Chapter 8: The Curse of the Moyong Clan
Fifty years ago, ever since the Moyong Clan—one of the Eighteen Demonic Path Sects and the military family of the Bright Cult—was exterminated, there had not been a single ink-stained scholar left in the Bright Cult, just as the gossipmongers of the martial world said.
In short, it meant there was not a single educated man among them.
Even now, among the Bright Cult martial artists of the Heavenly Mountains—whose numbers had long surpassed one hundred thousand and were approaching one hundred and twenty thousand—aside from a single strategist, every last one of them was someone who had never properly learned how to read or write.
Before the strategist came, there had not even been that one.
Which meant the only thing filling their heads was how to kill the enemy as quickly as possible.
Warehouse management?
Food storage policy?
Distribution management?
They neither cared about nor understood the importance of such things. All they knew was how to fight.
Moreover, after the Moyong Clan was exterminated, the Bright Cult had grown accustomed, for twenty years, to a way of life where if they lacked something, they simply went out and took it.
From the perspective of Bright Cult martial artists who knew nothing but eating, training, sleeping, and fighting, that was not particularly inconvenient.
The problem was that such a lifestyle was only possible when the Bright Cult was evenly matched with or overwhelming the Hundred Paths.
The last White Demon Great War that took place over thirty years ago ended in the Bright Cult’s defeat.
The Hundred Paths seemed to define it as a “draw,” since they too had lost a considerable number of experts and still failed to fully seize Qinghai and Xinjiang—the lands of the Demonic Path—but the Bright Cult did not see it that way.
The previous Cult Leader, who had been injured in that battle, sickened and died, and half of the renowned experts died amid the fighting.
From the Bright Cult’s standpoint, it was not a draw.
Though it was not a crushing rout that cost them even their front yard of Qinghai and Xinjiang, it was an undeniable defeat.
And it also meant that, unlike before, they could no longer openly raid into the territory of the Hundred Paths.
That was the moment when cracks finally appeared in the Bright Cult’s supply system.
It was not only a matter of supplies. Evaluations emerged saying that the cause of defeat lay in the complete lack of operations and planning—charging about in utter disorder and being picked off one by one.
Driven by demands that ink-soaked men were absolutely necessary, the cult spent enormous sums to hire scholars who were fairly well-known in various places.
At first, the scholars were enthusiastic.
A considerable number of them eagerly applied at the prospect of being employed by a massive martial sect like the Bright Cult and being able to realize their ambitions.
The Bright Cult martial artists, watching them, were filled with yearning, believing that before long they would be able to take revenge on the Hundred Paths.
However, that enthusiasm and yearning did not last long.
For reasons unknown, the scholars who entered the Bright Cult failed to last more than half a month before they sickened and died, or lost their minds.
Such incidents continued for several years.
Once the number of scholars who had died or gone mad after being hired by the Bright Cult exceeded a thousand, no scholar was willing to accept employment there anymore.
It was around that time that the phrase “the curse of the Moyong Clan” began circulating among the people.
Considering that, from the perspective of the Moyong Clan, the Cult Leader two generations ago had fallen into inner demons and rampaged about, beating them all to death, it was only natural that resentment would linger.
Still, the Bright Cult could not afford to leave the problem unattended, so they eventually began kidnapping scholars—but the result was the same.
They would sicken and die as before, or fail to last even a few days before going mad.
Frustrated by this, the Cult Leader went to seek out a learned friend, thinking that at least they should uncover the cause.
The Cult Leader’s closest friend—who at a young age was serving as a Grand Academician of the imperial court—must have had some thought of his own, for with just a few honeyed words from the Cult Leader, he came into the Bright Cult together with him that very night, without even submitting a letter of resignation.
There was only one condition: that they would no longer kidnap scholars.
The Emperor, enraged that the dearly cherished Grand Academician had left without a word, supposedly declared him a traitor and placed a bounty on his head.
Thanks to that, information about the strategist became a secret among secrets within the Bright Cult.
Everyone in the Bright Cult knew of the strategist’s existence, but no one outside the cult knew his identity.
They feared that if it became known, the Emperor might send the imperial army.
As Iron Demon, the Chief Elder, said, smashing the Emperor’s army to pieces would be no great matter—but if the Hundred Paths joined in, the calculations would change.
In any case, after entering the Bright Cult, that strategist, for some reason, neither went mad nor sickened.
Within the cult, they simply accepted it with the strange logic of “as expected of the Cult Leader’s friend,” but it was still a peculiar matter.
In any case, that man was the current strategist.
The leaders, who knew all of this inner background, merely let the two men’s quarrels pass.
Because they understood the relationship between the two and the importance of the strategist, they pretended not to see even when they did.
After all, the fact that they now barely maintained a supply system by receiving goods tributes from the Demonic Path sects of Xinjiang and Qinghai was thanks to the strategist.
Until then, it had truly been a complete mess. The Bright Cult had barely managed to survive by pillaging the Demonic Path sects in Xinjiang and Qinghai.
Just fixing that alone earned the strategist recognition within the Bright Cult. Of course, it was not an easy task—he had to give it his all.
Selecting and adjusting the goods-tribute system, managing the goods that came in that way, and distributing them within the cult.
All of it had to be handled by the strategist alone.
There had been attempts to train and make use of a few martial artists, but none of them ever settled in.
They would leave things in a complete mess and then dash off to the training grounds, forcing the strategist to waste even more time fixing their work.
