Surviving as the Dang Clan’s Handmaiden

Chapter 1

Prologue

Month X, Day X

When I opened my eyes, I found that I had become a handmaiden of the Sacheon Dang Clan. That’s right—the noble clan that specializes in poison and hidden weapons in martial arts stories.

Stop dreaming and get ready for work, you say? How I wish it was as simple as that.

This is all my manager’s fault. How did I find myself in a martial arts story? He handed me a martial arts novel and told me to read it, that’s how. Now here I am, toiling away all day when I don’t even do chores at home.

I wanna go home.

Month X, Day X

Here, I’m in charge of washing clothes. Every day, I get a mountain of dirty laundry to do. There’s something that’s been bothering me about it, though.

Whenever I rinse the clothes, the water becomes a mixture of colors. Why are green robes staining the water purple?

It can’t be poison… can it?

Month X, Day X

I learned the secret behind my birth.

I’m ___.

Am I ___?

Month X, Day X

My sorry excuse for a father told me to go on a blind date. He told me that it was time I made myself useful—that demanding prick. As if he’s ever done anything for me!

When I spouted curses, my grandfather comforted me. He said he would bring me another man if I didn’t like my husband-to-be.

Grandfather, could you please not make it sound like you can pick and choose husband material for me like you’re buying potatoes at a market?

Month X, Day X

I was just about to go to bed when a throng of people rushed into my room and dragged me away. Apparently, my marriage prospect had died, and I was the one who’d poisoned him.

What bullsh*t is that? Why would I do that?

To Hell in a Handbasket

In the world of martial arts, there’s a hackneyed saying.

“This is the way of the strong.”

The meaning of this expression, which essentially established itself as a meme on the internet, is clear: Only the strongest survive.

I quite liked the expression. I was filled with a rush of adrenaline whenever martial arts protagonists beat their enemies to a pulp, all the while talking about the way of the strong and showing little regard for the law and order of the modern world.

I probably wasn’t the only one who thought this way—others likely felt similarly. Everyone knew what it was like to swallow their anger instead of speaking out against injustices in everyday life. Being an adult meant doing what needed to be done, no matter how much you dreaded it, and swallowing your pride and plastering a smile on your face—which brings me to what happened.

When my manager thrust a martial arts novel into my hands and told me to read it during my commute, I’d meekly agreed without even getting to protest.

“Young people these days don’t even understand what a joke is. Here. Give it a read so we can be on the same page,” he’d said to me.

It was such a boomer thing to do, making me read his favorite book so that I could better communicate with him.

You’re the one with the communication problem, and I’m sure you’ll end up with no one by your side if you continue to force your interests on others, I’d almost blurted out at that moment. I barely managed to stop those words from slipping out of my mouth.

However, the reason I didn’t argue with that uptight boomer was because my performance appraisal depended on him. Well, that’s society for you.

About half a year had passed since I began reading martial arts novels to improve communication with my boss. By then, I could laugh along whenever he came to work and popped a joke like how his qi was fired up and ready to go.

“See?” he would say. “You’re laughing too. This is why reading nurtures your soul.”

What I couldn’t say was, I’m the only one laughing along, sir. Also, martial arts novels are dangerous if they nurture one’s soul because it makes me want to put the way of the strong into practice at work.

Anyway, the novels that I began reading to please my manager turned out to be quite enjoyable. Though there was the prejudiced idea that the target audience for such stories was middle-aged men, they were just as much fun for me as well.

Characters whose lives were devoted to martial arts also had lives outside their training, such as love and romance. These heroes were willing to sacrifice their lives to defend their pride or friends. Such devotion was so honest to a fault that I found it moving. Their lives were so commendable that I felt compelled to look up to them as role models. However, that wasn’t to say that I wanted to become a background character in some martial arts story.

“There you go again, off in your own little world. Don’t you have laundry to do?”

“Yeah, I’ll get to it now.”

“There’s herbal medicine with lunch today, so prepare something to cleanse your palate after.”

“Not again.”

I certainly didn’t mean to become a handmaiden of a clan that poisoned their servants.

The clan in question was the Sacheon Dang Clan, also referred to as the Dang Clan or the Dang Family—the masters of poison and hidden weapons in the martial arts world.

There you have it—I had now become a handmaiden of this insane family.

* * *

Romance fantasies have noble families with peerage titles, while martial arts stories have families organized into influential noble clans. There are differences, of course, but both are alike in that they are powerful and renowned noble families.

Clans in the martial arts world are very exclusive because their ties are forged in blood. For example, the Namgung Clan is comprised of members with the Namgung surname. The same concept applies to the Habuk Peng Clan and the Sacheon Dang Clan.

So, just what kind of family is the Dang Clan?

They’re the arrogant ones who dare attack the hero, only to suffer a wretched defeat. At least, that was how the martial arts stories I’d read portrayed them. It was easy to make them out to be the villains because they specialized in poison and hidden weapons.

As allies, they are leery but loyal. As enemies, they are wicked adversaries who employ underhanded tactics. Simply put, the Dang Clan toes the line between good and evil depending on what the story requires. They’re like the mafia in movies—super cool as protagonists, but despicable as villains. When it’s the latter, I want them to be thrown into prison.

