The Outcast Writer of a Martial Arts Visual Novel-Chapter 144: Daseogak in Crisis - 4

Did he figure out I’m Ho-pil?

There was certainty in the way the Pavilion Head looked at me—like he already knew everything. What clue had he picked up to lead him to that conclusion? Or... was this Hwa-rin’s doing? Did she throw me under the wagon and claim I was Ho-pil?

“Ho-pil? What are you talking about?”

I wasn’t some silhouetted figure in a mystery manga, pointing a finger at myself and declaring, “Yes! I am the culprit! I murdered him because I practiced tap dancing upstairs every night after work.” So I denied it outright.

“This manuscript of Storm of the Tang Clan. The strong scent of ink from this child. At first, I suspected that she might be Ho-pil.”

So it wasn’t bluffing. Why did this feel like one of those dramatic revelation scenes from a mystery comic?

“I don’t know what misunderstanding this is, but you’re clearly mistaken.”

Still holding my wrist, the Pavilion Head gently shook his head and began to speak.

“When one learns the healing arts, it’s not just the five viscera and the eight meridians that can be understood. There’s much one can see just from a person’s outward appearance.”

Don’t tell me this guy figured I’m the culprit just by reading my face. Doesn’t he know the golden rule of detective stories? The guy who looks like the culprit never actually is.

“Are you saying Yun-ho looks like Ho-pil or something? Let go of his wrist! Hey!”

As Hwa-rin rushed toward him, the Pavilion Head snatched her wrist with his other hand.

“Earlier, during the pulse check, I paid close attention to her hands. There are clear traces of someone who’s spent a long time training in the poison arts and throwing knives of the Sichuan Tang Clan.”

He turned her hand toward me, showing her palm.

Damn. I realized what he was getting at. That’s where he figured it out.

“So what? Let me go!”

The Pavilion Head, unfazed by her resistance, released her and looked back at me.

“You noticed what I was getting at, didn’t you? Yes. This child doesn’t have the calluses that form from long hours of writing. But you do. And you still plan to deny it, Ho-pil?”

He showed me the calluses on my hand and let go of my wrist. He pulled out the final piece of evidence. Guess this middle-aged detective wasn’t just for show.

“Haha... When you run a bookstore, you handle brushes often.”

“You said you were a storyteller, didn’t you? Right. Knowing about an incident from twenty years ago and being able to turn it into a compelling story—those are very different things. If you were a skilled storyteller, putting that tale into writing would’ve been no trouble at all. Isn’t that right?”

Despite my attempts to deny it, he stared at me with unwavering certainty.

Checkmate. The Storm of the Tang Clan manuscript was right here. Meaning Ho-pil had to be either me or Hwa-rin. And all the evidence pointed to me.

“It’s not him! I’m Ho-pil!”

Hwa-rin must have sensed that things were turning south, because she suddenly jumped in to defend me.

“Child. Though you may be a barbarian, your loyalty to your friend ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) is admirable.”

Seriously? This old man treats her like his precious granddaughter and me like some mongrel barbarian?

So the moral compass of the orthodox sects only applies to “our people” and not to barbarians like me?

“Bullshit. I’m telling you I’m Ho-pil!”

“Very well. Then prove it.”

“What?”

“Vice Pavilion Head. You spoke highly of Storm of the Tang Clan, didn’t you?”

The Pavilion Head ignored Hwa-rin’s confused look and called over the Vice Pavilion Head, who’d been silently observing from the back.

“I’m flattered...”

“I’m not calling on you to scold you. Since you know the work well, ask this child to write down a line from Storm of the Tang Clan on that paper over there.”

“Uh? Of course. In that case... write this down: ‘Welcome to my Poisoned Killing Zone—’”

The Vice Pavilion Head quickly prepared an empty sheet of paper and a brush on the desk, then called Hwa-rin over. I already knew what was coming. The final blow.

“Yun-ho...”

Hwa-rin looked up at me, realizing what this test was meant to do. She wanted to say no, but she had no excuse to refuse.

Knowing she had no other way out, she glanced at the papers I had written nearby, then copied down the line the Vice Pavilion Head mentioned.

“...She tried, but the handwriting is clearly different. Do you still intend to deny it?”

The Pavilion Head approached the desk, lifted the sheet Hwa-rin had written, and compared it to the original manuscript I had penned. The handwriting was unmistakably different.

