All My Murim Noonas Are Obsessed With Me!-Chapter 80: My Boy? Your Boy? Whose Boy? (3)

Roselia’s POV

"...Manager, what is that?" my companion whispered.

"No idea," I admitted, my voice tight with fear. "I’m scared too."

"Didn’t you say she’s a kin created by one of your kind? Isn’t she like you?"

"I don’t know whose kin she is," I said, shaking my head. "And you don’t have that kind of power."

"Tch."

As we whispered, the disciple charged her master, her movements feral and unrestrained. Her sword was gone, taken by the master, so I assumed it’d be hand-to-hand combat.

I was wrong.

Whoosh.

Blood-red magic coalesced, forming a blade in her hand as if summoned from the ether. The master, caught off guard, raised her own sword just in time.

Clang!

The sharp ring of steel collided with a deafening roar of clashing energies, the sound reverberating through the tavern. The remaining pillars groaned under the strain, creaking ominously.

As the two women launched into a second, fiercer battle, one thought consumed me:

Who the hell made her?

Whoever they were, they’d unleashed a storm of chaos.

+

Grandpa’s POV [Flashback]

"Grandpa!"

"Yes, my boy. Nothing eventful today?" I asked, peering down at the small child gazing up at me.

He was an orphan, a boy of unknown origins I’d taken in during my twilight years. After a life spent wielding a sword, never knowing when death might claim me, I still didn’t fully understand why I’d chosen to raise him. Was it a sudden longing for a grandson in my old age? Or had I been stirred by an old comrade’s words, retiring with a place to call home? Whatever the reason, this boy was mine, raised as my own son.

When I first took him in, I hadn’t thought much of it. He was so young then, a scrawny thing who’d surely grow into a heartbreaker. But as he grew, he surpassed even that expectation.

"...Yuseong, I know you’re kind, but you need to learn to say no when girls ask to be your friend," I said, rubbing my temple.

"But they’d be sad..." he protested, his eyes wide with innocence.

That’s exactly why letting them in is dangerous, I thought, stifling a sigh.

I couldn’t fathom how this barely-grown boy kept attracting girls. There was always a gaggle of them around him, no matter where he went. I’d even followed him once, curious to see what he was doing to cause such a stir. But he wasn’t doing anything special—just playing in the dirt, alone in an empty lot, and still, eyes would gather like moths to a flame.

I’d considered making him wear a mask or hood, but he was too young to endure the discomfort, so the idea fizzled out. Back then, I didn’t worry too much. Sure, I could see him stirring up trouble with women later in life, but that was a problem for the future, not for a boy still so young.

I was wrong.

The trouble came sooner than I’d expected.

"Sir! Please, give your permission! I can’t live without Yuseong! I can’t go on!" she cried, her voice shrill with desperation.

"Stop spouting nonsense and get out! Don’t come near here again!" I bellowed, my patience fraying.

"Sir! SIR!" she wailed, clinging to the doorstep.

She was utterly mad.

What kind of grown adult would behave this way toward a child not yet in double digits? In wealthy families, betrothals were sometimes arranged young, but this was different. This was raw, unfiltered desire, untethered by strategy or obligation.

At first, I dismissed it as the madness of the Central Plains, where people trampled over one another in their ambitions. But when it happened twice more, I couldn’t ignore it. Even in a world teeming with lunatics, this frequency was too high to be mere coincidence.

What was Yuseong doing to draw such attention?

Determined to understand, I shadowed him. He spent most of his time playing with children his age, as any boy would. But occasionally, he mingled with others—mostly young women. There was nothing untoward in his actions; he was simply himself, his words and behavior unguarded, even with adults. That realization struck me like a blade.

Yuseong’s innocent, uncalculated charm was weaving a spell over them. If I didn’t intervene, it was only a matter of time before he came to harm.

Around the same time, my own health began to falter. My body weakened rapidly, soon confining me to the house. As I took to my sickbed, Yuseong started returning home with ingredients and money, his face lit with a cheerful grin. Curious how a child so young managed such feats, I asked, and he answered brightly: "Some nice big sisters gave them to me."

