For a thousand Autumns: prologue

 

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Prologue

“Hey, you’re here! Over here, Munpyeong.”

A familiar voice called out from across the noisy, bustling feast. Munpyeong, who had just arrived and was searching for his comrades, spotted his sharp-eyed friend and approached with a grin.

“Looks like you’ve all started without me, huh?”

He made his way toward the friend who was now on his feet and waving him over. A group of equally familiar faces was seated around the table. Judging by their flushed, tipsy complexions, it was clear they’d had more than just one round.

“Of course! With Hundred Flower Wine on the table, you think we’d wait? Don’t be jealous, have a glass. There’s still plenty left.”

His friend laughed heartily and held out a cup. He poured with a gurgling sound, filling it to the brim. Just as his friend said, this was the ridiculously expensive Hundred Flower Wine—worth two whole silver nyang a bottle—yet he poured it without a hint of reservation. On any other day, this would have been unthinkable, but today was different. Today, they didn't have to pool money from their own pockets to pay for their drinks.

“You all seem to be in high spirits. Must have been quite a show?” Munpyeong asked as he squeezed into a spot his friends made for him on a long bench.

As if his question was the funniest thing they’d ever heard, the men around the table burst into boisterous laughter.

“Of course it was! It’s not like the War of the Demonic Dragon happens every day, is it? It’s a shame you missed it, Munpyeong. It was like a blind man seeing for the first time.”

The oldest of the group, Elder Ak Hyung-dae, spoke with an awestruck tone, even slapping his knee in emphasis. As the most senior squad leader in their Soul-Slaying Squad, Ak Hyung-dae was over a decade older than Munpyeong, who always addressed him with the respect due an elder brother. He was normally a quiet man who rarely showed emotion, so to see him so openly impressed meant one of two things: either he was very drunk, or the War of the Demonic Dragon had been that spectacular.

“Brother Ak is right. To be born a warrior and miss a sight like that is one of life’s great regrets. What rotten luck you have! Getting stuck on guard duty on a day like this. You and your squad must be cursed.”

Choi, chiming in from the side, slapped the table in agreement. His words were so harsh they could have been mistaken for a challenge, but the excited gleam in his bloodshot eyes made it clear he meant no harm.

He’s drunk, the fool, Munpyeong thought, easily gauging the precarious state of Choi Wi-myeong’s mind. Choi had always been coarse-tongued, a habit that only worsened with alcohol. It was a troublesome trait that could easily lead to a fight, but Munpyeong, knowing this well, simply gave a wry smile and didn’t rise to the bait. Arguing with him now was pointless. By tomorrow morning, the man would have forgotten every word he’d said.

Munpyeong shook his head silently and downed his cup in one go. The sweet Hundred Flower Wine left a pleasant aroma as it slid down his throat. Expensive liquor really was different. Unlike the cheap bamboo-leaf wine or crude white spirits they usually drank, this had a refined, almost elegant aftertaste.

He gazed down at his empty cup, savoring the lingering fragrance. Misinterpreting his gaze as a request, Choi poured him another.

“Drink up! Drink up! All the fun’s over, so we might as well enjoy the booze, right?”

The drink was welcome, but the unnecessary comment was grating. Still, Munpyeong focused on the wine. As crude as Choi’s words were, he wasn’t wrong. Having missed the main event while guarding the outer compound, Munpyeong wasn’t about to miss out on the fine liquor provided for the occasion.

“By the way, Brother Ak, is it true? I heard the War of the Demonic Dragon ended without a victor.”

After savoring another mouthful and soothing the craving in his belly, Munpyeong looked up, a thought suddenly occurring to him. He had been curious about it since returning from his patrol, but the boisterous welcome had made him forget until now.

At Munpyeong’s curious question, Elder Ak’s eyes lit up. This was the very topic they were itching to discuss. The others felt the same; they would have been disappointed if he hadn’t asked.

“That’s right. The tournament ended without a victor. None of the Four Scions of the Demonic Cult managed to claim the Demonic Dragon Tablet. They’re saying it’s an unprecedented event in our history. Even the Elders seemed stunned.”

Since everyone, not just Elder Ak, was nodding in agreement, the rumors he’d heard outside must have been true. How was that possible? Munpyeong looked around at them, his face filled with disbelief.

“You mean to say no one held a clear advantage? Even if they are all the Lord’s disciples, their talents and years of training are different. And yet all their duels ended in a draw?”

