Jang Geon snorted.
“If you had that kind of access, why not learn it yourself?”
“Don’t get me wrong. The methods I can get are Class Ding. Anything above that gets your parents and siblings executed with you.”
“Class Ding, then...”
His face tightened a shade; Ju Yeorang’s smile grew.
“Right. Arts the Imperial Army is permitted to transmit to outside disciples. They’re also the Army’s basic methods, and for those aiming at the Army they’re the edge that puts you a step ahead. As for why I didn’t learn them—come on. You know how picky Imperial Army veterans are about taking on a disciple.”
“...Verified identity, outstanding aptitude, and above all, loyalty to the emperor.”
She nodded.
“Seems I don’t clear the bar. They told me no.”
“Then why think I would?”
“...Those people owe me. Enough of a debt to accept you as a disciple in name and teach you.”
He shook his head slowly.
“You’re circling. If that’s how it is, you could have become the disciple.”
“Please. You understood every word. For me to learn those methods, I’d have to scrap everything I’ve trained so far. Class Ding isn’t worth that. But you—if you can drive off a Je Family warrior without drawing steel—you’ve already got more than enough. You’d still have things to pick up from methods the emperors themselves have refined.”
She lifted a shoulder.
“Better to use that debt like this than waste it on arts I won’t properly learn. Sensible, isn’t it?”
Propping an elbow on the pommel, Jang Geon stared at her, eyes flat.
Truth was, Class Ding or Class Jia—anything from the Imperial Army tempted him. In the Central Plains he’d paid all sorts of teachers for bits of art; on the New Continent he’d carved his own path with imagination and grind.
But the emperor had sat at the pinnacle of the empire for a thousand years.
Not every emperor’s martial art was the best under heaven. But to take the heir’s seat, a prince or princess needed the Army’s consent and support. Anyone who didn’t clear a certain level never even became heir. And if an heir crowned emperor failed to meet the imperial standard, they were deposed.
All the elixirs under heaven, the best instructors in the Central Plains, the blood and talent inherited since Gaozu who broke Qin and even beat the Hegemon, and the fiercest will to be emperor—those fused into one person: the emperor.
And the first project after ascending the throne was to audit the Imperial Army’s methods. Even at the lowest, Class Ding, a high-level expert could still learn from them—no empty boast. And if he was accepted as a disciple in name, no one could later grill him about where he’d learned them.
Whoever Ju Yeorang meant had to be a retired Imperial Army man—or someone tied to one.
After a moment’s thought, he decided he’d already helped her; helping a little more and getting a look at Imperial Army methods wouldn’t hurt.
“Where are these people who’ll help?”
Ju Yeorang brightened; she’d felt the turn in him.
“Two days out. There’s a valley and a river on the way—we can scrub our tracks.”
“Then let’s move. We’ve wasted enough time.”
“Good. I’ll guide.”
She stepped up and grabbed Jojo’s saddle.
“...What are you doing?”
“My horse is dead. That bastard Je Unseong’s work. Until I find a new one, I’m riding with you.”
She sprang up behind him—and sat facing backward, not forward. Twisting to flash him a grin while he stared at her like she was insane, she said,
“Don’t worry. I’m light. Right?”
She patted Jojo’s rump; the horse snorted as if he didn’t mind. The perpetually glum beast even looked pleased with a beauty on his back.
“Let’s go.”
At their combined confidence, Jang Geon just shook his head and touched Jojo’s flanks with his heel. One watching forward, one watching back, leaning on each other on one horse—they set out in that odd shape.
****
Je Unseong stood high in a tree, eyes narrowed at the two dwindling figures. A large eagle gripped his left forearm.
Black-bodied, white-headed, with a long red streak running down from its fierce eyes—a beautiful bird. It was a spirit-beast found only on the New Continent, a blood-rimmed eagle, the Je Family’s key line for urgent messages. He had pulled back both because he judged he could not win against Jang Geon and because the signal had come.
He had just received important news from the house through that messenger.
“Captain?”
When he stayed silent after reading it, a masked man in black on the neighboring branch raised his head a little. Je Unseong finally let out a short grunt.
“...Trail them, strike tonight. Don’t overreach. We test their level first.”
“Understood.”
The masked man dropped from the branch; the men kneeling at the base of the tree scattered soundlessly. Je Unseong kept thinking as he slowly stroked the eagle’s head.
“Hmm. A chance-met knight-errant, or a planned contact...”
The bird bobbed, pleased with the touch.
****
Jang Geon eyed a dead twig, tossed it into the fire, and sat. Then he glanced at Ju Yeorang.
“You’re calmer than I expected. Campfire and all.”
Plucking at her pipa as she sat, she kept her hands moving as she answered,
“We crossed a river and scrubbed our tracks this afternoon, remember? They’ll still come, sure—but there’s no point living in your head with worry. And I’m clean. If I wanted, I could report to the Martial Alliance main hall or the Empire and make things ugly for them. I know people in Gamsan.”
