The Eighty-Fourth
It was late enough that even the moon was sinking.
At that hour, a single servant dozed at the northern side gate of Ha-mu-gwan in Cheonsubaekryeonsa, his chin nodding toward his chest.
Knock, knock.
At the sound, the servant wiped the drool from his mouth and scrambled upright. One look at the sky told him it was still the dead of night. He hurried to the gate and eased it open with care, so the hinges would not carry.
"Good heavens. Young Master Moyong Bi."
The servant stared at the figure beyond the door and clicked his tongue in disbelief.
"You said you'd be back before sunrise. Honestly, I didn't believe it — and yet here you are."
"I hurried, but I'm later than I meant to be."
Under the moonlight, Moyong Bi offered an awkward smile.
"But Young Master… what on earth happened to you…?"
In the pale light, Moyong Bi's black martial robes hung in shreds. Dried blood crusted his mouth, his eyes, and every inch of him — so thoroughly that he looked less like a man than a corpse.
"Ah. You can see it? I was hoping you wouldn't."
"To be honest, the dark hides the worst of it. But the smell…"
The reek rode the wind full in the servant's face, and he could not help wrinkling his nose. Moyong Bi scrubbed at his face with what was left of a sleeve.
"I'm sorry to ask, but could you prepare a change of martial robes and somewhere for me to wash?"
"Aigoo, Young Master. I understand your situation, but…"
The servant glanced worriedly at the sky.
"The sun will be up soon, and once it is, the other servants will come pouring in to start cleaning the washrooms. If they see you using them, they'll want to know who authorized it and go looking for the person responsible — and that leaves me in a rather awkward position…"
Moyong Bi clicked his tongue and nodded.
"Then there's nothing to be done."
"Thank you for understanding. For now, though — you're in a hurry. At least take this."
The servant fetched a damp towel and held it out.
"Thank you."
Watching him wipe his face, the servant spoke with a look of abashed humility.
"And Young Master — you can speak comfortably with me. To a lowly worm like myself…"
"I know well enough how lacking I am. That doesn't mean I can treat someone who does his best in his place however I please."
Moyong Bi kept working the towel carefully over his face as he spoke.
"Ah — that was something a certain person in Luoyang once said. I'm a martial artist; I don't have the head for elegant speeches like that. I do try, in my own way."
There was real sincerity in the brief words.
"…"
The servant stood looking at him. The drowsiness was gone from his eyes.
"Master Moyong Bi. Would you come with me?"
"…?"
At Moyong Bi's puzzled look, the servant went on.
"I've been thinking. It's not a crowd — just one man needing time to wash. I believe I can manage that somehow."
"You said a moment ago that you couldn't."
The servant's eyes brightened.
"For any other young master, that's true. But for you, Master Moyong Bi — I'll find the time, no matter what it takes."
With a little over sixty days left until the promotion exam, the usual atmosphere would have been free training by group or individual, without a single assembly called.
Today was different. All eighty-three members of Ha-mu-gwan stood gathered on the training grounds of Cheonsubaekryeonsa.
"I'll keep this short. As of today, the eighty-fourth disciple enters Ha-mu-gwan. I expect you to receive him properly."
Lee Jasuo's words from the platform set the whole assembly murmuring.
"Good gods."
"So the rumor was true — there really is a Ha-mu-gwan student serving out a disciplinary trial."
The murmuring swelled. Dang Sa-mun of the Sichuan Tang Clan studied Lee Jasuo's face and spoke under his breath.
"The instructor looks to be in a particularly foul mood today."
Gang Mu-jeong of the Jeomchang Sect cut in sharply.
"As if we have time to spare from our own training… The second this new disciple has a free moment, I'll show him how things work around here."
"The problem is, you're not the only one thinking that."
Sa Ha-yun of the Jeomchang Sect tipped her chin toward one side of the crowd. There, Ho Seo-a of the Zhongnan Sect was clenching and unclenching his fists with obvious relish.
Gang Mu-jeong's expression turned sly.
"Looks like the newcomer is going to have a rough first day. Care to bet he doesn't last a month?"
He grinned at Sa Ha-yun, who stood beside him with her arms folded, leaning against the wall.
"Not that it matters to me — I'll be up in Chu-mu-gwan before then. Right, junior sister?"
His gaze slid over her body, wrapped in thin blue silk, with the sticky, snakelike interest of a man who liked what he saw. Sa Ha-yun's face twisted with distaste.
"I've told you again and again not to call me junior sister just because you arrived a few days earlier and want to act familiar."
"Two days earlier still makes you my junior by rights. Our master was simply generous enough to put us in the same generation."
"Bullshit."
"I'm only trying to be friendly. Is it that unpleasant, sharing a sect with me?"
Gang Mu-jeong's sneer drew a flat reply.
"If you want me to treat you as a true senior brother, stop flapping your mouth and prove it with skill. If I don't acknowledge someone, I don't even use formal speech for them."
