Tightening Discipline - 2
As we entered Hubei from Hunan, an unwelcome guest came calling.
"It's here."
The messenger pigeon circling above my head. I'd prayed it wouldn't show up until we reached the capital, but my prayers went unanswered—it had come after all. Figures there's no such thing as gods in this world. If there were, wouldn't they at least grant a weary provincial official's desperate wish for an early retirement?
'I just wanna go home and have some hot soup with rice.' Every damn day it's braised pork and rice wine at inns. Braised pork's great once in a while, but eat it daily and it gets old fast.
I shot the pigeon a resentful glare, then reached my arm skyward. It would've been nice if a hawk or eagle had snatched it on the way, but since it'd made it safely to me, I couldn't just ignore it.
'Should I feed it to them?' My eyes drifted to the deer unbidden. The female I wasn't sure about, but the male definitely ate meat—maybe it'd gobble up the pigeon if I asked? Of course, it was just a fleeting thought. Feeding these guys meat again might turn them back into spirit beasts—or worse.
"As long as it doesn't mean heading back down south of the Yangtze, it'll be fine."
Even Jo Wi-cheo muttered under his breath, his voice laced with dissatisfaction at the pigeon's arrival. I felt the same. We'd finally made it north of the Yangtze—sending us back south would be infuriating enough to keep me up at night. The Yangtze wasn't some neighborhood stream you could cross on a whim.
'Please, north of the Yangtze.' With trembling hands, I checked the dispatch it had brought. I wasn't even hoping for an order to return to the capital—just please, north of the Yangtze. If we had to work anyway, north of the Yangtze.
Destroy this dispatch immediately upon reading.
"......"
The very first line was ominous enough to make me wail inwardly. I'd never received a dispatch like this before.
'What the hell kind of orders are these?'
I clutched my spinning head and read on. It might just be clickbait—flashy title, bland content.
To prepare for external disturbances, conduct an inspection of the sects and clans in Anhui, Jiangsu, and Shandong.
Unfortunately, the content was as substantial as the tone suggested. With trouble brewing beyond the borders soon, it was an order to crack down hard internally.
'Damn it.'
I could guess why this order had come down, and it made me furrow my brow. I'd reported every trace of the massive human sacrifice site at Hengshan to Jwa Do-eosa without omission, and Gi Gangwang—who'd fought the Mongols tooth and nail during the founding war—had witnessed it firsthand. A man like him wouldn't let a Mongol-linked incident slide.
'No wonder he rushed off.' He'd probably gone straight to the Emperor for a report, or maybe he'd been summoned separately when I got permission for the ancestral rites. To the current Emperor and the kings, the Mongols were blood enemies—ones they'd kill and kill again even in their dreams.
'This is gonna be a pain.'
I sighed as I reread the dispatch. After our ancestors drove out the Mongols and unified the realm, Song propaganda insisted all was stable under heaven. No matter how bizarre or dire the crisis, officials had to shout "Business as usual!" to prevent panic. That's the Song way.
Yet here was an official dispatch—confidential or not—hinting that "something's about to blow." For bureaucrats who mince words, "about to" means 100% certain. Whether it was Song military action or the Mongols regrouping for another invasion southward.
'All because of these guys, huh.'
As I read, the male deer had stopped walking. I stroked its antlers. As the Hengshanpa elder said, the energy from those human sacrifices had spread across the mountain when the shaman lost control. Even uncontrolled, it'd birthed two spirit beasts in a row—what horrors might the Mongols unleash if they succeeded properly up north? That's why the higher-ups foresaw military clashes with the Mongols. Strike before they birthed monsters and came for the Central Plains again.
"Fuck."
The thought of a Ch'aak expedition north of the Long Wall—or worse, a Mongol reinvasion—drew curses from my lips unbidden.
- Kki-ing?
"Nah, nothing."
I handed the dispatch to the deer, which had reacted to my swearing. "...Wanna eat this?"
It stared blankly before obediently chomping it down. Since it had to be destroyed anyway, better to feed it to the paper-eating guy. It'd be years before I recalled that goats eat paper, not deer.
