Black Dragon Blade Cheol-ya
This world ran on swords and inner power, yes—but also on order slips and delivery routes.
Sure, food delivery probably existed in the past too. But wasn’t this something stranger layered on top of that?
Sandwiches, steak, risotto, lasagna, pasta, pizza.... In Murim? What a bizarre, clashing mess.
It was like ordering Gio-suguta and Samseon Pei carbonara at once. Of course, Mugung Hyeoptak didn’t actually have Gio-suguta or Samseon Pei, but it did have carbonara, jjamppong, and Baedal-ui Hojok.
“Ack, it’s hot! Damn it...”
Oil was still boiling furiously in the pot. I’d let my guard down. Of all things, I’d gotten distracted in front of a legendary ancient Chinese Murim olive-oil swordsman who could fry a person to a crisp in that crackling sea of heat.
“Yeonhwa, lower the heat. The noodles are getting scared.”
Yeonhwa lowered the flame while gripping the ladle. Her hand movements were more natural than before. The hesitation had gone out of the motions—adding the noodles, stirring them, lifting them back out.
She’d gone from a back-alley, half-baked hobby cook to something a little better than that.
The carbonara somyeon grandmaster soaked in white sauce and breathed softly, while the jajang somyeon grandmaster flaunted its glossy black sheen. White and black... so this was the taiji, was it....
Now Yeonhwa understood what he meant by the noodles being afraid. Too much heat made them tough or mushy; too little, and they wouldn’t loosen properly and would go stiff.
People, martial arts, and cooking—all three shared similar natures. Too much pressure wounded the heart; too little, and everything came apart.
For Yeonhwa, just a lowly server and assistant cook, it meant he understood this was all nonsense. Still, he had to roll with it.
“On rainy days, we send out something spicy.”
Jangro Suksu spoke in a low voice.
“On rainy days, the heart gets damp and the blood and energy contract inward.”
The instant he finished speaking, the door was flung open.
Bang.
Rain and wind surged in together through the opening.
In the middle of that rush—rainwater plastering itself to the floor, cold gusts screaming through the room—a Cheolma Suguta came to a skidding stop.
A man in a black cloak slowly lifted his head.
“Is there a seat?”
His low voice shook the dining hall.
Every gaze inside turned to him at once. Customers in the middle of eating, reaching for food, pouring drinks—all of them froze and stared.
Yeonhwa was suddenly seized by a strange feeling.
It felt as if that man was deliberately pushing everyone away. As if he wanted to be alone, not to stand with anyone else.
Not some emo hikikomori type of thing, but rather the feeling of keeping himself isolated so that harm wouldn’t spill over to others.
And for some reason, she wanted to melt that feeling away.
Being together—being warm together—was something Yeonhwa had only truly learned after coming to Mugung Hyeoptak, after all. And it could be more comforting than anyone expected, something that steadied the heart.
Yes, maybe that meant she wanted to get closer.
“Mugung Hyeoptak welcomes everyone.”
Yeonhwa approached carefully and spoke.
The man gave a nod and sat down. When he took off his cloak, a long dao hung at his waist.
Yeonhwa took one step back at the sight of that fierce weapon and thought, A long blade, not a sword. Oh, what, is he some kind of samurai? This world was weird enough that maybe it could be. On the hilt was a black iron dragon pattern. Whoa. That’s cool.
“What would you like to order?”
“Extra-large mala somyeon. And a bottle of black sesame cheese tonkatsu and Alaphagos.”
Jangro Suksu called Yeonhwa over.
“Yeonhwa. Come here in front of the pot. I’ll teach you how to tame force with flow.”
In other words: if something is so spicy it could kill you, drinking milk makes it less spicy. Probably. At least that was how Yeonhwa understood it.
Yeonhwa stepped up to the pot.
When Jangro Suksu added the mala spices, the whole air heated up with a fiery aroma. Red oil shimmered and surged. The tongue-stinging heat crawled in through the nose and spread to the brain.
A memory deep in Yeonhwa’s head dug up the scent from somewhere in the past.
Ah, there it is. This is the taste of a Korean—no, wait, a Chinese person? Wasn’t mala tang a Korean food? In my memory, it got way more popular in Korea.
Anyway, Jangro Suksu piled meat and vegetables on top of it and tossed in the noodles, stirring them through.
“Yeonhwa. Stir it for about two more minutes, then take it out.”
Yeonhwa’s hand never stopped moving as she stirred the noodles in Jangro Suksu’s place. For some reason, she didn’t want to make any careless mistakes in front of this man.
When Jangro Suksu dropped the tonkatsu into the boiling oil, it answered with a sizzling, crackling scream. If the tonkatsu could talk, it would probably say, Anyone who dares bite me better be prepared—I won’t go down easy!
Yeonhwa sat beside him and watched his hands in silence. Tonkatsu—especially cheese tonkatsu—if you didn’t cut it properly, the shape would collapse, and with it the first taste people ate with their eyes.
Seeing with the eyes was part of cooking too. She was about to witness a master’s knife work firsthand.
When Jangro Suksu finished sprinkling the black sesame and lifted the cheese tonkatsu onto the plate, the pork cutlet wrapped in black powder and golden cheese looked downright delicious.
