Tales Bought with Gold
Yakhyun, a small village between Muhan and Akju.
The boatman who had rowed them hard across the river told them he would fetch Yacho and that they should wait at an inn, then vanished in a tearing hurry.
Fair enough. How long had the man been living in hiding among rebel forces? Anyone would understand the urgency. Besides, meeting Yacho was something Jegal Mun-Hyeon wanted for himself as well. The urge to scour Dongho right that moment was strong enough to smoke, but having people he could put to work was better than searching alone. He intended to put Yacho’s group to use combing the lake—call it a welcome gift for taking them in. They would join the opening of Yungjung Mountain and lean on the Jegal name; he would get an easier search. Everybody won, in their own way.
“Still… ‘wait at an inn’? How are we supposed to know which one? He could at least have pointed us somewhere. Even if he was in a rush, that’s no excuse for zero thought.”
Grumbling, Jegal Mun-Hyeon stepped into the village—and immediately realized he had been wrong. A wide stretch of fields. A single road cutting through them. And among the houses clustered to either side, exactly one inn.
“Ahem. Mujin, hurry up.”
Embarrassed at having cursed a man who had, in fact, left them no choice, he quickened his pace. Mujin’s expression, however, was strange—straining like a puppy that desperately needed to go.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well… even in a village this small, if there are unorthodox martial artists about, they might notice the sage’s aura. It seemed wise to take precautions.”
“…”
“Or shall I wait outside the village? I can manage a night in the open without trouble.”
Faced with that grave look, Jegal Mun-Hyeon let out a sigh.
Don’t worry, Mujin. You have no idea, but right now you look unorthodox to anyone with eyes. Viciously so. The killing intent… the killing intent…
“It’s fine. Just keep up. Now that I think about it, we haven’t eaten all day.”
“But we aren’t far from Akju…”
I told you not to worry. You look like a completely different person. Like some notorious unorthodox master out for a stroll.
Words were clearly not going to work, so he simply grabbed the back of Mujin’s collar and dragged him along.
“Y-Young Master, wait a moment—”
“Wait nothing. Follow me. I’m starving. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here—we’re having a drink too.”
“Young Master…”
Mujin, who already regarded Jegal Mun-Hyeon as his master in his heart, could not refuse. He let himself be hauled away while desperately trying to rein in his energy.
A few sword-bearing unorthodox martial artists were visible in the village; more sat inside the inn itself. Not one of them paid Mujin any mind. On the contrary, the strained face he made while trying to suppress his aura startled several of them into bowing first and offering greetings.
“E-excuse me… what would you like to eat?”
It was not a waiter but the elderly innkeeper himself who came to take their order.
“What do you do well here?”
“Our Jingjiang shredded pork is excellent.”
“Fine. Bring that as a side, and your best wine as well. We’re famished, so throw in whatever else will fill our stomachs.”
“I shall do my utmost.”
The innkeeper folded nearly double in a bow and scurried off.
“Um…”
Mujin spoke carefully. From the sheepish look on his face, he seemed worried they were spending too freely. Jingjiang pork, wine, extra dishes—yes, it was a lot for two people. Raised as a frugal Taoist, thrift would be second nature to him.
“It’s fine. You enjoy yourself when you can afford it. Unlike a Taoist like you, I come from a martial family—our circumstances are comfortable.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Ah, ah! I said it’s fine.”
He put on a stern face and glared. Mujin looked downcast.
“Could I… have the red-braised pork those people are eating instead of the Jingjiang pork?”
“Huh?”
“I like that better.”
“…”
“You’ll be paying with the money we took when we cleared out the water bandits anyway…”
This brat. I never took him for the type… so he has preferences.
“You helped, of course, but I practically wiped out the bandits alone… so if we’re being precise, I earned that money myself…”
Even while fidgeting, Mujin staked his claim. The idea that a Taoist would be austere had been Mun-Hyeon’s private delusion. He had raised a tiger cub—and the boy still hadn’t paid him back for the dirt-cheap horse he had sold him, either. What a worldly little Taoist!
