Chapter Text
There have been rumors spreading like wildfire of a masked fighter beating up martial artists across the region. The fighter’s hair flowed freely, save for a portion secured into a bun with a hot pink pin. Their green robes unmistakably marked them as a member of the Tang Family, however their technique was unlike anything seen from the Tang Family. It was too refined, too unorthodox—a style that seemed years ahead of its time. But if you were to ask the fighter, they would say their technique is rather that of the past…
The full moon hung heavy in the sky, its light spilling over Mount Hua like molten silver. Inside the halls, the disciples were anything but tired. Isolated as they were from the bustling world below, gossip was a rare luxury, and tonight, rumors of the masked fighter had given them plenty to talk about.
“Five masters of the Wudang Sect! Can you believe it? Taken down in a single fight,” one of the younger disciples exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. “This masked fighter must be a true legend!”
“Legend?” snorted a senior disciple, folding his arms. “What kind of legend uses a hot pink pin in their hair? Sounds ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous or not, they’re undefeated,” the younger one shot back. “You can’t deny that.”
“Still, can you imagine if they fought Cheong Myeong?” a bold voice suggested, silencing the chatter. Then in a smaller voice, muttered, “What do you think would happen?”
The room stayed quiet for a moment, then erupted into overlapping shouts and laughter.
“Cheong Myeong would win, obviously!”
“Are you kidding? This fighter’s different—they might actually stand a chance!”
“No one can beat that monster Cheong Myeong!”
Laughter and shouts filled the air as the disciples debated the impossible fight, but amidst the noise, none of them noticed the absence of the man they were all so eager to compare.
Outside the halls and away from the warmth of other people, Cheong Myeong sat alone under the moonlight with two identical cups in front of him both filled with alcohol. The faint clinking of the cups and the wind were the only sounds accompanying him as he stared at the empty seat across from him.
His ponytail swayed in the wind, his green ribbon fluttering like a banner in the night. For once, Cheong Myeong's face wasn’t occupied with his usual pensive or mischievous demeanor; rather, he looked wistful, and there was almost a gleam of light in his eyes—a mixture of longing and disbelief.
Of course Cheong Myeong had heard of the masked fighter as well. Gossip was basically his middle name; however the stories of the masked fighter caught Cheong Myeong’s attention for a different reason: the descriptions of the fighter's technique and style bore an uncanny resemblance to someone he once knew. Someone he had lost long ago.
‘Tang Bo…’
He could almost see it—the flick of a wrist, the blur of green robes, the smug tilt of a head as the masked fighter struck with precision.
The movements danced in his memory like ghosts, too familiar to ignore. The name sliced through his thoughts like a blade. He scoffed, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the thought.
He grabbed the bottle and took a long swig, ignoring the cups he’d already poured. But even as the alcohol burned down his throat, doubt lingered.
‘Still, miracles do happen.’ After all, his own second chance in life has been nothing short of a miracle itself. And if there were any miracles he wanted to believe in, it would be this one.
The bottle clinked as he set it down onto the table. He stared at the empty seats for another long moment before giggling to himself. His lips curled into his usual sly demeanor and his voice was low as he muttered, “Do you think it’s ridiculous that I’m looking for you in foolish rumors and fabricating excuses to entertain myself?”
The wind offered no response. His faint smile wanes as he pushes himself to his feet.
“Guess I’ll just have to see for myself if this dumb miracle really is a figment of my imagination and desperation.”
Back inside, the disciples had settled into quieter conversation, unaware of Cheong Myeong’s absence. But the night was still young, and Cheong Myeong had already begun his descent down the mountain. He wasn’t sure if it was hope or desperation that drove him, but the thought of seeing Tang Bo again, of finding some thread of the past, made him feel both foolish and alive.
Cheong Myeong moved in practiced silence, carrying a light bag to accompany him on his short journey. He hadn’t packed much—just enough for a few days.
‘If this turns out to be a waste of time then I’ll be back before anyone notices…’
‘Except of course, the sect leader would notice. That old man is going to nag me the moment I come back.’ Cheong Myeong grimaced at the thought.
As he walked, his mind danced between skepticism and hope. The name Tang Bo lingered in his thoughts, a jagged reminder of his past. Tang Bo’s sharp eyes and cunning smile held the reins of his thoughts.
His mind danced between skepticism and hope. Tang Bo... The name was stubborn and persistent, a reminder of a time he thought was long behind him. He hadn’t realized how far down the mountain he’d gone until he stopped and looked back at the distant silhouette of Mount Hua. The view seemed less like home and more like something out of a dream.
With a sigh, he pushed forward hoping the night would swallow his thoughts.
But it doesn’t. It never does.
When Cheong Myeong finally arrived at the village, the sun had already begun to rise. The people were all waking up from their fresh slumber and the sky was painted in hues of yellow and blue. The scent of morning dew and sizzling broth wafted through the air mixed with the faint buzz of market chatter.
It didn’t take long for Cheong Myeong to overhear snippets of a conversation: a group of middle aged ladies gossiped animatedly near a noodle stall, their voices loud and eager.
