The tavern was noisy with laughter and clattering cups, but in the corner where the lanternlight dimmed, three martial artists huddled close over their cups. Their voices carried the tone of men who wanted to speak boldly but feared being overheard.

  “Have you heard of him?” The broad-shouldered one asked, lowering his cup. His voice was gravelly, but his eyes shifted nervously toward the door. “The Crimson Doctor.”

  The younger man scoffed.

  “A ghost story. Just a traveling physician with a dark reputation.”

  “Ghost story?” The first man spat, though his voice stayed low. “Tell that to the masters he saved; bones mended, qi restored, even one dragged back from death itself. But they also whisper of the ones he punished, veins split open like threads.”

  The third man, quiet until now, leaned in. His eyes darted to the shadows as if the tavern walls themselves were listening.

  “You think he looks like a monster, don’t you? Horns, fangs, blood dripping from his mouth? That’s what I thought, too. But I saw him once.” He swallowed hard. “Plain grey robes. Thin, pale face. Hair tied back with a strip of cloth. Looked no different from any village doctor. Even smiled when he spoke.”

  The young man frowned.

  “That doesn’t sound like a demon.”

  “That’s because you didn’t see his eyes,” The third man whispered. “Calm, yes… but cold. They follow the flow of your veins, like he’s already measuring where to cut. And when he takes your wrist to feel the pulse...” His voice broke off. “It feels like he’s deciding whether to heal you… or end you.”

  Silence settled over the table. The first man finally muttered.

  “So, which is he? A savior or a killer?”

  The third man’s lips trembled into a grim smile.

  “That depends on what mood he’s in when you meet him.”

  The young one snorted and raised his cup.

  “Bah. Just rumors to scare children. If this so-called doctor were real, we’d know...”

  A quiet cough interrupted him. The three froze as a shadow stretched across their table. Standing there was a thin man in plain grey robes, a satchel slung over one shoulder. His pale face was calm, his lips curved in a small, almost kind smile.

  “Pardon me.” The man said softly, his voice soothing, almost gentle. “But could you direct me to the village’s doctor's hut?”

  The tavern’s laughter seemed to die away in an instant.

  The three men froze, cups hovering halfway to their lips. The man in grey robes stood patiently, his smile calm and unthreatening, as though he hadn’t just stepped out of their whispered fears.

  “The… village doctor?” The young one stammered, his bravado already gone.

  “Yes,” The pale man said with a polite nod. "Could you show me the way?”

  The broad-shouldered warrior swallowed hard. His throat clicked audibly. He wanted to demand the stranger’s name, but his lips were stuck. Those gentle eyes, resting just a heartbeat too long on his face, seemed to weigh his very soul.

  The youngest forced a shaky laugh.

  “O-of course. The doctor lives by the east gate. Small house with a white curtain by the door. Hard to miss.”

  The man in grey robes inclined his head slightly, as if in gratitude.

  “You have my thanks.”

  His gaze swept over them, soft and unreadable. Then, almost idly, his hand brushed across the table as he turned the way a physician might brush a patient’s pulse. For the briefest moment, each man felt a chill run up his arm, as if the stranger had already touched the strings of their lives.

  He took a last look at the young man, then spoke.

  “You should give up alcohol if you want to live a long life.”

  The man spat back his drink and set the cup down with shaking hands. He won’t touch alcohol for a long time.

  Without another word, the man in gray robes walked out of the tavern, his figure swallowed by the night.

  Only when the door closed behind him did the three dare to breathe again.

  The youngest whispered, his voice trembling.

  “You don’t think… that was him, do you?”

  The third man stared into his untouched wine, his hands trembling.

  “If it is him, blood will flow in this village.”

  A silence heavier than iron settled over them. None of the three slept that night.

  The memory came unbidden as Jang Mu-Yeon walked through the night toward the village physician’s home. The faint scent of drying herbs in the cool air pulled him backward in time, back to the day his life had been torn apart.

  He was still a boy then, little more than fourteen, with ink stains on his sleeves and a satchel too large for his thin frame. His father had sent him to this village's doctor to learn from him. He remembered laughing with the old physician’s other apprentice.

  The two of them had spoken of the future.

  “You’ll grow into a fine doctor.” The apprentice had said, handing him a steaming cup of bitter tea.

  “And you?” Mu-Yeon asked.

  The older boy grinned.

  “I’ll be famous. The best physician in the province. People will line up outside my door.”

  But the laughter ended when smoke rose over the treetops. The shouts came next, sharp and cruel bandits storming through the village. Mu-Yeon had run back, herbs spilling from his satchel, only to find fire swallowing his home and his father’s body lying broken in the street. His mother, his sister… all cut down like livestock.

  He remembered the heat of the flames, the stink of blood, the terror that froze his limbs until his master’s apprentice dragged him by the arm, shouting for him to run. They stumbled together through the chaos, but in the end, they were separated by the fleeing villagers and screaming bandits.

  That was the last time Jang Mu-Yeon saw him. He later heard that he was caught and killed by the bandits.

  His colleague and friend was gone.

