Chapter 14
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: Deal and Test (4)
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The escort warrior rummaged through the bundle at his side and pulled out another gourd flask. He must have planned to drink it all himself if I hadn't said anything. He stared at the new flask with regret, his gaze lingering on it like he was bidding farewell to a lover.
Finally, with the expression of someone who'd made a grave decision, he tossed the flask to Flying Tiger.
"Jin Ga-yong. That's my name."
As Flying Tiger caught it and started to offer thanks, Jin turned his eyes back to the campfire, waving dismissively without even looking over.
No need for pleasantries. Whatever he was thinking, it was clear he didn't want to be disturbed.
Flying Tiger, parched from watching all evening, uncorked the flask and took a deep swig.
Gulp~ Gulp~!
Flying Tiger was startled.
The liquor slid down smooth as silk, rich with fragrance beyond compare. A warm heat bloomed in his chest.
It felt so good that his mind sharpened instantly—he almost felt guilty for accepting it so readily.
That's a bit much. Hmm, I feel bad taking this...
Flying Tiger took one more sip, then firmly recorked the flask and settled down to sleep.
The aroma lingered on his tongue, the crackle of burning wood filled his ears, and as he lay there gazing at the countless stars, drowsiness washed over him.
Through the hazy starlight, he vaguely recalled Gong Won-yeong's innocent smile from their childhood.
The next day.
The two set out early in the morning. After riding for about two hours, they stopped by a stream to rest their weary horses. Their destination, Gaoling, was now just half an hour away.
Flutter.
Jin Ga-yong took a message from a carrier pigeon, scanned the note, and approached Flying Tiger. At that moment, Flying Tiger was perched on a rock by the stream, splashing his bare feet in the water like a child.
"Just confirmed Sang Mok-cheon is in Gaoling. How's the prep going?"
"All set."
"..."
"Something wrong?"
"No need for meditative breathing? I can stand watch if you want."
"Don't need it."
"Don't you trust me or something?"
"That's part of it, sure, but honestly, I'm good enough as is right now."
Jin had asked out of kindness, noting Flying Tiger hadn't circulated his qi once since they met. But if the man didn't want to, what could he do? Prickly as a hedgehog, he thought with a click of his tongue, then got to the rest of the business.
"Gwak's young miss was vague yesterday, but the man you're meeting—Sang Mok-cheon—deserves death. He ravaged his sworn brother's wife, then torched the place to silence everyone, killing several in the blaze. Lucky for us, one witness survived and word got out."
"I see. Hmm."
"What is it?"
"Then why doesn't Dance Melody Manor handle it themselves? Trying to cover their own dirt?"
"Little brother, they're not that shameless. It's just tangled politics making it hard for them to act directly right now. Things are chaotic over there."
"So they outsourced the hit?"
"Yeah. Figured killing him would bury the incident. But we've already agreed on terms, so no worries about cleanup. The issue is he's no pushover."
"Take this."
Jin handed over a folded sheet of paper.
Flying Tiger unfolded it to find intel on Sang Mok-cheon: his looks, cultivated arts, internal energy, main weapon, notable traits, and a tiny-script rundown of his past fights. It gave Flying Tiger a clear picture of the man—and why Jin was worried.
A survivor of countless brutal clashes. A fighter who knew how to scrap.
Flying Tiger pictured Sang Mok-cheon in his mind's eye, then stood him up in his imagination and sparred rapidly.
Once, twice...
Seven bouts in total: five losses, two wins.
Then Flying Tiger asked coldly,
"How should we kill him?"
"Any way that works. Just make sure he's dead!"
As Flying Tiger and Jin reached the Gaoling entrance, a man approached, whispered to Jin, and vanished. He'd been sent ahead to scout.
Jin led Flying Tiger to the village teahouse and nodded at the building.
He's inside. Handle it.
Clink. Clink.
Flying Tiger pulled out the five nyang in coins from yesterday's bounty advance, rolling them in his palm as he entered the teahouse.
Not on the first floor.
Up the stairs on the second, there he was—matching the description perfectly. Their eyes met.
Flying Tiger brushed past naturally, pretending to hunt for an empty seat, then gave up. He'd already caught the flicker of suspicion in Sang Mok-cheon's gaze.
Clink. Clink.
Flying Tiger rolled the coins toward Sang Mok-cheon's table.
Sang Mok-cheon sat alone by the window, pouring himself grain liquor despite it being morning.
He squinted blearily at Flying Tiger through a drunken haze and asked,
"Who're you?"
He looked utterly wasted.
But the half-lidded eyes couldn't fully hide the glinting killing intent. It was all an act.
Tch! A solid opener would've been perfect.
The mental image of Sang Mok-cheon differed from the real thing.
Keener senses. Slimier vibe.
Could he use that?
"Blade-Cutting Hand Sang Mok-cheon?"
"That's me. And you?"
