirely.
Like a ghost lingering stubbornly in the world of the living.
Chung Myung’s breath hitched.
Tang Bo looked older.
His face still lacked the deep wrinkles that should have formed long ago, his appearance preserved unnaturally well by decades of profound cultivation. But time had worn him down elsewhere.
It wore him down by time in ways Chung Myung had never imagined.
In quieter ways.
In the exhaustion settled deep into his bones.
In the stillness of someone who had lived far too long carrying grief alone.
Upon closer inspection, Chung Myung can see one of his eyes had long since clouded over into blindness, while the remaining green eye appeared dimmer than before, barely functioning beneath lowered lashes.
It’s really him.
His Tang Bo
The shock turned into joy far too quickly. The countless words and imagined reunions Chung Myung carried all this time crumbled into ash in an instant. Every confusion, every question that had piled up moments earlier vanished without a trace, replaced by a sharp ache in his chest, something buried deep within him for years finally resurfacing.
Alive.
His Tang Bo was alive.
“Who?”
Finally, Tang Bo spoke first.
“Who are you.?” his voice was rough, as if it hadn’t been used for a long time.
The single remaining eye rested on Chung Myung without recognition.
“You don’t seem to be one of our family.”
Chung Myung’s mouth closed immediately.
“I heard the Lord’s daughter brought several seniors from Mount Hua as guests,” Tang Bo continued calmly. “Are you one of Mount Hua’s disciples?”
Silence.
Chung Myung could not answer.
A sharp pain twisted violently through his chest.
He… doesn’t recognize me?
After awakening a hundred years into the future, Chung Myung had already accepted that his previous life was nothing more than dust carried away by time. The world moved on. People died. Memories faded.
That was natural.
But somewhere deep inside, stubbornly and foolishly, Chung Myung believed one thing. If there was anyone in this world who would never forget him, it would be Tang Bo.
And now , there he stood, the echo of a memory he held sacred.
But the warmth, the sunshine in his smile, it was gone, replaced by a straight thin line and chilling emptiness that burrowed into his very core
It sank coldly into Chung Myung’s chest.
Where is that smile you always wore?
The thought struck him harder than he expected.
But even so—
“It’s me.” His voice came out rougher than intended.
Regardless of everything else, the man standing before him was still Tang Bo.
Still alive.
“Bo-ya…”
The old nickname slipped out naturally, carrying a hundred years’ worth of longing with it.
Chung Myung stepped forward instinctively.
The pain of not being recognized disappeared before a far simpler, far stronger truth:
Tang Bo was here. Breathing and real.
After spending so long believing they would never meet again, how could Chung Myung care about anything else?
So what if Tang Bo did not recognize him?
He would tell him.
Remind him.
Surely, once Tang Bo knew, everything would return to how it was before.
The joy blooming painfully inside Chung Myung’s chest at being reunited with someone he thought lost forever was so overwhelming it almost made him dizzy.
Yet the familiar figure standing before him did not seem to share even a fraction of that joy.
“Young disciple.”
A shiver crawled down Chung Myung’s spine, freezing the blood that had just been racing with joy.
Tang Bo’s voice was calm, softer than still water, but the coldness beneath it cut deeper than any blade Chung Myung had ever faced, even in his previous life.
There was no need to raise his voice. No need to threaten openly. The hostility lingered plainly between them, heavy and suffocating, as if Tang Bo had never intended to hide it at all.
It was a warning.
Clear and absolute.
Do not come closer.
Cross the line, and the consequences would not be merciful, no matter how beautiful the man’s face remained.
Even weakened by age and time, the poisonous daggers hidden beneath Tang Bo’s sleeves are still deadly. The faint, metallic scent of hidden poison seemed to bleed from his long sleeves. His darken gaze alone was sharper than steel.
Chung Myung had faced countless enemies before. Peak martial artist, demonic cultivators, monsters who bathed the world in blood.
None of them had ever made him feel this threatened.
He knew how to crush people stronger than himself through sheer madness and stubbornness. He knew how violence works.
But he did not know how to fight this.
How could he wield a sword against the defensive wall of a man who had died for him once already?
The complete absence of warmth in Tang Bo’s eyes stripped away all the arrogance Chung Myung usually wore so naturally. As thought to tell him that perhaps the Tang Bo preserved within his memories no longer existed at all.