“And?”
“They’ll probably grease the nearest branch chief and have him ‘hold and question’ me for a bit. That alone would be bad enough for me. The real danger is when we pass through a town tomorrow.”
She stopped playing, looked at him. “More to the point—why did you help me today?”
“...Didn’t I say?”
She smiled.
“You helped me like picking up someone who tripped in the street? Even at the risk of fighting a Je Family warrior?”
“Cute comparison.”
At his clipped answer her smile thinned.
“...You’re an odd one. People like that don’t live long. Especially not among sword-carrying folk.”
He, in turn, gave a small laugh.
“What’s ‘long’? Five years? Ten? Bastards with blades doing bad things don’t live long either. The wrong they pile up follows like a shadow. It’s not about good men and bad men—the martial world burns through its own.”
“So in the end, good or bad, martial artists die under a blade?”
“I’m saying the line isn’t so clean.”
She smiled again, faintly.
“Maybe. But you seem good enough.”
He threw another twig on the coals with a wry twist of the mouth. She watched him with an odd look, then let the pipa sing again.
They hadn’t cleared the range yet. The chill air and the dark trunks ringed their small fire. With the pipa’s notes, it felt less like a chase and more like a traveler’s camp.
Then, under the strings, another sound reached Jang Geon’s ear.
“...Seems our friend Je Unseong is quicker and rougher than you thought.”
Ju Yeorang stopped playing, confused. Only after she stilled her hands did she hear the rustle. Her face twisted; she sprang up and yanked out her straight short-sword.
“Ah, shit! When I get to Gamsan I’m reporting this to the Empire, not the Martial Alliance! I’ll hand over my whole fortune to the provincial governor if I have to! Let’s see how high your ancient house stands then!”
As her blade came free and the discovery registered, masked men in black slid from between the trees. They had already ringed the camp and were closing in.
Rising with one hand on his scabbard, Jang Geon counted fast. About ten. No Je Unseong. Their eye rims and blades were blacked; in the firelight, only the whites of their eyes showed.
He and Ju Yeorang moved back-to-back. Staring at the men and their blades, she muttered,
“Real bastards... So that’s how it is? You’re not even planning to take me clean anymore...”
They ignored her curses. They sank lower, step by step, tightening the circle—then stopped at a line and fixed their gaze.
With the crackle of the fire between them, the ring of black-clad men, Ju Yeorang with blade drawn, Jang Geon with just a hand on his scabbard—the air went still in a blink. The only moving thing was the wobble of shadows in the firelight. The chill turned stiff with their tension.
Then one man’s posture slipped a hair—movement at the breath between breaths, right before muscle and inner energy burst. In that slit of time, a throwing dagger left Ju Yeorang’s hand. It flashed and buried in a chest. The rest surged as if on signal, black lines cutting in.
At the same instant, Jang Geon kicked the fire.
Yellow and red sparks and ash fountained wide. The five angling for him checked for a blink; three dove straight through the spray and swung.
Steel cut air. Jang Geon was already high, swallows-turning, landing behind them. The two who’d hesitated started to turn in shock—his blade cleared.
The cold gleam skimmed across both torsos. A beat later, blood slapped out. As the pair dropped, beyond the three turning bodies he saw Ju Yeorang: she’d stabbed one who’d come for her, but another blade was driving for her flank.
He sank, loaded his toes with inner energy, and burst forward. Like an arrow—like an eel slipping through—he skimmed past the men between, carrying that flight straight into his cut.
A chest blew red and the man folded. Ju Yeorang’s eyes went round at the sudden shape at her side; she snapped a cut that knocked aside a blade angling for his back.
He turned with her and drove his sword into the attacker’s belly. The man grunted tight and stumbled back. The rest retreated with him in a clatter.
Still poised with blades, Jang Geon and Ju Yeorang scanned the ring. In a handful of flashes, five lay down and bled, dying unless treated fast.
Jang Geon flicked his sword clean and stood.
“Want more?”
A man clutching his gut shook his head. When he did, the others began edging back.
“Take your friends,” Jang Geon said.
They froze. Ju Yeorang, catching her breath, shouted in shock, “Are you crazy? They just tried to kill us!”
Jang Geon sheathed his blade. He picked up one of theirs and eyed the edge. Black-coated, and dull—more iron club than sword. A trained hand could still kill with it, sure, but as a killing blade it was lacking.
He tossed it aside. “Take them.”
The wounded man watching him in silence gave a nod to the others. They gathered the fallen quickly and vanished into the dark woods. When they were gone and Jang Geon turned back, Ju Yeorang was staring like he’d grown a second head.
He said, “This isn’t a place to camp. Pack it and let’s go.”
While he stamped out sparks, cinched Jojo’s saddle, and drew up the reins, she kept her mouth clamped shut. Only after a long stretch did she look at him and say,
“You’re really strange.”
She spun on her heel and strode out in front.