The little fire, fed by gathered twigs, flickered weakly.
Jang Geon snapped another long twig in half and tossed it into the flames. Still, with little fuel, the fire wavered small and unstable, its light faint. If he wanted it to last through the night, he would need to fetch more wood.
But Jang Geon didn’t care. Even this dim glow was enough—his awakened senses lit the night for him as bright as day. He had lit the fire only so his horse, Jojo, wouldn’t be uneasy, and so he could boil water for tea.
He raised a small iron cup and sipped the rough tea. The taste was poor; he smacked his lips.
“Tastes like shit.”
Jojo, lying on the ground and chewing something, lifted his head at the mutter and looked at him. Jang Geon felt the stare and met it.
“What. You want some too?”
Jojo looked at him with something like contempt, then snorted hard and dropped his head flat to the dirt. Jang Geon smacked his lips again.
“There’s no horse in the world that likes lying down as much as you.”
Jojo snorted again, as if he understood, and scraped the ground with his nose. Dust scattered toward Jang Geon.
“Fuck.”
Jang Geon brushed the dust away with his hand. Sometimes he wondered if Jojo wasn’t another person reborn. The beast was too clever. And the thought dragged up his own secret, souring his mood.
Rebirth. As the Buddhists said, a being dies and returns in another form.
Among all the wonders of the martial world and the thousand-year empire, it was the most unbelievable—and the one he had no choice but to believe. He had lived in an age of jets breaking sound and men landing on the moon. He died in an accident and was reborn here. Not in the New Continent, but first in the Central Plains. As the son of a wealthy house.
“Damn.”
Jang Geon drained the cup and spat the bitter tea out. He glared at Jojo and flung the dusty tea aside. Jojo snorted loud, like he found it funny.
Jang Geon thought again of selling him off someday for another mount. He leaned back and looked away from the fire.
The night sky was black, the earth beneath one mass of shadow. But above, stars and the Milky Way filled everything with light, sharp and alive. Like jewels glittering in deep water. For a moment, Jang Geon felt he could leap into that sea.
But the distance between them was beyond reach. Even if he burned his whole life flying in one direction, he would never touch a single star.
Some might find sadness in that. Jang Geon felt none. He never wasted himself on what couldn’t be touched. He let out a deep breath, lay back, and pulled a thin blanket to his chin.
Time to sleep.
****
In the morning, Jang Geon woke and loosened his body with light swings of his sword. He packed the blanket, scattered the fire, and saddled Jojo, who still lay flat on the ground. The horse snorted in protest but couldn’t escape his hand.
After finishing up, he pulled a small hard biscuit from his bag, chewed it, and climbed into the saddle. He worried whether he would reach a village before nightfall. No matter how beautiful the sky at night, it was no match for a warm bed and a hot meal.
Preferably, a large village. He needed to deal with the jade ring taken from Yang Gung, and find something else worth money.
“If I touch dominoes again, I’m no man.”
He muttered as Jojo trotted along. He had good hands and sharp eyes from training, but gambling was different.
It wasn’t just quick eyes and sleight of hand. What mattered was whether the table conspired, everyone but one mark working together. He had learned that the hard way, after losing everything.
As he rode with idle thoughts, Jang Geon suddenly pulled the reins. Jojo tossed his head in irritation.
“Hold still.”
His sharpened hearing caught a scream. From over the hill to the right.
He turned Jojo’s reins. The horse understood and charged uphill, dust flying.
From the top, Jang Geon saw: a wagon halted in the field, people fallen, bandits tearing it apart. One man still alive knelt and begged before them. A bandit stood over him, grinning with sword drawn.
The kneeling man groveled, pressing his head to the dirt. A moment later, the blade cut his neck. The bandit still grinned, enjoying the blood on his sword.
As he killed the last, the others all shouted and raised their weapons in joy. Jang Geon frowned from the hilltop.
In the New Continent, only a handful of cities were truly under imperial control. Elsewhere, order came from sects or Martial Alliance branches. And so, bandits and villains thrived. The clever ones hid among commoners; the fools robbed openly in the fields.
Even then, most still balked at murder. The empire’s long shadow of law, and the Martial Alliance’s priority on hunting killers, kept it in check. But there were always lunatics. Some mad for blood, some demonic practitioners. Often, the same.
The grinning bandit leader suddenly looked up at Jang Geon. A dirty, wasted face, eyes like glass marbles glinting. He pointed his sword at Jang Geon and shouted. The others mounted quick and charged, yelling like steppe raiders.
