Call Out the Cook
“Tell the cook to come out.”
Late in the evening, Jin Seongun let out a long, weary sigh.
The shattered tables and chairs needed repairing, but there wasn't a decent carpenter to be found in all of Yichang. Buying replacements wasn't easy either — the town's markets were modest, which meant everything would have to be hauled in from other regions through merchant guilds and trading houses.
A business could never afford a day of rest. It was a truth Jin Seongun had learned with his own body over more than a decade of life as a waiter: close your doors for even one day, and even if you opened again the next as if nothing happened, the customers would dwindle.
Just as his worries were deepening, Seo Yugyeom sidled up and spoke.
“Why not just close for a few days instead? We find a proper carpenter, overhaul every last piece of furniture, and put up a small building in the backyard while we're at it. You can't sleep on the inn floor forever.”
He had a point. Jin Seongun had been thinking for some time that he would eventually need a proper place to sleep.
“The trouble is that finding a good carpenter is harder than buying tables and chairs. And if we're putting up a building, business will have to close for days……”
He had been getting a real taste of how difficult running an inn could be lately. There were hardships invisible to him back when he was simply a waiter, doing as he was told.
As Jin Seongun's sigh filled the inn from wall to wall, a man lifted the hanging curtain and stepped inside. He was an old man with snow-white hair, but what struck the eye was his gaze — it smoldered like a banked flame.
Seo Yugyeom slipped a hand into his breast and quietly closed it around the Heaven-Killing Short Saber. Jin Seongun, too, briefly checked on the location of his Black Tortoise Sword.
A faint energy hung about the old man. He was no wandering vagrant; this was a martial artist who had trained properly.
“Would you be Jin Seongun?”
The old man's voice was as firm as his gaunt but sturdy face. Jin Seongun inclined his head.
“Yes, that's right, though we're closed for business today.”
“Is that so.”
Paying him no mind, the old man entered the inn. Before Jin Seongun or Seo Yugyeom could stop him, he swept his eyes over the interior and clicked his tongue.
“Wrecked to splinters, the whole lot. Looks like some martial types came through.”
Then, scooping up a handful of the wreckage and tossing it out the door, he called:
“Everyone, come in!”
Power rode in that voice. The sudden rumble of heavy wheels grinding furiously against the road sounded outside, then stopped before the inn.
A dozen-odd laborers poured in through the doors, carrying timber, hammers, and saws.
Jin Seongun and Seo Yugyeom could only stare, dumbfounded.
The old man and his seasoned artisans, for their part, took skilled measurements here and there before scattering to their tasks. Some cleared away the debris — every one of them trained in martial arts, and so far faster at hauling it out than any ordinary workman would have been. Others fell to hammering and sawing, and two strokes of a saw were enough to part the timber clean.
Their craftsmanship was nothing short of extraordinary.
“……Might I ask who you are?”
Jin Seongun ventured cautiously. Without so much as a glance his way, the old man replied in an irritated drawl.
Shin Mok — the Godly Wood.
Jin Seongun tilted his head. The name meant nothing to him. No — was it perhaps a title?
While he was still turning the thought over, Seo Yugyeom, rare for him, widened his eyes and prodded Jin Seongun in the ribs. Unlike Jin Seongun, who had spent his years in the service of others, Seo Yugyeom had moved through the world as an assassin, and he was remarkably well-versed in its affairs. He knew that title well.
The finest carpenter of the age — said to have built several of the palace buildings in the Imperial capital itself.
Seo Yugyeom sent his voice humming into Jin Seongun's ear.
— A carpenter worth a hundred nyang of gold.
Naturally, that was the going rate for an assassination contract.
Jin Seongun's eyes widened as well — a rare occurrence. A hundred nyang of gold, for a man who wasn't even a martial artist but a carpenter. Then another question occurred to him.
“I was looking for a carpenter, but how did you know to come, Elder? And I haven't the money to spare, I'm afraid……”
A master of that caliber would surely command an exorbitant fee. Handing over the inn's tables and chairs to such a man was far beyond what the situation called for.
At Jin Seongun's worried inquiry, Shin Mok furrowed his brow in open annoyance.
“That White Cloud Sword fellow sent for me. The bill goes to Wudang. And stop chattering at me while I'm working — get out.”
With that, Shin Mok straightened his back and surveyed the inn's interior with a dissatisfied eye.
