Contrary to the way he’d almost looked ready to bolt after being stripped of his money and the jade ring, Yang Gung sat across from Jang Geon—who was noisily slurping noodles—and struck up conversation with practiced cheek.
“Brother Jang, this isn’t the time for you to be eating noodles.”
Jang Geon kept eating without reply. He sucked in a mouthful of noodles, puffing out both cheeks as he chewed, and it was enough to make one’s appetite stir. Yang Gung swallowed his saliva for no reason and went on.
“B-Brother Jang. I still remember eating with you and fiddling with dominoes together, so I’m telling you this: you’d better leave this inn right away.”
Jang Geon didn’t answer. He instead chewed, then lifted the bowl and drank the broth down with a slurp. After setting the bowl down and swallowing everything in his mouth, he took a sip of tea from the pot beside him and finally glanced at Yang Gung.
“Why?”
“…That guy who ran off earlier, remember?”
“Jin Yangseok?”
Yang Gung scratched his jaw.
“Acted like you didn’t, but you remember everything. Anyway, that fellow’s a bit dangerous.”
“A guy who got his pockets picked by a swindler like you?”
At that, Yang Gung gave a small, embarrassed cough.
“Come now, what’s with calling me a swindler?”
“If ‘swindler’ offends you, I can call you a bandit.”
“Hey now. Didn’t you hear what I said? I turned it all in for a Martial Alliance bounty.”
“Does that make the victims disappear?”
Yang Gung raised both hands and shrugged.
“I heard part of the bounty goes to compensate the victims, doesn’t it? Then that’s that. Besides, I’ve never preyed on poor common folk.”
“You some kind of Hong Gil-dong?”
“…Who’s Hong Gil-dong?”
Jang Geon lifted his teacup to his lips and answered.
“The head of the Righteous Poor—Hwalbin Party.”
“…Hwalbin Party?”
“Would you know it if I explained?”
Yang Gung grinned foolishly.
“No. I wouldn’t. I didn’t get much schooling.”
Jang Geon looked at him in silence for a moment, then spoke.
“So, why is that guy dangerous?”
Yang Gung fetched an upside-down teacup from the corner of the table, filled it for himself, and said,
“Jin Yangseok’s got nothing. Never learned martial arts, no great wealth, not particularly bright. Just a pushover. A mark.”
“And the mark is dangerous?”
He sipped his tea.
“A mark’s just a mark. The problem is he’s got an older brother. And the brother’s a real hand—quite the expert.”
Hearing this, Jang Geon snorted and picked up his chopsticks again.
“I can handle myself too.”
“Oh, I know. Who in Amjugol doesn’t know Brother Jang’s fists? Until they saw you draw your blade, everyone swore it was just for show.”
At that, Jang Geon set his chopsticks down again.
“Then spit it out, damn it. Stop circling.”
“…The expert brother is one problem. The bigger problem is the sect he belongs to. It’s an Unorthodox sect—the Four Symbols Sect.”
Jang Geon knit his brows.
“You said there’s a Martial Alliance branch here. How’s an Unorthodox sect operating?”
Yang Gung smirked.
“Curious, are you?”
Jang Geon smiled thinly too—and showed him his tightly clenched left fist. Yang Gung’s face blanched a shade.
“R-Right. I’ll talk, so please put the fist down… Outwardly, of course, they’re not an Unorthodox sect. They’re not homeless vagrants. Word is their boss is tied up somehow with the Alliance branch head here, so as long as they keep within certain lines, nobody touches them. And the mark’s brother, Jin Cheongseok, is their top hand.”
“You were picking the pockets of a guy like that’s kid brother?”
Yang Gung shrugged again.
“Told you. They have to keep to the lines too. What you saw just now—we had the same yesterday, and if you hadn’t shown up, we’d have the same tomorrow.”
“The Martial Alliance is running like clockwork, I see.”
“Seems the locals think so too. They’ve got plenty to grumble about—easier to open up to an outsider like me.”
Jang Geon took his eyes off Yang Gung and lifted his chopsticks.
“Then stop yapping and get lost with those locals.”
“…That’s a bit difficult.”
Jang Geon wondered what nonsense was coming next—then glanced back at the table where Yang Gung had been sitting and understood. The men who had been laughing and gambling with Yang Gung were now glaring at him and Jang Geon as if ready to kill. Likely for provoking Jin Yangseok and for cheating.
A few townsfolk, scared, began slipping out of the inn. While Jang Geon chewed the remaining noodles and watched, the innkeeper approached with a rigid face.
“Sir.”
Jang Geon looked up. On closer look, the innkeeper’s face wasn’t just stiff—it was trembling.
“I’ll refund your noodle money and the lodging fee. Please leave my inn.”
Seeing that, Yang Gung gave a helpless smile.
“Given the situation, let’s go. Before the Four Symbols Sect boys get here. If they show, neither you nor I will get out of this clean.”
But even as the two spoke, Jang Geon unhurriedly finished the noodles, lifted the bowl, and drank the broth. He drained it to the bottom with a gulp, set the empty bowl down, belched lightly, and said, short and flat,
“I think I’ll be fine.”
“…What are you, an Imperial Army grandmaster? They say there are twenty from the Four Symbols Sect coming. What’s your plan?”
“If you wanted to run, you shouldn’t have been clinging to me. You should’ve bolted already. It’s too late now.”
Right as Yang Gung and the innkeeper blinked in confusion, a low, heavy voice sounded from beyond the door curtain.
“Right. It’s already too late to run.”
It was as if the color drained from both the innkeeper and Yang Gung at once. The owner of that voice stepped inside. Even at a glance he was hulking, and heavy enough that the inn’s wooden floor creaked under his weight.
