The Outcast Writer of a Martial Arts Visual Novel

I must not beg the Clan Head for mercy.

It’s not that I can’t beg—if I really wanted to, I could easily whip up a tearjerking performance with a bloodstained relic from my mother. I could wail, “Father, I missed you so much! Please, save Hwa-rin!” I could cry oceans and put on a convincing act of desperate filial piety.

And maybe later, once the dust settles, I could use that same performance to launch a Tang Clan purge and wipe out half their leadership.

A moving father-son reunion. Just imagining it gives me chills. Slowly, gradually prove I’m his son, receive the Human-Faced Spider’s Poison Pellet, and cure Hwa-rin.

It might take time, but it’s the righteous path.

The problem is... that strategy only works if I really am his son.

My strength becomes my weakness in front of the Clan Head.

The number one reason I made it this far is Hyang-ah’s diary.

No one could refute it when I claimed to be Hyang-ah’s son—because aside from one # Nоvеlight # person, no one in this world knows more about her than I do. But now, that one person is standing right in front of me.

A long game would be disadvantageous.

Sure, I might be able to fool even the Clan Head—for a while. But if this drags on, it’s over. The Poison Pellet is the Tang Clan’s treasured artifact. Even with the Clan Head’s approval, the Elder Council has to give final consent.

Even if we stage a heartfelt reunion, there’ll be an interrogation. And if I make even one slip-up in front of him? The outcome’s already written.

To protect my life and Hwa-rin’s, I have to end this quickly.

That means I can’t rely on the Clan Head—I have to take control of this situation myself and secure the Poison Pellet.

How do I do that?

I already have a plan.

“I am not your son.”

----------

Start with a shock.

“So the bastard finally shows his true colors!”

“Ha! I told you!”

“Now that the Clan Head’s here, he finally admits the truth!”

The chamber erupted with noise after my explosive declaration. The First Elder looked positively gleeful.

“Quiet! The Clan Head wishes for silence!”

As the Clan Head raised his hand, the chaos gradually died down.

“What did you just say?”

The Clan Head asked solemnly once the room settled.

Exactly what I said. I’m not your son. I’ve come too far to turn back now.

I’m not just carrying my own fate—I’m carrying Hwa-rin’s life, and the lives of the Medical Pavilion guards who died for her.

I met the Clan Head’s eyes and spoke with unwavering conviction.

“Exactly what I said. I am not your son.”

“I heard you shouted it proudly in front of the main gate.”

So now he’s asking why I went around claiming to be his son, only to backtrack. But he doesn’t know—I built that moment very carefully, even in the heat of the moment.

I twisted one corner of my mouth into a smile and began correcting him.

“Then you didn’t hear me clearly. I shouted that I was the son of Hyang-ah, the woman you once loved. I never once claimed to be your son. Not once did I step into the Tang Clan and call myself your child.”

With writing, with action, with scheming—I made myself the Clan Head’s son. But I never said the words myself.

“I heard this whole meeting came about partly at your request. And now you’re playing with semantics?”

You mad, bro? That glare of his is intense—did he master some mythical assassination technique where eye contact alone can kill? Sky-Splitting Gaze of Piercing Death, or something?

He barely changed expression, and yet I felt like I was standing before a tiger.

I clenched my jaw to keep from buckling under the pressure.

Stand firm. Don’t back down. You already knew you’d be facing a tiger. Focus. I’m Kang Yun-ho. The son Hyang-ah was forced to raise alone for twenty years. That man abandoned me and my mother.

Let the fury speak. Let it burn bright.

“Do you even know my name?”

“...Yun-ho. Kang... Yun-ho, I believe.”

He’s catching on. I seized the moment.

“If I’d wanted to boast about being your son, why would I bear the surname Kang and not Tang? I am Hyang-ah’s son, but I am not yours.”

I can eat pineapple pizza. I wear the Remembrance Ring. But I’m not your son. Understand?

“Twenty years ago, a child was conceived between me and Hyang-ah. If you are her son, then you must be—”

“Don’t.”

I cut him off sharply, letting a flicker of rage show in my voice.

“What did you just say?”

“If you’re expecting me to start calling you ‘Father’ now, stop. I may have a silver tongue, but even I can’t force myself to say something that revolting.”

I furrowed my brow and turned away, my face full of disgust.

