The Mad Tiger of This Turf
The club slicing through the air was caught in my left hand.
Right in front of my eyes was the face of a lackey frozen in terror. He'd probably thought he'd swung it with all his might, but to my dynamic vision, it was nothing more than a yawn-inducingly slow-motion crawl.
"Huh?"
The lackey's eyes bulged wide. Instinctively, he strained to yank the club free, grunting with effort that leaked from his mouth. But the oak club gripped in my fist didn't budge an inch, like an ancient stump wedged between boulders.
"Stuff like this is for hunting wild boars up in the mountains. You don't swing it at people."
I stared straight into his eyes and gave my wrist a light twist.
Crack!
A crisp snapping sound rent the night air. The thick, fresh oak club—as wide as my forearm—shattered as easily as a biscuit. Wood splinters flew everywhere, peppering his face.
"Eek!"
The lackey fell on his ass, clutching the broken handle, sprawling backward. I casually dropped the jagged remnant from my hand. It thudded into the dirt, kicking up a puff of dust.
"Next."
This time, a guy with a sickle charged from the left.
"Die!"
The bluish blade gleamed under the moonlight. This wasn't just a threat—it was pure killing intent. Something inside me sank cold. The rationality of modern man Kang Cheol-min receded, and Kim Deok-ryeong's feral instincts reared up.
Before he could swing, I surged forward first.
I planted my right foot deep and slammed my shoulder into his chest. The Iron Mountain Lean from wuxia novels? Nah, just a body check loaded with 110kg of mass.
Thud!
A dull impact echoed as his ribs screamed in protest.
"Gack!"
His body rocketed backward like a cannonball. He crashed into the dirt outside the gate, mouth gaping uselessly, unable to even breathe. I'd tried to hold back, but it was still this bad.
Two down in an instant. The mood chilled to ice.
Choi Ga, the ringleader, gaped at me slack-jawed. He'd always pegged me as a big, dumb pushover—now his brain couldn't process what his eyes were seeing. The torchlight flickered, casting deep shadows over his shocked face.
"Y-You... what the hell are you? Possessed or something?"
"What else? The homeowner."
I picked up an iron pitchfork leaning against the yard wall. A heavy farm tool for tilling fields, its iron tines split into three prongs. The solid weight settled reassuringly into my palm.
Thud, thud.
As I advanced, Choi Ga and his remaining goons backpedaled in horror.
"S-Stay back! You see this?"
Choi Ga whipped out a dagger from his bosom. A sharp 15cm blade. His hand trembled violently around the hilt.
"A knife, huh."
I halted.
"Dangerous toy. You could hurt yourself."
"Shut up! Come any closer and I'll gut you! For real!"
Choi Ga slashed the air wildly, howling like a terrified dog. Scared dogs are the most dangerous—they might stab on impulse.
These weren't the type to listen to words. I needed a solid visual shock therapy.
I gripped the pitchfork's thick iron shaft with both hands.
"Watch close. Unless you want your spine like this."
I poured strength into my grip.
"Hup!"
My forearms bulged, straining the hemp sleeve to its limits. Veins writhed like earthworms.
Screeech!
A chilling metallic groan assaulted my eardrums—iron twisting in agony against iron.
Choi Ga's eyes nearly popped out. His gaze locked on my hands. That sturdy iron pitchfork, which would take a blacksmith's hammer to reshape, began bending like molten candy on a fire.
I didn't stop. I yanked the ends, crumpling it into a knot. With grinding crunches, it twisted into an unrecognizable lump of scrap.
Thump.
I tossed the mangled pitchfork at Choi Ga's feet.
"That's my protection money."
"......"
"Take it and melt it down for snacks or whatever."
Choi Ga reached shakily for the fallen iron. His hand shook too much to grasp it properly. The heavy, cold heft of scrap metal. No illusion.
"H-Hiiik...!"
His face drained white as a sheet. The dagger slipped limply from his fingers. Done by bare hands? If those hands grabbed him? The mere thought must've turned his legs to jelly.
"R-Run! M-Monster!"
Choi Ga screamed and bolted without looking back.
"Boss! Wait up!" "Save us!"
The goons dragged their fainted buddy and fled like rabbits. In seconds, the gate area was empty. Only the crackling of a dropped torch remained.
"Boring."
I dusted off my hands. My palms reeked of iron.
This should keep them away for a while. Word would spread fast. Kim Deok-ryeong's gone mad. Or possessed by a mountain spirit. Either way, fine by me. In chaotic times, a mad tiger gets more respect than a meek scholar.
I turned.
"Deok-ryeong..."
There stood my brother Kim Deok-hong, clutching a porch pillar.
His face was a mix of shock, fear, and relief. For a lifelong bookworm scholar, his little brother's brutal display must've been a hell of a jolt.