  That night, Jang Mu-Yeon discovered his gift and his curse. When a bandit lunged for him, he reached for the man’s wrist in desperation, the way a physician tests a pulse. The bandit collapsed, choking, his veins ruptured by a force Mu-Yeon barely understood. And in that moment, amid fire and blood, the line between healer and killer blurred forever.

  Now, years later, he stood at the threshold of the village physician’s home. The scent of herbs still lingered, just as it had that day. And behind the door… was the only living person whom he could call family.

  The door creaked open, and the weary village physician blinked in surprise. His hair was silver now, his back a little bent, but his eyes still sharp despite the years.

  “Mu-Yeon?” He whispered, as though speaking to a ghost.

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  Jang Mu-yeon’s lips curved into that small, quiet smile.

  “It’s been too long, teacher.”

  The old doctor laughed.

  “I thought you were dead with the rest of your family… Yet here you are. And with all the strange tales I’ve heard these past years… They say a demonic doctor roams the Murim. Surely that can’t be you.”

  Mu-Yeon chuckled softly, shaking his head.

  “Stories grow wild on their own. I’m no demon. Just a weary physician who could use his teacher’s help.” His voice was warm, almost gentle. “I’m searching for certain herbs; rare ones. A patient needs them, and I know they grow in the woods near here. Will you come with me?”

  The old man hesitated, searching his face. For a moment, he seemed to see only the boy he once knew. He nodded.

  “Very well. For you, Mu-Yeon, I’ll help.”

  The next morning, they walked into the forest, the dawn mist curling low between the trees. The air was damp with moss and earth, and the old doctor guided Mu-Yeon toward the places where rare roots and herbs thrived. They spoke of old days.

  But the peace was shattered with the snapping of twigs. Rough voices echoed through the mist, and a band of armed men stepped out from the trees, their faces full of greed.

  “Well, what have we here?” Their leader sneered. “A pair of doctors fat with supplies. Hand over the satchels, and maybe we’ll let you crawl away.”

  The old doctor tensed, clutching his bag of herbs. He looked at Mu-Yeon, expecting fear, perhaps a plea for mercy.

  Instead, Mu-Yeon stepped forward, calm as ever, his grey robes swaying lightly. His smile hadn’t changed, but his eyes were different now; no longer soft, but cold and measuring the bandits from top to bottom.

  “You should leave.”

  The bandits laughed. The leader raised his blade.

  “Or what? You’ll kill us with herbs and bandages?”

  Mu-Yeon’s hand moved faster than the eye could follow, fingers brushing the man’s wrist as lightly as if he were testing a pulse. The leader staggered, gasped, and fell to his knees, crimson spilling from his nose and mouth.

  The laughter died.

  Mu-Yeon’s smile lingered, kind and terrible all at once.

  “I am a doctor,” He said softly, “but I do not always choose to heal.”

  The forest filled with screams as the Crimson Doctor revealed his deranged nature.

  The screams faded quickly, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the drip of blood soaking into the earth. The bandits lay scattered in the undergrowth, their faces twisted in shock and terror, their bodies slack like puppets with cut strings.

  Jang Mu-Yeon stood among them, his pale hands unstained, as though he had never touched them at all. His breath was steady, his robe unruffled. The only sign of violence was the faint curl of his smile; small, quiet, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

  The old physician stared at him, his satchel forgotten on the ground. His face had gone pale, his lips trembling as he struggled for words.

  “Mu-Yeon…” His voice cracked. “What… what have you become?”

  Jang Mu-Yeon turned to him, the softness returning to his gaze, his smile once more that of a dutiful apprentice.

  “I became what I had to, master. That night, when the bandits came… I learned that a doctor’s hands can both save and end life. Since then, I have simply followed where fate led me.”

  The old doctor took a step back, shaking his head.

  “No… This isn’t medicine. This isn’t healing. This is… slaughter.”

  “Slaughter?” Mu-Yeon tilted his head, as though pondering the word. “Is it slaughter to cut out a rotting limb before it poisons the body? These men were diseased. I cured them.” His voice remained calm, his tone almost kind, but his eyes held the cold certainty of a man who no longer distinguished between compassion and cruelty.

  The old physician’s hands trembled, torn between fear and pity. He saw before him not just the Crimson Doctor of rumor, but the boy he once knew, twisted by grief and fire into something both miraculous and monstrous.

  Finally, Mu-Yeon stepped closer, laying a gentle hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “Do not fear me, teacher. To me, you are… family.”

  The old doctor said nothing. His heart pounded as though he were standing on the edge of a blade, uncertain whether the boy he once taught was truly before him, or only the demon the world feared.

  And yet, he followed when Mu-Yeon turned back toward the forest.

  “Come. We still have herbs to find.”

  As they walked deeper into the woods, the silence stretched heavy between them. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, still clinging to the earth where the bandits had fallen. The old physician’s thoughts churned with every step.

  He had seen enough in his life to know what stood beside him. This was no mere physician who had strayed too far. This was someone who had crossed the threshold, who had embraced the blurred line between saving and killing until it was gone altogether. Jang Mu-Yeon was too far gone.

