The Outcast Writer of a Martial Arts Visual Novel

I must not let Storm of the Tang Clan become the property of the Sichuan Tang Clan.

If Storm of the Tang Clan ends up remembered only as a story written to save Hwa-rin, or worse, as a tale exposing the Tang Clan’s secret history, then it will no longer be mine.

As of now, there’s no longer any solid justification for continuing the serialization. Even if I wanted to, the Tang Clan could block it at any time. But the story of Storm of the Tang Clan has already spread too far—there’s no taking it back.

So what must I do?

I have to use the will of Hyang-ah, the woman the Clan Head once loved, as my shield—and separate fact from fiction.

After hitting the Clan Head with the emotional blow of Hyang-ah’s memory, I immediately began my real maneuver.

“The characters in Storm of the Tang Clan are not real people.”

Tang Jeong is not Tang Baek-ho. Du Eung-hyang is not Hyang-ah.

To achieve my goal, I need the Clan Head to acknowledge—officially—that the characters in Storm of the Tang Clan are fictional. Only then can I move forward.

“You’re saying the Tang Jeong in Storm of the Tang Clan isn’t me, and Du Eung-hyang isn’t Hyang-ah?”

“Tang Jeong, the Most Beautiful Woman in Sichuan, the Top Courtesan of Hubei, the Poisoned Killing Zone, the Triple Poison—almost everything in Storm of the Tang Clan is something I created. It’s not a true story. I only sprinkled in just enough real details for people involved twenty years ago to maybe pick up on them.”

If people start to believe the characters in the novel are based on real individuals, the Tang Clan’s influence over the work will grow too strong. I’ll end up branded as the guy who wrote erotic fiction about his own parents.

The only real parts I used were: a Tang Clan hero fell in love with a courtesan, and the Lecher really existed.

If I want to retain legitimate creative rights over Storm of the Tang Clan, I need official recognition that it’s a fictional work inspired only by real-life motifs.

Only then can I keep publishing it.

“I see. When I read it thinking it might be about me, I kept wondering if this was really my story. None of it felt like mine.”

Good. He didn’t accuse me of writing Poisoned Killing Zone scenes based on his youth. If he had, I might’ve had to hand him a dagger and ask if he could sprint with it lodged in his ribs.

Of course it doesn’t match. The Clan Head did pursue the Lecher twenty years ago—but not alone like Tang Jeong. He led an entire team.

“Exactly. Tang Jeong is not you, Clan Head. And Du Eung-hyang is certainly not my mother. Storm of the Tang Clan is simply the story of the kind of hero I admired in childhood—but never found.”

Now that I’ve declared the characters fictional, time to toss in some bait.

“You say you admired them... but never found one?”

I turned toward the window, adopting the expression of a son reminiscing about his late mother. Then I spoke.

“When I came to the Central Plains, I wanted to meet that hero my mother spoke of. But there were no heroes reaching out a hand to a black-haired barbarian in trouble.”

“......”

Doesn’t it sound like your son had a rough time here? The Clan Head said nothing, imagining what I must’ve gone through.

“During those hard times, I met Hwa-rin. Like me, she was born an illegitimate child and carried many wounds. But she had a warm heart.”

And a generous chest.

“I heard you both endured a great deal.”

“I wanted to become a hero for her. But I couldn’t even keep a roof over our heads. So I thought—why not write down the story my mother used to tell me? The story of the hero I had always longed to meet.”

“You didn’t write it just to alert the Tang Clan about the Poisoned Ones?”

“I hoped. But I wasn’t sure. What I did have was confidence in my writing. I figured if nothing else, the story would make money. There’s a saying in Joseon: ‘With enough money, you can even make ghosts dance.’ Worst case, I’d protect her with cash.”

I embedded the hero I’d always wanted to meet into Storm of the Tang Clan. Making contact with the Tang Clan had been a gamble.

I hadn’t invalidated the original reason for writing it—to save Hwa-rin—but I had shifted the framing just enough.

“What would you have done if it failed?”

“Even if I hadn’t made it here, I would’ve done my best for my woman every step of the way. Whether that succeeded or failed... I can’t say. But—”

I cut myself off and stared silently at the Clan Head.

