Wudang Mountain – Tang Mujin's Patients, and a Summons
A middle-aged Daoist entered the guest quarters, closing the door firmly behind him. With a serious face, he confessed his symptoms.
"…The itching between my toes is driving me mad."
"You mean it itches so badly you lose focus?" Tang Mujin asked.
"Yes. Even scratching until it bleeds brings no relief. This torment is making me lose my mind. As you know, when one's internal energy flow falters during a technique, one risks qi deviation. This is no trivial matter."
His face flushed red with shame as he spoke in a voice so small it could have crawled into a mouse hole.
People often thought martial artists were always healthy—but that was only half true.
Because cultivated qi constantly circulated through their meridians, scrubbing away impurities, few ever died of internal organ failure.
But unless one could perfectly open the Ren and Du channels and cleanse every vessel, small afflictions of the limbs were unavoidable.
Tang Mujin deliberately kept his tone professional.
"There's no shame in this. You didn't fall ill for lack of virtue, nor from wickedness. And you're not the only one—many have come to me with the same condition."
"Truly? I never knew."
"Most don't. They suffer in silence, unable to bring it up."
The martial life produced its own common ailments. Chief among them: itching.
Constant sweat beneath tight clothing bred rashes. And in snug boots, after hours of footwork drills, came athlete's foot.
Tang Mujin explained:
"Don't scratch until it bleeds. Wash your feet daily. Most importantly, let air circulate between your toes when you sleep. These conditions thrive on damp warmth. You can counter them with cool dryness."
"That's all?"
"It's a small but stubborn ailment. That alone may not fully cure it."
"Then what else?"
"If after two weeks it hasn't cleared, go down to the village physician and ask for Sanwu Huangqin Tang, Xiaofeng San, or Yi Yi Fuzi Paijiang San—in that order. Not all at once. If the first fails, try the next."
The Daoist frowned anxiously.
"Sanwu Huangqin Tang? I live simply, I don't have wealth for such things…"
"It's not made of gold. A handful is worth no more than twenty coins—ten days' medicine."
"Oh! I see. Thank you."
The Daoist left looking as if the itching had already vanished.
That was the strange truth of medicine: there were plenty of physicians who could treat boils, colic, or fevers. But those who could relieve the petty miseries were rare indeed.
Most people were poor. Physicians' doors stood high. Unless one was rich, small discomforts were simply endured.
Now, as Tang Mujin tended Wudang's warriors, joy spread quickly. The patients were delighted, and so was Hyeon-gong—bringing such a famous healer had raised his prestige enormously.
Names like heir of Namgung or future Beggar Chief might carry weight, but in sheer usefulness, they could not compare to one of the Three Great Physicians.
But none rejoiced more than the physician in the village below Wudang.
Since Tang Mujin had no stock of herbs, he merely diagnosed, needled, and prescribed—sending every patient down the mountain for their decoctions.
The village doctor's business soared. For the first time in ages, the whole valley smelled of boiling medicine.
Tang Mujin, too, was pleased. He could treat without wasting time brewing.
When I return home, he thought, I'll make sure someone else handles the decoctions.
He even imagined one day entrusting it to his own child.
***
By the third day of his stay, Tang Mujin was preparing to leave.
Most of Wudang's sufferers were already waiting for their prescriptions to work. Unless he stayed half a month to monitor their progress, there was no reason to linger.
Best to depart after tomorrow's midday meal, he decided.
As he lazed idly, a square-faced, stone-built Daoist entered. Tang Mujin remembered him: the Head of the Armory Pavilion.
"You're unwell?" Tang Mujin asked calmly.
The man shook his head.
"No. Something far more important. You must come at once. Bring Namgung and Hong as well. Do you know where Hyeon-gong is?"
"I do not."
"I see."
"May I ask what this concerns?"
The Armory Master's face grew complicated.
"Hard to explain here. You'll understand when we arrive."
He strode out, Tang Mujin and the others following.
Hong Golgae muttered, "I bet it's about showing us the sword."
"Really?"
"What else? We've had no dealings with him before. If he's being secretive, it must involve someone higher up."
Indeed, the Armory Master led them deep into Wudang, to a hall bearing the sign Hall of Heavenly Manifestation.
Named for Lingbao Tianzun, avatar of the Primordial Lord and symbol of the Taiji—surely this was where the Sect Leader resided.
They entered, reaching a sliding door left slightly ajar. Through the gap, Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong glimpsed a white-bearded elder seated awkwardly—half-cross-legged, half not.
Just as rumor claimed, Lingbo Zhenren was unusual.
It was said he had never once descended Wudang Mountain since entering it, and had left even the sect gates fewer than ten times in his life. He had never wandered the martial world. Thus, few had ever met him.
The stories were true, Tang Mujin thought, craning forward.