“While I'm at it, I'll fix up this shabby interior too. Now — where have you been sleeping?”
“We live here at the inn.”
“On the floor, then. Tsk. I'll build you a small annex in the backyard before I go.”
Shin Mok nodded as if the matter were self-evident. Green innkeepers with little capital rarely had the means to run guest rooms; until they earned enough, they ate, slept, and washed under their own roof.
“Elder, I'm grateful, truly, but if we're to keep the business running, that long a closure is…….”
“One day.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do we look like some ragtag rabble to you, that it would take days and weeks? Hah — I told you to stop pestering me and clear out!”
“……Yes, sir.”
And so Jin Seongun was ejected from his own inn. He made sure not to forget to ask that the shed in the backyard be left untouched.
— What in the world do you need this ramshackle shed for?
— It is where I practice my breathing exercises, actually.
Jin Seongun said it mindful that Shin Mok was trained in the martial arts, and the old man nodded as though that explained everything. Martial artists, as a rule, circulated their qi in the place where they felt most at ease and most secure — in other words, the most hidden and private spot they had. With that said, Shin Mok would sooner not go anywhere near the chained, locked shed, let alone open it.
The two men wandered off with no destination in mind. They'd been granted a one-day holiday for the first time in ages, but there was nothing else to fill it with. Seo Yugyeom, however, seemed to be enjoying himself regardless, chuckling as he walked.
“Ha, Shin Mok. Never thought that temperamental old coot would come in handy.”
In the same instant, gooseflesh raced up Seo Yugyeom's spine — his body had reacted faster than his mind. Without a moment's deliberation he pivoted on his heel and swept the Heaven-Killing Short Saber through the air.
Tap.
Hyeon Un lightly caught the short saber with his scabbard and smiled slyly.
“The temperamental old coot has arrived. By the way — no matter how I look at you, you were an assassin before you ever picked up a kitchen knife, weren't you? Your level is quite respectable.”
A flicker of intrigue crossed the old man's eyes. Standing beside a talent as colossal as Jin Seongun, Seo Yugyeom's brilliance had been somewhat eclipsed — but he was, in truth, a warrior whose skill defied his years.
“……I'm just a cook.”
“Sure, sure. Just a cook.”
With that, Hyeon Un fixed a long, level gaze on the Heaven-Killing Short Saber. The blade bore no distinguishing marks, and there was no way the old man could have recognized it — yet Seo Yugyeom's conscience pricked at him all the same, and he swiftly tucked it back into his breast.
Hyeon Un burst into hearty laughter, clearly entertained.
Jin Seongun bowed respectfully, fists clasped before him.
“Thank you for sending the master craftsman. I will pay the cost myself.”
“Tsk. What kind of master charges his disciple's friend? Don't tell me you intend to paint me as such a petty man and make a laughingstock of me before the world?”
“…….”
Jin Seongun shut his mouth. When someone of greater age and standing pressed an argument like that, there was simply nothing to say in return.
Soon enough, Hyeon Un flashed a grin and held out the very sword he had used to deflect Seo Yugyeom's blade, scabbard and all.
“I found this lying about on my way here. Gave it a look — not a bad sword at all. And I hear the one you carry belongs to the Black Dao.”
Hyeon Un had already heard everything there was to know about Jin Seongun from Oh Jeongsan. Know your enemy and know yourself, and you need never fear a hundred battles — was that not how the saying went?
As Jin Seongun stared at the sword, Hyeon Un thrust it further toward him.
“Take it. As you can see, I already have a Wudang blade. I'm too old to be lugging two heavy swords around.”
Left with no choice, Jin Seongun accepted it. He drew it carefully, and the blade felt familiar in his hand.
“This is…….”
“Goodness me! Whoever could have tossed such a fine sword into the street, tsk tsk.”
“…….”
It was a Taichi Sword, same as the ones Oh Jeongsan and Hyeon Un carried. The only difference was that this one lacked the Taichi emblem.
“……Elder. I cannot become a disciple of the Wudang Sect.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake. The man giving the rice cake hasn't even thought that far — what are you going on about?”
“…….”
Jin Seongun clicked his tongue inwardly. Pushed like this, there was nothing to say once again — and refusing the sword outright would mean spurning the old man's sincerity.
