The Opening of the Ghost Gate
Regardless of what the true nature of this world might be, one question still lingered unresolved in Namgung Woo’s mind.
“Does the Murim world truly obey so obediently simply because the imperial court tells it to stop?”
He had mentioned it once before, but the relationship between the court and the Murim as Namgung Woo understood it was one of mutual non-interference—like two entities that existed beside each other yet pretended the other wasn’t there. For both sides, the cost of becoming deeply entangled was far too heavy to bear. Honestly, if a supreme expert of the Murim truly set their mind on assassinating the emperor, the price of stopping him would be anything but trivial.
In response to Namgung Woo’s question, Pyeong Cho-yul answered with a question of his own.
“Do you know how the Nine Great Schools were formed?”
“How? Aren’t they simply a collective term used by the public to refer to the most prestigious major sects of the righteous Murim?”
Was there really any particular intention behind the process? Namgung Woo wore a puzzled expression, clearly struggling to see the point.
Seeing this, Pyeong Cho-yul subtly lowered his voice.
“The term includes those who received imperial support in exchange for cooperating with the court.”
“Cooperation, you say?”
“Before the Great Ming was founded—when the Yuan dynasty ruled this land—Shaolin aided Emperor Hongwu against the Yuan. It wasn’t anything new; after all, Shaolin had also helped Li Shimin of the Tang when the Sui dynasty fell. In any case, Emperor Hongwu compared himself to Li Shimin of the Tang and reaped considerable benefits from Shaolin’s assistance.”
Familiar names continued to emerge. The Hongwu Emperor who founded the Ming was Zhu Yuanzhang, and Li Shimin of the Tang was famous for waging war against Goguryeo and losing an eye in the process.
“The Yongle Emperor who succeeded him followed his father’s example and tried to compensate for his insufficient legitimacy through religion. That was the Wudang Sect.”
The Yongle Emperor had seized the throne by staging a coup against his own nephew—the Jingnan Campaign. Around the same time in the neighboring country, an uncle had likewise pushed his nephew off the throne in the famous Gyeyu Jeongnan led by Suyang Daegun.
Returning to the story: Hongwu Emperor Zhu Yuanzhang supported Shaolin. Yongle Emperor Zhu Di supported the Wudang Sect. The fact that the two pillars of the righteous Murim had grown powerful thanks to imperial backing was an uncomfortable truth for most martial artists to hear. Yet who wouldn’t want their own sect to flourish and spread its name?
Watching those two sects grow smoothly with the full backing of the court, the other factions could hardly sit idle.
“They, too, sought out the imperial court. In this way, seven additional sects and one faction received the court’s grace.”
Thus the Nine Great Schools were born. In exchange for imperial support, they were tasked with protecting the common people from those who practiced heretical martial arts. They became the very foundation of the current righteous Murim.
“Of course, several more sects have since been added to the list of those receiving support, and the exact composition of the Nine Schools has shifted a few times through various incidents in the gangho.”
“So there was such a hidden history.”
“Haha, it can hardly be called hidden. It’s a fact everyone knows openly. Still, what you said earlier is also correct, Young Hero. The Murim is made up of the people of the Great Ming, but it is not exactly a subordinate organization that swears loyalty to the emperor.”
Yet if the imperial court intervened to end the war between the righteous and evil factions, it was obvious they would support the righteous sects with whom they already shared cooperative ties. The moment the court signaled its intent to get involved, the evil faction side immediately expressed their desire for a ceasefire.
“Since the evil faction had been the one to start the war, the righteous Murim was seething with rage, but there was little they could do. The Black Demon League had cunningly moved first to seize the moral high ground, so the righteous side ultimately had no choice but to agree to the truce.”
“A kind of diplomatic ceasefire, then.”
“That’s true as well.”
Pyeong Cho-yul shrugged, subtly implying there were other reasons besides that.
Namgung Woo wanted to press further, but Pyeong Cho-yul clearly had no intention of elaborating.
“We’ll be arriving at Guxian soon. Let’s get ready.”
After spending one night in Guxian, located right next to Linfen County, the escort journey continued.
Namgung Woo had hoped to speak more with Pyeong Cho-yul, but the opportunity never came. Unlike Namgung Woo, who could remain quiet as a mere passenger, Pyeong Cho-yul—as the leader of this escort mission—had countless tasks to handle. For that reason, Namgung Woo actually found climbing back into the carriage rather welcome.