A familiar face.
A familiar voice.
But an utterly foreign soul behind the eyes.
“…”
Unable to endure that calculating, hostile gaze a moment longer, Chung Myung’s strength buckled. His head snapped down, his eyes locking onto the dirt. The name lodged painfully in his throat, unable to come out a second time.
It hurt.
As if thorns had wrapped themselves around his windpipe.
This was not how he imagined it.
After waking in this new life, the first thing that struck Chung Myung was the cruel reality that he had opened his eyes in an era where everyone and everything he once knew no longer existed.
At some point, perhaps out of loneliness, perhaps out of desperation, Chung Myung allowed himself to indulge in a foolish dream.
What if someone else had returned too?
Just like him.
He imagined it more often than he should have.
A reunion filled with loud laughter and familiar arguments. Tang Bo complaining while still following beside him anyway. The same comfortable companionship they once shared so naturally that Chung Myung never realized how precious it was until it disappeared.
But never this.
Never Tang Bo looking at him like a stranger.
The realization hollowed something inside Chung Myung so suddenly that, for a brief moment, he could not even breathe properly.
He had prepared himself for many things.
For anger.
For grief.
For Tang Bo cursing him for breaking his promise.
But not this distance.
Not this terrifying unfamiliarity in the eyes that once knew him better than anyone else.
And the worst part was that Chung Myung did not know what to do.
There was no enemy to cut down.
No battlefield to survive through sheer stubbornness.
No wound he could stitch together with grit and blood.
Tang Bo stood right in front of him, alive and breathing, yet felt farther away than the dead ever had.
Chung Myung’s hands twitched uselessly at his sides.
He wanted to reach out. Wanted to grab Tang Bo’s sleeve, shake him, and demand that he look properly.
It’s me!
I’m here!
But under that cold, unreadable stare, even lifting a single finger suddenly felt difficult.
For the first time in a long while, Chung Myung became painfully aware of how young this body was.
Too young.
Too small.
Not the Plum Blossom Sword Saint who once stood shoulder to shoulder beside the Dark Saint through war and bloodshed.
Just a teenager trembling beneath the gaze of someone he loved too much.
His chest tightened violently.
Something hot and painful climbed up his throat before he could force it back down. And then, without resistance, tears slipped soundlessly down his face.
Chung Myung did not even realize he was crying at first. His body simply reacted before his pride could stop it.
As though all the loneliness, exhaustion, hope, and relief he had buried since returning to this world finally broke apart at once the moment he saw Tang Bo alive, only to realize Tang Bo no longer looked at him the same way.
Tang Bo stayed silent for several moments.
Facing the young disciple was a cruelty he had not prepared for.
The resemblance wasn't just a passing coincidence. It was a visceral assault on Tang Bo's senses. Eyes with the same shade of color. The same voice wrapped around his name. Even the faint scent clinging to him stirred memories Tang Bo had spent decades trying to bury.
It was not simply the clean fragrance of plum blossoms that every Mount Hua disciple carried.
It was his smell.
For one impossible moment, it almost felt as though the person he had waited for over the last century had finally returned.
If only Tang Bo had not already accepted the truth long ago.
His hyung-nim was dead.
Dead on that battlefield.
Tang Bo had mourned him because nobody else would. Because the world had been too heartless to remember what Chung Myung sacrificed for it. Too eager to enjoy peace while forgetting the man who bled for it.
Tang Bo remembered.
Only Tang Bo remembered.
So no matter how similar this young disciple was, he could not be him.
He should not be here.
Had his Hyung-nim not already done enough?
The world received the peace it wanted. That should have been the end of it. His hyung-nim deserved rest, not another life dragged back into suffering.
For what reason had he needed to return?
Another war?
Another sacrifice?
For the world?
Before Cheon Ma could destroy it, Tang Bo felt he would sooner burn the world down himself.
And yet,
The shallow, uneven breaths of the boy trying desperately to hold back his sobs sounded far too similar to the final cries Tang Bo once heard in his nightmares. The heart he thought had died that day suddenly throbbed painfully again.
Without realizing it, Tang Bo reached out.
His fingers brushed against the young disciple’s cheek, wiping away the tears.
Miraculously, the crying stopped almost immediately.
