Guide of the Sichuan Tang Clan C4

Chapter 4

With a shrill cry, Eunmyeong sprinted in the opposite direction. Whether this was a novel he’d fallen into or some cosmic joke didn’t matter—he had to survive. He refused to die again.

And I’m never doing the damn Guiding thing again either!

Crossing the threshold, he dashed into the rear courtyard, where in the distance he spotted the main gate. Through the narrow gap, he could see people walking by—it must lead to the street.

There!

Bending low, he picked up speed. If he could just slip through that gate, he could lose himself among the townsfolk.

Doctor, Guide—whatever. I just want a normal life!

Finally, the gate loomed before him. He was mere steps away—one leap, and he’d be free.

But just as he threw himself toward the opening—

Clang!

The doors slammed shut with a metallic thud. Standing before them, sword drawn, was Jeongho—his face carved into a mask of fury.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

The razor-sharp blade glinted under the sun.

“The Young Master hasn’t opened his eyes yet.”

“…”

“Shall I make sure you can’t open yours either?”

He lowered the sword until the point hovered before Eunmyeong’s eyes. The killing intent radiating from him was suffocating. Eunmyeong swallowed hard.

“N–No, sir…”

He tried to steady his voice, but it trembled uncontrollably. Lifting his hands, he pressed both palms over his eyes and muttered weakly,

“I’ll just… keep them closed until he wakes up.”

Silence.

When no response came, Eunmyeong cautiously parted his fingers. One eye peeked open—and met Jeongho’s.

Startled, he slapped his hands back over his face.

What the hell is this situation?

Jeongho stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, as Eunmyeong stood frozen, palms still pressed tightly over his eyes.

“I mean it this time.”

“…”

“Really. For real.”

Eyes shut tight, Eunmyeong mumbled into the darkness.

Jeongho exhaled slowly. He was going to make sure that mouth stayed shut before anything else.

And just like that, Eunmyeong became a criminal of the Tang Clan—

A prisoner with no set release.

It had already been three days since his imprisonment.

“What kind of prison doesn’t even have a window?”

Deprived of sunlight, he couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. He’d long lost track of time, sitting on the cold stone floor in endless dimness.

Still, it wasn’t entirely without merit. Like the “solitary island” in Monopoly, imprisonment had both pros and cons. No one came to see him—which was lonely—but it gave him time to think.

Seated cross-legged, Eunmyeong traced letters into the dirt with his fingertip.

Tang Eunmyeong.

The round strokes etched clearly into the soil.

“So my name here really is Tang Eunmyeong.”

He’d definitely seen that name somewhere before. If he hadn’t gone back in time, then he must’ve been pulled into something—but which story was it?

“Damn it… where was it?”

He tried to recall every martial arts novel he’d read recently, but nothing clicked. Eventually, he gave up, lying flat on the floor.

As he stared at the damp ceiling, the last face he’d seen appeared in his mind—that of the man he’d guided.

“Hope he’s still alive.”

He truly meant it. The worst part about being a Guide wasn’t the physical exhaustion or the side effects—it was when the person he’d guided died.

When their hand grew cold and their head fell limp, the monitor would emit a piercing tone. And just like that, the chaotic energy that once flared so vividly would vanish, as though it had never existed.

On those days, he always had nightmares.

“I really hope he’s alive.”

The death of someone that handsome would be a loss to this world too. He sighed softly—when suddenly, a faint vibration stirred the air.

Energy.

It wasn’t violent like an Esper’s rampage, but it was charged—taut with agitation.

Someone’s angry.

Pretending not to notice, he kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling while his senses sharpened. The intruder was approaching quietly, soundless even in movement.

Whoever it is, they know martial arts.

Subtly, he scooped a handful of dirt into his palm. If things went bad, he’d throw it and bolt.

The lock clanked, and the heavy door creaked open.

“Who’s there?”

“Who’s there?”

The voice echoed back mockingly. As the intruder stepped into the dim light, his face became visible.

“You’re asking me who I am?”

The slightly downturned eyes, the round nose, the face that—despite its fierceness—still carried a trace of doglike softness… Eunmyeong recognized it instantly.

The bastard who locked me up.

Though puffier and redder now—likely from crying—the face was unmistakable. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks blotchy, his presence heavier than before.

Jeongho glared down at him, trembling with rage.

“Because of you… the Young Master…”

He drew his sword, the steel gleaming coldly.

“Young Master Mujin still hasn’t regained consciousness!”