"Brother. You saw that, huh."
I scratched my head, mustering my most innocent grin. The iron-crushing demon vanished; back to the carefree little bro.
"You... what in the world is that strength? The pitchfork—with your bare hands..."
"Oh, that? Heh."
I played it cool.
"Guess I've been eating well lately—power's surging. And that pitchfork? Already half-rotted and weak. Rusted so bad it bent at a touch. Haha."
Ridiculous lie. But Brother wanted to believe it. Had to. Easier than accepting his brother was a monster.
"Hoo... Still, be careful. Power misused brings disaster. Don't hurt others."
"Don't worry. Only touch those who mess with our family."
I locked the gate.
The heavy bar thudded home, easing my mind. Tonight's crisis averted. But this was just the start. Choi Ga's crew were small-time thugs. The real enemies ahead? Corrupt officials. And 150,000 invaders across the sea. Compared to them, these punks were cute.
I entered my room. Lay down, but sleep wouldn't come. Heart pounding. Not fear. Elation from testing this body's immense power in real combat. Conviction that I could do something with it.
Money. I need money.
Crushing pitchforks won't fill bellies. War prep demands massive funds.
I rummaged my mental knowledge. 1590s Joseon. No stocks, no Bitcoin. Needed a partner to turn my strength and modern know-how into cash.
Who? A merchant lord—or one in the making.
One name surfaced. Unrecorded in official histories, but in wild tales and folklore.
Honnam's hidden merchant queen who dominated military rice supply in the Imjin War. From Gaesong, but legend said her father got scammed pre-war, forcing them to Damyang.
Seo Baek-seol.
Records said she struggled in debt at Damyang market right before war broke. This was that exact time. An unscratched lottery ticket dropped at my feet.
She could do it.
Her business savvy plus my brute force? Monopolizing war supplies wasn't a pipe dream. Head to market at dawn. Meet her, and my plan kicks off. I stared at the ceiling, clenching a fist. In the dark room, my knuckles seemed to glow white.
Tomorrow would be busier.
-
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
The rooster shattered the dawn.
Eyes snapped open to ravenous hunger. Not a beggar in my gut—a black hole. Every cell screaming to replenish last night's exertion.
I bolted up.
Body felt light. Muscle soreness? What's that? After mangling iron and yeeting men, my joints moved like oiled gears. Geumgang Bulgoe's recovery was miraculous.
To the kitchen. Sister-in-law was cooking breakfast.
"Sister-in-law, load up the rice. A ton, please."
She flinched at my bulk while lifting the pot lid.
"Aigoo, young master. You ate like a horse last night and still hungry?"
"Growth spurt age, right?"
Twenty-three. Adult, but hey, puberty excuse. She shook her head but piled high barley rice like a mountain. Mouthwatering.
I sat on the porch and shoveled it in.
No time to chew. Carbs flooding down hit my brain like a drug. Two bowls vanished, plus barley tea.
"Burp."
Finally alive.
"Brother, off to the market."
Brother peeked from his study, book in hand.
"Market? For what? Not stirring trouble again?"
"Nah. Scout the world, hunt jobs. Gotta earn my keep."
Suspicious glare, but "Come back early" sent me off. Probably crediting last night's thug-chase.
I tied my straw sandals tight and stepped out.
Path to Damyang town. Air crisp. Worlds from 2025's smog. Roadside wildflowers, swaying reeds, distant oxcart creaks.
Peaceful. Eerily so.
This scenery turns to ash in a year.
Chest chilled. Imjin War. Seven years of hell—mutilated civilians, cannibalism from starvation.
I clenched my fist. Must stop it. Can't block all, but guard this Honam soil under my feet. Need power. And money to back it.
Town buzz hit like a wave.
"Fresh mackerel! Pick yours!" "Discounts! Radish bundle for three pun!"
Damyang market sprawled huge. Weekly fair drew merchants and folk from nearby—gentry in gat hats, laden peddlers, mothers with kids.
I waded the crowd. My size parted them like the Red Sea.
"Whoa, check that guy's height." "General material, right there."
Whispers followed. I ignored, scanning prices.
Rice: 5 yang per seom. Cotton bolt: 2 yang. Ox: 20-30 yang. Peacetime rates. War rumors? Skyrockets. Stockpile rice, salt, gunpowder makings first.
Pockets empty. Classic zero-capital startup.
Find Seo Baek-seol.
Memory: holed up in a rundown inn at market's edge. Ex-Gaesong merchant, father's flop brought her here plotting comeback. She'd rise to queen in war. My muscle + her smarts = unstoppable.
I veered to the outskirts.
Back alleys off main drag. Smells shifted—fish to musty mold and cheap booze. Poor traders, day laborers.
There: a weathered inn with a faded sign.
Damyang Inn