Still, if a disciple wanted something, what kind of master would refuse?
“Innkeeper! Add an order of red-braised pork!”
At the hearty shout, Mujin’s face brightened and he grinned.
“But are you even allowed to eat meat? Doesn’t Wudang ban flesh under the Ten Precepts or something?”
“Pfft, how long ago was that? Ages back, one of our ancestors cured his ailing master with chicken. Ever since then Wudang has eaten meat. That same ancestor even permitted wine—we brew our own at the main mountain. Some of us even marry. He set a fine precedent. Muryangsubul.”
“Ah…”
So there had been a Taoist like that. Feeding his master chicken to cure illness… not exactly a normal Taoist—wait. Hold on.
“Mujin.”
“Yes?”
“When was this ancestor?”
“Quite a long time ago.”
“Before the Profound Heaven Founder?”
“Oh, much earlier than that.”
“…”
That damned Profound Heaven bastard.
The words he had spoken when Mun-Hyeon sought him out for the path of ascension came back.
“Hah hah, wine in a Taoist temple?”
You little shit. If you didn’t want to give me any, you could have just said so.
So it had already been an era of free-flowing wine. Had it really been that precious to him?
Jegal Mun-Hyeon was still pouting over the slight when Mujin spoke again.
“Anyway, for such a small village the people are surprisingly kind. The owner himself waiting on us, and so politely too. Those men look like wandering swordsmen, yet they greeted us first.”
That’s because of you.
Even in a village this size, people who ran an inn would have seen their share of unorthodox martial artists coming and going. The aura Mujin was putting out made those ordinary ruffians look like nothing; of course the innkeeper had come in person. Send a waiter by mistake and the whole place might end up in splinters. The martial artists’ greetings were just as natural. Even a third-rate could sense killing intent; to their eyes Mujin looked like a high-level unorthodox master traveling under a false identity. Well, at least no one would pick a fight with them. The innkeeper had promised his best effort, so the food should be decent. Now they could relax and—
No. Wait. This place is close to Dongho too. There must be all sorts of rumors floating around.
And the innkeeper was advanced in years. The thought settled, Jegal Mun-Hyeon called him back.
“A word, if you please.”
“Yes! You called, sir!”
The old man sprinted over with surprising speed and bowed deeply—thanks to Mujin. Convenient. The red-braised pork was already paying for itself.
“Tell me…”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard any rumors circulating near Dongho?”
“Rumors, sir?”
“For instance: someone saw five-colored auspicious light one day, or a mysterious whirlpool suddenly appeared in the water, or a woodcutter threw his axe and a spirit showed up offering a golden axe and a silver axe… that sort of thing.”
“A woodcutter threw his axe?”
The innkeeper glanced around and tilted his head.
“Those were examples. I was wondering if there might be similar stories.”
“Well…”
“Anything at all. I’m the type who takes an interest in such rumors wherever I travel.”
“Hmm… hrmm…”
The innkeeper fidgeted, utterly at a loss. He had no idea why anyone would want to hear that nonsense, but you did not answer a terrifying master carelessly either.
Damn it all. I dreamed of dung last night and thought my luck would be good—then these monstrous children show up and torment me like this.
He had to say something if he wanted to keep the high expert happy. He was still digging through childhood memories and groaning when—
Clink.
“…?!”
Eyes flew open, ears pricked. Not dung—money.
“Speak. Anything will do. If the stories are interesting, I’ll pay handsomely.”
“….”
How many years had he lived? Handling merchants was easier than eating cold porridge. Watch: he deliberately set the money pouch down so it made a nice loud sound, and the innkeeper reacted exactly as hoped.
Smiling faintly, Jegal Mun-Hyeon eased the mouth of the pouch open.
A brilliant gleam spilled out. Yellow—because he had deliberately skimmed a few gold lumps when they cleaned out the bandits.
Greed lit the innkeeper’s eyes. Greed lit the waiter’s eyes. Greed lit the eyes of the nearby unorthodox martial artists as well.