His shout reverberated through the stone cell. Shoulders shaking, he drew a ragged breath before breaking down entirely.

“Hic… He’s never been like this before…”

“…”

“He always got back up right away, but now… because of you…”

“He still hasn’t woken up?”

Eunmyeong’s question was met with a furious roar.

“No! There’s been no improvement at all! Even after taking two precious elixirs!”

That didn’t make sense. Eunmyeong had felt his energy stabilize; he’d seen his breathing calm. He hadn’t expected the blood, sure, but that could’ve been a normal reaction—part of the adjustment process.

Then why hasn’t he woken up?

Even if he’d fallen into a deep sleep, he should’ve stirred by now. Something was off.

As the realization hit, Eunmyeong lunged forward and grabbed Jeongho’s leg.

“Those elixirs you mentioned—do they affect internal energy too?”

“O–Of course they do! They’re meant to stimulate and clear the meridians!”

“Two of them?”

“The more elixirs, the better!”

That’s it.

Eunmyeong’s eyes gleamed in the dark.

If they’d added more energy to an already stabilized flow, it was no wonder Mujin’s body couldn’t handle it. His guiding might’ve been completely undone.

“So you went and ruined everything.”

“What?”

“You’ve made it worse, congratulations.”

Muttering under his breath, Eunmyeong stood and brushed dirt from his hands.

“Ever heard of not taking medicine without a doctor’s prescription? No? Guess not.”

“What did you say?”

“Medicine is for pharmacists; healing is for doctors. There’s a reason that saying exists—it’s to prevent people from overdosing. Anyway, never mind—just take me to him. I’ll fix this.”

Before he could finish, Jeongho lunged forward and clamped a hand around his throat.

“Urk—!”

The force slammed him against the wall. His back burned; his lungs screamed for air as the grip tightened.

“Kuh—kkk—!”

“My Young Master lies dying, and you still have the gall to run your mouth?”

Jeongho’s bloodshot eyes blazed with killing intent—the kind only a man who’d taken lives could emanate. The air grew thick, oppressive. Eunmyeong’s face drained of color.

Only now did the reality sink in—this wasn’t a dream. This was real. A world where martial arts ruled and clans and sects wielded deadly power.

“Kk—kkk…”

“You think you can save him? You, who nearly killed him?”

“I–I can…”

“The entire Sichuan Tang Clan has tried, and none could wake him. And you, the one who brought him to this state, claim you can save him?”

Jeongho’s hand squeezed tighter. Eunmyeong’s vision dimmed. Through the haze, one word struck his mind like a lightning bolt—

Sichuan Tang Clan.

And with it, realization dawned. He finally remembered where he’d heard the name Tang Eunmyeong.

Before he became a Guide, he’d read a webnovel titled “Surviving in the Sichuan Tang Clan!” The name had belonged to a supporting character.

But there was a problem—

How did that novel end again?

Before he could recall, Jeongho lifted him higher. His feet left the ground, the pressure crushing his windpipe.

Am I really going to die again?

Just as his breath was about to give out, Eunmyeong grabbed Jeongho’s arm. Energy surged from his palms into the man’s flesh.

Jeongho’s body jerked. For a brief moment, his strength faltered.

Sensing an opening, Eunmyeong pushed more energy into him—letting it flow from his arms to his chest. The sudden rush made Jeongho groan, his body trembling.

“Hhngh…”

It was an unfamiliar sensation—his bones felt like they were melting, his mind going hazy. Alarmed, he released Eunmyeong.

“Haa—!”

Eunmyeong crumpled to the ground, coughing and clutching his throat. Air flooded back into his lungs, searing and sweet.

Another near-death experience.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d almost died since arriving here—most of them thanks to this lunatic.

Jeongho stared down at his own hands, disbelief written across his face. He turned them over, inspecting every inch as though something might have changed.

Then he shouted—

“What kind of witchcraft did you use?!”

“Witchcraft?”

“Yes! You—you did the same thing to the Young Master, didn’t you!?”

Witchcraft, huh.

Eunmyeong sighed, rubbing his sore throat.

“Well… if you want to call it that, sure.”

To people of this world, a “Guide” was probably no different from some dark sorcerer—a mysterious being who manipulated energy through touch.

He recalled the faces of Espers the first time they’d been guided—how they froze in shock, as though struck by lightning.

And afterward, they always split into two types:

Those who went wild like unbroken colts… and those who begged for more.