He must be wondering what that stare means.

“But?”

“If even part of the stories my mother told me were true—if those heroes I dreamed of really did exist—then I believed they would come to save Hwa-rin.”

The look I gave the Clan Head was full of trust.

A woman he abandoned had passed down the tale of his heroism to their son. And that son, grown up, wrote a novel based on that ideal of chivalry—not for himself, but for the woman he loved.

Storm of the Tang Clan—its characters are fictional. Its story is fictional.

But one truth remains: if it was the Sichuan Tang Clan, they would come.

My reasoning sounds absurdly far-fetched—but the truth is, the Tang Clan came. And they saved Hwa-rin.

Once you have the result, you just need to wrap it in a good story.

I wonder what the Clan Head is feeling right now.

He closed his eyes for a moment and bowed his head, as if he too couldn’t process all of his emotions.

----------

“Of course, things didn’t go exactly as I hoped. I was expecting a hero... and instead, I got someone trying to cut off my arm.”

I chuckled lightly, tossing out a joke to lift the mood. I’d nearly died back then—but in hindsight, I’d gotten away with a cheap jab and gained an ally.

“I heard the story from the Pavilion Head. Dang Mu-gi truly regretted it. He joined us midway and couldn’t stop praising you. I hope you won’t hold too much against him.”

Perhaps because they’re close, the Clan Head spoke with fondness, like someone defending an incorrigible friend.

“No hard feelings. It’s not the first time I’ve been hated just for having black hair.”

The situation between me and the Pavilion Head wasn’t as minor as I made it sound, but in the end, he became one of my strongest supporters. I didn’t resent him anymore.

“It wasn’t without reason.”

An unexpected remark from the Clan Head.

“What do you mean? There was a reason?”

“It may not be appropriate to speak of a subordinate and friend’s family matters... but I’d rather you not live with a misunderstanding of him. The Pavilion Head’s mother ran away with a black-haired man when he was young.”

“Oh...”

Yeah, that could do it. If your mom has an affair and elopes with someone like me, you’re bound to develop issues.

“On top of that, his childhood sweetheart—his fiancée—was also stolen by a black-haired man. I still remember the wailing.”

“Hahahah...”

Yeah, okay. That’s valid.

Some things even fiction can’t beat.

No wonder the Pavilion Head practically breathed discrimination. To him, I must’ve looked like some tanned, delinquent NTR villain straight out of a pulp drama.

Honestly, I respect him even more for choosing to support me despite that. That’s the kind of man a true righteous sect should produce.

After hearing such a devastating backstory, I couldn’t help but give a bitter smile as I remembered how he overcame it all... and eventually found the right path again.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

----------

I took a long sip of the bitter ginseng tea, trying to calm the awkward tension settling over the room.

“How did Hyang-ah live in Joseon?”

The Clan Head finally asked it—softly, carefully probing about Hyang-ah’s life.

I don’t know. I have to be cautious when talking about her. Say too much, and he might sniff out the truth.

I put on the expression of a son overwhelmed by thoughts of his late mother, then slowly took the teacup from my lips.

“She was a gentle mother. Wiser than any wife could be. But when a plague swept through our village during my childhood, she wasn’t able to escape its grasp. When she realized her time was near, she told me the truth she had kept buried in her heart.”

“She only told you before her death?”

“A mother knows how to guide her child, so he doesn’t lose his way. Being here now... it makes me miss her. The older I get, the more her voice fades from memory. I used to be able to see her face the moment I closed my eyes. But now... it takes effort. What about you?”

“...Her face still comes to me, but her voice is gone.”

“That’s why I wrote Storm of the Tang Clan. The stories my mother told me about chivalrous heroes stayed with me. As her son, I wanted to capture those tales we both admired in a book.”

That’s what you call a perfect thematic pivot straight out of Wudang’s Tai Chi Sword Art—everything circles back to Storm of the Tang Clan.

As my gaze settled on the book, the Clan Head stared at it as well, then opened his mouth.