In the end, the strategist had no choice but to conclude that it was better to handle everything by himself.
In that situation, everyone had to acknowledge that expecting anything more—from the strategist or from the other leaders—was difficult.
That was what created the current misshapen system.
Even if they stored vast amounts of grain in advance, there was no one to manage it.
Even now, warehouse management was handled solely by the strategist.
On top of that, he had to plan distribution and supply according to the personnel composition and training schedules of each organization within the Bright Cult, and for some, even devise operations for external activities.
So much so that the number of Bright Cult martial artists who claimed to have ever seen the strategist sleeping could be counted on one hand.
It was said that if the Bright Cult’s external activities had not become more restrained since the incident fifteen years ago, when the Vice Cult Leader’s movements grew infrequent, the current strategist would probably have died of overwork by now.
Indeed, before that incident—when the Vice Cult Leader was actively moving—the strategist’s face had been worked to the bone, pale and bloodless like withered wood.
In any case, when the strategist stepped back, the Cult Leader asked with an indifferent expression.
“So, was it possible?”
“…What do you mean?”
Though he had stepped back, some emotional residue seemed to remain, and at the strategist’s sullen question, the Cult Leader asked with a bitter smile.
“The rice export. We already received so little—can we really send it out?”
At that, the strategist hurriedly ran a few calculations and nodded.
“It is possible, but after that, it seems we will have to reduce the rations of the martial artists within the cult.”
“By how much?”
“If we assume next year will be the same as this year… it seems we will have to cut about one meal a day.”
The moment the strategist finished speaking, the Training Hall Lord, who was in charge of training the ordinary martial artists, sprang up in protest.
“What? We’re already short even if we give them one more meal, and you’re saying to cut it? Does that make sense? They’re running and rolling around all day, and only two meals a day! Are you trying to starve the kids to death?!”
At the fierce objection, the strategist shook his head.
“Otherwise, starting next summer, we’ll be sucking on our fingers.”
“What? So you’re saying we feed them two meals a day for a whole year? This damn it all! Not for a month or two—how does that make any sense?!”
Following on his heels, the one who protested most roughly was the Lord of the Ten Thousand Swords, who commanded the largest number of martial artists.
But before his shouting could even finish, Yul Han—who had left earlier—opened the conference room door and stepped back inside.
With the sudden return of the Vice Cult Leader, the atmosphere in the hall instantly turned cold.
In particular, the face of the Lord of the Ten Thousand Swords, who had just been loudly voicing his dissatisfaction with curses mixed in, turned deathly pale.
“What seems to be the problem? From outside, I heard something about two meals…?”
At the Vice Cult Leader’s question, no one dared to step forward and answer, and Yul Han’s gaze sank.
He suspected that the leaders might be saying everything was fine to his face while looking for ways to break their promises behind his back.
Even at rest, he was a man from whom killing intent poured forth, and once suspicion took root, the murderous aura leaking from his eyes grew incomparably denser than before.
To the Vice Cult Leader, it was merely suspicion, but the outward effect was an atmosphere that felt as though he might draw his sword at any moment.
Startled by that sight, the strategist hurriedly stepped forward.
It was to prevent the same tragedy that had happened to Scorching Split Ghost ten years ago from befalling the Lord of the Ten Thousand Swords.
“Th-there are many overweight martial artists, so it would be good for them to eat t-two meals a day, that’s all. Isn’t that right, Lord of the Ten Thousand Swords?”
Grasping at the excuse the strategist provided, the Lord of the Ten Thousand Swords nodded hurriedly, his expression one of a narrow escape from death.
“Th-that’s right. Yes, that’s correct, Vice Cult Leader. Lately the brats have gotten fat… so we were just saying, you know, let’s feed them two meals a day.”
“Are you certain?”
The one who received Yul Han’s still-doubtful question was not the Lord of the Ten Thousand Swords, but the Training Hall Lord who had protested earlier.
Facing the Vice Cult Leader’s gaze, from which chilling killing intent dripped drop by drop, he sprang to his feet.
“They need to be healthy! Two meals, what nonsense—one meal a day is enough. They’ll lose weight, their health will improve, killing two birds with one stone. Is that not so? Please do not worry, Vice Cult Leader.”
At the sight of the Training Hall Lord shouting so resolutely, as if he would stake his life on it, the Vice Cult Leader nodded, thinking that was fortunate.
“Since everyone says so, I feel somewhat reassured in conveying this.”
“Convey… what…?”
At the strategist’s question, his face clearly uneasy, Yul Han replied.
“I have also decided to send five hundred seom to Haran Monastery. There were many starving monks and common folk. I believe it is right for those who have to share. Is that not so?”
When Yul Han’s gaze shifted from the strategist to him, the Cult Leader, seated at the head, was startled and nodded rapidly.
“Y-yes. Of course. Th-those who have should share. Naturally.”
At the Cult Leader’s words, the Vice Cult Leader smiled faintly, clasped his fists in a martial salute, bowed his head, and withdrew.
Once the Vice Cult Leader left, the Cult Leader asked,
“Did he just smile?”
“It did look like the corner of his mouth twisted slightly—just a little, very slightly upward… Yes. It does seem he smiled.”
At the strategist’s answer, the Cult Leader stared blankly for a moment, then snorted softly and said,
“Do it. If the Vice Cult Leader smiled, that much we can endure.”
With the Cult Leader’s approval finally given, the conference hall filled with the leaders’ sighs, their expressions heavy with resignation.