Fabre in Sacheon’s Tang

The setting sun glistened off numerous beautiful lakes, including the East Lake, while the mighty Yangtze River twisted and turned, flowing past Wuhan.

Atop the tallest pavilion in Hubei Province’s Wuhan—known as Tianwu Pavilion and revered by righteous martial artists of the Central Plains—Zhu Jung-hak, the Martial Alliance Leader and Fist Emperor, stood gazing at the river as it stretched into the horizon.

Born in Zhujiazhang, a small martial family in Nanchang of Jiangxi Province, Zhu Jung-hak was a legendary figure. Despite lacking the pedigree of major sects, he honed his family’s modest martial arts and rose to become one of the Three Martial Sovereigns.

Now in his sixties, he watched the Yangtze’s relentless current, lost in thought.

“As the river’s waves push the old forward with the new, so too must I step aside as the Alliance Leader,” he mused.

He had been thrust into the role of Alliance Leader fifteen years ago, following his heroic contributions during the Blood Cult Bloodbath thirty years earlier—a crisis that had threatened the Central Plains. Though neither affiliated with the Nine Great Sects nor the Seven Great Families, his unmatched skills and decisive actions earned him the position.

But now, the time had come for him to retire.

As Zhu Jung-hak gazed at the flowing river and resolved to withdraw to a quiet life, the voice of a servant interrupted his thoughts.

“Alliance Leader, I’ve brought your tea.”

He turned toward the doorway and spoke, “Come in.”

A young woman in her early twenties entered, one of the newly appointed attendants responsible for Tianwu Pavilion’s uppermost level. She had replaced her predecessor, who had returned home to care for ailing parents.

• Clink.

“I’ve prepared West Mountain White Dew.”

“West Mountain White Dew?”

Hearing this, Zhu Jung-hak’s brow twitched slightly.

The tea originated from West Mountain in his hometown of Nanchang, where the Zhu family estate once stood before its decline.

Although he sometimes longed for the tea of his youth, he refrained from requesting it, not wanting to appear demanding. Instead, he drank the commonly served Mengding Tea or Fangshan Dew Buds.

Now, with nostalgic memories stirring within him, he accepted the cup.

The aroma of the tea brought back memories of his younger days, making him wonder if the attendant had somehow read his heart.

His gaze lingered on her face—her dark brows, graceful eyes, and the small beauty mark near her lips.

For the first time, he realized she resembled someone from his past.

“Now that I think about it… she looks just like her…”

The face of the attendant reminded Zhu Jung-hak of his wife, who had died in his arms during the Blood Cult Bloodbath thirty years ago. Even in her final moments, she had urged him to let go of revenge and focus on their family.

“My lord, please don’t seek vengeance. Protect our family…”

• Thump.

Realizing this, Zhu Jung-hak felt his heart, long dormant, stir to life.

However, his deep training allowed him to quickly regain his composure.

“Perhaps it’s just my old age…”

Dismissing his thoughts, he brought the tea to his lips.

Before he could take a sip, another voice interrupted.

“Alliance Leader, it’s your strategist, Jegal Hu.”

Surprised by the interruption, Zhu Jung-hak glanced out the window. The sun had almost fully set—surely it was time for rest.

“What brings you here at this hour? Come in,” he called.

Jegal Hu hurried inside, bowing deeply as he approached.

“Forgive me for disturbing your rest, Alliance Leader. I thought it best to inform you immediately—there’s news from the Tang Clan in Sichuan.”

“The Tang Clan? What news?”

If the strategist had come in person, it must be important. Zhu Jung-hak smiled slightly and motioned for him to continue.

Jegal Hu placed a letter on the table and delivered his astonishing report.

“The Tang Clan has recovered the severed head of Tak Wonyang, the Blood-Handed Rakshasa, along with the manual for Blood-Water Venom Claw.”

“Blood-Water Venom Claw!?”

• Crack!

The teacup in Zhu Jung-hak’s hand shattered, spilling tea across the table.

The Blood-Water Venom Claw was a martial art derived from the Blood Cult. Thirty years ago, it had claimed the lives of countless righteous martial artists, including his wife.

Barely containing his emotions, Zhu Jung-hak demanded, “Where? Where did they recover it?”@@novelbin@@

Jegal Hu explained, “After being struck by the Heavenly Poison Deity’s palm, Tak Wonyang fell into the sea and drifted to Hainan Island, where he had been hiding. The Tang Clan discovered and eliminated him there.”

“Hainan Island!?”

“Yes. I heard the details from the Tang envoy—they’re quite fascinating. It seems a young swordsman and some venomous creatures played key roles.”

“A young swordsman and venomous creatures?”

Intrigued, Zhu Jung-hak leaned in as Jegal Hu recounted the tale.

The news of the Blood-Water Venom Claw’s recovery, coupled with the story of the young hero who defeated Tak Wonyang, captivated him. It was a tale of adventure and intrigue that rivaled his own exploits from thirty years ago.

***

“We have much to discuss, so you may leave now,” said the Alliance Leader.

“Yes, Alliance Leader.”

The attendant exited the Alliance Leader’s office with a polite smile and headed to her quarters.

Her residence was directly beneath the Alliance Leader’s quarters in Tianwu Pavilion.

At this late hour, most people in the pavilion had retired for the night, save for the guards patrolling the grounds. On her way, she passed by a guard who had made advances toward her on more than one occasion.

By the time she reached her room, her demeanor had completely changed.

The smile that had adorned her face earlier was gone, replaced by an expression devoid of emotion.