“Unlike the Du Eung-hyang in this book, your mother was not the Top Courtesan of Hubei. She was still in training at the gisaeng academy—had never even entertained a guest. She was almost assaulted by the Lecher, and I saved her. That’s how we fell in love.”

Gisaeng were trained in state-run academies called courtesan academy. Those with high grades were deemed “blue courtesans”, specializing in music and dance, while those with low grades were classed as “red courtesans”, primarily serving clients.

Not that cheonggi didn’t engage in sex work, but their price was astronomical—enough to make nobles’ legs tremble.

In my novel, Du Eung-hyang is a blue courtesans. But Hyang-ah? She was a trainee. The Clan Head’s point is clear: don’t think poorly of your mother—she was nothing like the woman in your book.

“I know. That’s why Storm of the Tang Clan is fiction.”

“This novel really is entirely your own creation.”

The Clan Head nodded.

That’s it. With Hyang-ah as leverage, I’ve finally gotten him to officially recognize Storm of the Tang Clan as fiction.

“Then that’s enough.”

“But...”

What now? You’re not going to throw in an objection, are you?

I tried to suppress my alarm and looked directly at him. The Clan Head met my gaze with quiet resolve as he spoke again.

“I loved her more than anyone. More than anything. Even more than this novel could express.”

...Damn. That’s a clean hit. And here I thought I was the romantic.

“Seems you loved your clan more than your love.”

Had anyone else said that, they’d have gotten slapped across the room. But in this world, I’m the only one allowed to say that and get away with it.

I exaggerated my reaction just slightly and gave a faintly mocking response, like a son being playfully rebellious after being moved by his father’s sincerity.

I can’t overdo the sentimentality. I still need to keep my distance from him if I want to survive my way out of the Sichuan Tang Clan.

“When Hyang-ah came looking for me, I was unconscious after a fight with the Lecher. My overzealous subordinates thought they were protecting me... and drove her away.”

“If this is your way of saying it wasn’t your fault, I’ll just get up and leave.”

“No. It was my fault. During my travels, I let their persuasion shake me. I couldn’t make a final decision before the showdown with the Lecher. My subordinates took my silence as consent—that wasn’t their mistake. If I had truly chosen her, I would’ve done whatever it took. I would’ve thrown everything away to find her. Even if she had resented and hated me forever, I would’ve had no right to complain.”

“She didn’t hate you.”

“Truly?”

“If she had hated or resented you, would she have told me stories about chivalrous heroes? Before she passed, she told me that even if I wanted to see my real father... I had to hold myself back.”

This is one truth I can say proudly. I calmly revealed to him the true feelings Hyang-ah carried.

“Hyang-ah... She really said that...”

The Clan Head couldn’t suppress the sorrow welling up inside him.

He stood from his seat and turned his back to me, silently looking out the window for a long while.

----------

Eventually, he composed himself and sat back down.

“What about your foster parents? What are they doing now?”

Foster parents? Subtle way of trying to claim me as his own, huh?

“They passed away. That’s why I had to come to the Central Plains to survive.”

How certain had he been? The Clan Head didn’t seem surprised—just looked at me for a moment, then spoke slowly.

“...After losing her, I never took another wife. I suppose I always hoped that maybe, just maybe, she might come find me.”

So that’s why a man like him never filled that empty seat with a second or third wife.

“I heard the Lady of the House was absent.”

“If you would allow it... I’d like to formally name you as my son before the clan elders and the ancestral shrine.”

“...What did you just ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) say?”

“I said I wish to accept you as my legitimate son.”

This man’s saying something dangerous now.

Clan Head, please. Our meeting was supposed to end here.

Where’s my mother buried? Who’s my father? Which Kang family am I from? If anyone starts asking the wrong questions, I’ll lose my head.

And if I’m officially recognized as his son, I won’t be just any son.

I’ll be the eldest son.

Even if I renounce my inheritance, even if the former heir recovers, the position of firstborn would drag countless people in the Tang Clan into deadly strife.

“If I were your s—”

“Clan Head!”

Just as I hesitated, trying to decide how to respond, the Chief Steward burst into the room in a rush.

“What is it?”

“Lady Tang Hwa-rin has awakened! You must come at once!”