Even while patrolling the perimeter, news of the tournament had reached his ears. How could it not, when it concerned the War of the Demonic Dragon? But without having seen it with his own eyes, Seok Munpyeong couldn't bring himself to believe the rumors.

It was, after all, unbelievable. The War of the Demonic Dragon was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. For the four disciples, known as the Four Scions, it was something they had likely lived their entire lives for. How could he possibly believe they would let such a momentous chance just slip away? It would have been more believable if they had all fought to the death and annihilated each other. He had heard that such an incident had actually occurred in a previous generation. In the Demonic Cult, where only the law of the strong was respected, such events were not uncommon.

“You can disbelieve it all you want, but it’s the truth. They fought four separate duels, and the result was the same every time. Everyone expected a close contest, but I don’t think anyone imagined it would be this close. The Elders must have been sweating bullets. They surely had their preferred successors, but with the Demonic Dragon Tablet unclaimed, the future is now uncertain. I bet they’re at a complete loss right now.”

The War of the Demonic Dragon was a time-honored tradition in the Demonic Cult, a life-or-death martial tournament to win the Demonic Dragon Tablet, the symbol of the successor to the Lord. As it determined the future of the Cult, and because all four of the Lord’s disciples were geniuses of exceptional talent, the outcome was a matter of intense interest. People had expected the tournament to finally reveal who among the Four Scions was the strongest. The Elders, who had personal stakes in the succession, must have been even more eager for a result than the lower-ranking members.

“And all four of them are unharmed? No one was seriously injured?”

“If someone had been, a winner would have been decided. But no, there was no one like that.”

Hearing this, Munpyeong’s suspicion only grew.

“...It almost sounds like they were holding back.”

“Surely not,” Elder Ak waved his hand dismissively. “This wasn't some friendly spar. This was to decide the owner of the Demonic Dragon Tablet.”

But there was one person who countered Ak’s assertion. It was Im Hak, leader of the Fourth Squad, who had been sitting calmly, sipping his wine as if detached from the surrounding commotion.

“It's possible that’s exactly what happened,” he said. “This tournament had a variable that others did not.”

Im Hak, four years younger than Munpyeong, was a man with a pale face and unusually deep-set eyes, known for his extraordinary intelligence and wit. While his martial skill was considered the weakest among the squad leaders, his tactical brilliance was so exceptional that he had earned his position at the young age of twenty-nine. The other leaders, well aware of Im Hak's sharp mind, never dismissed what he said, despite his youth. Following his advice had never led them astray.

“What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying the Four Scions threw the matches?!”

...Well, there was one person who would interrupt him. Choi Wi-myeong, so drunk he could barely see straight. He roared so loudly that nearby tables turned to glare at them, not just for the volume but for the content of his words. To accuse the potential future Lords of the Cult of throwing a match was a serious offense.

“Just go to sleep,” Munpyeong whispered, grabbing the back of Choi’s head and pushing his face down onto the table.

“Let go! What are you doing?!”

Choi struggled, but Munpyeong held firm. After a brief scuffle, Choi seemed to tire, his struggles ceasing as he fell quiet. It was hard to tell if he was asleep or had passed out, but Munpyeong kept his hand on Choi’s head. Dealing with Choi's drunken antics was just part of the price of drinking with him.

“Sorry about that, Hak. Please, continue.”

Im Hak, as accustomed to Choi’s behavior as Munpyeong, didn’t even flinch. He simply set down his cup.

“I agree with BrotherSeok. A draw in the War of the Demonic Dragon is highly unusual. And not just once, but four times. For four masters of their caliber to duel each other in different pairings and for every match to end in a draw… it just doesn't make sense. Speaking as someone who witnessed the duels, they were all fierce, but not once did it feel like their lives were truly on the line.”

His voice was low but clear. Though he was tipsy, his reason was intact, his face clear and his gaze steady. These were not the ramblings of a drunk.

Hearing this, even Elder Ak, who had been waving his hand in dismissal, grew serious. Munpyeong, too, sat up straighter, listening intently.

“In my opinion,” Im Hak continued, “there must have been some kind of prior agreement.”

“So, you’re saying it really was a fixed fight…?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. There was no explicit, spoken promise. I’m talking about an unspoken understanding, an implicit atmosphere. And it was that atmosphere that created today’s outcome.”

