Work Text:
Title: Plum Blossoms of Mount Hua
Description:
A century has passed, yet the echoes of loss still haunt Cheongmyeong. The Mount Hua he knew—the brothers, the comrades, the memories—are gone.
Chapter: Finally...
“It hurts… it hurts,” Cheongmyeong said, his gaze fixed on the sky.
He asked his Sahyung, why? Why does it hurt? Why can’t I overcome it? But no answer came. His Sahyung was dead. His brother, his senior, his sect leader—dead. Everyone was dead. His sajils, sahyungs, sagos, sasuks—everyone.
No one was alive. They died.
They died in the ten thousand mountains a century ago. Yet their presence still haunted him.
Every conversation he’d had with them—his brother, the sect leader, his sajils, Sahyungs, the grumpy brother Sasuk Cheong Jin, his sect brothers and sisters, and his only friend and battle companion, Tang Bo—had been nothing but hallucinations. After all, they were dead, and the dead tell no lies, speak no truths, because they cannot speak to the living.
It haunted him.
The fact that he could not escape the past, no matter what, haunted him.
Mount Hua stood there, unwavering, like a tree that had endured harsh seasons for centuries. Now, it bloomed with plum blossoms, filling the air with fragrance.
But his—his Mount Hua—was gone.
Gone, forever.
The world was at peace now. Mount Hua had successfully stopped the second rise of the demonic sect. After destroying the second wave of the Demon Cult, the sect reclaimed its former glory—and even more.
The students he had nurtured were now blossoming themselves, creating plum blossoms and passing them to others. Like this, the cycle would continue, and Mount Hua would continue to bloom. Just like an endless spring.
Baek Cheon had ascended to the position of Mount Hua’s sect leader, guiding the sect into unprecedented glory.
Baek Sang took over the finance department, Tang Soso the medical department. Jo Gul, Yoon Jong, Yu Iseol, and others became sect elders. Even Monk Hye Yeon succeeded to the abbot’s position, despite having been painted in Cheongmyeong’s colors. Cheongmyeong chuckled.
He looked at the sky, his eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion—guilt? Pride? Emptiness? Or was it nothing at all?
He closed his eyes.
“If he…” If he disappeared now, would Mount Hua collapse?
No. It would not.
It had earned enough glory to stand tall without him. The students had grown, and soon they would surpass him. Even if he died, no sect, clan, or palace would dare attack Mount Hua—not the Shaolin, the Tang family, Green Forest Palace, the Northern Palace, nor the Heavenly Friend Alliance. To attack Mount Hua would be the same as betraying their commander. The others were neither strong nor brave enough to challenge it.
Cheongmyeong smiled as he realized it: Mount Hua could stand without him. Mount Hua no longer needed him. His only purpose for living again was—to rebuild his beloved sect, reclaim its lost glory, and atone for his mistakes—had been fulfilled.
So, did he still need to continue living? Did he need to keep moving in a body that wasn’t truly his?
Cheongmyeong pondered as he walked toward the highest peak of Mount Hua.
He smiled. His wish had been fulfilled. His purpose, complete. All he truly wanted now was to reunite with his family.
Cheongmyeong loved the current Mount Hua, but deep inside, he knew he did not belong here. His body, his qi, his fame, his glory—nothing truly belonged to him.
He loved the kids he had trained and fought alongside, but he could not live with them. Because he did not belong here. He shouldn’t have been here at all. Yet, he was. Fate, cruel and mocking, had played its hand.
He remembered years ago, when Hyun Jong told him he would wait for him to reveal his secrets. But Cheongmyeong couldn’t—could not—bear to tell the truth. Mount Hua had fallen into ruin because of him. If only he had been stronger, trained harder, instead of lazing around… if only—ah.
What was the point? Everyone was dead.
Cheongmyeong smiled as he reached the peak. Standing at the edge, he looked down at the disciples training below, swinging their swords to form plum blossoms, filling the training grounds with their fragrance.
“Ah, they have grown up,” Cheongmyeong chuckled.
He glanced at the sky and said, “Well… hehe, sorry for painting them with my colors.”
“You brat—”
“Don’t worry, brother sect leader. I’m coming to you soon. You can scold me there.”
Cheongmyeong giggled as he looked at the sky and looked back at the disciples, training under Jo Gul, now a sect elder. A warm smile formed on his face, seeing the scene before him.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, drawing his brilliant sword—the Dark Fragrance Plum Blossom Sword.
“I am sorry,” he muttered again.
Sorry for leaving them behind. He was selfish.
Selfish because he missed Mount Hua. He missed his sect, the nagging of his old brothers, the shining eyes of Bo Ya.
