The Martial World Is Thoroughly Capitalist
"Heh heh heh. So what information have you come to buy?"
An old general store tucked into a quiet corner of the city's southern district.
…or rather, an information exchange disguised as one.
The clerk with the shifty eyes asked the even shadier customer—face buried deep in the hood of a robe—what he wished to purchase.
"I'm looking for a place nearby where I can get Sangongdok."
The robed customer answered.
"Heh heh heh. Sangongdok? Pharmacies sell that. Medical grade, mind you."
Sangongdok.
Literally, the poison that scatters internal energy. Merely inhaling it was enough to scatter the qi in a dantian and force it to evaporate out of the body.
Across the entire galaxy, the average martial standard of ordinary citizens had advanced so far that even telekinesis was casually used. In this modern galactic martial world, most poisons had hit their limit. Even common townsfolk now possessed qi in their dantians, which meant they either carried natural resistance or could simply circulate their energy and neutralize ordinary toxins.
But Sangongdok, which disrupted qi itself, remained one of the few poisons that still "worked"—and worked beautifully for poison arts. High-purity Sangongdok even carried a fatal side effect that every martial artist dreaded.
Poison and medicine were said to be only a sheet of paper apart. So beyond its use in poison techniques, Sangongdok was also employed as a medicinal ingredient. That was why pharmacies sold remedies containing it. Being medical, however, the concentration was vanishingly small.
"What they sell in pharmacies isn't nearly enough. I need more. A lot more."
"Hmm. Planning to use it for poison arts, then? In that case, why not visit a planetary-government-certified poison-arts supply shop?"
"My identity isn't clear enough. Public institutions are difficult for me."
"Heh heh heh. Fair enough. You wouldn't have come to Haomen otherwise. I won't ask further."
This shop belonged to Haomen—the Unorthodox information organization.
Where the Orthodox had the Beggars' Sect, the Unorthodox had Haomen.
Unlike the Beggars' Sect, which favored online networks, Haomen gathered and traded information through a strictly offline system, selling local intelligence both large and small for profit. Their specialty was private, secretive local knowledge that online collection could never reach: rumors, tabloid scraps, black-market meeting places, illegal dens, personal secrets, and more.
"There are a couple of back-alley poison trading spots in this city, for what it's worth. Hayden's Fruit Stand to the east, and Shu's Pizza Place to the north. You know those two?"
The information broker unfolded a hand-drawn analog city map as he spoke.
"…I've already been blacklisted from both."
"Huh? Blacklisted? Both of them? Did you trash the places or something? A racket that big and I'd have heard of you… Wait. You haven't lived in this city for long, have you? You're an outsider."
"…"
"An outsider from elsewhere. Blacklisted almost as soon as you arrived. Identity too murky for public offices. Aha… I see. You're one of those people."
"…You."
"Heh heh heh! My apologies! I won't dig any further. That was rude of me. Sorry. Don't worry—Haomen's secrecy is absolute."
"Tch…"
"Come on, no need to fret. You're not the first of your kind. We're used to it."
"Tsk. Fine. Just finish the transaction. I want trading spots other than those two."
At that, the broker scanned the map and answered lightly.
"Hmm… Other places… there aren't any! Sorry!"
The customer went blank.
"What? That's it? Are you even an information organization? Are you deliberately hiding something?"
"What do you expect from a rural city? Having two black-market spots is already generous. You came hoping for some hidden third den, but this really is the end of the list. There are other methods if you've got time—travel to another city, or bid on an online auction and take interplanetary delivery."
"Those are out!"
"I understand. Those take far too long. From the way you're sweating, you need it right now. If you were Demonic Cult, you could have used a 'Korean restaurant,' but you're not Demonic Cult either, are you? In that case, there truly is nothing left."
"Damn it!!! Is there really no other way? I'll pay any price for the information!"
"Well, throwing money around doesn't make nonexistent information pop into existence, but…"
"I just need Sangongdok, however I get it!"