A hush fell over their table. A few of the men glanced around nervously, as if wondering if it was safe to be discussing such matters so openly.

“Hak, are you saying they went easy on each other based on some secret agreement?” Elder Ak asked, his voice now a low whisper, his flushed face tense with seriousness.

But Im Hak shook his head. “It’s more likely they were hiding their true strength. To reveal everything here would have put their futures at risk.”

“Why?” Munpyeong interjected, taking his turn to question. “Why not just win with their full strength and claim the Demonic Dragon Tablet? Once they’re officially the Young Lord, their future would be secure. Why would they complicate things with a fake contest?”

He, too, had felt something was off about the draws, but his mind couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. Thinking wasn't his strong suit anyway. As was his habit, Munpyeong turned to Im Hak for insight. Im Hak met his gaze with a calm expression.

“Brother Seok, you missed the tournament, but the rest of you were there. You all saw him, didn't you? Our Heavenly Demon Lord.”

At Im Hak’s words, everyone nodded enthusiastically. As men of the Demonic Cult, who revered strength above all, these low-ranking warriors worshipped the current Heavenly Demon—the "Number One Under Heaven"—as if he were a god.

“What did he look like to you?” Im Hak asked.

The men, their spirits buoyed by alcohol, all started talking at once.

“He was incredible.”
“Magnificent.”
“I was truly moved.”
“It sent shivers down my spine!”

The chorus of fervent praise was even more heated than usual, more so than when they told the legends of Cheonma shattering a cliff on Mount Yungjung with a single punch or crossing the Yellow River on a single leaf.

“He was truly amazing,” Elder Ak said, his words heavy with the profound impression he had felt. “At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. But the rumors were true. To think he had truly achieved rejuvenation (ballo-hwandong).”

The others all murmured in agreement.

“They say that at the peak of mastery, one’s energy becomes contained, but it seems that doesn’t apply when you’re as powerful as him. The sheer force of his presence washed over us, even though we were sitting in the back, far from the grandstand.”

“At this rate, isn’t our Lord going to ascend to godhood? I’ve heard there are Demonic Immortals among the gods.”

“True. Rejuvenation itself isn't a human feat. How can a person defy age and become young again? Is such a state even possible for a mortal?”

Everyone except Munpyeong, who had missed the tournament, shared the same opinion: Cheonma had truly reversed his age. With such a being as their Lord, the Demonic Cult would remain the most powerful force in the world, forever.

So he really did it? He really rejuvenated? The ever-skeptical Munpyeong’s eyes widened in astonishment as he stared at Im Hak. The rumors that had been quietly circulating had been confirmed. He had heard them, of course, but had dismissed them as just another exaggeration among the many tales about Cheonma.

“The Lord has rejuvenated? Was that rumor actually true?”

“Yes, Brother Seok. It was true. He has truly become young again. In appearance, he looked no older than a man in his twenties.”

Munpyeong was dumbfounded. The current Heavenly Demon Lord, Hyeokryeon Sang, was not just past seventy, but well past eighty. Even the youngest of the Four Scions was over thirty. For a man who was old enough to be their master’s master to look like he was in his late twenties was, to put it mildly, a ridiculous deception.

Does that old man plan to live forever? Munpyeong thought grimly, recalling the one time he had seen the Lord from a distance. Even then, he had aged remarkably well, looking like a man in his mid-fifties at most. And now he was even younger, appearing to be in his twenties.

This is unbelievable. His twenties. That means he looks about the same age as Im Hak. Munpyeong stared intently at Im Hak’s face, taking in the smooth, glowing skin of youth, the clear whites of his eyes, the unlined neck. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t picture it. He shook his head. My god. An eighty-year-old who looks like he’s twenty. What would a person like that even look like?

“...Ah.”

As his thoughts reached that point, Munpyeong’s eyes shot up to meet Im Hak’s. He finally understood why Im Hak had brought up the Lord's rejuvenation in the middle of a conversation about the tournament.

His eyes asked the question: Is it for the reason I’m thinking?

Im Hak gave a slow, deliberate nod in response, as if to say, That is precisely what I suspect.

“Why are you suddenly talking about the Lord? Weren’t we discussing the War of the Demonic Dragon?”

But not everyone was as quick on the uptake as Munpyeong. As low-ranking warriors whose job was to follow orders, they weren’t accustomed to using their heads. Finally realizing the conversation had strayed, Elder Ak asked Im Hak the question with a slurred voice. Im Hak patiently explained.

