Dang Soran sat astride the donkey, quietly looking down at Han Seojin.
“Hmm... mm...”
Han Seojin had been intently studying a book he obtained from somewhere a few days prior.
It was an acupoint manual.
That commonplace book every martial artist flips through at least once.
Judging from how he occasionally touched his own body while leafing through the pages, it seemed fairly engaging.
Yet martial artists knew full well how inefficient acupoint strikes truly were.
Striking acupoints was an exceedingly delicate procedure to begin with, and all the more impossible during a duel.
If you wanted to subdue an opponent, you could simply swing your sword or staff—why go out of your way to jab a finger at their moving acupoints?
To see him so absorbed in something like that—should she call it absurd, or just plain simple-minded?
Han Seojin at play and Han Seojin in everyday life were just too different.
“...Having fun?”
Bored, Dang Soran posed the question to Han Seojin.
But Han Seojin offered no reply.
Dang Soran let out a soft sigh.
She sensed emotions stagnating somewhere deep in her heart, steadily swelling larger.
The end of this brief journey with him was drawing near.
And yet nothing lingered.
If only a red mark had remained on her rear like before.
Or even if he'd tossed her something like a plaything.
Or, conversely, if she'd left something—anything—on Han Seojin.
Wasn't that the very essence of play?
A game that altered your opponent for life?
Be it their threshold for shame or a physical mark left behind.
...A game of crossing taboo lines, savoring the thrill of depravity?
Didn't it forge an even tighter bond?
But at this moment, she felt a profound shortage of it all.
Just memories to carry away. Nothing more.
That realization bred an inexplicable impatience.
This man would forget her in an instant.
To Dang Soran, this irreplaceable, precious time might end up as a mere afterimage to him—less substantial than a single book.
He adhered to Cheongwol's words with unyielding precision.
He even bought Cheongwol's gift.
“...”
True, he'd known Cheongwol first. Still, the past month's events stung her pride—she hadn't come close to matching even the tip of Cheongwol's toe.
Why grovel only before Cheongwol?
Frankly, shouldn't he fear her more?
Never mind the greater taboo of entangling with a nun—weren't nuns inherently kinder by nature?
So why did Han Seojin spy only Cheongwol's moods?
Unable to endure it any longer, Dang Soran dismounted the donkey and positioned herself beside Han Seojin.
She laid her hand atop the book, shattering his focus.
“Ah.”
“Young Master. You're having fun, aren't you?”
Han Seojin sighed, yet humored her all the same.
“It's fun. So don't interfere.”
“Tch. Should've told the escort bureau not to hand over a thing.”
“...”
At her words, Han Seojin cleared his throat and slipped the book into his bosom.
In that fleeting instant, she glimpsed Cheongwol's hairpin nestled there as well.
Dang Soran feigned ignorance.
“Young Master. But what good's staring at that? You don't even have internal energy.”
Han Seojin started in surprise.
“Does it need internal energy? Isn't acupoint striking something that can kill even a five-year-old if done right?”
“Where'd you hear that nonsense?”
“...Ah.”
“Acupoint strikes are effective if landed properly, sure. But you need at least some internal energy to seal the points. And that's impossible unless your opponent blatantly offers them up.”
“...Is that so?”
“Can you infuse internal energy into a moving foe's sweat pores? It's about that level of precision.”
The longer she expounded, the deeper the disappointment etched on Han Seojin's face.
For reasons she couldn't pinpoint, Dang Soran found it endearing—her fingers twitched of their own accord.
Whether from sheer cuteness or a desire to etch even that sulky look into memory, not even she knew.
“W-who said... I'm studying it to try acupoints myself? It's just fun, that's all.”
Even his defensive bluster drew a smile from Dang Soran.
“Besides, who knows? It might save my life one day. Better to know something than nothing at all, right?”
“Fair enough... but some things are useless without internal energy, aren't they?”
“...”
Sensing an opening, Dang Soran ventured.
“Anyway, seems like a book you don't need, Young Master. Won't you gift it to me?”
If parting was inevitable, she wanted to leave something behind.
“It's mine. Don't eye it.”
True to form, the miserly Han Seojin refused even that.
“...Huh?”
In that instant, a dim epiphany flickered in Dang Soran's eyes.
“Why the face?”
“Oh, nothing.”
She brushed it off hastily.
Yet the scheme now forming in her mind felt so insidious, so viscous—even to her own sensibilities.
She scarcely recognized this bold, brazen self harboring such thoughts.
Dang Soran slowly lifted her gaze to Han Seojin.
...If she willed it, execution was effortless.
That very ease terrified her.
She scanned her surroundings.
No one to rein her in.
Ultimately, only her own conscience could restrain Dang Soran.
“...”
Did Han Seojin grasp how foul her thoughts had turned?
If he did... what would he say?
...Her avarice burned even fiercer.
Composing herself, she spoke.
“...Y-Young Master. Want to build up some internal energy?”
