The Boksinjeok's Silence
But that wasn’t the case. If left alone, the man looked ready to grab someone by the collar. Cheong couldn’t stand the sight and spoke up.
“Planning to settle this with words when you’ve got a perfectly good weapon? The winner gets to leave, so—”
Before she could even finish saying “leave,” one of the subordinates hurled his sword. Their leader must not have been very popular.
“Guh, you…!”
Yeomsaraedal coughed up blood, his side pierced. Normally, a stab to the flank was fatal. Even for a master, it was an unavoidable fate.
“The Divine Cult respects the strong. No need to feel too wronged.”
The subordinate who had launched the sneak attack said something unnecessarily flashy. Still, it wasn’t wrong. No one in the Divine Cult would condemn it. Weakness itself was the crime. The survivor was the victor. That was all there was to it. Yeomsaraedal, stabbed by his own subordinate, was the fool. A good mocking laugh would have wrapped it up nicely. That was the atmosphere of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult.
The Heavenly Demon Divine Cult! Its roots lay in a religious group called the Sun-Moon Divine Cult. Originally, it was Zoroastrianism from the Western Regions—known in the Central Plains as the Fire-Worshipping Cult—which had been reshaped over time into the Sun-Moon Divine Cult to suit the tastes of the Chinese people. The Sun-Moon Divine Cult believed that the entire Central Plains should follow the will of the Sun God Ahura Mazda and the Moon God Angra Mainyu. They dreamed of religious conquest. And they actually acted on it. It was a kind of reform attempt. Rulers, however, never tolerated challenges from religious fanatics. The Emperor suppressed the Sun-Moon Divine Cult with brutal force. As a result, the cult fled to the harsh lands of Xinjiang and formed a community dreaming of revenge. The leader of this community was the Divine Cult’s greatest master, the one who had led the Sun-Moon Divine Cult to safety against the government troops. Upon becoming the new Cult Leader, he declared: Let the heavenly god Ahura Mazda and the demon Angra Mainyu, who brings the end of the world, be united as one under the name Heavenly Demon. Thus was born the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult. They always ground their teeth, hoping one day to flood the Central Plains with the cult’s sacred flames. And they did act. Whenever the memory faded, they would invade the Central Plains’ martial world. The First, Second, Third, and Fourth Great Wars between the Orthodox and Demonic factions—four invasions in total. Having witnessed the bloodshed, the Central Plains stripped every good character from “Heavenly Demon Divine Cult” and simply called it the Demonic Cult. The cultists called it the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult; the Central Plains people called it the Demonic Cult. Two names, one body.
“Um… Great Hero?”
The victorious subordinate glanced at Cheong. She asked,
“Where’s the Boksinjeok?”
“It’s in his robes.”
The subordinate pointed at Yeomsaraedal. The dying man glared, but what threat was a corpse?
“Good. Then be on your way.”
“Thank you for your mercy.”
The subordinate clasped his fists in salute and leapt away. Cheong immediately thrust out her palm.
“Where do you think you’re going!”
Deeng! With a bell-like sound that shook the stone tomb, the subordinate’s rear exploded. His two legless halves traced separate arcs through the air while the torso, severed at the waist, landed pitifully on the tomb floor with a wet thud. The bottom burst open, spilling his entrails in a heap. The subordinate looked at her with resentful eyes and managed a garbled sound.
“Uweh, ueee…”
“Why? I said I’d let you go, not that I wouldn’t attack. If you wanted to live, you should’ve dodged.”
“Sssseuuuuaaah…”
The subordinate drew his last breath with a look of bitter regret. Cheong whistled and began rifling through the corpses’ robes. Looting the dead was a victor’s natural right.
“Ah. Nothing but junk…”
Would it kill them to carry a little money? The only worthwhile haul was a thigh sheath and the flower-ornamented throwing knives neatly slotted inside it. A bandit-looking fellow who liked floral patterns? Cheong strapped the sheath to her thigh and connected it to her belt. She stretched her legs a few times; it didn’t feel awkward at all. Quite a satisfying piece. No more need to swipe handfuls of chopsticks from every inn she visited. And finally, the ten-thousand-gold treasure—the Boksinjeok—rested in her hands. It was longer than expected and heavy, being made of iron. Ten-thousand-year cold iron, they’d said. When she gripped it, a cool sensation spread through her palm. With holes drilled along its long body, it was clearly meant to be a flute. Yet without any decoration, it looked like nothing more than a dark, bluish club. Wow. Swinging this would feel incredible. Whoosh. Whoosh. Cheong swung the Boksinjeok. The weight, length, and grip were perfect. Maybe even that legendary blacksmith had made it with the idea that someone might need an emergency club. If Ban Chi ever heard that, he’d weep tears of blood. Cheong tucked the Boksinjeok behind her back and looked around. The tomb chamber, now an abattoir under the dying torchlight, wavered in the flickering glow. She approached the central stone coffin, neatly smoothed the faded silk robes over the ancient skeleton, and closed the lid. Then she leapt through the hole in the ceiling. After that, the torches finally burned out, and darkness gently embraced the ruined tomb chamber.