Tang Bo narrowed his eyes slightly, briefly suspecting he had somehow been tricked into lowering his guard. Though his vision was no longer as sharp as it once was, he could still see the boy looking up at him with a bright, fragile smile as if this tiny bit of contact alone meant everything.
Tang Bo immediately tried to pull his hand back.
Before he could, a pair of rough hands caught his wrist firmly.
The young disciple guided Tang Bo’s hand back against his cheek, pressing into the touch with quiet desperation.
Warm.
Young.
The skin beneath his palm was smooth with youth, undeniably belonging to someone still in his teens.
But the hands holding him were different.
Scarred. Calloused. And though smaller than one Tang Bo knew, they still carried unmistakable traces of a life tempered through relentless training and countless battles.
Hands Tang Bo knew far too well.
Chung Myung closed his eyes against the warmth pressing against his face.
He should let go.
Tang Bo clearly did not want this reunion. Every cold glance and restrained movement made that painfully obvious. Yet after spending so long believing Tang Bo had already turned to dust somewhere beneath the earth, Chung Myung could not stop himself from reaching back.
Just once.
Just for a moment longer.
Even if Tang Bo rejected him.
Even if he refused to believe him.
Tang Bo could easily free himself if he wished. The boy’s grip, though firm, lacked the strength to truly restrain him.
Still, Tang Bo did not move.
“Yes… he is still hyung-nim’s descendant.”
Tang Bo clung to the thought like an excuse.
“There is no need to be too harsh on the young one.”
As if he needed a reason at all to let the hand remain where it was.
.
.
.
After hearing about Chung Myung’s strange reaction to the mention of the Dark Saint, and the fact that he had run straight toward the elder’s secluded residence alone, Tang Soso had already prepared herself for the worst.
Honestly, she expected blood.
At the very least, an argument loud enough to shake the entire poisonous forest.
The Dark Saint was not someone who tolerated strangers lightly, and Chung Myung was not exactly known for caution or restraint. The combination sounded disastrous enough to give anyone a headache.
It was precisely because of that risk that Tang Gunak ultimately entrusted the matter to Tang Soso alone.
Among the younger generation of the Tang Clan, she was perhaps the only one the former elder occasionally tolerated. Their encounters were rare and brief, but compared to everyone else, Tang Bo had spoken to her more than twice without immediately dismissing her presence.
That alone already made her special in the eyes of the clan.
Tang Gunak feared that sending too many unfamiliar people might provoke the elder’s temper instead.
So Tang Soso came alone.
At first, when she arrived near the residence and saw no signs of destruction, she nearly sighed in relief.
No shattered trees.
No poisonous mist filling the air.
No unconscious Chung Myung embedded halfway into the ground.
But the silence surrounding the residence felt strange all the same.
Too quiet.
Even the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
Tang Soso called out cautiously from outside several times, but no answer came. That only deepened the unease creeping up her spine.
After hesitating briefly, she finally stepped closer and carefully checked the surroundings. Once she confirmed that someone was indeed inside, Tang Soso quietly slid the door open and entered with the utmost caution.
Tang Soso stopped halfway into the room.
Her mind spun helplessly, unable to decide which sight before her was harder to believe.
That Chung Myung, her sahyung, the mad dog of Mount Hua who barked curses louder than anyone and picked fights like breathing, was currently sleeping soundlessly on someone’s lap, purring in contentment like a pampered house cat.
Or that the hidden imoogi of the Tang Clan, the elder once feared throughout Jianghu as the Dark Saint, the last living hero of the Great War a hundred years ago, was the one gazing down at him with the gentlest expression she had ever seen.
Tang Soso could even swear the old man was smiling.
Those same lips that, according to clan legend, only ever uttered poisonous words now curved softly as they watched over the sleeping swordsman.
It felt unreal.
The elder had never looked kindly at anyone in the clan before. Most of the time, his eyes carried only disappointment, sometimes even disgust. Yet beneath that bitterness was something heavier, something wounded. A hatred so sharp it almost resembled love twisted into pain.
As a child, Tang Soso often wondered why the Dark Saint chose to remain hidden within these isolated walls instead of basking in the glory of being remembered as a hero.
