“...Excuse me? Can you hear me...?”
Jang Geon stopped with one foot in the stirrup and walked toward the voice. Jojo snorted and followed slowly.
Stepping around bodies, Jang Geon found a man lying on his back, staring at the sky. He was pale from blood loss.
He looked up at the face under Jang Geon’s hat and trembled.
“...Hello.”
Jang Geon tipped his chin once. The man gave a faint smile, as if that was enough.
“Sorry to ask, first time meeting and all, but I have a favor. My son is hiding in the wagon. I built a small space under the floor.”
Jang Geon’s eyes went to the wagon. The walls were thick; he felt nothing from here.
“...I’m truly sorry—after you already saved us from the bandits—but please, save my boy. He’s ten. Alone, he’ll starve. He’s clever, but he scares easy.”
“Where’s his mother?”
Still looking at the wagon, Jang Geon asked. The dying man gave a bitter smile.
“His mother passed long ago... not long after he was born. Her family blamed the child... so we left everything and came to the New Continent... I wanted a new life with him...”
His thoughts were drifting. Jang Geon looked back down.
“I’m not good with kids. I like them, but they don’t like me.”
“...Please. There’s a village three days east. Green Mountain Valley. My sister-in-law lives there. Unlike the rest of her family, she loves the boy. She learned martial arts, she’s capable—she’ll pay you well for bringing him. So...”
“You’re not coming?”
The man stared up, almost speechless.
“...I... I’ve bled too much... and there’s a hole in my belly... Of course I’d go, if I could...”
Jang Geon nodded, dropped to one knee beside him, and examined the wound, ignoring the man’s puzzled look. For a gut hole, the man talked well—major organs had been missed. But he had bled a lot, and still was.
“Are you a physician...?”
“No.”
The man’s face twisted in confusion. He couldn’t read Jang Geon’s intent. Did he just not want the errand? A hollow despair welled up.
Jang Geon saw the look and guessed his thought. He snorted, then flicked his fingers fast and pressed points around the wound. He couldn’t undo the blood already lost, but this would stop the flow. It was enough.
“Got medicine and bandages?”
The man stared, dazed, at the taps and at the bleeding stopping, then jolted.
“Y-yes. In the wagon... What did you just do? Did you seal points? With your bare hand?”
Jang Geon only smiled and stood. As he walked to the wagon he thought: funny, that bare-hand point sealing counts as a marvel here.
In this land, point sealing was something a trained physician did—slowly finding the points and driving thick needles. It took years, so only veteran doctors used it. Martial artists knew their own meridians, but sealing points was “a doctor’s job,” as common sense.
No one thought to pour inner energy into a fingertip and block a point or induce a reaction. Their minds were full of using inner energy to tear flesh, not to seal. He still remembered the baffled look his teacher—an old physician—gave him when he first learned.
He reached the wagon. The door hung open; a corpse lay sprawled inside. He dragged the body out and searched the ransacked interior. He found bandages, powdered medicine, and a sound upper garment, then returned.
The man watched him and said,
“...I never even asked my benefactor’s name. I’m Yi Yun.”
“Jang Geon.”
Jang Geon stripped the torn clothes, dusted powder on the wound, and wrapped it. Dressed in the clean coat, Yi Yun pushed himself up, swaying.
“I should see my son—Hwan.”
He looked ready to topple, so Jang Geon sighed and lent a shoulder. Yi Yun tottered to the wagon and rapped a corner of the floor with his fist.
“Hwan, are you all right? Hwan?”
After a moment, something clunked. A section slid open. A boy peered up with wet eyes, saw Yi Yun, and threw himself into his arms.
“Hey—H-Hwan! You’re killing your father! It hurts!”
Startled, the boy sprang back. He saw the bandage and asked, frightened:
“Dad, what is that? Why are you like this?”
“A—ah. I took a cut.”
“What? A sword cut? Are you okay?”
Yi Yun, realizing he was alive and really looking at his son again, started to smile—then slumped.
“Dad!”
The boy caught him. Seeing the closed eyes, his own filled with tears. Jang Geon, who hated kids crying, grabbed the boy’s shoulder.
“He just fainted. The tension let go.”
“R-really? He’s not dead?”
“Not dead.”
“...Who are you, mister?”
“Jang Geon.”
The boy looked between his father and Jang Geon, baffled.
“How would I know from that?”
Jang Geon blinked at the cheeky line, then let out a brief laugh. So this was “clever.”
“Got baggage to pack?”
“...Baggage?”
“We can’t haul the wagon. A wheel’s broken. I’ll fetch a horse for you and your father. Pack what you need.”
Before the boy could answer, Jang Geon turned away. Most of the bandits’ horses had bolted when their riders died, but one black animal lingered, circling the dead leader. Likely his.
Leading the horse, Jang Geon paused, then stepped to the leader’s corpse. He picked up a heavy saber and started to take the head—for the bounty.
He hesitated. He remembered the father’s words.
“...Three days. It’ll rot.”
Would there be a village on the way? And there was the kid. Carrying a severed head wasn’t ideal.
But he needed money. He shook his head, brought the blade down, and took the head. He wrapped it round and round in the leader’s clothes and those of the others. The bundle doubled in size.
He searched the body. No money—just a rectangular token. One side read “Third Banner Captain,” the other “Gam Soon-deok,” engraved.
“Mr. Gam Soon-deok, then.”