With a small sigh, Jin Seongun fastened the blade at his waist. Even from that brief moment of holding it, he could feel it was several times finer than the Black Tortoise Sword.
“I'll put it to good use, with gratitude.”
“Heheh.”
Hyeon Un smiled with utter contentment. Thinking of the boy as a prospective stepping-stone to his succession — no, as a late-born disciple he might yet claim — every last gesture and expression looked impossibly endearing to him.
Several days passed in this fashion.
Seongun Inn was utterly peaceful. For some reason, the Southern Black Alliance made not the slightest move. Even Oh Jeongsan had been suspicious at first, but once his own informants — and the Geombang, no less — confirmed that there was nothing unusual stirring in the Alliance, he finally relaxed.
The inn had been restored to perfection. No — "restored" didn't begin to cover it. It was as though the whole place had been torn down and rebuilt from the ground up.
No matter how hard you dragged the chairs and tables, the floor never so much as scratched, and no burly man could sit down without so much as a creak. Delicate patterns were carved along the walls with the flair of a master's soul poured into every line. Lamps placed throughout bathed the interior in harmonious light, and the layout was so efficient that the cook's path and the waiters' paths never crossed once.
Three tables had been added — yet the interior somehow looked roomier than before.
In the backyard stood a small annex. Far too small to rent out to guests, but more than enough to house a room each for Jin Seongun and Seo Yugyeom.
And the most astonishing thing of all—
Creeeak.
When Jin Seongun opened the door inside his new room, the door of the old backyard shed revealed itself behind it. The legendary master craftsman, true to Jin Seongun's request, had not laid a single finger on the shed — and yet had woven it seamlessly into the room as though it were part of the architecture itself.
That was the way of a true master: fulfill the client's every wish perfectly, all while leaving one's own philosophy embedded in the work. Jin Seongun felt he finally understood, anew, why merchants, martial artists, and officials alike so loved the great masters.
With the inn transformed, the guests were as delighted as Jin Seongun and Seo Yugyeom. The prices of food and drink hadn't changed a copper coin, but the atmosphere had grown immeasurably refined — who would complain about that?
Tap.
Jin Seongun set a bottle of Huadiao wine atop the guests' table and inclined his head politely. The middle-aged men seated around it smiled in satisfaction.
“They say anyone who stops by this inn comes for Cook Seo's dishes, but I'd beg to differ.”
At one man's remark, the others nodded along. They had all made their homes in Yichang — and, naturally, had already visited the inn several times. At some point, without a word needing to be said, the waiters had begun anticipating their every want.
Bringing the wine half a step early, just before the moment called for it, as now. Or, when an important conversation was underway, dipping their head lightly in passing so as not to break its flow.
The easy comfort of this inn was, all of it, the work of that one waiter.
Just as the men were heaping praise in turn on Seongun Inn, on Jin Seongun, and on Seo Yugyeom—
Creeak, tap.
The inn doors swung wide, and a band of people strode in. The guests who had been enjoying a relaxed evening fell abruptly quiet.
Five newcomers, every one of them young. Barely past twenty at most, and none, at a generous estimate, over twenty-five. Yet every single patron in the inn was watching them warily — because—
Tap.
As the two women and three men took their seats, each planted their sheathed blade upright against the table. Fine robes of luxurious material and rather ostentatious scabbards marked them as promising disciples of a respectable house.
“What may I bring for you?”
Jin Seongun approached and bowed. At the sight of him, the two women widened their eyes slightly — for a waiter, he was remarkably well-favored. Their companions did not miss the reaction.
One man in particular — head and shoulders broader than the rest, with a square, rough-hewn face — narrowed his eyes in open displeasure.
“You're the waiter?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“Not a face I care for. This place won't last long in business.”
“We'll do our best.”
Jin Seongun answered with perfect courtesy. A customer was a treasure, regardless of age, sex, or station.
“The three most expensive dishes here, and five bottles of the good stuff.”
“That would be the red-braised pork, the crispy sliced beef, and the mapo tofu. Shall I bring our finest Bamboo Leaf Green for the wine?”
The man waved a dismissive hand, as if to say just bring whatever. Jin Seongun bowed — and in that moment, two swords among the blades propped against the table caught his eye. Ones he knew all too well.
The Taichi Swords.
One woman and one man of the group, it seemed, were promising disciples of the Wudang Sect.
