Water and Water Bandits: The Connection - Part 2
People often call Yunnam the backwater of backwaters, but if we're talking about Daesong's true rural frontier, it's Gwiju. Both regions were fully assimilated into the Central Plains in the 13th century. When the Dali Kingdom got smashed by the Mongols, Gwiju took some collateral damage, so from the Central Plains' perspective, Yunnam and Gwiju were just interchangeable fringes.
But Yunnam shares a border with Wolnam and serves as a vital hub for brisk trade with foreign lands. Strip away the "frontier" label, and it's a region of considerable importance, inevitably garrisoned by no small number of officials and troops.
Gwiju has none of that.
By contrast, Gwiju is an inland area hemmed in by other regions. There's no need for the court to pay it special attention, nor any reason to station large forces against foreign invasion. As a result, Gwiju has become a hazy backwater to both officials and civilians alike—a peaceful countryside, if you put it kindly. Or bluntly, a godforsaken boondocks.
That's why, even wandering the realm far and wide, I'd barely given Gwiju a thought. It wasn't teeming with sects like Sachon, nor a distinctive border zone like Yunnam, nor a stronghold where the Baekryeon Cult Leader held firm like in Guangxi. Rack my brains as I might, Gwiju had no unique traits, not even a murim force that made waves there. Hell, it was debatable if murim even existed in Gwiju.
Which made me all the happier for the relative honey we'd sucked in Yunnam. My next stop, Gwiju, would surely be uneventful too, letting me savor some peace of mind before reaching Gansu.
Damn those water bandit bastards.
But my bliss circuits shorted out hard. My faith in Gwiju as a sleepy, quiet countryside shattered.
Who could've guessed water bandits would be kicking up a fuss even here? In a place where you had to seriously question if murim existed at all.
"Thank you so much for coming all the way to this frontier."
And seeing Gwiju's Bojeongtobu Branch Manager greeting us with such fervor only confirmed the bandits' antics were more spectacular than I'd imagined.
Shit.
Cold sweat trickled down my back at his near-90-degree bow. Sure, central officials outranked local ones, and as a Dochalwon inspector I wielded oversight authority, but the Branch Manager and I were both Jeong 4-pum rank. He might glance at my mood, but there was no need to bow so blatantly.
Yet he bent without hesitation, thanking me profusely—like a subordinate facing a boss who'd come to clean up his mess.
"It seems something's been troubling you lately, Branch Manager."
His posture told me everything. Even narrowing it to Bojeongtobu itself, some problem had erupted beyond what the Branch Manager could handle alone. Something requiring a top-tier official like a prefectural governor or regional commandant to step in.
But those leaders oversaw entire regions, not just one bureau. They couldn't focus solely on a single department's crisis. Which meant the Branch Manager had been shedding bloody tears, scrambling to contain it solo until now.
"Blessed with His Majesty's excessive grace to safeguard Bojeongtobu's peace, this fool has failed to live up to that trust. How could a sinner like me rest easy?"
To my actual question, he sighed bitterly, his voice laced with regret and self-reproach. Pitiful, yet exasperating enough to draw a sigh from me too.
Even so, a "bu"-level administrative zone should have its own troops and resources aplenty. For its Branch Manager to cry foul over water bandits?
At minimum, Dongting Lake level.
No—perhaps graver than Dongting. Akju-bu, overseeing Dongting, was populous enough to offer excuses for divided attention. But Bojeongtobu wasn't a region demanding scattered focus. It had every condition to concentrate on the bandits alone, yet here he was, tearing his hair out.
"How could that be your sin, Branch Manager? It's the crime of those wicked fools who spurn your wise and benevolent care, daring to choose the errant path of water bandits."
Sympathy aside, I soothed him first. To grasp the details, I needed his spirits lifted.
"If you're amenable, Branch Manager, might I share your burdens?"
"You voice what I couldn't utter—embarrassing, yet grateful."
Forcing a wry smile, he exhaled deeply and reached for the teapot. This chat was shaping up to be a long one.