A cold smile tugged Jang Geon’s lips.
“Come, then.”
He drew the sword at his waist. The long blade flashed blue. With a light kick to Jojo’s side, the horse snorted and plunged down the hill at full speed.
The dozen bandits and Jang Geon rushed straight at each other.
They had no formation, just a ragged line. Only two came face-to-face with him.
When they crossed, two heads spun free into the air.
Jang Geon yanked the reins, wheeled Jojo. Once unruly, now the horse turned smooth as a war-trained steed.
“He killed Sang-yeon and Gu-mun!”
“Fuck! Kill him! Cut his throat!”
The rest turned, shouting. Their turns came uneven, so they reached him one by one.
One by one, their necks were cut.
When five were down, one bandit leapt from his saddle, sword in mouth, diving at Jang Geon. Jang Geon caught him with his left hand, flipped him back, and slid his blade down. Split from chest to groin, the man hit the dirt in a spray of blood.
The others froze, shaken by how quickly they died.
“He’s a master!”
“What the fuck—why here?!”
One turned to the wagon, shouting at the leader still standing there.
“Boss! Help us!”
But if he wanted to live, he should have kept his eyes on Jang Geon. The sword split him diagonally, spilling him on the ground.
“Fuck! Run!”
The rest bolted—toward their leader. Not blind flight. They trusted his strength.
Jang Geon didn’t chase, only watched as they rallied behind him. The leader glared back at Jang Geon with killing intent. He saw—Jang Geon bore not a drop of blood on his body. Only a bead of red slid from his blade’s edge.
The leader looked from the blade to Jang Geon’s eyes under the hat. The face dull, but the gaze was cold steel.
The leader grinned.
“Martial Alliance?”
“No.”
Jang Geon halted Jojo and answered. The grin widened.
“Ah. Then a passing swordsman? Then pass on.”
Jang Geon gave a bitter, crooked smile.
“You crazy fuck. You swing first, then tell me to go?”
“Couldn’t be helped. This is our work.”
“Work, killing people and taking their money. Fine job.”
The leader spread both arms wide.
“What of it? The New Continent’s been open over a hundred years. Who rules it? The strong. Martial Alliance with imperial support, ancient noble houses, merchant guilds. What have they done but rob the settlers too? Call it business, call it duty. I call mine the same.”
He licked his rotten teeth with his tongue, still smiling.
Jang Geon frowned and glanced past him—at the dead. Among them, a young woman slumped against the wagon, sword still in her grip. Her clothes were torn open, skin exposed.
Her dead eyes seemed to meet his.
Jang Geon swung down from the saddle. He walked forward, stopped a few paces from the leader.
“You thought I was Martial Alliance.”
He flicked his sword clean and slid it into its sheath. The leader’s smile grew wider.
“So there’s a bounty.”
“Yes! My head’s wanted! When the rest of my crimes come out, it’ll rise even higher!”
Excited, he gripped his sword with both hands, drew it level, legs wide, crouching low—like gathering for an explosion.
Jang Geon loosened his grip on his hilt. It was absurd.
Since the Imperial Army had become the strongest force, martial arts had developed toward killing quickly. Unlike stories he once knew, real martial arts here were stripped bare. No lightness skills, no secret transmissions, no distance techniques. Only killing. Fast and simple.
So when two real masters faced each other, this was what it looked like.
The leader’s eyes burned red. His thighs swelled, his crouched body trembled with force. His sword, thick with internal energy, glowed faint crimson.
Facing him, Jang Geon stood calm. Right foot forward, left angled. Left hand on the sheath, right hand light on the hilt. Hat tilted, beard shadowed, eyes hidden.
Man and horse stood silent. Even the wind and beasts held breath.
A bandit sniffled.
Two streaks flashed past each other.
“...Fast.”
The leader muttered. Both still stood, swords extended, backs to each other. Jang Geon gave no reply. Only his hat brim was split.
The leader’s torso opened. He fell dead. Through the slit in his hat, Jang Geon saw the bandits’ terrified faces.
They tried to flee, but his sword was faster. Their bellies split, guts spilled.
When all lay dead, Jang Geon flicked the blade clean and looked over the corpses. He gave a short whistle. Jojo wandered back, lazy again.
Jang Geon smirked, grabbed the saddle to mount—then froze. A faint, dying voice came from the wagon.