He had planned to uncover every detail behind the righteous-evil war this time and finally learn the secret history of the Namgung Family’s destruction. Yet it was Pyeong Cho-yul who brought up a new topic first.
“You mentioned this is your first escort mission, correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“If the imperial court is what the Murim fears most, do you know what escort agencies dread above all else?”
It was a rather sudden question. But after traveling with Pyeong Cho-yul long enough to understand this was simply how the man was, Namgung Woo answered calmly without surprise.
“Bandits, I suppose?”
Pyeong Cho-yul’s eyes widened as if he had heard something absurd, then he burst into laughter.
“Bandits? Ahaha, of course they’re an obstacle that can’t be ignored on any escort mission, but they aren’t particularly frightening. For one thing, bandits still fear the government troops. A reasonable toll is usually enough to pass.”
Namgung Woo’s brows drew together. He wasn’t offended—merely struck by how sharply the answer differed from his own expectations.
Isn’t it usually the opposite?
There was even a saying that humans were the most terrifying creatures in the world. Yet Pyeong Cho-yul’s reaction was the complete reverse.
“People are the scariest. Well, that saying does exist. But at least with humans, can’t we communicate? We’re the same kind, after all.”
“You speak as if beings that aren’t human are far more terrifying.”
“Yes. Exactly. They are more frightening precisely because they are not human.”
Just as Namgung Woo realized he was once again confronting an unknown aspect of this world, another interruption arrived.
“Leader, sir. Up ahead…”
“Aah, bandits? It’s about time they showed up. I’ll handle it myself.”
Ever since they had entered the Taihang Mountains—the massive natural boundary separating Shanxi and Beizhili—the appearance of bandits had been inevitable. Honestly, Pyeong Cho-yul sometimes wondered if the term “bandits” was truly appropriate, but since everyone used it, he supposed he would as well.
Pyeong Cho-yul prepared to leave the carriage.
“Young Hero, I’ll be back shortly.”
“I’ll go with you. If they’re bandits, you’ll need protection.”
“Ah, that’s quite all right. In fact, your presence might only provoke them. If you find the carriage uncomfortable, feel free to watch from outside.”
As if to prove his earlier claim that bandits were not particularly fearsome on escort missions, Pyeong Cho-yul strode forward alone without hesitation.
Namgung Woo’s eyes told him that Pyeong Cho-yul had indeed trained in martial arts. However, his level of achievement was nothing remarkable—still inferior to Song Chae-ji, who was five or six years younger. Nevertheless, Pyeong Cho-yul conversed with the bandits blocking the road all by himself and returned completely unscathed.
“This has become troublesome.”
“Was it the bandits after all…?”
“Ah, no. Not at all.”
Namgung Woo had asked with a hint of expectation that his guess was correct, but his words were firmly denied before he could even finish.
“We settled things peacefully with the bandits. We paid the toll, so the mountain path itself presents no further problems. They do quite a thorough job for the money, you see. The wild beasts in the area should have already been cleared out by their hands.”
That was a rather familiar concept.
Isn’t this exactly like maintaining the road and charging a fee to use it?
Indeed, if even the Murim watched its step around the imperial court, bandits acting recklessly would be suicidal. No matter how much martial arts they practiced, there were countless stronger experts in the Murim. Cause too much trouble and they would end up as nothing more than disposable mobs for a protagonist’s showcase battle, the kind so common in martial arts novels.
Finding the explanation reasonably convincing, Namgung Woo decided not to challenge the common sense of a world where martial arts existed.
“Then what exactly is the problem?”
“Well, earlier I said people aren’t that scary, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“It seems Young Hero may get the chance to experience the most dreaded adversaries in the escort business for himself.”
The most dreaded adversaries. With the added clue that they were not human, Namgung Woo could now guess what they were.
Since the bandits had already cleared out the wild beasts, only one possibility remained.
So they exist here as well.
In the game they had been called monsters. In Eastern terms, yo-kai. Beings fundamentally different from humans—unconditional enemies with whom no dialogue was possible.
This was a world where martial arts existed. In a world where even bizarre supernatural phenomena had been proven real, what was so strange about monsters appearing?
“Not far from here,” Pyeong Cho-yul said, his voice heavy with complication, “a Gvimon has opened.”
The words did not strike Namgung Woo with any particular dread.
Because slaying monsters was precisely his area of expertise.
Looks like I’ll finally earn my keep.
This was the moment to properly calibrate the standard of strength in this world.