The brute who entered let his eyes pass over the frightened innkeeper and Yang Gung and land on Jang Geon. He watched Jang Geon calmly sipping tea, then looked back over his shoulder and asked,
“Is it those two?”
“Y-Yes, brother. Those bastards cheated me out of my money, and when I protested, they smashed my nose like this. Teach them a lesson, please.”
“…Your money?”
Jin Yangseok, appearing behind the brute, made an ah, right face and hurried to add,
“T-They were taking everyone’s money. Mine was only, well, a part of it.”
The hulking man looked at his brother, with his nose bandaged and words stumbling, as if he were pathetic; then his gaze returned to Yang Gung and Jang Geon.
“Everyone out.”
Jang Geon could tell the order wasn’t meant for him. The remaining patrons rushed out in a panic. The innkeeper started to follow, then faltered beside the big man and ventured,
“I—I only just bought that table…”
The man said nothing, only glared with axe-like eyes, and the innkeeper, startled, bolted out through the curtain.
Yang Gung, face tight with worry, began to rise, planning to slip out among the departing crowd.
“Sit. Unless you want to die first.”
Hearing Jang Geon’s dry voice, he naturally sat back down, lifted his teacup, and replied,
“Hm? What are you talking about, Brother Jang? I’m sitting, see?”
Locking eyes with the big man, Jang Geon didn’t answer—he only smirked. Once the room had emptied, half a dozen to eight rough-looking men poured in from outside. They fanned out in a semicircle, hemming in Jang Geon and Yang Gung at their corner table.
The man who had been glaring at Jang Geon walked forward at an unhurried pace.
“Pleasure to meet you, friends. Name’s Jin Cheongseok. Embarrassing to say, but I play fixer for this village. Not that there’s much to do—peaceful place, plenty of idle time.”
He stopped at their table.
“But today, it seems there’s something here I have to fix.”
Jang Geon said nothing. He only looked at Jin Cheongseok with sunken eyes and sipped his tea. Seeing that, Jin’s brow twitched. Picking up on the tension, Yang Gung sprang to his feet, brought his fists together in a cupped-fist salute, and babbled,
“H-Ha ha. There must’ve been some misunderstanding. A pleasure. I’m Yang Gung. I came to this village a few days ago, and even in that short time I heard more than once of Brother Jin’s chivalry—I was hoping to meet you. A knight-errant in times like these! And meeting like this—surely that’s fate? Ah, and this is Brother Jang—Brother Jang Geon. He hasn’t been in town long and—”
Yang Gung’s words were cut off by Jin Cheongseok’s right index finger, pointing straight at him. As Yang Gung flinched at the sudden jab, Jin spoke.
“Swindler.”
“W-What? S-Swindler?”
The finger swung and pointed at Jang Geon.
“Hoodlum.”
Jin dropped his hand, planted both fists on his hips, and said with lofty arrogance,
“You show up out of nowhere in a peaceful village and squeeze coin from poor commoners, and when my brother tries to stop you, you answer with your fists. You’re no ordinary thugs. As a man who follows the code, I can’t let this pass. I’ll arrest you both and drag you to the Martial Alliance branch. I advise you not to resist—you’ll only get hurt.”
So pompous and final—like a judge pronouncing sentence—that Yang Gung could only gape, eyebrows twisting. The men circling them finished listening, then drew thick cudgels from their belts and advanced.
Yang Gung’s face went ashen at the sight. Without thinking, he muttered under his breath, “Son of a…”
“At least you’re not talking about beating us to death on the spot.”
At Jang Geon’s sudden remark, the advancing men hesitated. They glanced at Jin Cheongseok, waiting for a cue. Displeased, Jin screwed up his face and glared at Jang Geon.
“How could I kill a man in broad daylight, in an inn?”
“But swarming in to bully us is fine?”
Jin took another step toward Jang Geon’s table.
“To arrest ruffians disturbing the village—our fellow martial artists will understand the situation.”
“What ‘fellow martial artists’? I don’t see anyone here but your goons. That ego of yours is swollen.”
At the sneer, Jin stepped in closer and lowered his voice.
“So you’ve got a death wish—talking back like that. Keep it up and I’ll tear that mouth before I hand you to the Alliance.”
Jang Geon chuckled even at the threat.
“So you won’t be letting us walk out in one piece?”
“After what you did to my brother’s face, you think you’ll walk out of my village whole? At the very least I’ll leave you with useless arms and legs. If you don’t like that, I can settle for the thing between your legs.”
At Jin’s last line, the ring of toughs snickered. One tapped his own thigh with his cudgel, chuckling. Only Yang Gung, without meaning to, lowered his hands to cover himself and squeezed his knees together.
Jang Geon looked over the goons, Jin Cheongseok, and the smirking Jin Yangseok with open contempt.
“In martial stories, when someone keeps calm in a moment like this, don’t you usually get cautious? Wonder if he might be Imperial Army, or a wandering master? No such worries?”
Jin Cheongseok’s face hardened.
“What was that? Imperial Army? Are you claiming you’re with them?”
With a blank look, Jang Geon answered,
“No. I’m not.”
“…What is this, you crazy bastard? Joking? You want to die, pretending to be Imperial—”
In that instant, without any preparatory motion, Jang Geon sprang from his chair, planted a hand on the table, vaulted, and drove a kick square into Jin Cheongseok’s face.
The kick was so powerful that the hulking brute flew all the way to the inn’s entrance. His eyes were vacant, his front teeth—upper and lower—shattered, blood pouring in a hideous stream. The goons and Yang Gung stared dumbly between the fallen Jin and Jang Geon.
Landing lightly from the rebound, Jang Geon met their stares with a crooked eye and said,
“Is Imperial Army the only kind of master there is?”