By Zephyria 
HF 14
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Until he arrived at the Demon Sect, Ho-yeon believed that the Ice Palace could hold its own against the Demon Sect in terms of power. He had assumed that while the Demon Sect was formidable, most of the rumors surrounding it were exaggerated.
However, once he actually arrived, he realized he had been a blind fish in a small pond. Compared to the massive and wealthy demonic cult headquarters, the Ice Palace was nothing more than a tiny, remote sect.
Only then did Ho-yeon understand the sequence of events. Since the Ice Palace lacked anyone with an extreme yin constitution, the ill-tempered Cult Leader had threatened the Palace Master to hand over his own bloodline out of sheer spite.
Ho-yeon wondered why the Cult Leader harbored such hatred for the distant Ice Palace that he would inflict such humiliation. No, it was more likely a mindset of: if you want your son back, then create an extreme yin constitution out of thin air and hand him over. He likely wanted to break the spirit of the Ice Palace in the process.
If he had truly been the Palace Master’s child, his pride would have made him writhe in agony every night, but since his previous life had been so wretched, he felt no particular resentment—only a lingering regret for that meager existence.
Ho-yeon was currently embroidering a golden dragon pattern onto a piece of black silk as large as his own body. He had spouted nonsense to the owner of the Neungra Shop, claiming it was dragon spring silk embroidery, but in reality, Ho-yeon embroidered far more quickly and precisely than anyone else. The hobby he had taken up to pass the time while trapped in the underground cave of the Eternal Snow Mountains proved to be of great help now that he was out.
“What’s the point of a birthday celebration when the Cult Leader isn’t even here.”
Ho-yeon let out a sigh. Work had come in for the Cult Leader’s upcoming birthday next month, and he was in the middle of stitching the embroidery needed for the banquet. One surprising thing, however, was that while he thought the cult would simply squeeze its members dry, they actually paid a proper wage.
In between preparing for the Cult Leader’s birthday, Ho-yeon embroidered items and sold them to the Neungra Shop. Most were everyday objects like chopstick rests or pillow edges. Pieces featuring flowers or birds created with a wooden frame fetched quite a high price.
Surprisingly, he received rave reviews even though he embroidered far below his original skill level. He had only sold a few, yet people were already lining up to buy them; he felt he would have to renegotiate the prices soon.
As Ho-yeon absentmindedly stitched the dragon pattern, he ran an abacus in his head.
But how do I send a message to the Ice Palace…
On that day, Mu Seong-pyeong had looked at him as if he were just as eyesore as his own son. It was impossible to ask such a man for any favor. He couldn’t simply barge into the Elders’ Hall and request help in sending a message to the Ice Palace.
And even if he did send a message, would the Palace Master even blink?
Of course, since the Seol-yeong Brigade had been completely raided and all the treasures and spirit medicines lost, the Palace Master would be furious. However, as long as Wi Ho-yeon was safe, he wouldn’t be able to pick a fight with the Demon Sect.
Ho-yeon had anticipated that much. The reason he was determined to send a message, however, was money. He needed capital not only to survive here but to create allies who were completely on his side. Since he wasn’t a biological child, there was no way the Palace Master would search for someone with an extreme yin constitution to send to the Demon Sect. He was destined to rot away in poverty here.
Therefore, Ho-yeon had only one goal: to leave the Demon Sect before the Cult Leader emerged from his closed-door cultivation.
He couldn’t just flee. He might spend the rest of his life being hunted, or it might cause friction with the Ice Palace. If that happened, the lives of the children at Eumbyeol Hall could not be guaranteed.
He had to create a plausible reason—that Wi Ho-yeon, who came from the Ice Palace, failed to adapt to the demonic cult headquarters and died.
Fortunately, Ho-yeon was proficient in the ghost breath method. It seemed ideal to act sickly for a while and then use the ghost breath method to feign death. To do that, he needed someone completely on his side.
If he asked Mu-gyeong, his benefactor, would he agree? Of course, he didn’t intend to ask for it for free. He planned to win him over once he received money from the Ice Palace. Wasn’t Mu-gyeong also in a tight spot financially? But even this was too optimistic.
Although Mu-gyeong seemed to have less faith in the Cult Leader than other members, he was, after all, a born member of the Demon Sect. Bringing it up rashly might be like poking a hornet’s nest.
Or should he appeal to his sympathy by saying he was sold as a hostage? He didn’t think that would work either. When he had mentioned being sold to Mu-gyeong before, the man had shown more interest than sympathy.
