Chapter 112
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 112
Chapter Title: Chapter 32. Contact (3)
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“Think you can mess with our organization and walk away unscathed?”
The uninjured Yin Sa squad member, unwilling to go down without a fight even on the brink of death, resorted to threatening him with the organization's name.
Flying Tiger found it ridiculous.
“Organization? I figured the big shots wanted to see me. Aren't they on their way right now?”
“That's right. They'll be here any moment. Better prepare your excuses for when they...”
“Hey, shut up and listen. Shouldn't you be the ones getting ready? Can't even handle one guy properly and you stir up trouble—don't you think they'll chew you out for it?”
“...”
“Let me clue you in on something. One of your comrades—a traitor named Ban Chung? Haven't seen his face around lately, have you?”
“You know Ban Chung?”
“Oh, I know him alright. But you? Seems like you're in the dark about where that rat scurried off to. Tsk! He was practically begging me for scraps.”
“No way...”
“Heh heh heh. Your bosses already know all about it. Don't kid yourself into thinking you're special.”
The Yin Sa squad member clamped his mouth shut and fumed, clearly lost in thought.
Then he flinched in surprise. Somehow, Flying Tiger had slipped out through the shrine gate.
“Hold on. Where do you think you're going?”
“I'm going my own way. You did your job.”
“But didn't you want to meet our organization's higher-up?”
“Hmph! You killed the vibe, so I changed my mind. If they've got business with me, tell 'em to come find me themselves. And next time, make sure they bring cash and manners.”
“...”
With that, Flying Tiger departed.
Who there could possibly stop him if he wanted to leave?
The rest could only watch him go, their hearts heavy with frustration.
It was all deliberate.
The persona Flying Tiger had crafted was a rough, self-serving mercenary who loved money above all. But underneath, a ronin warrior whose skills were second to none.
To burn that image into their minds before negotiations even began, he'd gone looking for trouble. And the moment provocation hit, he'd torn the place apart.
Call it a classic push and pull. That's exactly what he was doing.
After all, things won too easily are treated like trash. And that wouldn't serve his true purpose.
They want something from Jin Ga-yong. So do I. Bet it's the same thing... Anyway, perfect. Fresh ingredients in hand. Now, how do I turn this into a feast?
Flying Tiger seemed headed toward Zhao Family Manor on Ye Mountain for a couple of hours, then abruptly stopped midway. This threw the Choeo-jin pursuers, who arrived panting and out of breath, into total disarray.
Where he'd hidden the night before was a dead, deserted spot. This time, he picked the exact opposite: somewhere teeming with people, impossible to search.
The red-light district.
Ideal for vanishing overnight without a trace. And if they later dug into his background, they'd find all the details they needed right there—his personality, tastes, habits, the works.
He snagged a decent brothel, ordered a spread fit for a king, summoned two courtesans, and dove into the revelry like a beast.
Or at least, that's how it started. Too much too fast, and it all fizzled out prematurely.
Whatever the case.
He kicked off bold and boisterous, chugging booze like water. But not even two hours in, his eyes glazed over and his tongue went thick.
From there, he unleashed a torrent of curses, lumping every bastard together—including that Jin Ga-yong prick—in one drunken tirade.
Another two hours later, he was blackout wasted, barely able to hold himself up.
The courtesans had braced themselves at first, thinking, “Holy hell, we've got a raging lunatic tonight.”
But when the tables turned like this, they were over the moon. They sweet-talked more coin out of the delirious Flying Tiger, shoved his baby-like snoring ass into a corner, then ordered round after round of top-shelf liquor for themselves and partied till they bounced.
Talk about striking gold.
The brothel owner felt the same windfall. He'd slapped three days' worth of revenue onto Flying Tiger's tab under every excuse in the book.
Only hitch: the guy was a sword-slinging warrior.
So the owner rounded up nine local street toughs—guys he usually called brothers—and had them stand guard from dawn.
Hours ticked by, but Flying Tiger never emerged. Fed up, the owner cracked open the door to a trashed, empty room.
Dined and ditched!
To be fair, Flying Tiger hadn't eaten much. But hey, logic had no place here.
“Grab that son of a bitch right now!”
His furious roar fell on deaf ears, a classic case of too little, too late. Flying Tiger was long gone, and even if they found him, what could the owner do?
Flying Tiger's overnight vanishing act wasn't just to buy time.
The meet had to happen near Zhao Family Manor. And before talks, he needed to drop hints about his “condition”—meaning the fake persona he'd built.
Steer their first deal straight toward Jin Ga-yong.