Watching him, a heavy question settled in my heart: Would this boy survive after I was gone? Without me, he’d be alone, without family to shield him. I doubted the women circling him would simply stand by. Something would happen—some of it good, much of it not. It was the inescapable fate of those born with excessive beauty, the so-called "peach blossom curse." They drew others relentlessly, unable to escape the hands reaching for them.

Predicting Yuseong’s future after my death was all too easy. So I began to ponder how he could thrive in a world without me. In that moment, a memory surfaced—not by chance—of plum blossom fragrance mingling with dazzling swordplay on a battlefield long ago.

Taoists, severed from worldly desires, masters of their emotions. They could sever Yuseong’s curse as well. In their company, surrounded by fellow Taoists, no trouble would arise. With luck, he might even find a benefactor to guide him.

Conveniently, we weren’t far from such a place—the Huashan Sect. It was the best solution I could devise as my life’s ember dimmed. The only question was whether Yuseong could gain entry to Huashan, but that was a worry hastening the end for an old man with little time left.

All I could do was pray as my strength faded.

Oh, spirits of heaven and earth, take pity on Yuseong. Grant him the teachings of Huashan. And may he find kind souls there, not stern ones, so he can live well without me...

A hollow laugh escaped me after my prayer. Strict Taoists harming Yuseong? The thought was absurd. I was fretting over nothing.

+

THIRD PERSON POV

Clang! Clang!

BOOM!

The sharp clash of swords fused with a thunderous roar of colliding forces. Master and disciple. The living and the dead. One fought to save; the other, to destroy.

Shin Yuwol poured her heart into protecting the two she cherished most. Han Soyeong burned with the need to kill those she saw as betrayers. The vampiric power surging through Han Soyeong’s body made her stronger than she’d been in life—stronger even than moments ago—but it wasn’t enough to turn the tide of battle. Had she trained for a decade, the outcome might have differed. But trapped in death’s cold embrace, she remained at her peak from life, a level far below her master’s, like earth gazing up at the heavens.

Yet the fight dragged on, absurdly prolonged. The reason lay with Shin Yuwol. Her refusal to let go of either her disciple or Yuseong tempered her strikes with mercy, a hesitation born of love.

Grit!

Was there truly no other way? Shin Yuwol’s original plan—to wait until Han Soyeong’s strength waned and then reason with her—now seemed a distant hope. The disciple she’d tried to subdue with pressure points had risen stronger, her malevolent aura showing no sign of fading.

Shin Yuwol’s resolve hardened. Waiting longer risked catastrophe.

Forgive me.

This time, she didn’t aim for the neck. Her blade sought her disciple’s legs. In this frenzied state, losing one wouldn’t stop Han Soyeong, so Shin Yuwol steeled herself for a graver choice.

Slash!

The scent of plum blossoms filled the air as a sickening thud echoed. Shin Yuwol turned away, unable to bear the sight.

Her disciple, now collapsed, legless, spoke through the haze of pain. "In the end... you’re no different from me."

Jealousy, envy, rage, anguish, inferiority, betrayal—the emotions in Han Soyeong’s voice pierced Shin Yuwol like daggers.

"To stay by his side, you deceived him... deceived yourself just to cling to him. Do you think you’re better than me?"

"Soyeong," Shin Yuwol whispered, her voice heavy with sorrow.

"Don’t call my name with that mouth," Han Soyeong spat, abandoning even the title of Master.

"You’re no different from me. You call my love twisted, but yours is just as warped in my eyes."

"..."

"A love built on lying to yourself—could anything be more pathetic?"

Their loves stood at opposite poles. Han Soyeong’s was raw, brutally honest, laid bare without restraint. Shin Yuwol’s was fragile, a delicate web of denial that threatened to unravel at the slightest brush with truth—a dangerous love, teetering on the edge of contradiction.

"Now that I think about it," Han Soyeong continued, her voice sharp with accusation, "coming to this tavern wasn’t about getting Yuseong drunk. It was for you. Without an excuse, without dulling your sober mind, you’d never have the courage to act, would you?"