He really is desperate.
The broker snickered inwardly, then sifted through every scrap of Sangongdok-related knowledge in his head.
After a long moment of thought, he spoke.
"Hmm… Well… if it's Sangongdok, there is one rather famous person around here… though he doesn't sell the poison."
"What? Spit it out!"
"…Have you heard of the San-gong-dok Goe-in?"
The day after the life-and-death duel. Gong Ryun was eating lunch.
Yesterday had been Saturday; today was Sunday. The weekend still wasn't over. Which meant, once again, no mole-smashing jobs today.
Two days in a row without work.
To Gong Ryun, the idea was unthinkable.
If he kept living this lazily, he would end up in the Hell of Sloth after death.
"Gong Ryun. I must have told you hundreds of times by now—that hell does not exist."
Un-rang, sitting beside him and sipping the same nano-robot soup, spoke up.
They had planned to visit a martial-manual shop later; for now they had gathered to eat first.
"Come now. And how would you know that?"
"If there were a hell for resting two days in a row, every person in this galaxy would go there. Something called the five-day workweek exists in this world, you know?"
The Hell of Sloth was a piece of common folklore Gong Ryun had absorbed since childhood. A few words from Un-rang were not going to erase it like a magic eraser.
"But mercenaries can take jobs on weekends, can't they? That means you can work all seven days. If work is available, why turn it down? A man must be diligent. Resting too much will earn you heaven's punishment."
"…Gong Ryun… that is Slave Planet PTSD. Give yourself some room to breathe. Go to a café and order dessert, or watch a sunset with a mojito in hand."
"Ah. I've already done all of that on holidays. What do you take me for? I finally escaped the Slave Planet—of course I tried the basics."
Un-rang looked utterly baffled.
"Heh heh heh. Gong Ryun? When, exactly, has Gong Ryun ever had a holiday?"
"What? I take holidays all the time. Almost every day is a holiday for me."
"Heh heh heh heh heh. Gong Ryun. I must have said this thousands of times, but a day when you work fewer than twelve hours is not called a holiday."
"Working fewer than twelve hours is a holiday. If you only work twelve hours, the remaining twelve are rest, aren't they?"
"That twelve includes eating, relieving yourself, and sleeping."
"Eating, relieving yourself, and sleeping are rest."
Such was the life of a slave. Working twelve hours or more a day was common sense; any day with less than twelve hours of labor counted as a holiday.
"Gong Ryun… if androids had tear ducts, I would be crying right now…"
Roughly three years had passed since Gong Ryun escaped the Slave Planet and settled on this one.
Many of the twisted common-sense notions he had carried from his slave days had been corrected in that time—but not all of them.
"What kind of life did you even live, Gong Ryun…"
"Ahem…"
"Haah… Well, you'll improve bit by bit…"
"What am I supposed to do when my body itches if I'm not working? I know in my head that it's irrational, but that doesn't mean it changes overnight. I lived that way my whole life. Still, I've been taking your words more and more to heart. I've been increasing my rest time little by little."
"Oh!! Really?!"
"Usually I start in the morning and work only until dinner, then rest. Sometimes I stop by late afternoon. On weekends I often do just a morning shift and leave it at that. And I no longer settle for sandwiches while working. I set proper times for lunch and dinner."
"Cough… Truly remarkable progress, Gong Ryun… I'm proud of you…"
Un-rang was moved. Compared to Gong Ryun's early mercenary days—when he had tried to get by on four hours of sleep—the change was nothing short of heaven and earth. Un-rang had been so shocked by that schedule that he had stepped in hard to stop it; otherwise things might have ended badly.
"It's even more extreme starting this week. The client I'm under long-term contract with told me to work only eight hours a day and not to show up on weekends."
"That is what people call normal labor, Gong Ryun. How does modern labor law taste?"
"So I'll have plenty of free time for martial training."