If they pitched something else? Walk away, no sweat.
Perfect excuse ready: he had urgent business with Jin Ga-yong anyway.
Sure, even if it fell through, he'd loop back in later with some pretext. But for now, this was the play.
He was mid-cooking process. Before the main course, time to prep the ingredients just right.
This was what happened after Flying Tiger bolted at the crack of dawn.
He hit up the nearby “Song Family Everything Shop,” a pawnshop. Not for quick cash—it was a branch of Seo Guk-dang.
Pawnshop by day, info broker on the side.
He'd stopped by on a whim and struck unexpected paydirt.
“Sir, are you alright?”
The notoriously grumpy old Song man asked with uncharacteristic politeness.
This was an important guest of Seo Guk-dang. None other than owner Hidden Moon's personal contact. Worth the attention. Even without that, the man's face was bizarre enough to pique curiosity—emotions all jumbled, impossible to read.
Clearly reeling from the news. Like his face couldn't show joy or rage right. What the hell was that expression supposed to mean?
But it passed quick. His features settled back to stoic calm. Old Song wondered if he'd imagined it, still half-asleep.
“I'm fine. Sorry for barging in at this ungodly hour and ruining the owner's sleep. Thanks for your time.”
Flying Tiger stepped out of Song Family Everything Shop and scanned the fog-shrouded streets. Dawn was breaking, yet everything stayed hazy white.
The letter he'd received was in dense code. Decoded, it read:
<Tracked Golden Jade Immortal's movements at departure. Your hunch was spot on! Rerouted all manpower to Han Zhong area. If he hadn't veered off mid-route, we'd have him in days. Will update as things progress.>
Undeniably good news.
But the road ahead felt endless. Would he ever close the gap...?
Excitement mixed with anxiety. And fear.
Hoo.
Flying Tiger steadied his heart and pressed on with heavy steps. This was morning, six days before his rendezvous with Hidden Moon.
It was late afternoon, shadows stretching long.
Flying Tiger halted at a pass near Ye Mountain. A gang of sword-wielding thugs burst out and encircled him. But they weren't roadside bandits. Their vibe screamed it, and their opening line confirmed.
“You Flying Tiger?”
A burly brute with a scruffy jawbeard alternated stares between a crumpled sketch and Flying Tiger's face.
“That's me. And you are?”
“Don't wanna die? Then shut up and follow nice.”
Six in total, dressed every which way. But all rough as gravel, blades bloodied before.
Flying Tiger eyed them over, then casually went along.
The thugs marched him to a mountain slash-and-burn hut. Owner nowhere in sight, but fresh signs of life everywhere.
Trouble hit right away.
One thug—dark-skinned with frizzy hair—approached, demanding Flying Tiger ditch his sword and gear.
“For real?”
“Heard you raised hell over there? Save it for someone else. We don't take kindly to lip. All of us got short fuses. Relax, though. Hunker down inside quiet-like, and no harm'll come. Already sent word—the guy's coming tonight to see you.”
Flying Tiger glanced around. Everyone but Frizzy was grinning ugly, weapons drawn: short sword, chain sickle, claw blade, wolf-fang club, twin iron halberds. Arsenal for days.
Figured they'd play nice till safe territory, then show fangs. Or sized him up en route and found him easy pickings.
Whatever. They trusted their chops.
And Flying Tiger conceded they had reason. The killer auras alone proved it. He stared at the dirt and let out deep sighs.
Frizzy narrowed his eyes, smirking like it was hilarious.
“What, pride stinging?”
Frizzy's mocking jab was the last thing he'd ever say.
Pfshk.
Flying Tiger rammed a dagger straight into his ear canal.
When? How?
Flying Tiger's strike was beyond their calculations. Only as Frizzy toppled sideways did they spot the hilt—and realize shit had hit the fan.
They'd seen it, but not really.
The chain sickle whipped out with a metallic rattle, sickle blade chasing—but Flying Tiger had already ducked into the empty house.
Furious, Claw-Bandit led with steel talons and charged in, the rest piling after.
Gah!
But Claw backed out fast, scrambling. Threw the trailing pack into chaos.
He clawed at his throat retreating. Pathetic—those long steel claws got in the way, shredding skin instead. Finally he crashed down, slit throat spraying crimson fountain.
Shhhhaaa—
Door slammed shut. Four thugs left, exchanging awkward glances.
Think my warning's a joke?
Flying Tiger's gaze turned icy.
These Choeo-jin mongrels still hadn't learned.
Kill 'em all—would that ease the itch?
Time to find out.