Gam Sangcheong’s eyes burned—literally—red.
Sword in hand, he left the dead horse behind and trudged forward, stopping an arm’s length from Jang Geon. In those fevered eyes Jang Geon read rage and hate—and, absurdly, a sliver of grief.
Wind-matted hair from the mad chase, clothes blotched with his men’s blood and the horse’s, a body twitching with inner energy drawn to the brim. Jang Geon recalled that the only words they’d traded, besides confirming Gam Soon-deok’s name, had been few.
So he asked, out of nowhere,
“Why was Jin Yangseok with you?”
“...Why the hell do you care? Stalling?”
Jang Geon braced a lazy hip, left hand on the scabbard at his waist, and jerked his chin toward the trail of bodies that had tripped and died.
“He was in there. Figured he’s dead.”
Gam Sangcheong growled.
“What do I care if that worm lives or dies? The sniveling wretch begged for help because his brother’s neck was on the line. What you should worry about isn’t that trash. It’s your head.”
Jang Geon snorted and spat out the dust from riding.
“Harsh.”
“My blade will do harsher to your neck, bastard.”
He sank lower as he spoke. Left foot long to the front, weight settled on the right, sword hand drawn to his chest, left hand making a sword sign and pointing at Jang Geon. A thrusting stance.
Jang Geon’s stance was simpler. Body turned sideways, head facing forward, his sword in his right hand laid across the left hip at the mouth of the scabbard. Not sheathed—draw-cut posture.
One man seethed, breath rough with inner energy racing through his body; the other stilled like a quiet pool. They stared into each other’s eyes.
Gam Sangcheong’s breathing grew harsher. His blade trembled along its length, a faint glow seeming to haze over it. The toes of his forward foot bit deep, carving a print. His low stance sank lower; he rumbled like a beast. The red eyes looked dangerous.
High sky, wide wastes—overhead only the flaring sun and a slow drift of feathery clouds, aloof to all below.
At some point, unable to hold the boiling energy, Gam Sangcheong roared.
“Uraa—aah!”
In the blur of the roar—or the instant it ended—the two men passed each other.
A long cut opened across Jang Geon’s left cheek and bled down. He flicked a glance at his blade. A tooth of steel had been gouged out from the center.
“Shit.”
He swore, turned on both hands, and gripped his sword. He hadn’t lost—but he hadn’t cut Gam Sangcheong either. The man spun as quickly; a fine red line showed at his throat. Shallow.
Jang Geon’s face stayed calm. Gam Sangcheong, having dumped a surge of inner energy, bared his teeth, rabid—white froth threading his lips, blood-shot vessels raised in livid skeins across his face and hands.
The once-faint light on his blade now showed plainly. A dark, blood-red glow ran along the edge. Sword energy.
“Madman. How much inner energy do you have?”
Jang Geon muttered it—and felt an ugly smile tug at his lips. Even the masters of this land rarely cast sword energy. You didn’t need to vomit your qi to kill. Some even called men who did it fools who couldn’t contain their own power.
Truth was, he’d never seen actual sword energy—not in the Central Plains while he trained, not in the years since crossing here. He couldn’t say why laughter rose, facing that dreadful condensation of force. His heart just beat faster.
Gam Sangcheong shouted again and rushed, cleaving down. Jang Geon took the blade in both hands and shed the cut. Steel met sword energy with a spray of sparks. Another big tooth snapped from his edge.
With fire seeming to pour from his eyes, Gam Sangcheong hacked and hacked, cramming every stroke with excess power. The speed and precision of the first clash were gone, but the force was more than ample. Too simple, though—form forgotten. Jang Geon, both hands on his sword, bled the blows aside with effort—but cleanly.
“Ahahaha! Hahahaha! Hah—ha—ha!”
Cackling without sense, he swung. Vessels burst in his eyes; blood tears streamed. It was ugly.
After shedding three, four such rushes, Jang Geon decided it wasn’t much to look at after all. A strong lunatic’s straight-line attacks were easy. His blade was losing teeth, but the sword energy wasn’t cleaving inner-charged steel in one go.
No more wasting time.
As the next chop came down, he set his edge on Gam Sangcheong’s blade and slid it, carrying it off to the side; his own edge tunneled in toward the throat. Startled, Gam Sangcheong reflexed—caught Jang Geon’s blade on his guard and lifted. Basic crossing defense.
Result: the two stood face to face, arms crossed into the shape of a 人, weapons jammed between.