If he were a woman and Mu-gyeong had fallen for him, and they had become lovers, the story might have been easier.
Ho-yeon shook his head slightly at the absurd hypothesis. It wasn’t right to use someone’s heart just to save himself.
No, wait, if I were a woman, couldn’t I have fallen in love with Mu-gyeong? It would be nice to leave the Demon Sect together and hide away somewhere. But how could he spend a lifetime with someone as fond of women as Mu-gyeong?
This was the problem with embroidery. Because it was repetitive work, it was easy to be consumed by useless thoughts. Ho-yeon looked at the incense clock he had lit when he started embroidering. One could tell the elapsed time by the length of the burnt incense. Seeing how short it had become, it was time to get ready to go out.
“I wonder where on earth he went…”
Muttering to himself, Ho-yeon set the embroidery on the table and brought over the instrument leaning against the wall. It was a seven-stringed zither, smaller and lighter than a geomungo. Ho-yeon tuned the strings with his left hand and turned the tuning pegs at the head of the instrument.
He had no idea where Mu-gyeong was or what he was doing; he hadn’t seen a single strand of the man’s hair since the moment he woke up. Ho-yeon suddenly looked at the end of his own hair, which was tied up in a bun.
Since it was better not to stand out, he was still dyeing his hair. Seeing that the acorn color had faded, he realized he would soon have to go look for jamhwa herbs, the ingredient for the dye.
Ho-yeon sighed deeply and suddenly understood Mu Seong-pyeong’s feelings. If he, who didn’t even know where Mu-gyeong was wandering, felt this frustrated, how much worse must the father feel?
Still, he thought the father was too harsh for not even looking at his son’s eyes. Usually, parents play a huge role in a child going astray. Ho-yeon’s heart sank as he suddenly missed the children of Eumbyeol Hall.
He planned to ask for news of the children when he wrote the message to the Ice Palace. With Mu-gyeong gone, the space beside him felt empty, and loneliness was growing rapidly. Having spent many years alone, Ho-yeon was more susceptible to loneliness than anyone.
Standing up, Ho-yeon wrapped the seven-stringed zither in a cloth and slung it over his back. After grabbing his oiled-paper umbrella, he took a final look around the house.
There was a bed against one wall, a round table and a single chair on the opposite side, and a hearth nearby. It was a poor thatched cottage where eating, sleeping, and living all happened in one space.
However, since Ho-yeon hated the smell of food where he slept, he had separated one side of the space with an old cloth. He lived by placing a small stove, a pot, and bowls inside that area.
In the space between the bed and the cloth sat a large jar filled with valley water. There was a similar jar in the yard, used for collecting rainwater.
Looking around, the house was filled with the traces of life left by Mu-gyeong and himself in that short period.
“He’s not drinking at a courtesan house, is he?”
When he doesn’t even have money…
Ho-yeon grumbled, looking up at the darkening sky.
* * *
Just as Ho-yeon expected, Mu-gyeong was drinking. However, it wasn’t at a courtesan house, but in a mountain range slightly away from the headquarters.
This area, densely packed with numerous peaks, was called the Bango Peak Forest. In the middle of the Bango Peak Forest, a mountain made of strange rocks and boulders towered high, and at the summit sat a thatched hut with a roof. However, since wind and rain could blow right through it, it looked more like a pavilion than a hut.
Mu-gyeong drained the liquor from his cup. Below the hut where he sat, a sea of clouds flowed, navigating the peaks that had sprouted like bamboo shoots after rain. The strange rocks were of such a dizzying height that it seemed a giant had sculpted them, far beyond the reach of a mere human. It was a sight fit for an immortal, but Mu-gyeong showed no interest in any of it.
In the dilapidated dwelling lay dozens of unused swords. Among them, only a single pipa, which looked out of place, caught Mu-gyeong’s eye for a brief moment.
He heard the sound of someone breaking through the forest and climbing the rocky cliffs. It was someone using a movement technique as smooth as the wind flowing between the peaks. Mu-gyeong’s black robe fluttered once in the wind before settling.
Soon, the person who reached the rocky hut was a man in his twilight years. Upon seeing the unwelcome guest at his residence, the old man remained speechless for a while.
No energy perception leaked from the man tilting his liquor cup. It was as if he were a cloud that had always existed here, a blade of grass that had grown here, or the strange rocks themselves.