“People name successors because a human life is not infinite. No matter how powerful a master is, time makes them old, and old age leads to death. But in our Cult, the situation is slightly different. Cheonma has rejuvenated. In appearance, he is now younger than his own disciples. In such a situation, who would dare to proclaim themselves the successor? And even if they did, the years ahead are the problem. With the Lord so hale and hearty, it will be ages before a successor can inherit his title. Who knows what could happen in all that time? There is no need to stand out and become a target.”

Until last year, when the tournament had been announced, things hadn’t been this way. Cheonma, though the greatest master of his time, was still human and had been growing old. In fact, it was rare even in the Jianghu for an expert over eighty to remain on the front lines. Most of his contemporaries were either dead or in seclusion, and those who held their positions did so in name only, having passed on their real power to their successors. The Lord, though late, had intended to follow that path, knowing what a bloodbath would ensue if he were to pass away without a designated heir.

The problem arose this past spring, when Cheonma, while admiring flowers, had a sudden moment of enlightenment. He had unintentionally experienced a state of oneness with nature and undergone a second metamorphosis of bone and sinew. The result was rejuvenation. It was likely not something he had intended, but it had happened.

The incident sent the upper echelons into an uproar, and rumors slowly trickled down to the lower ranks. It was in this atmosphere that the War of the Demonic Dragon was held. There, before ten thousand members of the Cult, Cheonma revealed his youthful form. The cultists, who had been skeptical, saw with their own eyes that their Lord was as strong as ever, not just a successor was being chosen. Most rejoiced at this fact, but for the Four Scions, it was a devastating development.

Though they were renowned masters, their fame still fell short of Cheonma’s legendary might. Even if one of them were to be named successor, they would need to work tirelessly to fill his shoes. But now that very master had physically de-aged. How could his "lesser" disciples dare to promote themselves before him?

Im Hak could more than guess why they had held back. Had he been in their position, he wouldn't have acted any differently.

After hearing Im Hak’s patient explanation, Elder Ak nodded. It all made sense. Though not a brilliant man, Ak Hyung-dae was cautious enough to listen carefully and decisive enough to admit when he was wrong. Shaking his head, he poured a drink for Im Hak, whose cup had been empty while he was talking, and muttered as if to himself.

“Hah. Our Lord is so great it’s become a problem.”

Im Hak received the cup and simply smiled.

A sharp one, this friend of mine, Munpyeong thought, watching Im Hak. This is what people meant when they said someone was destined for greatness. Thanks to Im Hak, his questions were completely resolved, and he felt a sense of relief. This was why it was important to have good friends. If you couldn't figure something out with your own head, you could at least borrow someone else's.

“By the way, Brother Seok. Is that guy Choi still alive? He hasn’t moved an inch for a while now,” asked Wang U, the vice-leader of the First Squad, as he chewed on a piece of meat. He was trying to lighten the overly serious mood while also checking on Choi, who was still face-down on the table like a corpse.

At the question, Munpyeong finally removed his hand from Choi’s head and checked on him. He shook his shoulder, but he didn’t wake. Leaning down to look at his face, he found Choi snoring loudly, fast asleep.

“He’s sleeping, Brother Wang. Luckily, his drunken fit was mild today. I guess this expensive wine really is good for something.”

“It’s not that the wine is good, we intentionally got him drunk fast,” Elder Ak said with a grin, raising his bottle. “On a good day like this, it would be our loss if he caused a scene and got himself thrown in the stockade. We put him to bed early, so you should have a drink, too. Let’s try to enjoy our alcohol in peace for once.”

At these welcome words, Munpyeong beamed and quickly held out his cup.

“Brother Ak, I don’t know how to thank you!”

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. The unspared Hundred Flower Wine cascaded into his cup. Munpyeong wished the ceramic cup in his hand was a large bowl as he licked his lips.

The festive atmosphere of the banquet deepened. With wine, rich meat, and good friends, how could this not be a joyous occasion? It wasn't a feast that came every day, so the warriors of the Demonic Cult ate, drank, and sang of life to their hearts' content.

For them, today was a very good day. One of those rare days in a long life when they could be happy without a single reservation.

Of course. Breaking down a large wall of text into smaller, well-structured paragraphs makes it significantly easier to read and digest.