The city was called Cheonghwajin. It had once gone by another name, but now, everyone referred to it simply as Cheonghwajin.
On the docks, where the lighthouse’s beam could not reach, a man, Mu-won stood in the darkness. A single dried flower rested in his hand as he waited for someone.
Around him, several men wore black hoods, their faces hidden. Mu-won himself was draped in a long coat, hood up. Bored, he lowered himself onto a large wooden crate nearby. Embedded in the crate was an axe—its sharpness starkly at odds with the fragile flower he held.
One of the men beside him lit a cigarette with a Zippo. Mu-won drew the smoke into his lungs, shaking the dried flower in his hand. Six shriveled blue petals trembled at the ends of the brittle stem.
“Did I get stood up again?”
The voice that came from beneath his hood was flat, almost emotionless.
“Yes, sir. It seems so,” replied To-seong, as if he had been expecting the answer.
Mu-won rose from the crate, shrugging off his long coat and handing it to a subordinate. Beneath the black hair casually swept aside by his hand, his golden eyes glimmered—a stark contrast to the darkness around him. Once the black coat was removed, the intricate floral pattern on his jacket was revealed in full bloom, vibrant and overwhelming.
He glanced down at the dried flower, then tucked it into his suit pocket, where it was now lost amidst the colorful embroidery.
“To-seong, do you know something?” he suddenly asked, gazing toward the city.
“I don’t, sir,” To-seong answered promptly, as though waiting for the cue.
“It should be beautiful.”
“Huh?”
Mu-won reached out, gripping To-seong by the shoulder. As he pulled, To-seong’s shoulder cracked under the pressure, yet neither man flinched or changed expression.
“I’ll crush its face the moment I see it,” Mu-won whispered, patting To-seong’s shoulder as if soothing him.
“And what if it’s ugly?” To-seong asked, the question oddly out of place.
Mu-won laughed aloud. “Then it won’t do.”
“But you haven’t seen the face yet, have you?”
“I just hope something ugly dared to stand me up,” Mu-won murmured, eyes still fixed on the city.
“So, if it’s beautiful, it’s fine to get stood up?”
“Exactly why I’ll make the face pay,” he said with a short laugh.
Moving forward, Mu-won strode toward the city, To-seong immediately at his heels, while the rest of the men followed, dragging the wooden crate that left a dark red trail on the ground. Beneath the crate where Mu-won had been sitting, blood still seeped.
Three years of saved money had just vanished.
****
Meanwhile, Cheong-yeon worked the herb cleaver, slicing dried herbs with swift, precise movements.
The shipment he had been waiting for via the smuggling vessel had now missed its third arrival. And it had taken half a year just to be introduced to the cautious ship captain.
The broker connecting him to the captain ran the tavern Dandelion. Cheong-yeon had earned the man’s trust by working there part-time, which eventually allowed him to meet the captain.
At last, the ship was due to arrive, and all that remained was to collect the goods… until disaster struck that very night while he was serving at the tavern.
“Did you hear? That bastard Jangga was colluding with the smuggling captain all along?”
“Huh? Jangga? You mean the Peira torturer?”
“Yeah. Peira’s plan isn’t just for the smugglers or the jobbers—they’re going to take them all down.”
Cheong-yeon froze mid-chop. Cheonghwajin had no shortage of smuggling vessels. He could only hope that the ship in question wasn’t carrying his shipment. He had a meeting scheduled with the captain the very next day.
The following day, Cheong-yeon ascended a mountainside overlooking the docks, keeping a watchful eye for any sign of trouble.
A large wooden crate sat at the edge of the darkened pier, guarded by men in black coats and hoods. Their attire matched that of the smugglers he had met before. He planned to wait until he was certain it was safe before approaching.
Then, a man waved and approached, seemingly familiar with the captain—likely a trusted smuggler. But Cheong-yeon’s eyes widened in horror.
A man in a black coat swung his axe, severing a smuggler’s neck halfway through. The other men lifted the decapitated body and tossed it into the wooden crate. What Cheong-yeon had assumed contained goods was, in fact, a coffin.
He pressed his hands over his mouth, desperate to stifle a scream. Fleeing down the mountain path, he returned to his shop, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder to ensure he was not followed.
“…Haa.”
******
Even thinking about the previous night made his heart pound.
That morning, the Dandelion tavern owner confirmed the grim news: the Peira crew had killed every smuggler, seized the ships, and redirected all contraband to the Sea Tower—the tallest building in Cheonghwajin.
Once the residence of the city’s former lord, it had been claimed by Peira after killing its previous owner five years ago.
Now, Mu-won and his crew ruled Cheonghwajin, though their numbers barely exceeded a hundred. Many pledged loyalty simply to gain scraps from Peira’s rule.
Cheong-yeon packed ginseng branches into a sack, placing a small sign reading “₩1 per 300g” among the herbs and dried roots on display. Despite the modest shop in the corner of Cheonghwajin, the towering Sea Tower was clearly visible. A massive tree grew through its center, reaching the very top—its sudden appearance still a mystery, even to Cheong-yeon.
For a long time, he stared at the building. One thought consumed him: ‘Will they think it’s trash?’
Though essential to him, ordinary eyes would see the herbs as worthless, likely tossing them into the garbage.
Resolved, Cheong-yeon donned a hat and black jumper, slipped on kitchen gloves for safety, and wheeled the bicycle he had stored inside toward his destination—about a thirty-minute ride. The image of the man whose neck had been sliced haunted him, but he forced it out of his mind. Rain began to drizzle, pushing him to pedal faster.
****
At the back of the Sea Tower, trash was piled near the service entrance, a mixture of food scraps, bottles, and miscellaneous waste. Luckily, everything was bagged for collection.
Empty liquor bottles, beer cans, even unwrapped condoms… Cheong-yeon silently praised himself for bringing the gloves, though he knew they could never be used in the kitchen again.
Initially, he had considered sneaking through the alley to examine the bags, but it would have drawn suspicion. Instead, he moved boldly, rifling through each bag in plain sight. If anyone asked, he’d simply say:
“I’m a janitor.”
Fortunately, the rain kept passersby away.
After checking fifteen bags without success, Cheong-yeon cursed under his breath. The contents had been sorted—cans, bottles, random trash—by his own habit of organization.
Finally, one bag remained. He prayed silently and tore it open.
“Ugh…!”
Inside was a severed hand, wrist and all. A massive tattoo adorned the back—a skull drawn from behind.
He recognized it instantly. This was the hand of the smuggling ship’s captain.