He missed the sajils who marveled at his skill, the Sahyungs and Sasuks who had long stopped praising him. He missed the nights he fell asleep on the roof, waking under a cover, when his greatest worry was evading the tedious, repetitive basics of training.
Cheongmyeong looked to the sky, where everyone he had known before now resided.
He had taught the kids well, raised his sect to fame and glory. All that remained was his desire to see his family again. His home.
That was his final wish, the dream he carried every night: to reunite with the dead, for their sake, and for his own.
---
“24th Plum Blossom Sword”
Cheongmyeong moved into the air, as if dancing.
“The Bamboo Leaf”.
The tip of his sword trembled.
“Dark Fragrance”.
Pure qi formed plum blossoms.
“Blossom Spring”.
The sword didn’t merely form plum blossoms—it created them.
“ River of Plum blossom ,”
Each one different yet similar.
“Spring Blossoms”
Like Mount Hua itself.
“Plum Blossoms Winter"
Cheongmyeong danced with his sword, folding Mount Hua’s techniques one by one, forming a brilliant, mind-blowing display of plum blossoms that soared into the sky. Each one imbued with qi, each one a piece of him.
Everyone witnessed it.
The disciples stopped their swings, elders froze, and the spectacle could even be seen clearly from the Shaolin, from the cold Northern Palaces, even from Sichuan. Every living being could feel it, see it. It was beyond words, beyond emotions.
Each technique merged with the others, forming the Heavenly Dance of Plum Blossom—the ultimate form of Mount Hua.
Blood dripped from Cheongmyeong’s lips.
Children and adults alike rushed to witness the breathtaking sight, awestruck.
Mount Hua looked up to see a lone figure—Cheongmyeong—moving, his sword merely a part of him as he danced in perfect harmony.
No one knew what he intended, yet no one dared look away.
It went on for hours, until every eye of existence remained locked on the sky, unblinking.
Blissfully, all they felt was amazement, blind to the bittersweet intentions of the swordsman.
“Finally… I—”
Cheongmyeong raised his blade one final time. Plum blossoms filled Mount Hua, spreading his pure qi, purer than the purest water in the world.
It was a thank you.
The dance continued. The blossoms spread. All eyes fixed on his sword and his movement. Finally, he plunged the sword into the mountain, bowing to Mount Hua, selfishly hoping they would remember his strength and loyalty.
It was an apology.
Cheongmyeong stepped to the edge, smiling, blood flowing from his mouth.
And more than anything—it was a goodbye. A final goodbye to the world.
He stepped off the cliff.
Plum blossoms rose into the sky, dancing across the world, higher than the clouds, higher than the peaks, reaching the Shaolin, Wudang, and even the mountains of the ten thousand clans.
Each plum blossoms carrying his will and qi.
They were a reminder that Mount Hua will continue to endure. Even without him, plum blossoms would continue to bloom.
While everyone focused on the spectacle before them, Mount Hua looked to their falling disciple.
The sect ran—faster than ever—to their teacher, their Sajil, to their disciple, to the one they could never match, the one they could never part from. Their unparalleled sword. The rock that Mount Hua leans on.
But… They were too late.
Cheongmyeong’s lifeless body lay at the cliff’s bottom, his qi spent, exhausted, smiling like the madman they knew him to be.
Cheongmyeong’s vision blurred, and all he could hear were the screams of Mount Hua's disciples.
They cried, they wailed, holding the cold body of the greatest swordsman of Mount Hua, of the world. Plum blossoms fell like rain, blessing everything they touched, yet their creator was gone. Lifeless eyes stared at the sky.
The more time passed, the less they understood him.
Cheongmyeong’s mysteries deepened with every passing second. And though they longed for answers, one question burned brightest: Why?
How could someone so ruthlessly efficient in battle, so devoted to Mount Hua, even consider it? How? Why?
What foolish thoughts had led him to this decision? Why had he not trusted his sect with his worries? For years, he had been their rock.
And now, for the first time, they wondered: Who protects the strong?
They had thought that by becoming stronger, they could ease his burden. But oh, how wrong they were.
Now, they had to live without Cheongmyeong—their mad dog, their divine dragon, their… their….
Yet Cheongmyeong’s plum blossoms persisted, spreading across the world, catching the eyes of friends and foes alike.
The world filled with the fragrance of plum blossoms, engraved in memory, a testament to the brilliance of his final performance.
Cheongmyeong, the 23rd disciple of Mount Hua, commander of the Heavenly Friend Alliance, the world’s finest, the one with the title of—The Best In The World—the divine dragon of Hua—was dead.
He had killed himself.
And the reasons remained unknown.
Yet every person who knew him mourned.
THE END