Jin Seongun relayed the order to Seo Yugyeom and returned to his rounds. A waiter's work was never done — checking that no guest lacked for anything, clearing tables the instant a meal ended, and when new customers arrived, seating them in the right place with their age and disposition in mind.
All the while, the young disciples' chatter drifted across the room. Or rather — it seemed designed to be overheard.
“An inn smaller than a common rented room, and they've gone to all this fuss.”
“Understand it, brother Seomun. Those who started with nothing always ache to show off.”
The remark was aimed, it seemed, at the patterns and ornaments Shin Mok and his artisans had carved by hand. The ones who'd been talking earlier were promising disciples of the Seomun Clan and the Seok Family Estate.
Jin Seongun read their wants from their conversation, as he always did. The two Wudang disciples seemed to bear no real malice — merely mild disappointment that the inn fell short of their expectations. The men of the Seomun Clan and the Seok Family Estate, on the other hand, appeared genuinely irritated; it looked as though they wished to impress the ladies at their table and were failing. And the green-eyed woman at the head of the group seemed to simply be enjoying the whole spectacle — or more precisely, she found the crude words and swagger of the men before her amusing.
In short, trouble is about to find its way to me.
Fifteen-odd years of waiting tables had taught him to see the shape of what was coming.
And sure enough—
The moment Jin Seongun set down the wine and the dishes in sequence, the Seomun Clan man — as if he'd been waiting for exactly this — put a bite of food in his mouth. The words that would follow were obvious before they came.
They call this cooking?
“They call this cooking?!”
Jin Seongun's thought and the Seomun man's shout arrived almost in the same breath.
Jin Seongun bowed his head.
“My apologies. Tell me what didn't suit you, and I'll bring a fresh plate.”
The perfect response, delivered as though he'd been rehearsing it. At this, Seomun Ak — youngest of the Seomun Clan — actually flinched. He had never once met a waiter like this.
“What's wrong with it, I asked?”
Seomun Ak pressed the question again, buying time for no good reason. Jin Seongun nodded. The man would most likely fault the heat of the mapo tofu, or the doneness of the red-braised pork.
After visibly racking his brains, Seomun Ak finally spat it out.
“The mapo tofu isn't spicy at all. How is this fit to be called mapo tofu?”
Jin Seongun nodded calmly. Hubei-style mapo tofu, unlike the Sichuan original, carried no heat to speak of. But if he said as much, the man would obviously fly into a rage — how dare a mere waiter presume to lecture me!
The real problem was not the man's tantrum. It was the tantrum that would come after — Seo Yugyeom's.
Jin Seongun did his utmost to save the life of this stranger named Seomun Ak.
“I'll prepare it again.”
Bowing, he picked up the mapo tofu and made for the kitchen, intending to quietly ask Seo Yugyeom to hold his tongue. That was what this business had always demanded, after all. Strength and temper were worthless behind a counter — who would come to eat if you flashed them at every slight? Unless one had transformed from humble customer to martial lord, like the master of the Black Sand Brigade, the only path was to bow low and accommodate. That was Jin Seongun's philosophy of trade.
But just as he turned toward the kitchen, someone seized his arm.
He looked back to find Seomun Ak. Apparently, the man felt more groveling was owed.
I slipped up.
Because the man was a promising disciple of the Orthodox path rather than the Black Dao, he had let his guard down. He knew full well that the Orthodox camps had their share of thugs every bit as vile as any Black Dao cutthroat — but listening to the sound of Seo Yugyeom's knife strokes drifting from the kitchen, each one biting deeper than the last, had dulled his judgment. That had been his fatal error.
“……Is there some other problem?”
“Get the cook out here. A cook would know what mapo tofu is supposed to taste like — you sent this out on purpose to make fools of us, didn't you? I'll hear your reason, and then decide whether to forgive you.”
Seomun Ak's obsession with mapo tofu, a Sichuan dish, was simple enough: he wanted to win favor with the daughter of the Tang Family, overlords of Sichuan.
For once, a look of genuine tension crossed Jin Seongun's face — enough that a thin sheen of sweat beaded in his palm.
Seeing it, Seomun Ak grinned like a victor and clamped down harder on Jin Seongun's arm. That was the way of thugs: the moment they believed their target was afraid, they became twice the tyrant.
And at that same instant, the sound of the knife from the kitchen stopped dead.