Third Banner. Maybe there was a First and Second. They might come for revenge. He didn’t care. Better if they did. Scum like this would have bounties too.
He hung the wrapped head on Jojo’s saddle and led the horse back. The boy stood stiff with a small bundle. He had seen the dead. Yi Yun, now awake, stood beside him, stroking his hair.
Jang Geon held out the reins.
“Let’s go.”
“...Go? You’ll take us?”
“You said there’s money. The capable aunt in Green Mountain Valley—was that a lie?”
Yi Yun stared, dazed. However sullen this swordsman was, he wasn’t a villain. He had killed the bandits and bandaged the wound, and he hadn’t demanded payment on the spot.
“...No lie. Hwan’s aunt is capable. She’s saved money. I invested with her too.”
“Then we go. I won’t stay in this field of corpses.”
As Jang Geon swung up, Yi Yun hesitated. He wanted to bury these people. They had shared the road a short while, and they were good folk. But he was wounded, and Hwan was a child. The only one who could dig was Jang Geon.
“Dad.”
Hwan tugged his sleeve. Yi Yun looked down into his son’s clear eyes, then nodded. He put the boy up first, then mounted behind and held him. The reins shook in his hand.
“Yes. Let’s go. Quickly.”
They took their bearing by the sky and rode out. The boy kept trying to look back; Yi Yun stopped him.
Wind and rain, and the beasts of the field, would erase them. Jang Geon didn’t know if their souls would wander with grudges, or rise to a calm sky, or be reborn like him. He hoped, at least, they had gone somewhere the pain of life could be forgotten. That brief thought was all the mourning he could spare in the wilds.
They hadn’t ridden long. Yi Yun was failing. Which was natural. A commoner with a hole in his belly, leaking blood, staying in the saddle at all was remarkable.
They stopped before sunset and made a small camp. They ate dry rations and lay down. Jang Geon wanted to tease Hwan a little, but the boy’s face was too bleak.
He looked at Yi Yun’s discomfort and asked:
“Any village before Green Mountain Valley?”
“Y-yes. A lakeside village called Namjakho. Small. No inn, they say. Our group meant to pass through.”
“When do we reach it?”
Yi Yun sighed.
“If we rode straight, before noon tomorrow...”
Jang Geon nodded. Even slowed by Yi Yun’s state, they could make it by evening. There would be no inn, but they could at least buy emergency medicine. What he’d seen wasn’t too dangerous, but he’d learned point sealing for himself and was no real doctor. You couldn’t read all of health from the flow of qi.
If, after all this, the man suddenly dropped dead in a few days, what could he say to the boy? Jang Geon set the plan. Yi Yun and Hwan had no reason to object.
****
Under harsh sun, the corpses were rotting fast. Birds had already landed to peck out eyes.
Two riders reached the place. Both wore wide hats and gray windproof coats. They circled slowly, then dismounted and checked the bodies.
One crouched. A short, broad-bladed sword—half a hand wide—hung at her back.
“Time of death: yesterday midday. All died around the same time.”
Her voice was low, a woman’s. Even in a few words, calm and strict.
“These bodies—those guys, right? Red Sand Brigade. Looks like they hit a wagon and then got cut down.”
The man behind her held the reins and lifted his hat brim to scan around.
“Counting heads, looks like all of them are dead.”
“Not all. When they raid, they split into three, then regroup to divide the loot. This is one part.”
“Well, better their numbers are down. I still say sending just the two of us to wipe them all was nonsense.”
She laced her fingers and looked around, then scolded him:
“You took elixirs on the Alliance’s tab. Can you repay that in cash if we pull you off the job?”
“...No, ma’am.”
She smiled at his wilted answer, then set her face and stood.
“This is interesting.”
“Why?”
“The wagon folk didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“Then what?”
“Someone came in later. Not one of them.”
“Someone else?”
“One person.”
She walked, taking in each Red Sand corpse. Her gaze stopped on a headless body lying prone.
“This one was good. Might’ve been one of the Brigade’s three captains.”
“...How do you tell that from a corpse, senior? I can’t see it.”
“Study. Stop living in taverns.”
He grimaced, stung again. She didn’t care. She moved fast through the scene, muttering:
“...They split the work. The opponent was a master. The rest of the bandits couldn’t resist and died... The wagon folk were mostly commoners... But one lived. No—two. One’s a child. The other... a father, maybe? They left on horseback with the master. But the father is injured.”
The man clicked his tongue.
“Senior, you read a scene better than the patrol chief. Why don’t you take the post? What’s he good for besides flattering his bosses?”
She suddenly crouched again and studied the ground. He hurried over.
“What? You found something?”
After a moment, she took off her hat and looked east.
“...We had visitors. A small group came, checked the site. Likely the Brigade’s other two captains. Time... late morning today.”
With her hat off, her face showed—strikingly beautiful. Dark brows, strong features, a forceful look that only added to her charm.
But scars marked her. A large one ran diagonally from left brow to right cheek. More cut under the lip, and on the left cheek. Hard to look away, first time seeing her.
“Late morning? Not long ago.”
“Right. We go now.”
She put the hat back on, took her reins, mounted, and kicked off. Both riders flashed east. As the coats whipped, their uniforms showed—on left shoulder and chest, large, clear characters: “武林,” the words for the martial world.
Soon the uninvited were gone, and crows and birds settled again. Their feast, rudely paused, resumed.