Under the cold moonlight streaming through the open window, her now impassive face seemed almost unsettling.

Gazing out of the window, she muttered words that no one could understand.

“Blood-Water Venom Claw… it’s unmistakably from the Cult…”

Her chilling expression remained as she whispered cryptic words under her breath.

She sat down at her desk, pulling out a piece of paper. Without using a brush, ink, or any other writing implements, she began to write.

• Scratch, scratch.

Each stroke of her hand left a crimson mark on the paper, illuminated by the moonlight.

Anyone who saw her actions would have been horrified.

She was writing with her own blood, which she drew from her fingertip.

Using the blood dripping from her pinky, she quickly scrawled a few short lines onto the paper.

Once she finished, she retrieved an owl from the cage by her window.

Tying the bloodstained message to the bird’s leg, she whispered softly.

• Flap, flap.

The owl flew off into the night, vanishing into the darkness above Wuhan.

***

It had been five days since Grandfather left to save the Lord of Sichuan.

I was practicing lightfoot techniques in the training yard late at night. The lack of moonlight due to the overcast sky made the night even darker, but I had lit a lantern to illuminate the area.

Having watched my father-in-law, Grandfather, my sister, and other Tang Clan warriors effortlessly perform lightfoot techniques, I had initially assumed it would be easy.

But it wasn’t.

The challenge lay in balancing the internal energy expenditure: too much would increase speed but deplete energy quickly, while too little would extend endurance but slow you down.

Proper distribution of internal energy was essential.

Chasing an enemy with reckless enthusiasm only to run out of energy would lead to certain death.

Timing and rhythm were equally crucial. Without infinite internal energy, efficiency and precise movements were paramount.

Each step required the exact release of energy at the moment your foot struck the ground, akin to a rhythm game. If the timing was off, the flow would break, and you’d stumble.

One wrong move, and you’d end up sprawled on the ground.

Thanks to my experience with rhythm games at arcades in my previous life, I managed to grasp the concept more quickly than expected. But it was still frustrating.

‘How on earth do they run for days without a single mistake? Are they even human?’

As I practiced, I gained newfound respect for my sister, who had once run for days using lightfoot techniques with little rest. To me, it was as if she’d aced every stage of a rhythm game for days on end.

With these thoughts in mind, I was running my second lap around the yard, enjoying the cool night air, when I heard my sister’s voice from the entrance.

“So-ryong?”

“Ha-Hwa-eun?” I stammered.

Her sudden voice startled me, and I misjudged my timing. Instead of propelling myself forward, I flung myself awkwardly into the air and crashed down.

• Thud!

“Ouch…”

The impact reverberated through my body. Thanks to my internal energy, I wasn’t seriously hurt, but the shock was still significant.

As I lay curled up on the ground, I heard my sister’s concerned voice.

“So-ryong, are you alright?”

I looked up to see her standing in the dark, her worried expression illuminated by the faint lantern light.

“Y-Yes, I’m fine. Just a little tumble,” I said, brushing myself off and trying to appear unfazed.

“What were you doing here so late at night?” she asked.

“Oh, I was just practicing lightfoot techniques. I felt like I wasn’t getting it right earlier,” I replied sheepishly.

Her eyes widened slightly, and though her face was obscured by the lantern’s backlight, her voice carried a hint of embarrassment.

“Practicing even at this hour… to keep your promise…”

“Well, yes…”

An awkward silence fell between us.

Before it could stretch too long, my sister broke it by asking about my struggles with lightfoot techniques.

“So, what part are you finding difficult?”

‘Nice save,’ I thought, grateful for her quick thinking, and answered immediately.

“Well, I keep messing up the timing for pushing energy through my feet. If I get it wrong even once, I lose balance.”

“Ah, it sounds like you’re trying to step at perfectly consistent intervals,” she observed.

“Isn’t that the right way to do it?”

I had assumed a consistent rhythm was the key, but my sister shook her head.

“Not at all. That would only work for a machine, not a person. I imagine a song instead, adjusting the length of my steps to the rhythm. Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. It’s more natural that way.”

‘Oh, that makes sense! Like following the rhythm of a song instead of forcing it onto the steps.’

Her advice resonated with me, and I immediately tried moving in sync with a song in my head.

• Tap, tap, tat, tap-tap.

After completing a lap around the yard, I returned to my sister, who nodded approvingly.

“Yes, So-ryong, that’s much better! But…”

Although my technique was flawless, her expression turned slightly dubious.

“But what?” I asked, tilting my head in confusion.

“Well… what kind of song were you imagining? It felt a bit… flamboyant, or perhaps too lively?”

Her comment made me realize I had been picturing an upbeat club dance track. No wonder it felt a bit flashy.

‘Her sense of rhythm must be incredible if she picked up on that…’

I decided to switch to something more classical for my next attempt, but before I could start, a strange sound interrupted the quiet night.

• Buzz, buzz.

The faint fluttering of wings reached us from the nearby training yard where the Golden Bumblebee Kings had made their hive.

At this hour, they should have been asleep.

“Eeeeek!”

A sharp scream tore through the cold night air, followed by the blaring sound of a warning whistle.

• Beeeep! Beeeep!

“An intruder! Intruder at the training yard!”

The shouts of warriors echoed through the compound, signaling an invasion.

My sister and I exchanged a glance before leaping into action, using our lightfoot techniques to rush toward the training yard.

Someone had dared to invade the Tang Clan.

‘Whoever it is, they must have a death wish. This won’t end well for them.’