Lingbo Zhenren's legs ended mid-thigh, his robe hanging limp below—congenital deformity. He had never learned footwork or lightness arts.
And yet, he was hailed as the greatest genius among the orthodox sects.
His title: The Sovereign of Three Steps.
Beyond three steps, he could not strike. Within three steps, no one could defeat him. Even the other Six Supremes acknowledged this.
Excitement ran through the group.
But just then, a voice—someone else's—cut sharply into their ears.
"…Physician-Dragon! That villain murdered my father, then cast his body from Heaven's Cliff!"
"Yes. A tragedy," another voice soothed.
"My father took pride in the Justice Alliance all his life. His killers must be avenged in its name—!"
Inside the hall were two men: Lingbo Zhenren, and the Taeui Sect Leader.
Tang Mujin's party halted in unison.
"…Why is he here?"
Regardless of their pause, the Armory Master quietly slid the door fully open.
The Taeui Sect Leader was too busy with his fiery speech to notice their entrance.
"…Thus even the Soaring Dragon Sword, Disciple Hyeon-gong, perished at the villain's hand! His brilliance was snuffed out because the roots of evil were not torn out in time. And to this very moment, that fiend flaunts the lofty title of Physician-Dragon, claiming to be one of the Three Great Physicians, all while trampling on the spirit of the fallen Soaring Dragon Sword! He must be struck down at once, to make an example, to uphold righteousness in the martial world, and to proclaim Wudang's stern resolve—!"
But something was strange. He was speaking as though Hyeon-gong were already dead. Stranger still—he was naming Tang Mujin as the killer.
Namgung Myeong nudged Tang Mujin in the ribs.
"When did you kill Hyeon-gong?"
"What? Kill him? I saw him just this morning."
"Ah—so you mean you killed him after breakfast?"
Hong Golgae, ever eager to tease, joined in.
"So quick to deduce that much already—Namgung, your detective's mind is astounding."
"Indeed. As I thought. Villain, surrender yourself at once!"
Tang Mujin, already troubled by the situation, found their joking intolerably ill-timed. Their words, overheard, could easily lead to further misunderstanding. He cut them short, irritation in his voice.
"Quit your nonsense. If I'm misunderstood, you'll take responsibility?"
Only then did the Taeui Sect Leader turn and notice him.
The moment their eyes met, his face froze like stone, his hand trembling violently.
Raw, unmistakable fear.
It was a far cry from the bold man who had stood unflinching even before Lingbo Zhenren.
But when his gaze fell on the Armory Master, the fear drained away—replaced by rapture.
"As expected of Wudang! Before I even arrived, you had already discerned the truth and subdued the villains!"
"That is not so," Lingbo Zhenren said calmly. "It was mere coincidence of timing."
"Then surely Heaven itself has aided us!"
Though corrected, the Taeui Sect Leader seemed undeterred. With Tang Mujin here, he assumed punishment was already certain.
He leapt to his feet, jabbing a finger toward Tang Mujin.
"Villain! Did you think you could slay my father and the Soaring Dragon Sword, and yet survive?"
"…Didn't we agree never to cross paths again?" Tang Mujin replied evenly.
"Agree? You browbeat me with borrowed strength and think you can escape Heaven's judgment?"
"Heaven's judgment… Forget it. More importantly—your father aside, what is this about Hyeon-gong?"
"The Heavens and Earth themselves know—you joined hands to butcher the Soaring Dragon Sword!"
He screamed the accusation with fevered delight, wild enough to look half-mad.
Tang Mujin began to protest, then stopped. He sighed deeply, shaking his head. He realized everyone else in the room was quietly waiting for someone.
"…Whatever gave you the courage to crawl to Wudang, it ends today!"
He had barely finished shouting when Tang Mujin sensed a presence behind him.
The Taeui Sect Leader's jaw dropped open as his eyes fixed past Tang Mujin's shoulder.
Hyeon-gong was slipping hesitantly into the hall.
"What did you summon me fo—ah!"
Their eyes met. Both men froze, the same thought written on their faces:
What are you doing here?!
The Taeui Sect Leader reeled in shock. But so too did Hyeon-gong.
In an instant, his legs launched into Wudang's ultimate body technique, Reversed Cloud Stride. His form stretched backward like taffy, retreating faster than most martial artists could sprint forward.
"Hyeon-gong."
But before he could vanish, Lingbo Zhenren called his name.
Hyeon-gong froze mid-step. Shaking, he crept forward instead, bowing.
"Disciple Hyeon-gong greets the Sect Leader."
Yet despite appearances, Lingbo Zhenren was not the true focus of this gathering.
Between Tang Mujin, the Taeui Sect Leader, and Hyeon-gong, a heavy, uneasy current flowed.
Lingbo Zhenren rubbed his hands together, his expression one of eager anticipation.
"Well then… shall we resume the discussion?"