"Your customer."
Flying Tiger plopped arrogantly into the opposite chair, scattering the five nyang coins across the table.
Clatter.
Sang Mok-cheon twitched, eyed the coins, and slurred,
"What's this?"
"Your life fee."
"..."
"Someone called you a mangy cur, so I collected dog money. But looking at you, you're just a piss-drunk. Wait downstairs. Chug some water, sober up, and come down."
Flying Tiger shot to his feet and turned.
In that instant, Sang Mok-cheon's eyes turned feral. He flipped the table with his left hand while snatching the sword hilt leaning by the window with his right.
It was a ambush setup.
Shove the table into Flying Tiger's turned back, then stab through it.
Flying Tiger, back exposed, would instinctively turn and block with the table—right when the unseen blade pierced through.
The perfect opener Flying Tiger had wanted.
But he passed, and Sang went for it.
Why pass? A sloppy ambush would've backfired hard.
For example...
The table lurched.
In that split second, Flying Tiger whipped around like a ghost, slamming his left palm down to pin it.
The table crashed back, shuddering as if about to splinter, redirecting all that upward force into the items atop it.
Flask, cup, and Flying Tiger's scattered coins—all flew up.
Flying Tiger and the off-balance Sang Mok-cheon locked eyes again.
Sang felt a chill—Flying Tiger had reacted like he'd been waiting. He retreated hastily, slashing wildly.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Not a bad choice. Chasing sloppily would've meant eating steel; holding back secured distance. If only Flying Tiger hadn't read it.
He didn't chase.
Instead, Flying Tiger swept his hand through the air, swatting the soaring coins. Four shot toward Sang like arrows.
Shoo-shoo-shoo!
Two clanged off his swinging blade. One grazed his forearm. The last embedded in his forehead above the left eyebrow.
Thwack.
The opener Flying Tiger wanted landed clean.
Sang's skull rang like it was cracking; he grimaced and staggered back another step.
Flying Tiger lunged, drawing and slashing down.
Crunch!
Incredibly, Sang caught the blade bare-handed with his left, snapping it. His hand was pitch-black—Black Rock Hand, ultimate technique.
Black Rock Hand is a type of Iron Palm technique.
Its training method...
Thrust your hand into a red-hot cauldron of sand—hundreds, thousands of times. Coat the mangled hand with special salve, heal, and end the day. Repeat for years. Eventually, your hand hardens like iron.
What sets Black Rock Hand apart is the salve's herb mix and a special breathing method that doubles the effect. Channel internal energy, and it turns black as rock, tougher still.
A hand that severs blades.
The Black Rock Hand that earned Sang Mok-cheon his Blade-Cutting Hand moniker.
Though Sang snapped Flying Tiger's sword with Black Rock Hand, his left wasn't unscathed.
The slash was fierce; this desperate, half-instinctive block succeeded but left his hand half-severed and bloodied.
But he lived—and seized a counter chance!
Head throbbing into haze, Sang thrust with his right-hand sword. Pure battle-honed reflex.
In life-or-death scraps, no "ifs"—but what if he'd seen Flying Tiger's unshaken, icy eyes?
Snap.
As Sang's blade stabbed straight, Flying Tiger crooked his left index and middle fingers like a bird's beak, snagging and twisting the flat.
Empty Hand Seizes the White Blade.
Even a hardened warrior like Sang moved faster than the eye.
How was this possible?
Flying Tiger was faster—and he'd anticipated it.
How does a cornered foe react to a golden counter opening?
Flying Tiger had predicted, claiming space before the blade even moved.
He yanked the seized sword; Sang stumbled forward.
Flying Tiger rammed the half-broken blade into his gut.
Deep as archaic bronze armor plating. Not quite mortal, but plenty to shatter morale.
"Guhk!"
Sang couldn't hold back a choked groan. Flying Tiger released the blade and palm-struck his temple—the Sun Acupoint, deadly even to a pinpoint jab.
Thud!
Sang toppled sideways.
Flying Tiger flicked the last coin beside him.
Of the five scattered earlier, he'd flung four; this one he'd pocketed. Backup plan if all four were blocked: chuck the fifth.
Ting~
Flying Tiger said coldly,
"Here. Ferry fare to the afterlife."
He leaped out the second-floor window, mounted up with Jin, and rode off swiftly.
Witnesses panicked at the sudden killing; only as the pair cleared the village did shouts of "Murder!" erupt.
"How'd it go?"
"Expected an assassination attempt. Went straight-up instead."
"You saying I'm some assassin?"
"Aren't you? My read while sizing you up: highly trained killer."
"Was once. Will be if needed. But I wanted to impress."
Jin nodded and extended a hand.
What now?
Flying Tiger eyed it, then clasped cautiously. Jin shook.
"You pass. Let me reintroduce: Jin Ga-yong, your boss as of today. Let's get along."