Gang Mu-jeong smiled.
"Heh. Fine. Easy enough. If I pass into Chu-mu-gwan ahead of you, that'll be proof enough."
Lee Jasuo gestured toward the tent behind the platform.
"Moyong Bi. Come out."
The tent flaps were drawn aside. A man walked out, and every eye in Ha-mu-gwan fixed on him.
Clank.
The first footfall on the platform carried a sound that did not belong.
Someone muttered, "Metal… Is he wearing plate armor under there?"
Martial artists neglected armor for a reason that began with the masters of the Transformation Realm and beyond — men who wielded Sword Gangqi, against which no ordinary protection was of any use. Over time, warriors who idolized the strongest began to imitate even their outward habits, and wearing armor came to be seen as a shameful admission that one was weaker than one's opponent.
Yet the disciple before them had clearly layered metal guards beneath his black martial robes. The outer robes themselves looked freshly donned, clean and neat — but the armor pieces fitted over his body were scored and scarred like the kit of a veteran who had rolled through decades of battle, a world apart from the glossy, immaculate dress of the other Ha-mu-gwan students. Full black was rare on anyone who was not an assassin.
The man called Moyong Bi wore black from head to foot, cinched with the golden sash that marked Ha-mu-gwan. Over that sash he had buckled a second belt of thin silvered leather. Both hands were tightly bound from fingertips to elbows in black bandages, as if he had been burned. His black hair was cropped short and rough, and a thick line of trapezius ran down into a waist that spoke of hard use. His face was calm.
Dang Sa-mun recalled what he had heard.
They said he was a mad dog. A complete one.
The reason he got thrown into a disciplinary trial? The son of the Hwangbo Family — one of the Five Great Families — back in Chunmu Hall. He caved the boy's skull in with a chair.
"…Somehow, that doesn't match what I'm seeing at all."
Looking into Moyong Bi's dark, deep eyes, Dang Sa-mun found himself thinking of a barren winter lake locked under ice.
"Hey. That country bumpkin. Funny, isn't he?"
Beside him, Gang Mu-jeong jabbed Dang Sa-mun in the side.
"H-huh?"
"I've been watching him. He doesn't have a single weapon. The fool's wearing armor like some foot soldier marching off to war, and nothing to fight with. Don't tell me he's playing at being some old-style Jianghu bare-handed fighter?"
"He's got bandages on his hands. He could be a hand-to-hand specialist."
Han Jung-mae put in a word from the side. Gang Mu-jeong snorted.
"Heh. Hand-to-hand specialist? A bastard son of one of the moneyed Five Great Families — not even one of the Nine Sects — and he thinks he's a fist master?"
The man came to a stop beside Lee Jasuo with another soft clank of metal. Lee Jasuo drummed his fingers on the table set on the platform.
"I'll keep it brief. Disciple Moyong Bi here is in… an unusual situation. He has entered mid-course, and every member of his original group has already been promoted to Chu-mu-gwan, so he stands alone. I ask that you help him adjust. That is what the Jianghu means by placing chivalry first. And while Cheonsubaekryeonsa's rules forbid an instructor from interfering in the conduct of disciples outside of training, I will say one thing from this platform."
Lee Jasuo worked his mouth as if the words tasted bad.
"Do not create pointless disputes."
He looked from the crowd to Moyong Bi and back. A short laugh rippled through the ranks. Ho Seo-a of the Zhongnan Sect muttered,
"Heh. The instructor sure is worried someone's going to pick on the greenhorn."
Moyong Bi only shrugged one shoulder. Lee Jasuo cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Moyong Bi — step forward and say a few words. Keep it short."
With that, Lee Jasuo withdrew. Moyong Bi inclined his head slightly toward him and came forward onto the platform.
"I am Moyong Bi."
The calm voice carried across the training ground. He brought his rough hands together in a martial salute.
"I look forward to working with you."
The disciples who had been snickering flinched, just slightly. There was no particular inner force in the voice.
That voice…
Against the look of a man barely out of his teens, the voice was remarkably gravelly. Compared with the thinner, higher tones of the other male disciples of Ha-mu-gwan, Moyong Bi's voice was like an iron sword rolled through a battlefield — rough, scarred, and wild.
"…What is with that guy?"
Sa Ha-yun straightened her posture and watched him. Over the frame of his salute, Moyong Bi looked out over the assembly.
"Circumstances kept me from joining until now. Honestly, standing here after everything that brought me around to this place, I am deeply moved, and…"
He stopped mid-sentence. In that brief instant, Dang Sa-mun saw more expressions and emotions flash across the man's face than he could count on his fingers. Moyong Bi cleared a catch in his throat, rested a hand on the table before him, and continued.
"Because of additional trials, I am starting Cheonsubaekryeonsa's regular course late. I will work hard enough not to become a burden to anyone else, and catch up as quickly as I can."