Even with demonic frenzy surging, surprise rounded Gam Sangcheong’s eyes at Jang Geon’s face. Jang Geon smirked at that look—then let go of his sword and slammed a left fist into the man’s ribs.
“Urk!”
Lightning-quick follow-ups crashed into the opposite ribs, the jaw, the solar plexus. Both weapons, robbed of bracing arms, clanged to the dirt.
Gam Sangcheong clutched at himself and staggered back, reeling. Jang Geon stood exactly where he’d struck, calm, watching.
Hunched and tight, Gam Sangcheong lifted his head.
“Y-you... bastard! Dropping your blade—such a cheap—ghk!”
He hadn’t even been hit—the blood just surged up and he vomited it out. He tried to dam it with a hand, but it ran between his fingers. Feeling the warm slop and the churned mess inside, he stared in horror.
“You—you! That’s Heaven-Quake Fist...! Imperial Army technique...!”
“Not Heaven-Quake. It’s something I made—heavy-hand method.”
“The hell... what bullshit... is that...?”
Jang Geon had no interest in explaining. He shrugged once and spun into a back kick. His heel caught Gam Sangcheong’s jaw with a crunch and turned it half a circle. The man’s eyes went dull.
Jang Geon listened to the body thud down and dusted off his trouser leg. The corpse pitched forward; heat-thick blood crept out across the baked ground.
After a moment looking at the corpse, he turned, picked up his sword. With half its teeth gone, it looked better suited to sawing than cutting. He shook it once and sighed.
“Time for a new one.”
He slid it into the scabbard and checked the nicks on his body—no mortal cuts—then sighed again. He glanced back along the far hill where bodies lay here and there. He’d just fought thirty men alone—two of them demonic practitioners. For any martial artist, something to brag about.
It also meant he’d killed thirty men in one place. A slaughterer in all but name. As he stared out at the wastes, eyes sinking, Jojo came up and nudged his arm with a soft snort.
That broke his set jaw into a small laugh.
“What’s with you now? Tired from a little run?”
He rubbed the horse’s neck, then stepped toward the corpse to take Gam Sangcheong’s head. His hand found the grip—and he paused. Far out in the western scrub, something moved. Even tired, he focused inner energy into his eyes.
Two riders, raising dust, coming fast. Big straw hats, broad wind-cloaks—hard to see who. He doubted they were new bandits.
But instinct wasn’t enough to drop his guard. He set his left hand on the scabbard and faced them as they came on, eyes narrowed against the glare and grit.
They reined in at three paces. Jang Geon thought they looked slightly taken aback—and fair enough. More than ten bodies lay within sight. They looked around as if seeking whoever rode with him.
The one with the sword on the back stepped forward and asked,
“Did you kill them all?”
A low voice for a woman. Not unpleasant. Jang Geon kept his squint and spat dust.
“I did.”
He felt her eyes flick once to the sword at his hip. She watched him a moment without speaking, then swung down from her horse.
“Senior!”
The other rider called, startled, but she walked straight in, unhesitating. One pace. For a master, arm’s reach. She stopped there without a qualm.
Then, with the same crispness, she loosened the chin cord and removed her hat. A broad diagonal scar cut across her face; more marked her cheek and underlip, thrown into stark relief by the sun. For all the scars, she was a clear-boned beauty.
Like Jang Geon, she squinted into the light and studied him. They regarded each other in silence.
At last she spoke.
“I’m Martial Alliance Patrol No. 71, Jeok Se-in. And you are?”
“Jang Geon.”
Jeok Se-in tipped her chin toward a corpse on the ground.
“Gam Sangcheong?”
“Before that, you should show me something.”
Her eyes came back to him.
“What?”
“If you’re patrol, you’ve got a badge.”
“Ah.” She nodded, drew a hexagonal token from her coat, and held it up. The characters for “martial world” with a small “71” below. Once he’d seen it, she tucked it away and strode to Gam Sangcheong’s body. She rolled him over and began rifling his blood-soaked coat.
“...What are you doing?”
“Looking for a demonic-arts manual. That’s why we were dispatched after this lot.”
The young man—closer now, having dismounted—answered with an easy smile. His eyes were narrow slits with drooping ends, giving him a dull look. While Jang Geon weighed the scene, Jeok Se-in pulled a thin book from Gam Sangcheong’s jacket.
She flipped it briskly, then tossed it to the man.
“That’s it. Burn it.”