Gwiju was a peaceful region. Not just on the surface, but palpably serene within. That's why officials who sought or volunteered for postings there weren't the ambitious sort, but those craving work-life balance. A quiet, leisurely bureaucratic life in a tranquil spot, followed by timely retirement or a lateral move within Gwiju. Ideal, right?
But that modest bliss for officials crumbled.
Thanks to naturally occurring pests: water bandits.
"Gwiju's officials have always kept their distance from murim."
In truth, Gwiju was famed as a pristine zone scarce in both water bandits and murim folk alike. Anyone truly devoted to Gwiju, unwilling to leave, might've founded a sect or clan there—but humans crave bigger ponds. With Sachon, Hunan, or Guangxi nearby, why stick to Gwiju?
This kept even water bandits rare in Gwiju.
Water bandits mainly prowl the Yangtze anyway.
Yet on that Yangtze, Gi Gangwang's gleeful bandit-slaying parties raged daily, weekly, monthly. Few bandits survived that frenzy; fewer fled to distant Gwiju; and rarer still did those miracle survivors resume banditry.
Normally, they'd thank their luck and live like mice.
Tragically, the world always sprouts lunatics far from normalcy.
"Have you heard of Huangguashui Great Waterfall?"
"The name rings a bell."
"Lately, water bandits have appeared there."
True hardcores, basing not on rivers but waterfalls. His explanation drew a hollow laugh from me.
Gwiju boasted the colossal Huangguashui Great Waterfall. Easily the Central Plains' largest, probably East Asia's too. Centered on it, eighteen cascades clustered densely—water in filthy abundance.
Yes, water aplenty, the very essence of bandit identity...
But who the hell bandits from a waterfall?
Where do they flee after raiding? Upstream against the falls? That's a stunt even a peak expert might barely attempt.
More maddening: these waterfall lunatics had the Branch Manager in tears. Meaning foothold-less wretches were somehow evading capture, plaguing Bojeongtobu and beyond.
How the hell haven't they been caught?
Beyond absurd—bordering awe. The Yangtze's vastness and tributaries offered hideouts galore, but from a waterfall's stream? My common sense couldn't fathom it. Kidnap a Yangtze bandit, and they'd scoff, "What crazy talk?"
No doubt.
"They move nimbly in small numbers, hard to catch. They even use crudely made ferries. Spot the garrison, and they ditch the boats, scattering."
Reading disbelief in my eyes, he hurriedly elaborated. But the addendum only deepened my skepticism. Elite squads made sense, but bandits treating boats like disposables? Unbelievable novelty.
Fleeing must be a breeze, though.
Simultaneously, it clicked. I'd seen all sorts traversing the realm, yet this was new even to me—what hope for Gwiju officials? Bandits ditching their prized vessels? I'd fail to nab them too. And once abandoned, their range exploded. Landfall meant scouring not just falls and streams, but hills and plains.
Not that you'd still call them water bandits.
"Best to see the site myself."
"Ah, yes. Not far—shall we go together?"
Stroking my chin, I rose casually; he followed suit, volunteering to guide. His pent-up bandit rage must run deep to move personally.
Huangguashui Great Waterfall lived up to its "great." Near 80 meters high, 100 wide—unworthy falls elsewhere could claim the title.
"Impressive."
"Gwiju's pride before the bandits claimed it. Not just locals—Sichuan and Hunan elites visited to savor nature."
I nodded at his subtle pride. Even north of the Yangtze, visitors would flock.
Banditry from here?
Seeing it firsthand amplified the awe. Bandits navigating 80-meter deluges via ferries. Was Jin Paeryeong, lord of the Yangtze's Eighteen Channels, resurrected? A serious thought.
"That?"
Scanning the falls, I spotted soldiers torching wooden planks nearby.
"Ah, ferries ditched by bandits a few days back. Smashing them yielded splinters for rebuilds. Only burning prevents revival."
I couldn't even nod. Frugal enough to reuse scraps—what maniacs.
Call Gi Gangwang now...?
Tell him of Gwiju's waterfall-playing rare-breed bandits, and he'd bolt here without looking back.