The story of the Tang Clan was told at night.
Not because it was secret, but because darkness made it easier to accept. Shadows removed detail. Fear filled what clarity might have questioned.
The disciples sat cross-legged in the lecture hall, backs straight, hands resting on their knees. Lantern light swayed gently, casting long lines across the floor like bars of a cage. Outside, the wind moved through bare branches, carrying the scent of frost and resin.
The elder began without preamble.
"Once," he said, "Murim believed poison could be restrained."
Yeon-seo's brush paused, then resumed. She had heard this story before. Everyone had. Repetition was part of its authority.
"The Tang Clan claimed poison was merely another tool," the elder continued. "That it could be measured. Controlled. Used to save as often as it killed."
His fingers tapped the lectern once.
"They claimed morality could coexist with invisibility."
A murmur rippled faintly through the younger disciples before being swallowed by silence.
"Then," the elder said, "a sect master died in his sleep."
No name was given. Names invited sympathy. Sympathy complicated judgment.
"No blade," the elder went on. "No struggle. No witnesses. His guards heard nothing. His qi pathways simply… stopped."
The lantern flame flickered.
"Poison erased accountability," he said. "A sword declares its intent. Poison hides behind uncertainty."
Yeon-seo wrote carefully, each stroke deliberate.
Poison hides intent.
Poison invites doubt.
"Murim survives because fear enforces restraint," the elder said. "When death becomes quiet, fear disappears."
He looked across the room, eyes sharp.
"And without fear, anything can be justified."
A disciple shifted, then stilled himself.
"That," the elder concluded, "is the Tang Clan's unforgivable sin. Not that they killed—but that they taught Murim killing could be painless."
The lesson ended there.
No questions were invited. None were expected. History was not a discussion; it was a warning.
As the disciples filed out, Yeon-seo lingered for a brief moment, staring at the ink drying on her page. The characters were neat. Convincing.
Yet something unsettled her—not doubt, but absence.
No one had ever said who benefited from that quiet death.
She closed the book and followed the others into the cold, leaving the thought behind where it could not be seen.