Life-or-Death Duels at the Inn Are Perfectly Sensible Traditional Culture

"By the way, Gong Ryun. Those two about to fight a life-or-death duel are both rather capable fellows."

Un-rang said this as he ordered a nanobot lager through the inn's application.

"Yeah. Both of them are pretty famous Named on this circuit."

Named. That was what they called mercenaries who had a strong personality, who'd been in the trade a long time, or who were exceptionally strong.

Does that explanation sound a little scattershot? Fair enough. The title of Named wasn't grand at all.

Whenever mercenaries got together with people they were close to, the first thing they did was trade information. In this line of work, information was everything.

Which clients were notoriously stingy. Which underground aqueducts had been coughing up missing persons. Which shop manager was a hidden master you absolutely should not mess with. Everything from useful tips to the kind of intel that could save your life passed from mouth to mouth.

The speed at which that information spread was surprisingly high, and the detail was unexpectedly fine. And among those exchanges, news about other mercenaries took up a sizable share.

Who was strong. Who was good at the work. Who had struck gold where. Whose credit was trash. And who you would die if you touched.

In the middle of all that whispering, anyone who stuck out got a nickname. Those were the Named. Really, it was nothing special. Maybe the unorthodox rabble just envied the "titles" of the righteous factions — things like Phantom Sword of Mount Hua, Yi Cheong-myeong.

Still, the weak never got nicknames. Having a name, and keeping it, meant you had survived a long time in the trade — and that you were strong.

"And those two are Named who've been around a while."

Gong Ryun and Un-rang looked toward the two men at the center of the inn. The ones who would soon be shedding blood.

Gong Ryun pointed at one of them.

"That one's the Three-Sword Style Madman."

"Indeed. He's actually brought all three swords. He means business."

Three-Sword Style Madman. Red hair in a ponytail, clothes in a samurai style. Two swords at his waist, one on his back.

He was a full-blown lunatic who went around declaring that three-sword style was the most complete form of swordsmanship, and that he would accept any rebuttal only through a life-or-death duel. The fact that he could still maintain that insane persona while working as a mercenary meant he was no ordinary customer. Surprisingly, his mercenary credit rating was high, and he took on premium jobs with ease.

"How does he even swing three swords at once? Don't tell me he holds one in his teeth?"

"Amitabha — as if. You'll see soon enough."

"Oh. You've watched him fight?"

"I worked a job with him once, years back. Bull-catching."

"As expected, Un-rang. Your network is wide."

Gong Ryun pointed at the other man.

"And that one over there… you can tell just by looking. That's Arm-Maxed Jason."

"That man is a true madman."

Arm-Maxed Jason. The name alone sounded grotesque, but the reality was worse. A tanned, muscular man in sunglasses — with no left arm at all. Instead, he had two right arms. Of the two, one was a mechanical arm and one was flesh.

"He had the nerves of his left arm surgically relocated to the right side, claiming he would recreate the lost martial art known as the Thousand-Hand Divine Palm."

So the mechanical arm on the right was, in truth, controlled by a left-arm nervous system flipped left-to-right. His left arm had been mounted on the right. His right arm was also on the right. Hence: Arm-Maxed Jason.

"What kind of martial art is worth doing something like that?"

"According to the old transmission, it was a mystical art that struck an opponent as if dozens of hands had sprouted in an instant, like the movements of a many-armed Buddha… He apparently decided that having two hands on one side would yield a higher success rate than one hand on each side."

"And for that judgment he cut off his arm? That's not a little crazy — that's completely insane."

"Which is precisely why he's terrifying. With that kind of obsession, what couldn't he do?"

"Fair enough."

Madman versus madman. It was a genuine big match.

For the record, Gong Ryun had never seen their faces and still knew who they were. Named nicknames were built on exactly that kind of grotesque individuality. Even if you only knew the moniker, you could spot them on the street — Three swords? Wait, is that…?

"Plenty of other mercenaries have come to watch as well. Look over there. That's Eagle Owl Minerva."

A lunatic who left a perfectly good device at home and used owls as messenger birds. An owl sat on each of his shoulders.

"And that's the Morlaren Angler. I've never seen his face, but nobody else walks around carrying a fishing rod."

A mercenary who fought with fishing-rod arts. He had tried illegal fishing dozens of times at Morlaren Lake — the city's drinking-water source — until the waterworks administrators put a bounty on him. Another madman.