Wang Gaeyuk, Sect Leader of the Da Jeong Sect, was beaming. And why wouldn’t he be? He had achieved the greatest accomplishment of his fifty-seven years. A few disciples were injured, but none seriously. They had repelled an entire battle unit of the Demonic Cult. On top of that, they had rescued the missing people. The rescued were emaciated and in poor condition, and there were only about thirty of them—half the original number—but since no one had expected a rescue in the first place, it was still a pleasant harvest. Unfortunately, the missing people knew nothing. They had been lured by Wang Son’s promise of one big score, only to be handed shovels and told to dig once they came to their senses. Since the Vanguard Wave had either died or fled, the Demonic Cult’s objective remained unclear. They had merely been trying to rob some nameless person’s grave. That was all. The matter concluded with Cheong claiming the ten-thousand-gold trophy. In truth, she hadn’t even tried to hide it.
“What’s that again?”
“Ah. You wouldn’t know, Sani. This is called a ‘flute.’ You blow into it to make sound.”
“……That’s not what I’m asking. Can’t you carry something a little more presentable? Why are you walking around with what looks like cheap scrap metal?”
Musical instruments were supposed to be splendid things. After all, music existed to enchant people. In the past, it helped workers forget the sorrow of labor, or added solemnity to rituals. Nowadays, it could also help one forget the pain of love or enhance the taste of wine. Musicians therefore worked to please both the ears and the eyes, so the splendor of instruments was a natural evolution of their purpose. In that sense, the Boksinjeok looked like nothing more than a dark, dull club.
“If you knew how much this is worth, even you’d be surprised, Sani.”
“Why? Two coins?”
“Paeng, at that price it wouldn’t even cover scrap metal. At least one tael of silver, I’d say.”
“You two are too fixated on appearances. Something like that could surprisingly turn out to be a treasure…… or……”
Changbin’s words trailed off and vanished. Cheong had shot him a look that made him feel guilty. It was a rare display of insight worthy of a Mount Hua disciple. But Changbin’s standing was already poor. Paeng Daesan and Namgung Sinjae simply heard him out and let it pass. Say something that makes sense, their expressions seemed to reply.
“Sword Friend, did you also know how to play the flute?”
Namgung Sinjae asked, sounding surprised. If Cheong had been any other woman, the question would have been considered rude. Playing an instrument was part of a lady’s accomplishments. But Cheong was a man at heart. She didn’t mind.
“The flute? What’s so hard about it? You just blow.”
Cheong put the Boksinjeok to her lips. Since Seomun Surin often played the flute, her posture was passable. The three of them watched with a hint of expectation. As expected, only a loud whoosh of wind came out. Annoyed, Cheong blew harder. One might have expected at least a noise, but only the empty, howling sound of wind filled the air. Cheong frowned.
“Damn it. Is this thing broken?”
Sani stared at her in disbelief. The girl’s face was flushed red from blowing so hard.
“……You think sound comes out just from blowing hard?”
“What, Sani? You know how to play?”
“I can manage simple tunes.”
“Ooh, a musical man. Impressive. Then how about it? Play us a song.”
Cheong held out the Boksinjeok. Paeng Daesan reached for it, then flinched when he saw the shiny marks near the mouthpiece.
“What? Why?”
“……Please. As a woman, you shouldn’t casually offer something you’ve put your lips on. Can’t you behave a little more like a lady? What will other men think?”
Oh, now he was lecturing her too. If people found her ridiculous, so what? Cheong scratched her head vigorously, then, as usual, immediately untied her hair and tied it back up again. Her skill at redoing her hair was flawless; she held the ribbon in her mouth, quickly gathered and twisted her hair, secured it with a hairpin, and finished with a neat knot. Not a single strand escaped. It was the greatest achievement of the Nuclear Noogies.
“What does it matter between friends? Huh? Or not?”
Come to think of it, maybe it was more awkward precisely because they were friends. Cheong recalled her school days. A recorder had been something you absolutely never borrowed or lent. It was gross, after all.
“Sword Friend, you should just get a new one made. At least that would make sound.”
“What did you say?”
Cheong glared at him with narrowed eyes. But Namgung Sinjae hadn’t been teasing; it was genuine advice offered out of concern for her, which only made her more determined.
“Just watch. I’m going to make this thing produce sound. I swear.”
Paeng Daesan clicked his tongue in disbelief.
“……Saying that while holding a flute—how exactly do you plan to make it produce sound?”
“Just watch.”
And so, for the entire journey to Mount Hua, Cheong carried the Boksinjeok with her. It never made a sound.