Neither Hwa-rin nor I could say anything in the face of such irrefutable evidence.

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“I’ll settle this with just one arm.”

Silence. Then came the thunderous declaration from the Pavilion Head, slicing through the still air.

“...What?”

Settle what with what?

“Vice Pavilion Head. Draw your sword.”

“What the hell?! I told her to write it! Why are you cutting off Yun-ho’s arm?!”

Hwa-rin sprang forward and stood between them, blocking the Vice Pavilion Head.

“I only wrote it for Hwa-rin’s sake.”

Since I’d already been exposed, I figured I’d try appealing to his sense of humanity.

I didn’t do this for personal gain. I only did it to help a friend. I looked at the Pavilion Head with a sincere tone.

“I understand. Then I’ll protect her under my name.”

“Then while you’re at it, why not protect me too?”

“This child is a descendant of our clan, someone who must be protected. But if there is a sin, it will be the old foxes of the family—those who still obsess over the Poisoned Ones—who use it as justification to go after her. So, barbarian, you will shoulder all the blame and give up your wrist. Preferably the one you use to write.”

Would you like both wrists as a set?

So it’s okay to chop off the barbarian’s wrist to protect the clan’s illegitimate child? I should’ve known the moment he started shaking his head. This is full-on barbarian discrimination.

I was fooled by their orthodox image. I thought the Sichuan Tang Clan tried to uphold righteousness. Apparently, that righteousness doesn’t apply to black-haired barbarians like me.

“If the problem is Storm of the Tang Clan, then I’ll just go to the Tang Clan and explain everything with Yun-ho!”

“Child. I know you mean well for your barbarian friend, but that’s only because you don’t understand how the Sichuan Tang Clan works.”

The Pavilion Head gave Hwa-rin a look of pity. freewebnøvel.com

“What?”

“The Sichuan Tang Clan has many ways of forcing a confession. And while you might be able to endure them because you carry the clan’s blood, this barbarian might end up crippled. Once the interrogation begins, both of your crimes will be exposed. Offering a wrist here and now is the only way to avoid that outcome.”

“Screw off.”

“Hoho... Child. You think I want to cut off your friend’s wrist? This way, I can at least stand up for him when the Tang Clan tries to hand down additional punishments to Ho-pil. Now step aside. Do you want Tang Geo-ho to be punished and untreated?”

“What about Yun-ho?! He still needs to write!”

“If his wrist is cut, he won’t be able to perform martial arts, but he’ll still be able to hold a spoon. As for writing... he might be able to do it again someday. Vice Pavilion Head.”

“No. Freaking. Way!”

The Vice Pavilion Head took a step forward, but Hwa-rin let out a furious cry, her killing intent flaring.

“Ho-pil. You’re quiet.”

“......”

The Pavilion Head ignored Tang Hwa-rin’s murderous aura and addressed me, who’d been silently watching the situation unfold.

“I understand your silence—it must be from frustration. But I’ve heard that in your barbarian land, thieves have their hands cut off. You must know this well. You committed a crime, and now, if you give up just one wrist, I’ll protect this child and make sure you live comfortably in this bookstore. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Back in Joseon, theft gets you flogged, you idiot. What is this, the Code of Hammurabi? Cutting off hands for stealing? What kind of barbaric law is that?

“Yun-ho, don’t do it!”

Hwa-rin. You think I’m about to give up my wrist because I’m quiet?

Nope. I’m just trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get out of this alive.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

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The price of using a shortcut.

The knot of misunderstandings had grown far too tangled. I’d tried to slice through the Gordian knot with yet another blade of misdirection, but in the end, all I managed was to cut myself free only to have that same knot wrap around my ankle and drag me down.

The Pavilion Head’s reasoning was, strictly speaking, logical.

No matter how much one tries to wrap sin in good intentions, the sin itself doesn’t disappear.

If not everyone can be happy, someone has to be sacrificed. Just one barbarian’s wrist. To the Pavilion Head, it was probably a cheap price to pay.

“Should I give up my wrist?”

I looked desperately at Hwa-rin, still shielding me with everything she had.

“It’s not the outcome I’d planned for, but... there’s still one card left.”

The problem was whether it was right to play it.

If I used this card, I wouldn’t just be sacrificing an arm—I’d be throwing myself straight into a tiger’s den.

Should I give the tiger my wrist, or stick my head in its jaws and pray it doesn’t bite?