That was when it came.
"Additional trials? You mean a disciplinary trial. What was it, collecting toys from the neighborhood kids?"
Gang Mu-jeong's shout rang out. Whether it was pushback against that earlier flinch or simple malice, mocking voices erupted from all sides.
"A disciplinary trial — what's so grand about that? Look at him, tensing his forehead."
"For all we know, only the disciplinary committee knows what the trial even was. He'll go around claiming he saved the Jianghu or some nonsense and put on airs."
"Puhaha! You think?"
"…"
Moyong Bi looked over Gang Mu-jeong and the rest of the Ha-mu-gwan disciples. Dang Sa-mun bit his lip at the bitter taste in his mouth as he watched them.
These are thugs, not orthodox martial artists.
People were the same the world over, but as a weak disciple of the Sichuan Tang Clan — caught in the middle ground between the Five Great Families and the Nine Sects — Dang Sa-mun could not say a word. Even so, he did not like the look of any of them.
This is too much. What is the instructor doing?
He glanced at Lee Jasuo — who was simply standing by. What Dang Sa-mun could not understand was the instructor's face: paper-white, cold sweat running freely down it.
Gang Mu-jeong sneered.
"Kikik. Nothing to say, is that it?"
Han Jung-mae added from beside him,
"He's going to cry. Ease up. Show a little mercy to a kid who just walked into Ha-mu-gwan."
Moyong Bi blinked slowly.
"Hah."
His hands closed on the edge of the table.
Crack…
Fine fractures began to spider out from under his grip.
"I know. I know, Mumyeong. I haven't forgotten we agreed to live quietly. So shut up."
With those opaque words, Moyong Bi gave a small nod.
"Right. Well. Fair enough. You're all young and full of blood. If anyone has questions, ask them. It's not as if this is a life-or-death duel, so…"
An odd phrase seemed to have slipped out. Moyong Bi waved a hand.
"What I mean is — purely for the sake of getting along? Talking with Jianghu folk my own age feels strange and good at the same time. Instructor Lee Jasuo said not to drag this out, so for now, just simple questions. Later, when there's time, ask me whatever you like…"
"I've got a question. Do you even know how to hold a sword?!"
Ho Seo-a of the Zhongnan Sect bellowed at the top of his lungs.
Puhaha!!
Men and women alike burst out laughing.
"Ah. A sword?"
Moyong Bi paused.
"Mm… Yes. I know how to hold one, more or less. Honestly I wasn't confident, but not long ago a dual-blade martial artist nearly killed me, and I picked up a few things from that."
"Good heavens — dual blades! A tale straight out of the old Jianghu! How terrifying for you!"
The whole crowd doubled over. Someone else shouted,
"Was that dual-blade martial artist maybe a cook peeling potatoes with a knife in each hand?!"
"Uwahaha!"
Only Sa Ha-yun was not laughing. She was watching Lee Jasuo, and her eyes filled steadily with questions.
"What is this?"
Her gaze narrowed further.
"Why is the instructor's face going so pale?"
The crowd's reaction only made Ho Seo-a bolder. He cupped a hand beside his mouth and roared again.
"Listen up, brat! While you were playing house with your little disciplinary trial, we trained like mad in Ha-mu-gwan through rain and snow! Even if you train yourself half to death in the time you waste taking questions, I doubt you'll even catch our asses!"
Uwahahaha!!
No one tried to stop it now. Moyong Bi's head was lowered. Ho Seo-a laughed harder.
"Look at him hanging his head! Puhahaha!!"
From the front rank, Sa Ha-yun caught the words Lee Jasuo was muttering.
"Please… please, Moyong Bi…"
"Hah."
Moyong Bi let out a second short breath and raised his head.
"You there, disciple. What is your name?"
"Why? What do you need my name for?"
Ho Seo-a shouted back.
"And those robes of yours. They look strangely familiar."
Moyong Bi said,
"Are you by any chance of the Zhongnan Sect?"
"That's right. Zhongnan Sect. Ho Seo-a of the Zhongnan Sect. What of it?"
As if he had been waiting for the invitation, Ho Seo-a shoved his way through the others and stepped forward. His massive frame put his eyes almost level with Moyong Bi's on the platform — only a little lower. The eyes that met his were calm, a winter lake sealed under thick ice.
"Zhongnan after all. I have quite a few ties with the Zhongnan Sect, one way and another."
"What? What kind of ties could the likes of you have with our sect? You're a Moyong, sure — but not even a proper house son. A bastard, wasn't it? You armor-wearing coward of a soft noble brat."
Crunch.
Moyong Bi's five fingers drove into the edge of the platform and sank through the wood.
"Huuu—. Soft noble brat?"
He lowered his head and let out a third breath. When he lifted his face again, a faint smile was on it.
"Ho Seo-a. Care to step outside for a moment? It seems we have rather a lot of questions for each other."