This man was a legendary figure who had saved countless lives with both poison and medicine, whose hands healed allies while slaughtering enemies without hesitation. Perhaps no one in that war had witnessed more deaths than he had. But for reasons known only to their ancestors, the man who should have stood bathed in glory instead locked himself away from the world. He rejected the honor that should have belonged to him
Like a man waiting for death, yet unable to die.
Someone who continued living only because his body still remembered how to breathe.
Tang Soso realized too late that she had been standing frozen at the doorway for far too long. It would have been stranger if the elder had failed to notice her presence.
Still, his next action deepened the crease in her brow.
The Dark Saint slowly raised a finger to his lips. Snake-like irises met her startled green eyes directly. For a moment, Tang Soso forgot the stories claiming the elder had long since lost most of his sight. The weight of his gaze felt far too sharp, far too clear. It was as though he could see straight through her.
The silent gesture told her to be quiet.
Suddenly, Tang Soso became painfully aware of her own breathing, afraid even the sound of it might disturb the peace in the room.
“He just fell asleep.”
The old man’s low voice finally broke the silence between them.
“Let him rest a little longer.”
Tang Soso could only force herself to nod.
One of the Dark Saint’s blackened hands continued to stroke through Chung Myung’s hair with astonishing care, each movement slow and deliberate, as though handling something terribly fragile.
And Chung Myung,
Her impossible, loud, reckless sanghyung
looked deeply asleep.
Peaceful.
Safer than Tang Soso had seen him in a very long time.
There was something invisible binding the two together, something she could neither understand nor name. Chung Myung trusted this supposed stranger far too much. Even asleep, his body leaned instinctively closer beneath the elder’s touch, all tension gone from his face.
Tang Soso swallowed down the countless questions threatening to rise.
Only then did she notice the faint redness around Chung Myung’s eyes, the exhaustion hidden beneath the peaceful expression. Because he looked so calm now, she had nearly forgotten how long it had been since she last saw her sahyung truly rest.
These past few days, something had clearly been weighing on him.
Their new alliance, the endless political tension, the troubles that kept piling one after another where somehow, every time they solved one issue, something worse seemed to crawl out from the shadows. Chung Myung laughed loudly as always, cursed people as always, drank as always, but the sharpness beneath his smile had only grown harsher.
It had taken an absurd amount of alcohol just to knock him unconscious long enough to sleep properly.
And even then, sleep never seemed to bring him peace.
Too many times, not only Soso but almost all of her fellow disciples had watched him doze off only to wake moments later with his hand already reaching for his sword, eyes wild and unfocused as though he were still trapped somewhere on a battlefield no one else could see.
Sometimes he muttered names under his breath.
Sometimes apologies.
Sometimes nothing at all, only silent gasps for air.
Even asleep, Chung Myung always looked prepared to rise, swinging his sword at invisible enemies.
As though some part of him believed that if he lowered his guard for even a moment, everything precious around him would disappear again.
Not like this.
Not as though he had finally found somewhere safe enough to let go.
Resting against the Dark Saint’s chest, with slow fingers combing carefully through his hair, Chung Myung finally looked at ease.
Not drunk.
Not unconscious.
Just… asleep.
The tension usually buried deep in his shoulders had loosened completely. His breathing was slow and even, no longer shallow like someone bracing for nightmares.
For the first time since arriving at the Tang Clan, Tang Soso thought her sahyung looked his age.
Young.
Far too young for the exhaustion he carried.
A teen she always forgot even younger than herself.
“If it does not trouble the elder…” Tang Soso lowered herself into a deep bow, choosing, for once, to trust her instincts more than the fearful whispers of her clan. “This young one shall shamelessly ask for a favor.”
Her voice trembled less by the end.
“Please let him rest here.”
Silence lingered.
Carefully, Tang Soso lifted her head again.
And froze.
The gaze that met hers carried only gentleness.
Not the cold rejected gaze she had expected.
Not the bitterness everyone in the clan whispered about.
Only quiet warmth, softened further by the sleeping teen resting against him.
“Come again later,” the Dark Saint said softly. “Tell me how your training in Mount Hua has been.”
Tang Soso stared blankly for a moment before hurriedly lowering her head once more and excusing herself, almost tripping herself on the way back.
“Father, I don’t think I need that herb anymore.”
She can already feel the exhaustion just thinking on how she needs to prepare an explanation of this situation without it sounding like she has lost her mind.