There was a good reason for why I felt this way—they are experts in poison. Launching concealed weapons slathered in poison at an honest fighter is a dirty move. That was why I wasn’t exactly fond of the Sacheon Dang Clan. I was the kind of reader who rooted for the martial artists who fought with a sword fair and square.

Maybe it was my narrow-mindedness that had led me to my current situation. When I opened my eyes, I found myself doing laundry for the Dang family.

Laundry? Where did this come from?

I was thoroughly bewildered from the beginning.

Laundry, of all things? Seriously?

I stared vacantly at the washing paddle in my hand.

Why am I handwashing clothes by a well when I can simply press a few buttons on the washing machine?

“What a bizarre dream,” I mumbled to myself, telling myself that I should look up the meaning of this dream when I woke up. I mean, what else could it have been but a dream?

But even after I beat the flowy clothes with the paddle and drew water from the well and washed the stains out of the dirty laundry, I didn’t wake up. If anything, my senses were as sharp as ever. My hands were cold and numb from the freezing water. I blew my hot breath on them, hoping to warm them back up. My breath felt toasty on my skin.

Why does everything feel so real?

At this point, I got the creeping feeling that I might not be dreaming after all. I leaped to my feet and poked my head into the well. The sloshing water below reflected a face I had never seen before. I slowly blinked, but the person staring back at me remained unchanged. A girl I had never seen before was gaping dumbly back at me.

Something was wrong. I patted my hands dry on my waist and felt my face. The girl in the well did the same. Despite her shabby clothes, her face was obviously beautiful. She would be quite the looker when she grew up. I could imagine her debuting in some box-office hit and taking the world by storm—not that it mattered right now.

Shaking my head, I scanned my surroundings. A great manor, the kind from old Hong Kong films, came into view. Its stately buildings extended as far as the eye could see, and magnificent halls stood all over. Based on my outfit, it looked like I was a handmaiden working at the manor.

Everything was so surreal. Then, a possibility I didn’t want to admit came to mind.

Transmigration.

I slapped my cheeks and took a deep breath. The pain was so intense that tears formed in my eyes.

No, this isn’t a dream. But it has to be. What else could it be? Stay calm. Panicking won’t fix the situation.

I needed to maintain my composure and find out where I was in order to plan accordingly. But how?

I didn’t deserve any of this. Usually in transmigration stories, the protagonist started out by opening their eyes in bed in some strange room. That was the unspoken rule. So why was I washing clothes when I opened mine? As if slaving away for my boss wasn’t enough, I found myself genuinely as a servant for some lord.

This isn’t fair. I wanna go home.

* * *

It took three whole days for me to come to terms with this new reality. Coming from a world where all it took was a single button to wash and dry my clothes, I could hardly believe it. But here I was, beating the laundry with a paddle.

Day after day, I ate the food for the servants, followed orders, and passed out at night. Before I knew it, three days had flown by.

I heaved a great sigh and stared wearily at the laundry basket in my arms. Inside the basket, which was easily bigger than me, was a pile of clothes soaked in lye.

When do I get a day off? I’ve been working for three days straight!

Unfortunately, this world was neither merciful nor benevolent.

“To hell in a handbasket… literally.”

Suddenly, a voice giggled with amusement, and I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Goodness, why is a servant girl grumbling about a handbasket?”

I spun around to see who it was. A freckle-faced girl was looking at me with a smile. I blinked, wondering why she looked so familiar. Then, I realized that she was the handmaiden I shared my room with. We had lived in the same space for a few days now, but I wasn’t even sure of her name.

Songji, was it?

“Hey, Songji,” I greeted her.

The girl didn’t correct me, so it seemed I had gotten her name right. I looked back at Songji with a gentle expression, which prompted her to speak.

“Stop spacing out and hurry up. You have to get back before lunchtime. The housekeeper told us to gather in the courtyard at noon. You know the elders of the Dang family hate tardiness,” she urged.

“All right.”

With a pout, I headed for the wash site.

It wasn’t difficult for me to piece together that the manor belonged to the Sacheon Dang Clan. Everyone was saying Dang family this and Dang Clan that—it would be stranger not to know. It also helped that the Dangs wore long green robes with drooping sleeves that covered most of their hands. The insides of these sleeves provided places to hide poison and other lethal weapons.

These damned Dangs looked all pretentious and empty-handed on the outside but would probably fit everything but the kitchen sink up their sleeves if it was possible. Naturally, the long fabric and concealed pockets of the sleeves easily got dirty, which made for a terrible washing experience for the launderer—and that launderer was me. Yup, it was me.

I looked up at the sky with a gloomy expression. My future looked bleak.

Where could I possibly be? Do I have to spend the rest of my life scrubbing grime off of others’ sleeves?

Since I was just a lowly servant, I couldn’t even guess which story I found myself in. How was I supposed to know when every single book I read included the clan?

I decided to sum up my current situation into the following.

One, I had transmigrated into a martial arts story. Two, as a handmaiden of the Sacheon Dang Clan, I probably didn’t practice martial arts, but I seemed to be physically fit based on how I could get by washing their dirty clothes every day. Three, I had no idea which story I had transmigrated into—I had no information. Four, I was penniless.

When I thought about these four points, my despair only grew. I had no money, no power, and no means of support. I wasn’t equipped with anything to survive in a world of the strong.

Will I… even be able to make it out of here alive?