“Yes?”
“Might not amount to much... but it'd cut down on petty illnesses for sure. You could even attempt acupoints.”
“...Getting tangled in the martial world—”
“—Who said become a martial artist? J-just if you're curious, gather some qi. No need to be so wary—plenty learn arts these days. Ever hear of lay disciples? Tons of splinter groups from sects teach their unique styles. Qi doesn't make you a martial artist. Some do it for protection, others as a hobby. Though... unlike you, Young Master, they have the wealth for leisure.”
“...Does the Tang Clan of Sichuan have lay disciples?”
“We don't... but it's just an example. How could I stand idle after disappointing you like that over acupoints?”
“...”
To her astonishment, Han Seojin didn't reject outright.
Perhaps, as his wanderings through the Central Plains began, self-defense had crossed his mind more than once.
And spying that prospect made Dang Soran's thrill of taboo surge abruptly.
A chance to mark his body had emerged.
Something ineradicable—upon his dantian, woven into his internal energy.
...Such depraved notions were utterly novel to her.
That it transcended mere fantasy into action left Dang Soran reeling all the more.
But she'd already breached taboos back in the bandit lair.
This was child's play by comparison.
She could manage it easily.
Especially foretasting the ecstasy to follow.
After a silence, Han Seojin inquired.
“Doesn't sensing qi first take ages?”
Dang Soran murmured.
“...I've got you covered.”
“Yes?”
“Forgot who I am? Poison Phoenix, Dang Soran. First-rate martial artist. Opening your channels and points? Trivial. It'll be faint, but resolve yourself, and you'll sense qi by tonight.”
“...Hmm. In that case, better to ask an uncle acquaintance—”
“—Wh-what's his level?”
“Second-rate, probably.”
“Why settle for second-rate with first-rate right here? Idiot? And a second-rater opening channels? Don't dream of Wol-i either. I'm finer in finesse.”
“Well... definitely over Cheongwol...”
Han Seojin wavered, prompting Dang Soran.
“Th-this chance come often? Hate it? Say so. I'll drop it. Beggar stock, just gobbling favors without a lick of thanks! Blind to opportunity!”
“...Does it hurt?”
Dang Soran flipped from rebuke to eagerness at his glimpse of yield.
“No? Not a bit.”
Just a bit more.
Dang Soran mused inwardly.
Lure him over.
She teased what she'd long sensed as Han Seojin's deepest craving.
“...Picture it, Young Master.”
She breathed softly into his ear.
“A precise jab... me helpless, frozen by your qi. Utterly immobilized.”
The next words she loathed voicing, but persuasion came first.
“...A skill workable on Wol-i too, no?”
Abruptly, a tyrannical gleam fleeted through Han Seojin's gaze.
He masked it swiftly, throat clearing in mutter.
“...Fine. I'll accept the aid this once...”
Dang Soran loosed a fevered breath, whispering.
“...Wise choice.”
“No trace of you left behind, right?”
“Yes?”
“Like your signature qi lingering in me...”
“N-none. Zero.”
Clearing channels for qi flow left no personal imprint.
She could pave the paths cleanly.
“Come, Young Master. Strike while iron's hot—meditate here on the ground. Simple stuff, quick work.”
“...Very well.”
Han Seojin settled cautiously.
Yet Dang Soran harbored no intent of mere paving.
Taken lightly, jealousy of Cheongwol, mere mischief.
Pondered deeply, her own craving.
Dang Soran brimmed with intent to corrupt Han Seojin.
“Eyes shut. I'll breach your channels and points, breathe true qi into your dantian inaugural. Easier to attune that way.”
Dang Soran knew her face twisted lewdly.
But how not to?
Imprinting on another's flesh.
Truth be told, she hoped Cheongwol witnessed it—raged.
Deemed him sullied, cast him off.
Then she could claim him from Cheongwol at last.
Better for Han Seojin to turn her way regardless.
What could that destitute nun provide?
For Cheongwol's good, even.
You're a nun, Wol-a. Distance from this beggar, no?
Young Master fixated on you alone? Grates on me, honestly.
“Relax now... loosen up... welcome my qi.”
Through unchaste means, Dang Soran invaded Han Seojin's form.
Her qi seeped in, intermingling.
Staining Han Seojin her hue.
“Ugh...”
Ruthlessly parting clogged channels and points, coursing his every nook.
Han Seojin uttered a faint groan, but Dang Soran spared it no heed.
“...Hah....”
Dang Soran thrilled beyond precedent.
She couldn't halt. Such rapture anew?
Conception to Governing, back again.
Laving his form with her qi, again, again.
I unlocked his body's paths.
Lifetime unaltered, that truth.
...Young Master's fault.
Dang Soran gazed down, viscous in thought.
...Who bade you tease me, eyes only for Wol-i?
Dang Soran inscribed her name upon his flesh.
Etched intent into a noble soul's frame.
‘This wretched man belongs to Dang Soran.’