The Eldest Daughter of the Sichuan Tang Clan Protects Her Family

Chapter 38: The Crimson Blood Unit Leader

 
Tang Hak looked up, his voice dejected. "I'm doomed. My happy days are over."

Sohwa’s voice hardened. "What are you talking about?"
He covered his eyes with his hands, his voice muffled and tearful. “Elder Tang Min… he said he’s going to teach me… martial arts.”
“…”

“…”
“…”
His choked sobs echoed through the room. “He said he’ll start training me as soon as he returns and that I should practice my external skills in the meantime. He left me a manual… Just look at these poses! Is this even humanly possible? Euk!”

As he reached for the manual tucked inside his sleeve, Yehwa snatched it from his hand and threw it back at him. “Brother! That’s the manual Elder Tang Min gave you for your training! You can’t show it to others!”
“Even a child knows that…” Sohwa trailed off, unable to hide her exasperation.
Long ago, Tang Min had become the heir apparent solely to learn the secret martial arts techniques passed down only to the Clan Head and the heir. He had stepped down immediately after completing his training, to the delight of the entire Tang Clan. It was a closely guarded secret, a testament to its power and importance. Even the unruly Tang Min had suppressed his impatience and endured his role as heir apparent to learn the Mancheonhawoo technique.

And now, Tang Hak was about to reveal it to his sisters…
It was fortunate that Tang Min wasn’t here. He wouldn't simply settle for a scolding.
Tang Hak, his face paling, quickly tucked the manual back into his sleeve. “You didn’t see anything. Noona, you didn’t see anything.”

“I didn’t.”
“Me neither.”
“I won’t tell.”

Relieved, he slumped back against the window frame, his earlier panic replaced by despair. “I’m finished. I’ll have to live with this… dread… forever.”
“It’s still better than training with Father, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Physical pain is better than mental torture.”

The twins’ words of comfort seemed to cheer him up slightly. “You’re right. It is better than training with Father.”
“That’s right. You always said Father looks at you like you’re an insect.”
“Yehwa! How can you say Father looks at me like an insect?!” He frowned at his sister’s blunt remark.
“No, Brother, she said you’re an insect,” Yuhwa corrected him gently. “Even Yuhwa understands. Don’t you, Yuhwa? I’m sorry for comparing you to Brother all the time.”

“It’s okay.”
Tang Hak looked at the twins, his eyes narrowed. “I didn’t hear you properly. Are you making fun of me?”
“No, Brother. I was just apologizing to Yuhwa for calling her an idiot like you.”

“Why would you say that in front of me? You could have waited until I left.”
Yehwa shrugged. “It’s better to say it to your face. Mother says so.”
“What are you talking about? Mother always says if you can’t say it to someone’s face, don’t say it at all.”

“Wait, are you calling me an idiot…?”
“Don’t mind her, Brother. Yehwa thinks anyone kinder than her is an idiot.”
“It’s not that they’re kinder… Elder Sister? Why are you smiling?” It was strange. Their elder sister, who would normally intervene in their arguments, was simply watching them, a faint smile playing on her lips. And it wasn’t a mocking smile, but a gentle, warm smile, like the ones their mother often wore.

Looking at her three younger siblings, their faces a mixture of confusion and dismay, Sohwa said softly, “Just… happy.”
They fell silent, mistaking her words for sarcasm, exchanging glances, and reflecting on their behavior.
But she was sincere. In her past life, Tang Hak had also trained under Tang Min, around this time. And as expected of a prodigy, he had improved dramatically during those years. Everything was proceeding as it had before.

But she hadn’t known he had been so afraid of training with Tang Min. He had stopped visiting her, sharing his worries and anxieties.
She looked at the red silk on her embroidery frame, the unfinished sketch a stark reminder of her past life. ‘Perhaps…’ she thought, ‘perhaps a slight change in the future isn't such a bad thing.’

* * *
 
On the coast of Guangdong, lanterns illuminated the night, turning it into day. The rhythmic beat of drums, the lilting melodies of flutes, the sweet voices of courtesans, all combined to drown out the sound of the crashing waves. The revelers, caught up in the excitement, added to the cacophony, their laughter and shouts echoing through the night.

It was a chaotic scene, a nightly ritual in this bustling port city, a place where merchants from across the continent gathered, their pockets overflowing with gold after successful trading expeditions. Wealth flowed freely, transforming the city into a vibrant, intoxicating spectacle. And all the businesses in this district belonged to a single individual.
Some envied his wealth, while others pitied him, believing he was a target for every ambitious bandit and assassin. They were both wrong.
The owner wasn't particularly fond of his wealth, and those who dared to challenge him often disappeared without a trace. The latter was understandable. A wealthy man like him would naturally employ skilled guards. However, his apparent dislike of his own wealth, his discomfort whenever anyone praised his fortune, was… puzzling.