“I’m telling you, I saw it with my own two eyes! The masked fighter—green robes, flowing hair, the works! Took down three men in an instant!” one of them exclaimed, gesturing wildly with her chopsticks.
Cheong Myeong’s ears perked up and a sly smirk spread across his face.
‘Too easy!’ He thought as he moved closer to the stall, blending himself into the crowd.
“And then?” another one asked, wide-eyed.
“When did you even see this happen!” another chimed in with skepticism in her voice.
“It was last night! The masked man was gone in a blink of an eye! Like a shadow! I swear!”
Cheong Myeong leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed every detail. The excitement in the air was almost infectious, his heartbeat quickening with each word the women spoke.
“I swear, it was like magic! You should have seen it!” the woman continued, oblivious to Cheong Myeong’s presence. “He even robbed those guys for their money after beating them up into a pulp!”
“Well good riddance! I always thought those thugs were trouble!”
Cheong Myeong’s grin faltered for a moment, his thoughts swirling as the image of the masked fighter stealing from beaten troublemakers tugged at the edges of his memory. His mind drifted back to a different time, a different life—a war-torn era when morality was often second to necessity.
He could almost see it now: Tang Bo’s sly smirk as they snuck out of camp, both of them ducking past guards with practiced ease. They never had enough coin for the booze they craved, but Tang Bo, ever the schemer, always had a plan.
Plan one: charm their way out of trouble. After all, who could resist the roguish grins of the Plum Blossom Sword Saint and the Dark Saint? Cheong Myeong could practically hear Tang Bo’s smooth voice weaving flattery like silk, coaxing free drinks from wary barkeeps.
But when charm didn’t work—when they were remembered not as saints but as “that Mad Dog and the Crazy Guy”—there was always plan two.
They’d pick out a loud, belligerent drunk, someone practically begging for a fight. Tang Bo would throw the first punch, and Cheong Myeong, ever the opportunist, would finish the job. By the end of the scuffle, their target would be sprawled on the ground, unconscious, their purse conveniently lightened. The spoils? Enough to settle their tab and rid the streets of a troublemaker. Two birds, one well-aimed kick.
Cheong Myeong shook his head, a chuckle escaping him despite himself. The old memories burned bright, but they were just that—memories. And yet, this masked fighter’s antics were eerily familiar, like a ghost of days long gone. The more Cheong Myeong hears about this man the more certain he is about this man being Tang Bo.
A sharp pang of longing twisted in his chest, but he ignored it. This was not the time to be sentimental, he needs to find this idiot before this idiot decides to do something idiotic! He needed more clues.
It seems by the time Cheong Myeong had finished his trip down memory lane, the old ladies had found a new topic to gossip about. So with no more intel coming from the grape vine, he headed deeper into the village to gather the intel himself.
Tang Bo…if this is really you, you’d better be ready for a beating when I find you.
The sun had begun to set. The sky was painted in heavy hues of red and orange and the moon can be spotted in the opposite direction. Cheong Myeong felt like giving up, there was no clue! Not even a single speck of dust left by this guy!
Cheong Myeong tugged at his hair, his steps heavy and uneven on the dusty road. His eyes flitted toward every shifting shadow, suspicion flickering in his narrowed gaze. With a frustrated growl, he kicked a pebble, watching it skip and tumble out of sight. Around him, the evening buzzed to life—families spilled into the streets on their way to supper, while weary workers returned home with quiet smiles. The town radiated an easy warmth, a harmony that only seemed to deepen the contrast with Cheong Myeong's stormy mood. Villagers, sensing the tension, instinctively parted to clear his path, unwitting actors in his overdramatic moment.
"What am I even doing here?" he muttered, kicking a stone aimlessly. "This is a waste of time..."
His thoughts spiraled. He threw his arms up animatedly as he argued with himself.
How could he have thought— hoped —that he would find answers in these empty streets, in rumors that had no substance? There had to be a better way. But what? Every option felt like a dead-end, and all the roads he'd traveled led to more confusion and more frustration.
Cheong Myeong came to an abrupt stop, his hand pausing mid-swing as he reached to throw another stone into the road. His eyes narrowed, and he tapped a finger against his temple.
“A tournament…” he muttered, his grin slowly returning. “If I can’t find him, I’ll just make him come to me.”
The stone dropped from his hand as he straightened, his mind already racing with the possibilities. “Let’s see if you can resist that, Tang Bo.”
A toothy grin spread across his face as the excitement that had been buried beneath the weight of frustration resurfaced.
Yes. A tournament would work. Cheong Myeong clenched his fists, already picturing the tournament taking shape in his mind. The competitors, the excitement, the challenge—it would bring out the very best, or the very worst. Either way, he'd get the answers he was looking for. The Tang Bo he knew was always up for a fight, and if the masked man didn't show up well then he just wasn't his Tang Bo.
With renewed purpose, he turned on his heel and headed back to Mount Hua, already planning the next steps. This was the breakthrough he had been waiting for.
The tournament. It was the perfect setup. And he would be the one to make it happen. All he needs is some…help!