Of course he could not leave it like that. Money was a curious object; once it sat in front of people, there was no telling what they might do.
“Mujin.”
“Yes?”
“Release a little killing intent.”
“…Pardon?”
He had been told to suppress it, not pour it out. Mujin stared in confusion.
“Release it.”
“But why would you—”
“Ah, ah!”
Mujin frowned, yet decided Mun-Hyeon would not order something pointless. He stopped restraining the energy he had been holding in check.
Crack!
Power that had been crushed down for so long suddenly flooded outward. Nearby tables and chairs split as if struck by axes. Excellent. Of course none of it touched the innkeeper—Mun-Hyeon had shielded him with internal energy.
Wearing a satisfied smile, Jegal Mun-Hyeon looked at the martial artists who had shown greedy eyes and said,
“No need to worry. If he speaks well, part of the money in this pouch will belong to the innkeeper. And should I hear that anyone stole it or took it by force, I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and peel them like fruit.”
That was a warning for the martial artists. I have memorized your faces. If you so much as touch the innkeeper after we leave, I will make you look like those cracked tables and chairs.
The greed they had briefly revealed vanished. The men quietly rose and fled. It had been a considerable sum, yet Mujin’s killing intent carried greater force still.
“That’s enough. Rein it in.”
“Yes.”
Mujin still had no idea why, but he could only obey.
“Now then—speak.”
“Ahem… very well. You said any story would do.”
The innkeeper began pouring out every fantastic tale he had ever heard while living near Dongho. Jegal Mun-Hyeon listened with the rapt attention of a child hearing old stories from his grandfather. These were not mere stories. Somewhere among them might lie a trace of the immortal who lived beneath the water. So squeeze them out. Take the money from my pouch.
Food arrived, more wine followed, and still the innkeeper strained to wring out even the tales of his runny-nosed childhood. Every time the fearsome master went “Hmm” with interest, another silver coin found its way into the old man’s hand. No gold yet—how that must have burned him.
Night deepened. The stories went on. The waiter lit lamps. Every other customer drifted away until the inn stood empty and hollow.
“Young Master, aren’t you wasting far too much money on empty tales?”
While the innkeeper, throat parched, disappeared to fetch another bottle of wine, Mujin whispered with a face that looked ready to die of regret.
A worldly brat who just polished off red-braised pork suddenly wants to be frugal? You have no idea how precious these stories are to me. They may sound like nonsense to your ears, but for me they hold the longing of a lifetime I never managed to fulfill. The money in the pouch? What does it matter? I took it from water bandits anyway. I have already plucked several things more valuable than gold from that nonsense—a bamboo grove where human voices drift on the wind, a spring said to have cured long illness when someone drank from it…
Around the time the innkeeper’s eyes were bloodshot with greed and the pouch was growing light—
“Ah, and do you know about the child abductions?”
“Abductions?”
“Yes. It’s a fairly well-known story around Dongho. Now and then an infant still on its mother’s milk—not even a hundred days old—would vanish. I can recall three or four cases myself.”
“Hmm.”
His brow furrowed, yet the news was not especially surprising. Anyone who kidnapped a newborn that could not even be sold was almost certainly a martial artist of the lowest sort. Some would raise them as assassins, others for the Demonic Cult, others still… a wretched fate.
“That will be enough.”
“Pardon? But I still have more to tell—”
The innkeeper looked regretful. It could not be helped. A new guest had just arrived.
“Innkeeper.”
“Yes, Master!”
“Is there somewhere else you can sleep tonight?”
“Sir?”
“I would like to rent the entire inn for the night.”
Jegal Mun-Hyeon finally drew a gold lump from the pouch and set it on the table. The innkeeper’s gaze locked onto it.
“This should cover it, yes?”
“More than enough!”
Grinning, Mun-Hyeon waved a hand. The innkeeper and waiters filed out. A moment later, footsteps creaked across the worn floorboards of the empty inn.
“You have sharper instincts than I expected.”
A middle-aged beggar dressed in the nine-pouch rags of his sect stepped inside.