And today, another strange event occurred.
A single pavilion, dark and silent amidst the brightly lit cityscape, stood out, its closed doors a stark contrast to the surrounding revelry.
Today was the day the trading ships from the Western Regions returned. Trade with the Western Regions was controlled by the Imperial Court. And as the merchant group handling the trade was effectively acting on behalf of the Imperial Court, lavish receptions for the accompanying officials were mandatory. In short, it was a day of immense profit.

And yet, the Qinghai Pavilion, a renowned establishment filled with high-ranking courtesans, was closed. It was a foolish decision, a missed opportunity for immense profit.
Rumors circulated that the owner was infatuated with Eunhyang, a renowned courtesan of the Qinghai Pavilion, and that the closure was at her request, a jealous attempt to keep her away from other patrons. But that wasn't the reason.
“No one is allowed inside! Kill anyone who tries to enter! Understood?”

“Yes!” Thirty guards, their imposing physiques and sharp gazes suggesting considerable skill, responded in unison. But the owner, instead of reassurance, seemed consumed by anxiety as he hurried inside the pavilion.
Unable to bear the tension any longer, he rushed through the pavilion, his expensive silk robes billowing behind him, his face pale and drawn, his eyes darting nervously around. He fumbled with his keys.
Click.

He opened the door to a large, dusty storage room, its floor stained with dark, indeterminate marks. He ignored the mess and quickly opened the windows, letting in the soft moonlight. He pushed aside the stacked boxes, clearing a space in the center of the room.
“Ha…” He wiped his sweat-soaked face with his sleeve and walked to a desk, retrieving a brush and ink. He took a deep breath, then bit his arm hard.
Drip, drip. Blood splattered across the floor, but he didn’t hesitate, dipping the brush in his blood and beginning to write on the floor, his body hunched over.

Strangely, the script wasn't entirely composed of Hanja characters. Unfamiliar symbols were interspersed amongst them. As he wrote, a black mist began to emanate from the characters, as if they were dancing.
He continued writing, his hand trembling, his movements precise and deliberate.
Finally, as he finished the last character, he let out a sigh of relief. “Ha… It’s done! Finally!”

He dropped the brush and leaned against a stack of boxes, his body weak with exhaustion.
Then, he noticed something was wrong.
He opened his eyes slowly.

He was still in the secret chamber of the Qinghai Pavilion.
“That’s impossible.”
He sat up abruptly, scrutinizing the characters on the floor.

Then, a chilling voice echoed through the room. “Oh, so that’s how it’s done.”
He looked up, his body stiffening. A dark figure, perched on a stack of boxes, was examining the inscription on the floor. He had erased one of the characters.
He couldn't speak, his gaze fixed on the man’s face: dark hair neatly tied back with a traditional hairpin, sharp, angular features, and strange, golden eyes that shimmered with a mixture of green and gold, like sunlight on a field of new grass.

Only one person in the Blood Cult possessed such eyes.
The man looked up, his pale brown eyes turning a brilliant gold as they caught the light.
The owner of the Qinghai Pavilion prostrated himself on the floor, his face pale with terror. “L-Lord…!”

Hae-rak, the Crimson Blood Unit Leader, the Blood Demon’s Hound, had arrived in the central plains.
The Blood Demon had been watching him, testing him, for some time now. Either he hadn't decided whether to kill him or he was planning a more… creative demise.
‘Please, just kill me now,’ he prayed silently. The Hound, a man whose unruly nature even the Blood Demon couldn't control. He was feared even within the Blood Cult, his unpredictable nature, his casual disregard for rules and regulations, making him a dangerous enemy. He knew he was living on borrowed time, constantly under threat.

Though Hae-rak was still young, a mere stripling, he had already risen to the position of Unit Leader, without any allies or support. Even the Blood Demon tolerated his reckless behavior. Who would question him for eliminating a mere pawn?
The rules didn't apply to him, not even the Blood Cult’s reverence for sorcerers.
Creak.

He heard the sound of wood scraping against wood and cautiously raised his head. The Unit Leader was opening a nearby box, revealing stacks of gold. Hae-rak smiled, his eyes gleaming.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Y-yes, Lord.”

“I appreciate diligence.” His words, though kind, sent a shiver down the owner’s spine. He wasn't looking at the gold, but at his pristine white robes. He had arrived with thirty guards, and yet, his clothes were spotless, not a single speck of dust, let alone blood.
Hae-rak suddenly chuckled. “If a lowly Yoohyeon Unit member can amass such a fortune, how wealthy must that old man be?”
The owner’s blood ran cold.

“Old man.” He was referring to the Blood Demon.
He had heard rumors of the Crimson Blood Unit Leader’s madness, but this… this was beyond anything he had imagined.