Un-rang brightened at that.
"Exactly. Personal training time is vital. Real combat as a mercenary is good, of course, but everything needs balance. Practice and battle must weave together properly."
"Right. And I'll buy more martial manuals, too."
"Precisely. Spend the money you earn promptly on martial manuals. Learn more, grow stronger. That is the truest path for surviving this galactic martial world. In the end, all that remains is martial skill."
"The stronger I get, the higher the quality of the jobs I receive."
"Higher-quality jobs mean less work for more pay. With the free time that creates, you train more and grow stronger still. Not only that—you can afford more expensive manuals. So grow stronger to earn more, and use that to grow stronger again."
"Heh. A virtuous cycle. I've got enough mercenary experience now that my income is stable, and I've mostly adapted to 'normal' living. Time to aim a little higher."
"Excellent. That kind of growth is called 'ascent.' The Martial God himself always said to ascend. Always look upward."
This was how the Unorthodox lived.
The Unorthodox bought martial manuals with money and grew strong. Ordinary people did the same. The Unorthodox were simply an extension of ordinary people. When someone who was neither Orthodox nor Demonic Cult became a professional martial artist, they became Unorthodox.
Under the banner of martial-arts capitalism, countless sects and families sold their techniques as manuals and collected copyright fees. Even the Demonic Cult put its arts on the open market. Of course, they never sold the absolute pinnacle techniques of their secret traditions. But everything short of those strategic assets—secret transmissions, latest developments, true family arts—was released into the market so that the royalties could generate enormous profit.
With that profit, a sect grew stronger. Those who bought the manuals gained strength. Everyone won.
This powerful capitalist system was how the Martial Alliance had developed. Instead of locking techniques away forever, they opened them just enough—securing profit, keeping the economy turning, exchanging knowledge with other arts, sparking inspiration, and endlessly birthing better techniques.
The Unorthodox rode that current. Rank-and-file Unorthodox without proper masters or sects simply shopped the open market for manuals. Like browsing a store, they could pick and choose techniques from every school according to taste. Synergies sometimes appeared. One person might learn the drawing-sword arts of every major school. Another might wield Namgung family swordsmanship while using Demonic Cult footwork.
That freedom set them apart from the Orthodox, who used only their own sect's or family's arts, and from the Demonic Cult, who used only Demonic Cult arts.
If that high degree of freedom counted as an advantage, so be it. The Unorthodox were those who had never fit into either the Orthodox or the Demonic Cult—and therefore bound themselves to neither.
"This is how you choose and learn arts optimized for your talent, Gong Ryun. Heh heh heh."
"I'll do just that. Hahaha. Always grateful for the advice, Un-rang. I truly think of you as a brother."
"Of course! We're practically sworn brothers at this point!"
"Hahaha!"
"Heh heh heh!"
It was a genuinely warm moment.
"Heh heh! Though naturally, I would be the older brother, yes?"
"…"
"…?"
"What nonsense is that, Un-rang? Obviously I'm the older brother."
Un-rang recoiled in horror.
"What!! After I taught you everything as your senior in life!!"
But Gong Ryun stood firm.
"Of course I'm the older one! Because I'm older!"
Gong Ryun's age: twenty-four.
Un-rang's age: twenty-three.
For reference, Un-rang had fled the temple and begun mercenary work at sixteen.
"Gong Ryun!! How many times have I told you that an android's mental framework is different from a human's!! Androids are adults at ten!!"
"Bah!! Young is young!!! Call me hyung!"
"Hyung, nothing! Common sense says I'm the older one!! Your lack of common sense is showing again!!"
"Bah!! Even if heaven and earth reverse, some things never change!!! And you're already the younger one! You use polite speech with me all the time!"
"Monks address everyone politely!!"
The pointless argument over who was older continued all the way through the meal and out of the shop.
Once again they failed to settle the matter of seniority, and set off together toward the martial-manual shop.