As she carried the two finished plates out, Yeonhwa looked at the man again. Blood and night, sea and blizzard—his clothes held the scent of many journeys. Just how much warmth had there ever been in those travels?
“Here is your mala somyeon and black sesame cheese tonkatsu, along with the Alaphagos.”
As she set the food down, he lifted his head.
Yeonhwa’s eyes met his.
For an instant, her breath caught.
His eyes warned that he could cut down anything at a moment’s notice, yet deep inside them there was clearly some hardened desire to drive others away. Yeonhwa almost teared up. She felt like she understood that feeling. She had been the same way, after all—pretending she was happier alone.
The man picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of the mala somyeon.
“It’s spicy.”
“On, on rainy days, the blood and energy contract inward. It’s good to work up a sweat.”
Yeonhwa answered with what she’d unconsciously remembered from Jangro Suksu, then thought, Wow, so I actually remembered that. Or maybe when you’re in danger, even your memory starts fighting at full power.
He studied Yeonhwa for a moment, then lifted his chopsticks again. This time it was the tonkatsu. As the crisp crust split, cheese spilled out.
“The richness suppresses the heat...”
He muttered it like he was talking to himself.
“What is your name?”
Flustered, Yeonhwa’s eyes darted around.
Oh no, did I do something wrong? Am I marked now? If I don’t say anything and just stand here, I might end up becoming a Yeon/Hwa—
“...Yeonhwa.”
In the end, she answered reluctantly.
Since waking in this world, everyone had called her that. Yeonhwa.
“I’m Cheol-ya.”
Cheol-ya.
At that name, the customers all turned to look at once.
Feeling that collective movement of attention, Yeonhwa felt a flicker of betrayal.
Hey, you lot. So you’d all been eavesdropping that quietly, huh.
“If it’s that Cheol-ya... the man who holds the Black Dragon Blade in the Northern Sea?” one customer muttered.
Cheol-ya did not answer. Instead, he lifted the bottle of Alaphagos and poured himself a drink.
Whispers spread among the customers.
Cheol-ya, the Black Dragon Blade of the Northern Sea.
The rumor that anyone who traveled with him disappeared.
The truth, they said, was that he was never alone at all—that countless vengeful spirits always walked with him.
“I was told this place was neutral.”
Cheol-ya’s voice remained calm.
“A place where you don’t draw blades.”
Jangro Suksu answered from inside the kitchen.
“At least not until the food gets cold.”
After that, Cheol-ya ate and drank in silence. Yet his gaze never once fully left the door.
And then, at last, the door opened again.
Three men entered wearing red-black rain cloaks, their eyes sharp as they fixed on Cheol-ya.
They looked like visible beings, and yet somehow they erased themselves, as if refusing their own place in the world and turning themselves into something almost nonexistent.
“Cheol-ya of the Black Dragon Blade.”
The one in front spoke first.
“It’s time to repay your debt from Yeon-ok.”
Cheol-ya set down his chopsticks.
Jangro Suksu tightened his grip on the sashimi knife and said, “If you draw a blade over some petty grudge, I’ll charge you triple the meal price.”
Yeonhwa’s heart beat quietly in her chest.
A fight? Should I run? And seriously, Jangro Suksu, why do you look so terrifying just standing there with a knife and narrowed eyes....
But Cheol-ya stood slowly.
“Outside.”
The door closed.
A moment later—
Clack.
Clang—!
One metallic sound.
And then silence again.
A few breaths later, the door opened.
Cheol-ya came back inside, shaking off his wet cloak.
The men in the red-black rain cloaks were nowhere to be seen.
He sat down and finished the rest of his noodles and tonkatsu.
As if nothing at all had happened.
Watching him, Yeonhwa understood.
So the jianghu was still drenched in blood.
Only Mugung Hyeoptak was a tiny island set down in the middle of it.
Outside these walls, I’m just a worthless little life. I could die at any time, in any way.
“Yeonhwa.”
Cheol-ya called her in a low voice.
“Y-yes?”
“I’ll come back for this somyeon.”
Cheol-ya placed a few silver coins on the table. More than enough—more than needed, in fact.
“Make it spicier next time.”
“Then... your stomach will suffer.”
Yeonhwa answered automatically, then panicked.
Yeonhwa, Yeonhwa! What are you even saying? Have you finally lost it? Why are you butting in? And yet—
“I’m used to pain.”
At those words, Yeonhwa froze. She went silent for a moment and looked again into Cheol-ya’s eyes. Deep fatigue lay there, and a very faint loneliness.
“I’ll come again.”
With that, Cheol-ya mounted his Suguta. Vroom. The iron steed sliced through the night road, where the rain had already begun to ease, and vanished.
“Well now. That’s an interesting connection.”
Jangro Suksu let out a snort of laughter.
“A place where those who wield blades come seeking balance... not bad. A blade can cut a person, but food can touch the heart. Which one’s more frightening, nobody really knows.”
Yeonhwa looked out through the doorway. Cheol-ya of the Black Dragon Blade. The man who had just left kept circling through her thoughts. She wanted to ease that lonely ache of his, to fill in the pain of being alone.... That was what she found herself thinking.
She had a feeling another strange fate was about to come looking for her.
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