“You insolent dog! How dare you speak that way to your father?!”

Perfect toss. One of the Clan Head’s aides shouted in outrage.

I detonated the fury I’d been bottling up, just as planned.

“Who says he’s my father?! Does giving the seed make him a father? Ha! Then let me ask all of you here something.”

I spun around and threw my arms wide at the audience behind me.

“What is it?”

One Elder, making eye contact, called out warily.

Every eye turned toward me. Just as I wanted. I activated the Soyoon Mental Resonance Technique, strengthening my voice until it filled the entire chamber.

“Have you ever stood before a golden field of rice and seen it heavy with grain? Do you think that grain cares who scattered its seed, who its father was?”

Anyone here with a working brain knew exactly what I was implying.

The grain is Kang Yun-ho. The seed is Tang Baek-ho. Does Kang Yun-ho care who his biological father is?

As their expressions twisted in curiosity, I pressed on.

“No. Those stalks of grain do not care what wind carried them, or how they were sown.”

I shook my head slowly, answering the question before it could fully form in their minds.

“What matters to the rice that grows on the field—what it cherishes, what it loves...”

I deliberately repeated the phrase three times. Then I paused, slowly placing my hand over my heart.

Every eye followed my hand.

The person Kang Yun-ho treasures enough to hold in his heart—mentioned not once, not twice, but three times.

Who could it be?

“...is the earth that held it warm, like a mother. And the farmer who, fearing it might wilt or wither, raised it with care like a father.”

And that person is not Tang Baek-ho.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Hyang-ah, the woman who gave birth to Kang Yun-ho, and the man surnamed Kang who raised him—they are who Kang Yun-ho considers his mother and father.

I etched that truth into everyone’s mind, then turned to face the Clan Head again, placing my hand once more over my chest.

“My name is Kang Yun-ho. One half of me comes from my mother. The other half from the man who raised me. That’s why the name my mother gave me is Yun-ho, and my surname is Kang. The Tang Clan of Sichuan has no place in that name.”

I declared this to the Clan Head without wavering.

Behind his mask of solemnity, a faint but undeniable tremor of emotion passed through his expression.

“You would deny your own blood?”

His tone had softened. The sharp edge in his presence dulled slightly. And in his eyes, I could see it—a flicker of sorrow.

“The grain in the open fields doesn’t deny that it is grain. But no grain would ever call someone ‘father’ if that person knew nothing of the storms it weathered while growing up after being discarded.”

A strong denial creates a stronger truth.

You may be my biological father, but I don’t consider you one. At the same time, by bringing up the suffering I endured to get here, I subtly pierced the Clan Head’s guilt.

By refusing to acknowledge him as a father, I remove the need to further prove that I am his son.

If I say I don’t want that bond, why would they still force the issue? And yet—I never actually denied being his son either.

All the evidence so far paints me as the son of the Clan Head. And now I’ve gone and said I refuse to call him ‘father.’

That makes me not some pathetic bastard child begging for scraps, but a blood son—one who fatefully came face-to-face with the man who abandoned him.

In fact, it only strengthens the impression that I am his son.

Silence fell over the room.

The audience, caught in that pause, would use it to reflect on everything I’ve done so far—and in their minds, they would now believe with certainty that I am the Clan Head’s son.

And the Clan Head? He would be no different.

If he were a cold and ruthless man, he might simply say, “Fine. You’re not my son. Go your way.”

But I know that’s not who he is.

And I just said, “I suffered growing up—and you weren’t there.” Which means I pushed the dagger of guilt a little deeper.

I won’t call you father. But I’m still standing here, right in front of you.

And that naturally leads to a single inevitable question:

“Then why write this book and come to the Tang Clan?”

As expected, the Clan Head lifted Storm of the Tang Clan in his hand and asked me.

That was the question I had drawn him toward, step by step.

Having denied him as my father, having exposed a vulnerable gap, now it was time to get what I came for.

How should I respond?

“To save my friend”? “Because Hwa-rin is dear to me”?

Not enough. That won’t cut it.

I have to shake the Clan Head.

No, I have to stab a dagger into his heart—shatter that solemn mask and make him move, so that he finally places the Tang Clan’s treasured Poison Pellet into my hands.

And I already know exactly how to do that.

“I came... because I wanted to protect my woman.”

That’s his weakness.