The 48th Real Championship (2)
Jang Cheon dialed Park Gwang-cheol. The minor industry heavyweight he'd mentioned to Bishop earlier was none other than him.
"Hey, friend. Got a minute?"
"Whoa, friend? Asking if I've got time? Holy crap! How long ago did you roast me, and now you need my help already? You punk! I'm busy choking down the shit you couldn't cut loose!"
"Okay."
As Jang Cheon moved to hang up, Park Gwang-cheol shouted in a panic.
"Wait! What's with the 'okay'? If you're calling, spit it out! Where are you? Where do I go?"
Two hours later, Jang Cheon and Park Gwang-cheol stood in the reception room at Guardian Camp HQ, eyeing the photos plastered on the wall.
Snaps of famous politicians and celebrities hung there, flanked by suited bodyguards in sunglasses standing rigidly at attention.
That's when someone stepped in and spoke up.
"Last year, our company expanded into South America. The gentleman over there with our staff is Mr. Fernandez, CEO of Mark Corporation."
The man who'd entered to explain was dressed in a high-end suit, his hair slicked back in a pomade style. He was none other than Guardian Camp's CEO, Lee Dong-hyeok.
"I'm Lee Dong-hyeok."
He extended a hand for a shake. Park Gwang-cheol clasped it.
"Park Gwang-cheol."
"I've heard so much about Park Enter's stellar reputation. It's an honor to meet you."
"The feeling's mutual. These days, no one in business hasn't heard of Guardian Camp. You're huge among corporate folks."
"Thank you."
After the greetings, Lee Dong-hyeok glanced at Jang Cheon.
"He's my bodyguard. Sticks with me wherever I go—my trusty right hand."
"Looks competent."
But that "competent" look was on par with what Joo Won had shown during the last Alliance Lord tournament—maybe a touch stronger at best.
Generally, one could conceal their martial level from those weaker than themselves.
Someone with sharp instincts might detect a stronger opponent hiding their power, but even that had limits.
Once the gap in skill grew too wide, gauging the other's true strength became impossible.
In that sense, Lee Dong-hyeok could never pierce Jang Cheon's facade.
"You want to upgrade your security system?"
"Yeah, thinking it's time to get a proper setup in place. You heard about our group's incident?"
"Yes, truly fortunate it turned out okay. Is the chairman alright?"
"He's fine. Man's got nerves of steel. Watching the whole thing unfold gave me some realizations. We've been running security on a patchwork basis up till now."
Jang Cheon had prepped Park Gwang-cheol to bring up the assassination attempt. It made the visit feel organic.
Park Gwang-cheol could be sly as a fox sometimes, but here he played the businessman role with surprising polish.
To the point where Jang Cheon wondered if it was acting or just his hidden true colors emerging.
"Most companies are like that. But once you experience proper security services, you'll see why we stand out."
"Mind walking us through the details?"
"Of course."
A manager soon entered and ran a quick presentation.
Citing various cases, he stressed the importance of protection services, breaking down personnel deployment by company size and quoting costs.
While that played out, Jang Cheon quietly sized up Lee Dong-hyeok—his demeanor, the arts he'd cultivated, even how he handled people.
Once the presentation wrapped, small talk ensued.
"I hear you're a Murim man, Mr. Lee."
"Yes, that's right."
"Impressive. Running a business on top of being a martial artist. How'd you get into this? Not a family heirloom, from what I know."
Another question Jang Cheon had scripted in advance. It was the real reason for today's visit.
"Yes, I founded this company myself."
"Tell me more. I could use some trade secrets to grow my own empire."
"Come on. Park Enter's a name everyone in entertainment knows."
"They probably just know the CEO as a playboy wastrel."
"Haha, straight shooter, just like they say."
Lee Dong-hyeok was adept at mirroring his guest's vibe.
His major during his Russian studies abroad hadn't been business.
"Heard you majored in history. How'd that lead to starting a company?"
"You know your stuff about me."
"Read your interview in a magazine."
"Right. Life's full of surprises. Back during my studies, I met people who taught me big lessons and gave me a boost.
Thanks to them, I got established faster than most."
"It's all about who you know for success. Jealous."
"Don't you have Korea's strongest backing, Mr. Park?"
He meant Park In-hwan, of course, but in that moment, Park Gwang-cheol thought of Jang Cheon. With him around, he felt unbreakable.
"Send today's details to my email. I'll review and get back to you."
"Looking forward to good news."
On the drive back, Jang Cheon said,
"Thanks."
"Psh, thanks my ass."
Park Gwang-cheol felt a swell of pride at being useful to Jang Cheon.