Even as Hwa-rin continued to stand guard in front of me, I hesitated.

“Take one more step, and I dare you.”

Hwa-rin’s voice, sharp with murderous intent, snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Child, it’s only a barbarian’s wrist. Once you go to the Sichuan Tang Clan, you’ll make better friends. If this is about affection, I’ll introduce you to someone much nicer.”

“Bullshit. Don’t talk like you know anything. There’s only one man like Yun-ho in the whole damn world.”

Hwa-rin... I don’t get emotional easily, but that one hit home.

If this weren’t such a serious moment, I’d be treating you to dinner tonight. I’d still tease you by repeating what you said word for word until your face turned red and you yelled at me, but still. Damn shame.

“Heh... Whether it was twenty years ago or now. Why do people insist on letting personal attachments to barbarians ruin everything...”

The Pavilion Head sighed like Hwa-rin’s actions reminded him of something from the past.

If I’m going to pull this off, now’s the time.

“Hwa-rin. Step aside for a moment.”

“What? No!”

“It’s okay. Trust me.”

I gently placed a hand on her shoulder and nudged her aside. She looked at me with worry, but reluctantly moved when I asked her to trust me.

“So you’ve finally accepted it. I’ll promise once again—once you give up your wrist, no further harm will come to you.”

The Pavilion Head mistook my movement as a sign I was surrendering my wrist, and gave a grand declaration.

“Give my wrist to the tiger... or throw myself into its den.”

From the days I ate scraps and slept on the streets, to becoming the barbarian storyteller, then Ho-pil, the ink-stained writer of erotic martial arts novels.

I’d finally secured a place. I had hope—hope to move forward.

And now they wanted to take the hand I used to write with.

You think you’re just cutting off the wrist of a lowly barbarian—but what you’re really severing is my hope.

To live without hope isn’t living. It’s rotting.

My wrist... or my life.

The answer was already decided.

“Pavilion Head. Have you read all of Storm of the Tang Clan?”

I met his eyes with confidence.

“I read every word.”

“Then in Volume 2, the courtesan from Joseon—Du Eung-hyang. Do you remember her real name?”

The Pavilion Head had once insisted that Du Eung-hyang was based on a real person.

The Lecher incident is a hidden part of history. If he knew about it in detail, that meant he had either traveled with the Lecher’s pursuers or knew someone like Du Eung-hyang.

“How could I remember the real name of some barbarian courtesan from twenty years ago?”

He laughed like it was a ridiculous question.

No. You’ll remember it. And even if you don’t, I’ll make you.

“Hyang-ah. That was her name. The apprentice courtesan who shared a night of love with the current Tang Clan Head twenty years ago.”

“...Right. That was the name... Wait...? How do you know she was an apprentice?”

The Pavilion Head’s eyes widened.

How? Of course I know. I had to know.

“When he left her behind on a secret mission, the Tang Clan Head said, ‘I’ll come back and bring you into my clan properly.’ That’s what he told Hyang-ah—the woman who shared his first night.”

“Who the hell are you?!”

I ignored the old man’s shout and walked calmly to the desk drawer.

From it, I pulled out a bracelet.

I’d taken it from a dead Joseon traveler while I was on the road with Cheon So-hee, heading toward the Seong Family Manor. The name of this bracelet is...

“The Remembrance Ring?”

“Yes. The Remembrance Ring.”

Time to change tactics.

I casually tossed the bracelet with the bird insignia to the Pavilion Head.

“How... how did you come to possess this?”

“The Tang Clan Head couldn’t tell anyone. But he and that woman had a child.”

“...What?”

“He couldn’t give her his name. The mission was too dangerous. But he told her—if I’m gone too long, take this bracelet and find the Sichuan Tang Clan. That’s what he said before he left.”

“Are you saying...”

The Pavilion Head looked between me and the blank, uninscribed Remembrance Ring with stunned eyes.

Even if you walk into the tiger’s den—stay sharp, and you’ll survive.

Then again, when have I not stayed sharp while tigers circled me?

If the tiger tries to take my wrist—I’ll smack it.

If the tiger goes for my throat—I’ll make it kneel.

I’ll deceive the tiger.

I’m used to deceiving tigers that aim for my neck. And this time, the tiger I’m fooling is...

“The child born twenty years ago to the Tang Clan Head and the Joseon courtesan Hyang-ah... that child is me.”

The Sichuan Tang Clan.