When he mentioned the children, a young girl and two boys emerged from behind him as though they had been carved from his shadow. Wi-jeong bowed again, this time with a bright, almost blinding smile.
“I cannot thank you enough,” the man said, bending so deeply it bordered on painful to watch. The bow was not ceremonial. It was desperate. “I am Nan Wi-jeong, leader of this merchant guild. Might I be so bold as to ask the names of our noble saviors?”
The children did not answer at once. Instead, they stole careful glances toward the man beneath the bamboo hat. Only after he gave the faintest nod, so subtle it could have been mistaken for a trick of the light, did they step forward.
The eldest girl moved first, spine straight, chin lifted.
“I am Sa-yeong,” she said, her voice composed beyond her years. “These are my younger brothers, Sa-hyeon and Cheon-oh.”
“I’m Sa-hyeon!” the second boy added quickly, brightness spilling from him like sunlight.
“…Cheon-oh,” the youngest murmured, ducking his head as though words cost him something.
“I see. It is an honor to meet you all.” Nan Wi-jeong’s smile widened as he took them in, eyes softening. “Please, you must allow this Nan Wi-jeong to repay your kindness properly. Have you had your midday meal yet?”
“No!” they answered in perfect, hungry unison.
Wi-jeong laughed, rich and delighted, as though that had been the answer he’d prayed for.
“Chef Hwang!” he shouted toward the back of the building. “Prepare a feast for our benefactors at once. Bring the oil-splashed noodles, the lamb flatbread soup… no, forget that. Bring every dish you’re proud of. And send two bottles of Xifeng liquor and a plate of yesterday’s stir-fried pork intestines up to my private room!”
“Whoa…” Sa-hyeon breathed, awe slipping free before he could swallow it.
Once again, the children glanced toward the man in the bamboo hat, instinctive and disciplined. Only after another near-invisible nod did they break into smiles, bow in unison, and scamper toward a table, unable to fully contain their excitement.
Remarkably well-bred, Nan Wi-jeong thought, warmth spreading through his chest.
He turned back to the silent figure.
“If you would be so kind, benefactor, perhaps you would join me upstairs? The spirits and delicacies there are far superior to the common fare below. I will have Warrior Jo attend to the little ones personally.”
The man’s fingers rose to the brim of his hat and lingered there, as though he were weighing the offer against unseen scales. Sensing the hesitation, Wi-jeong hurried to add reassurances.
The man’s gaze drifted toward Jo Woo-il and rested there for a long moment. Then he placed a hand on each child’s shoulder, murmured quiet instructions too soft to catch, and finally inclined his head toward Wi-jeong.
“Thank you, benefactor. Truly.” Relief washed across Wi-jeong’s face without restraint. “Warrior Jo, I’m counting on you.”
“By your command, Guild Leader,” Jo answered, voice iron-strong.
Satisfied, Wi-jeong turned and led the way upstairs. Behind him, he could sense the other man’s presence, light and fluid, so effortless it almost felt as though no footsteps followed at all. A small, secretive smile curved his lips.
***
How the hell did I get dragged into this?
Cho Yoon let the thought roll through him as he lifted the clear liquor to his lips. He took a measured sip.
It was exceptional. Clean, sharp, almost crystalline as it slid down his throat, the heat blooming a breath later in his chest. Paired with the spicy, tangy stir-fried intestines, it was dangerously good.
Between raising three children and keeping them from accidentally blowing up half a mountain, he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in months. And yet the body he now inhabited handled the spirit with unsettling ease.
The original Cho Yoon must’ve been able to drink like a demon.
That explained the rows of liquor jars he had found buried behind the Estate of Deep Mists.
“Honestly, it’s too fucking much! Why now, of all times?” Nan Wi-jeong slammed his cup onto the table. The sharp clack echoed in the private room. Already, a flush had spread across his cheeks, and his tongue had loosened. “How can they raise their banners right now? If they’d done it two weeks earlier, I wouldn’t have come this far inland in the first place!”
So that’s why he hauled a stranger upstairs. No one else to dump it on.
Cho Yoon felt a reluctant flicker of sympathy.
He wanted to say something reassuring, something measured and wise. But the persona he wore, the Immortal Healer, was stoic to the point of austerity. Words hovered at the back of his throat and died there. Maintaining polite formalities without slipping felt like walking a tightrope.
When he had first brought the children down the mountain, he’d spotted figures flailing in the river that wound between the peaks, dark silhouettes swallowed by churning water.
Do I save them? Or is this just asking for trouble? Am I really ready for whatever comes after? And what will the kids think if I walk away?
He was not a grand hero. He had never claimed to be.
It was Cheon-oh who moved first.
The moment Cho Yoon gave a distracted, bewildered nod, the youngest had stripped off his robe and pack and thrown himself into the freezing current without hesitation. With their junior martial brother leading, the older two had followed. And once they moved, Cho Yoon had no choice but to go in after them.
They pulled four drowning men from the river. They forced breath back into reluctant lungs, stabilized broken limbs as best they could, and escorted the survivors all the way into Shaanxi.
A turbulent first outing, to put it mildly.
After delivering two critically injured men to a proper clinic, they sought out the merchant guild the others belonged to.
Which was how he ended up here, drinking in broad daylight with a desperate guild leader.
“Those goddamn bastards,” Nan Wi-jeong spat, hands trembling. “Is it right for them to snatch away wealth we earned with blood and sweat? The local officials won’t touch them because they’re ‘martial artists.’ And those clever sons of bitches never target common folk. No, they go after merchant guilds tied to the Murim. They’re picking us off one by one like vultures.”
“Is it not possible to pay a toll?” Cho Yoon asked quietly.
“Eighty percent.” Wi-jeong barked a hollow laugh. “They’re demanding eighty. We wouldn’t just lose profit. We’d go under.”