Sorry.
Anhui, Jiangsu, Shandong. East of Henan—now Zhili thanks to the capital at Kaepyeong—these were core Central Plains regions. Less prosperous than the economic heart of Jiangnan, but rich in tradition, economy, and culture, bordering the capital region for rapid growth.
'The richer, the more people.'
More people meant more parakho ex-murim bandits. Recalling the now-deer-digested secret dispatch, we entered Anhui. Prosperity draws crowds, crowds draw interest groups—universal truth across time and space.
Thus, sects and clans proliferated here. Exaggerating a bit, every decent-sized city had at least one.
'Gotta comb through 'em.'
Not literally ransack, but observe for funny business—which amounted to soul-deep scrutiny, so close enough.
The problem? Too many to check one by one.
'Just shake down the bosses, and the underlings stay quiet.' Put five humans together, one’s trash; three, and a leader emerges. Murim was no different—especially since you could crush dissenters. Hierarchies were ironclad.
And in Anhui, one undisputed boss reigned.
'Haven't seen the Nangong thugs in ages.'
The Namgung family. Once hailed as the world's top sword clan, unmatched in blades—even now, with murim's fall, they clung to power through connections and wealth. Originally based in Henan, they'd been chased to Anhui under the ironclad excuse: "Cowards who skipped the war don't deserve Zhili."
Like the saying "even ruined, the rich last three generations," they'd thrived even in "exile."
So, shake them down. Skin the Nangongs to the soul, and lesser fry wouldn't dare lift their heads.
"Wi-cheo, to Hefei."
"Yes, my lord."
Primeval Lord of Heaven, grant this Left Vice Inspector General the power to be a righteous pain in the ass today. The more you thrash murim, the happier the people.
It had been decades since our ancestors' home in Henan forced us to Anhui.
At first, rage and injustice boiled. Sure, we hadn't joined the Mongol fight—but we hadn't colluded either. No merits earned, but no demerits accrued. How could they seize our lands?
We weren't the only ones who stayed silent. Why us alone for this humiliation?
Yet we dared not complain. The heroes who'd driven out the eternal Mongols, the loyalists who'd risked all to topple the false realm and build the true one—they were the officials and founding merits then.
Outmatched in legitimacy, we had no choice but to obey. Rebelling would've branded us Mongol sympathizers defying kin.
"I thought silence would protect the clan and Henan's people... but it was the delusion of this doddering old fool."
On the day we relocated, Father uttered those words and stepped down as patriarch. With our history denied and our pillar gone, the clan roiled—but I didn't give up.
One day, we'd reclaim our lands. Restore our lost glory.
Vowing that, I toiled decades. Thankfully, persistence bore fruit. The court eyed us warily, but post-relocation, they left us alone. Bordering Jiangnan, Anhui boomed economically.
"Left Vice Inspector General Han Un."
Until he showed up.
"Passing through Anhui, thought I'd drop by to say hello."
Grandson of Gi Wang Han Jung, pivotal in ousting the Mongols.
"Heard troubling rumors lately—worried how you're faring."
The court we'd thought done with us, sending a hunter to crush us anew.
"Thugs with swords hoarding wealth greedily, even daring to question heaven and king... In this peaceful realm, where do such rumors come from? Right?"
Outwardly voicing concern, but the intent was blatant: Donate profits, or else. Hand over not just lands, but martial arts too.
"...Your concerns trouble me as well, my lord."
"Haha, glad to hear it."
Refusal meant doom for our barely breathing clan, so I acquiesced again. Our foundations shifted once more.
The imperial sword form became "Prostrate Minister Sword Form"; the sky-pursuing art, "Pure Heart Retainer Art"—keeping ambitions internal.
I don't remember how much I drank that night. For harboring vain hopes and struggling, we'd earned deeper humiliation. Ashamed, I lived quietly, like watered wine or wine in water.
Until—
"...Who's come to Hefei?"
"The, the Left Vice Inspector General! He's in Hefei!"
The nightmare returned to our soil.
Salt... would it work if scattered in advance?