  And yet…

  The old man looked at him, at the quiet smile, the careful steps, the way Mu-Yeon paused to pluck a sprig of herb with the same gentle hands that had just ended lives. And he remembered a boy, thin, serious, always carrying satchels too big for his shoulders, trying so hard to walk in his father’s footsteps. A boy who once laughed over bitter tea, who dreamed of becoming a healer.

  That boy was still there, buried deep in the man’s eyes, even if twisted and broken.

  The old physician sighed softly, gripping his satchel tighter, and he thought:

  ‘If I abandon him now… then he truly has no one left.’

  He forced steadiness into his voice.

  “Mu-Yeon. You’ve changed… but you are still my pupil.”

  Mu-Yeon paused, glancing back at him with that small, unreadable smile. For a moment, his eyes softened not with warmth, but with something like acknowledgment.

  “Master, you always were too kind.” He said gently.

  The old man nodded, though his heart felt heavy. He knew this path would lead only to sorrow. He knew the world would never forgive the Crimson Doctor. But if he could stand beside him, even for a little longer, perhaps he could keep alive a sliver of the boy Jang Mu-Yeon once was.

  And so, though fear gnawed at his bones, the old doctor remained at his side not as a disciple of medicine, not as a comrade of Murim, but as the last, fragile thread of family binding a demon back to the world of men.

  They gathered the herbs in silence, the morning mist thinning as sunlight pierced through the canopy. The forest had gone still again, as though it wished to erase the violence that had taken place among its trees.

  The old physician kept stealing glances at Mu-Yeon, searching for traces of the boy he once knew. He saw them in the way Mu-Yeon crouched carefully to inspect roots, in the way he explained their properties with the patience of a teacher. For fleeting moments, it was as though nothing had changed.

  But Mu-Yeon knew better.

  When their satchels were full, he tied the strap over his shoulder and spoke softly, his tone calm but unyielding.

  “Master… this will be the last time we walk together.”

  The old doctor stiffened.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jang Mu-Yeon looked at him, his smile gentle, almost apologetic.

  “I have a patient waiting for me. A patient who needs what only I can give. My path now is one you cannot follow.” His gaze drifted toward the village, then back to the forest floor, where dried blood still stained the leaves. “If you stay near me, you’ll be drawn into the same shadow that follows me everywhere. And I… I cannot bear to stain you with it.”

  The old man’s throat tightened.

  “You call me family, Mu-Yeon. Family does not turn away.”

  “Family also does not drag each other into ruin.” His voice was firm now, though still soft. “The world already fears me, hunts me. You still have a place among men. I won’t take that from you.”

  For a long moment, they simply stood there, the distance between them heavier than steel. The old physician’s eyes glistened, but he forced a weary smile.

  “You’ve truly gone too far, Mu-Yeon. But remember this: you are still my pupil. No matter what you become, that will not change.”

  Mu-Yeon bowed his head. Then he turned, his figure calm and steady, moving back toward the shadows of Murim where his patient and his bloody path awaited.

  The old doctor watched him go until the trees swallowed him whole. In his heart, he knew he would never see Jang Mu-Yeon again. Not as the boy he once knew. Not as family. Only as the Crimson Doctor, the world both feared and sought.

  Before the path split between them, Jang Mu-Yeon stopped. His gaze lingered on his old master’s bent back, the way his hands trembled slightly as he leaned on his walking stick. For all his sharpness of mind, time had carved deep lines into him.

  “Teacher, before I leave, let me repay you once.” Mu-Yeon said softly, setting his satchel down.

  The old physician blinked.

  “Repay me? How?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mu-Yeon stepped close and gently took his wrist, his fingers cool and steady. The old man’s breath caught, a flicker of fear rising as he remembered how those same hands had snuffed out lives like candle flames. But Mu-Yeon’s eyes were calm, and for once, not cold.

  “Relax,” Mu-Yeon whispered. “I won’t take anything from you… only return what little I can.”

  His fingers pressed lightly, tracing the flow of blood and qi through aged veins. Where the currents were blocked, he eased them open; where the body sagged, he lifted its strength. It was not a violent touch, but a precise one, like a craftsman restoring a broken instrument.

  The old physician gasped as warmth spread through his body. His back straightened, his joints loosened, and the constant ache in his knees faded into nothing. For the first time in years, he felt light, not young, perhaps, but free from the weight of time’s burden.

  He looked at Mu-Yeon, eyes wide.

  “This… this is…”

  Mu-Yeon smiled faintly.

  “A simple adjustment. It won’t last forever. But it should make your remaining years easier to carry.”

  The old man’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak to tell Mu-Yeon to stay, to beg him to walk the path of a healer, not a demon. But the words lodged in his chest, for he knew they would change nothing.

  Instead, he reached out and gripped Mu-Yeon’s hand tightly.

  Mu-Yeon’s expression softened, just for a breath, before he gently withdrew his hand.

  And with that, he picked up his satchel and walked into the forest, leaving behind the faint warmth of restored youth and the cold weight of farewell.

  “I should get back before that kid messes with my stuff.”

  That night, the old physician sat alone, staring at his straightened back, his unburdened limbs.

  He whispered into the silence:

  “Jang Mu-Yeon… my pupil. My boy.”

  But only the silence answered.