The kid’s getting crushed.
Cho Yoon took another sip and nearly sprayed it across the table when Wi-jeong continued.
“Even now, while I’m stuck here with my hands tied, Sichuan is bleeding out. And it’s all because of that cursed Immortal Healer—”
“Cough. Hack.”
“Good heavens! Are you all right?”
“Yes. Fine.” Cho Yoon waved him down, coughing once more as he wiped his mouth. Beneath the shadow of his bamboo hat, his eyes darted sharply.
The Immortal Healer? Why bring that up? There’s only one, isn’t there?
“I would like to hear more,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “When you say the Immortal Healer… you mean Cho Yoon?”
“I’m glad you’re all right, but drink slowly, Cho Guyang Seon-hyungnim. This Nan Wi-jeong is paying, so there’s no need to rush.”
Wi-jeong dropped back into his seat. Earlier, when asked his name, Cho Yoon had given the alias Cho Guyang Seon without thinking. Now he could only incline his head in acceptance of his own poor improvisation.
With a defeated expression, Wi-jeong poked at his food.
“I’m talking about the Sichuan Tang Clan sealing their gates, hyungnim. Because of that, every business tied to them collapsed. A year or two is manageable. But twenty years? That’s madness. They’ve practically sentenced the rest of us to death.”
“What does the Immortal Healer Cho Yoon have to do with the Tang Clan’s isolation?”
The Tang Clan ruled the southwest like undisputed sovereigns, a martial family defined by bloodline and ruthless specialization. Masters of poison and hidden weapons, feared even in distant Dongying and Tianzhu.
What did they have to do with a hermit who grew herbs?
And then the memories surged.
They struck without warning, flooding his mind with images, conversations, consequences. Cho Yoon pressed his fingers to his forehead as the realization landed with sickening force.
“Hyungnim? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. I simply haven’t drunk in a long time. It caught me off guard.”
“If you say so…”
Even through the veil of the hat, he could feel Wi-jeong’s worry. He straightened, adjusted the brim, and forced stillness into his posture.
Wi-jeong resumed, voice thick with anger.
“Ever since then, Sichuan’s turned into a goddamn circus. Qingcheng and Diancang are tearing each other apart to fill the vacuum. Emei won’t intervene, bunch of nuns who want no part of it. And the merchant guilds caught in the middle are the ones getting slaughtered. My Dangeum Merchant Guild traded exclusively with the Tangs for generations. We’re already hanging by a thread.”
As the words blurred into background noise, Cho Yoon felt cold.
Cho Yoon, you absolute lunatic. What the hell were you thinking?
No answer came.
A chill sweat slid down his spine, impossible for a man of his cultivation, and yet there it was.
The truth was simple.
The man responsible for forcing the Sichuan Tang Clan, one of the pillars of the White Chivalry Alliance, to seal their gates and vanish from the world… was the Immortal Healer Cho Yoon.
In the original novel, the lockdown had already ended before the story began. It was background flavor, a historical footnote.
He had never expected to learn the truth like this, not while the damage was still unfolding.
He wasn’t a hero. He was a walking catastrophe.
Why the hell did the Tang Clan pick a fight with a medicinal herb obsessive in the first place?
“…So asking the noble families in Shaanxi for help is nearly impossible,” Wi-jeong continued. “The stigma of being the Tang Clan’s lapdogs is too strong. Yes, they bought our silk exclusively. But it’s been twenty years since they ordered anything beyond cheap cotton. Twenty years, hyungnim. The world’s changed twice over.”
Guilt tasted worse than liquor.
Cho Yoon’s hand froze over his cup.
Wait. If I think about it properly… it wasn’t entirely my fault. I won a bet, didn’t I? And wasn’t it that stubborn old Sect Leader who suggested sealing the gates? They were supposed to reflect for a few years and come back out. Why are they still hiding?
Logic did nothing to soften reality.
“Hyungnim, what should I do? How do I leave Xi’an, cross the Qinling and Daba mountains, and return to Sichuan alive?”
The question cut through his spiraling thoughts.
“In my opinion,” Cho Yoon said slowly, “your best course is to seek the Mount Hua Sect.”
“What? Mount Hua and the Tangs have hated each other for centuries. They’re rivals within the White Chivalry Alliance. They’ll throw me out the moment they see my credentials.”
“I doubt it.” Cho Yoon set his cup down carefully and wiped the rim with his thumb. Though nearly a full bottle of strong spirits had disappeared between them, his voice remained calm and clear. “Use whatever liquid assets you have left. Pay them an advance. Tell them the remainder will be settled once you reach Sichuan safely.”
The solution unfolded in his mind with unsettling clarity.
This body really is a genius. Not just the cultivation. The intellect too.
“If they help you, the problem is solved. If they refuse, you lose nothing beyond what you already stand to lose. When the rain stops, go to them. I believe the outcome will favor you.”
“…You’re right, hyungnim.” Wi-jeong’s shoulders straightened. “A merchant who waits for luck isn’t a merchant at all.”
The haze of drink lifted from his eyes, replaced by sharp resolve.
Cho Yoon smiled faintly beneath his hat and refilled the younger man’s cup.
“The rain will break by tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. For now, eat well. Drink properly. Rest.”
“Thank you, hyungnim. Truly. You have no idea how much lighter I feel. Order anything you like. You saved my men and gave me a path forward. This feast is the least I can offer.”
A merchant to his bones, Cho Yoon thought. Barely twenty, yet he carried himself like a seasoned veteran.
He decided to remain a little longer and listen to his new hyung vent, not as an immortal or a teacher, but simply as a man sitting across from another man of similar age, sharing food, drink, and a rare moment of honesty.
For the first time in a long while, he found himself enjoying the company.