He nodded, dropped it to the dirt, and drew a small metal flask from his coat, pouring it over the pages. Oil, by the smell. Then he struck a spark. The fire took, but poorly; the oil was cheap. Acrid smoke.
After verifying the burn, Jeok Se-in returned to Jang Geon.
“Then the Third Banner Captain of the Red Sand Brigade you killed a day west of here—that was you as well. If Gam Sangcheong is dead, Yi Mang-gyeong should be too.”
“Yi Mang-gyeong?”
“Second Banner Captain.”
Jang Geon jerked his chin toward the hill.
“He’s over there.”
She nodded and called to the man with the fire.
“Sanho. Go check for any other manuals.”
“Eh...? Ah, yes. If Senior says so.”
Sanho rubbed a finger under his nose and climbed back up. Even the horse seemed to share his shambling nature; the two jogged toward the hill at a lazy half-run, half-trot.
Watching Jeok Se-in shake her head slightly, Jang Geon said,
“You were chasing them?”
“Yes. Martial Alliance patrol.” She added, “And… thank you for putting down a demonic practitioner. Our Alliance should have done it—we were late.”
“Skip the thanks. Since you’re patrol, let me ask something.”
She nodded.
“Ask. I’ll answer plainly.”
“Can I claim a bounty from you?”
“...A bounty?”
Jang Geon stroked his chin.
“There’s a price on their heads, isn’t there? I don’t even know where the nearest Alliance branch is, and I’m not going to lug dozens of heads around like a lunatic.”
“Ah... fair. I do have that authority. But I only have bonds on me right now... To cash them, you’ll need a trade caravan or an imperial city later.”
He considered “bonds” a moment, then nodded. He could change them eventually. Even branches paid in bonds if they were short on coin.
She brought her mount over, pulled a thick sheaf from the saddlebag, and handed it to him.
“Reward for slaying a demonic practitioner and for doing patrol work in our stead. You’ve done well, Master Jang.”
“Master Jang?” He found the address amusing and thumbed through the papers. Small-denomination bonds, issued under the Empire and the trade consortium. Paper money. Even out here, thousands of li from the Wall, he could feel the Empire’s force—its wars rolling out and crushing all before it for a thousand years—through these tokens.
Either way, good profit for bandits he wouldn’t have priced otherwise. He tapped his opposite palm with the packet, stuffed it into Jojo’s saddlebag, and looked back at Jeok Se-in.
“Anything else you need?”
“...Doesn’t seem so.”
“Good. Then.”
He turned, swung onto Jojo, and set off before she could add a word. She stared, then let out a faint laugh at the curt—bordering on cold—exit.
His back dwindled east across the waste at an easy pace—not fast, not slow. For a man who’d just carved thirty bandits, he looked simply like a traveler.
“...We’re just letting him go? Shouldn’t we search him? What if he took a demonic manual?”
Sanho had come back, watching Jang Geon ride off. Jeok Se-in shook her head.
“No need. His martial arts were stronger than that demonic trash. He crushed it with his own hands. He’s not about to learn it—especially not something that rots the mind. More to the point, we need to find local couriers.”
“Couriers? Will they even let us use them? And what are we checking?”
Jeok Se-in’s smile turned curious.
“I checked Gam Sangcheong’s body. His insides were pulped.”
“...Pulped? But the man was holding a sword.”
“He had two hands as well.”
Sanho frowned.
“Pulped guts and two hands means... Heaven-Quake Fist? You’re saying he’s Imperial Army?”
“That’s what we find out. And before that—we’ve another stop.”
Sanho gave a weak, crooked smile.
“Why’s there so much to do? Let’s keep it reasonable, Senior.”
Jeok Se-in lifted a hand. A slip of paper snapped from her sleeve like an arrow. Sanho caught it calmly and unfolded it.
“What’s this? I can barely read the Alliance maps. External charts are—”
“A map to the Red Sand Brigade’s hideout. From Gam Sangcheong’s coat.”
“...Ah. So we’re going to lift their hoard?”
She mounted and answered,
“They killed every adult and kidnapped the children to sell. They likely took many this time too. We’re going to save them.”
Sanho’s mouth collapsed; he hid his face with his hat, ashamed of having mentioned loot. Jeok Se-in looked east once more before spurring after him.
“Something tells me we’ll be seeing you again, Master Jang.”
She tied her hat’s cord, turned her horse west, and kicked off. In the wake they left, only bad oil smoke from a smoldering book and the long, low shadows of dead villains lay scattered across the noon-bright plain.