"There! The black silhouette hanging from the third-floor ceiling! That's the Cookie Ninja! You almost never see him in a place like this!"

A mercenary who had properly learned ninjutsu — and who, on the first of every month, baked a mountain of homemade cookies, flung them like shuriken into orphanages, and vanished. After nothing but bloodthirsty types, spotting someone like that was oddly heartwarming.

Gong Ryun and Un-rang scanned the shop, analyzing the other mercenaries. This was everyday mercenary life. And they were not the only ones scanning. They, too, were being scanned by others in the inn.

"So that android is the famous Shaolin Bald Monk… I've heard he's quite strong, being from the righteous path."

"Yeah. He's got decent years in as a mercenary. Easy to get along with, good social ties. A rare type among the unorthodox."

"They say work just keeps finding him?"

"Being from the Buddhist order, clients seem to trust him more. And if you actually talk to him, his personality's solid enough that it makes sense."

Mercenaries in the far corner of the first floor, appraising Un-rang.

"Heh heh heh! If it isn't the Shaolin Bald Monk! Wide network as ever — he heard the rumor and showed up right away!"

"I saw him once at the pachinko parlor. Running into him again here."

Ordinary patrons on the second floor, looking down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the first.

And then…

"The Shaolin Bald Monk, all right. Sitting there so casually with that maniac."

"Hmm… is that black-haired one the guy?"

"Yeah. One of the biggest lunatics in this place. Whatever you do, don't share a table with him."

"So that's the…"

"Yeah. The San-gong-dok Goe-in."

Other mercenaries inspecting not only Un-rang but Gong Ryun as well.

"Hoho. The fellow next to the android is rather handsome. Is he truly a mercenary?"

"Yes, my lady. They call him the San-gong-dok Goe-in. Rumor has it he crafts San-gong-dok by hand and hands it out to acquaintances like cookies."

"Hohoho. Utterly mad. Something the righteous path couldn't even imagine… Truly, the world of unorthodox mercenaries is pure wilderness. Pour me another glass of wine."

A suspiciously wealthy-looking noblewoman and her bodyguard on the third floor.

"Heeh~? That's the San-gong-dok Goe-in~? He doesn't look that strong, though~"

"Don't let your guard down. That's your bad habit."

"His internal energy barely registers, though~?"

"Poison-art users always run 'lure them into carelessness' as a basic passive."

"True enough~? If it weren't some technique meant to make you drop your guard, there's no way the energy you sense would be elementary-school level~"

"I heard he talks like the righteous path. Could be from a collateral house of the Sichuan Tang Clan."

"Ooh, and that's why he's with the Shaolin Bald Monk~? Righteous-path folks hanging out together. A reasonable hypothesis~"

A mercenary with eagle owls on his shoulders, and his disciple.

While everyone in the place was quietly sizing everyone else up—

Thud. Thud.

The two men walked out into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the center. They stopped about five paces apart, eyes bulging, killing intent rolling off them in waves.

The life-or-death duel was about to begin.

In that instant, the inn fell silent. No one had announced the start of the duel aloud. No one had even called for quiet. The spectators simply knew. That was how ordinary, how deeply traditional, life-or-death duels were.

"Three-Sword Style, you bastard!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Arm-Maxed opened the proceedings.

"You're dying here todayyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!"

A voice that shook the rafters.

"You as well."

Three-Sword Style Madman answered.

"Unless you kneel and apologize for this dishonor, there will be no way for you to leave this place except as a corpse."

That bastard. An unorthodox thug, aping righteous-path speech. And not even doing it well.

"You son of a bitch!!! Who the hell do you think you're posing for!!!!!!"

"You have no dignity. You never have."

Now came the time to reveal the reason for the duel. Telling the story of why you were fighting to the death, and establishing your just cause, was the ironclad rule.

What, then, had driven these two into a contest of death? A master's vengeance? Money? Betrayal of friendship?

"Always nothing but shouting… It was the same back then… Back then…"

What in the world could it have been?

"Even when I was having a lovely time with your mother. You barged in with no sense of timing whatsoever."

…?

"You…!!!!! You son of a bitchhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!"

"It was just getting good, too."

"You fucking bastardrrrrrr!!!!!!"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Will you call me Father?"

Three-Sword Style said it, and wore a smile of the purest, most vile contempt.