"That guy's bad news?"
"Not certain yet, but my gut says no good."
If his instincts held, those "solid connections" from study abroad days pointed to this organization.
"Seemed clean enough on the surface. Anyway, just say the word anytime."
"And if I do?"
"If he's scum, we nab him. Why? Law say bad guys can't catch bad guys? Territorial bullshit or what?"
"Didn't say a word. Call tomorrow—say meet at your office. See who he brings."
"Sweet!"
Park Gwang-cheol was still riding high on all these adventures with Jang Cheon.
Vroom.
He stomped the accelerator.
In the opposite lane, the car carrying Actor and Death passed by.
"That Real Championship you mentioned."
Actor, behind the wheel, broached it casually. Death, who never answered questions about his Korea trips, shot him a glance.
Seizing the reaction, Actor pressed via the rearview.
"Where's it held?"
Death, lounging in the back, answered readily.
"Different spot every year. Mountains, deserts, underground arenas."
Actor sensed Death's nerves fraying over missing the event.
Since he'd opened up about it, keeping the chat going might soothe him.
Actor excelled at reading and handling people.
"How many times have you entered?"
"Three."
The organization only cared about mission compliance—personal pursuits were fair game. His acting gig fell under that umbrella.
"You said a woman's got three straight wins. Is she the world's best?"
"Not quite. The World Murim Alliance Lord doesn't even join."
Tae Cheon-gi was publicly hailed as the top dog.
"You think the Lord's the only one that elite?"
Implying premium status might hide even greater masters.
"Heard a saying once: Murim experts are like grains of sand on the beach."
"Exaggerated, but not wrong. For every showboat craving the spotlight, there's one hiding in the shadows."
The Real Championship drew true elites, hermits, recluses shunning fame, and those barred from the public eye.
All breeds under the sun. Ranking 29th there wasn't something to scoff at.
Death's eyes lit up talking Murim, especially the Real Championship. Before organization man, he was a warrior—brimming with competitive fire and honor lust.
Actor clocked it. To handle Death right, leverage that.
"What's that three-peat woman like?"
"No idea."
"How come?"
"Competitors can't watch others' matches. You only see your opponent. Organizers and super-rich sponsors catch everything."
Actor nodded.
"They huddle around monitors somewhere?"
"Dunno if together, but arenas are rigged with cameras. Otherwise, just refs, staff, and the two fighters."
Seemed unfair to entrants at first, but genius for the hosts.
Keeping fighters incognito preserved the mystery.
Knowing who and what arts they'd face let you prep counters.
Fights thrilled most when raw and spontaneous.
"Entrants can wear masks, veils, or disguises if they want. Lots do."
"So no names either."
"Get a number per entry."
"How'd you know she three-peated?"
"Hosts announce post-tourney. Number X wins, Y runners-up. Plus winner deets."
Death spilled freely despite the barrage. He'd bottled this up forever.
Made sense—no blabbing such secrets lightly. Actor was trustworthy.
"How many compete?"
"64. Hosts keep it steady. No clue on invites or fill-ins."
Actor started to cheer Death up, but the info hooked him deep.
Some bits puzzled, though.
He ventured carefully.
"Ego-driven experts okay being someone's spectacle?"
"The prideful ones sit it out. Like you said—sand on the beach."
"Right."
"For entrants, prize money trumps pride. And something bigger."
"What?"
"Just competing makes you stronger."
"How so?"
"Rules are ironclad. Top-tier masters join. Kill intentionally? You're out—or dead.
Pure, fair duels. When else do you spar elites under such strict code?
Real fights hone you, sure. But tourneys like this boost arts too."
"Got it."
Actor nodded, genuinely hooked now, questions flowing easy.
"Three straight's gotta be the record."
"Nope."
"Huh?"
"Legend's separate."
"Who?"
"Before her, someone won six in a row."
Six straight? So absurd it stunned less.
"Possible?"
"Dunno. Just heard it—but from hosts to fighters, so legit."
"Maybe weaker fields back then?"
Death shook his head.
"Nah, that era was peak. Even stronger masters showed.
He vanished once the three-peat woman rose—like passing the torch."
"Prizes a trillion won then too?"
"Yep."
"Six trillion haul, whoever he was."
With that skill, why quit? Could've kept winning.
Then again, six trillion lasted lifetimes of extravagance. What was that champ up to now?
More questions bubbled, but they'd arrived.
They parked on the first-floor lot and stepped out.
A massive building loomed ahead.
Guardian Camp—the very place Jang Cheon and Park Gwang-cheol had just left.