Chapter 7
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: 02. Eve Festival (4)
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Pung-il's words came out muffled like he had a bean cake stuffed in his mouth, but Pung-i understood him perfectly, as clear as sticky rice cake.
Pung-i took one look at the situation and saw Flying Tiger poised to charge in with murderous eyes.
Yeah, what if he dodges and the poison bomb rolls right back at us?
Pung-i rolled the poison bomb across the floor and swiftly retreated.
His plan was to let it roll and explode somewhere around the doorway.
In that case, some of the poisonous smoke would seep into the room, but at least Flying Tiger wouldn't be able to charge in—he'd have no choice but to fall back. It would buy them at least enough time to regroup! And if it completely overwhelmed them and knocked them out cold, that would be perfect.
The poison bomb rolled forward with a vengeance, spewing smoke as it went.
Deguru~
Pop!
Flying Tiger flinched just as he was about to leap in. He covered his nose and mouth with his left hand and kicked the rolling object away.
The poison bomb flew off in every direction, belching gray smoke as it sailed straight into the room.
Dizzy but undeterred, Flying Tiger dashed after it and slammed the door shut.
Even if I end up breathing some of it, I'll make you choke down ten times as much. That was his mindset.
Soon, vigorous cries echoed from the tightly sealed room.
"Urk!"
"Ah... damn it! Cough, cough!"
Pung-il and Pung-i flailed about, having been thoroughly blanketed by the very poison bomb they'd thrown.
It was an expensive item, and having finally tasted it themselves after using it only on others, they realized it was worth every penny.
It was pure agony!
Pung-i resolved to bolt before it got any worse. Sure, Flying Tiger was waiting outside, but if he stayed, he'd die without landing a single blow.
One hand gripping his raised sword, the other fumbling for the door handle, he counted down—one, two, three. Then he flung the door open and charged out, swinging wildly.
But...
The moment Pung-i stepped outside, he tumbled backward in a heap.
The door had slammed shut again.
Flying Tiger, waiting right there, had kicked it back with all his might the instant it opened.
Bam! Crash!
The door flew open once more, and even through the thick smoke, Flying Tiger rushed in and drove his blade into the fallen Pung-i.
If I'm already breathing this smoke, what's one more lungful? I've got to seize the chance.
Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab.
As he stabbed, Flying Tiger scanned for the eldest of the Fufeng Four Heroes, Pung-il.
Just then, Pung-il was crawling into an underground passage beneath the bed, trying to escape.
Confirming that, Flying Tiger withdrew from the room. There was no need to suffer any longer.
Creeeak—
The overworked door creaked in exhaustion from all the opening and closing, while inside the smoke-filled room, the fallen Pung-i writhed, vomiting blood.
Now, how do I deal with that one?
As Flying Tiger stepped out, he heard frantic footsteps from the alleyway.
It was Pung-sam, the third of the Fufeng Four Heroes, who hadn't shown his face. He'd secured an escape route and was fleeing alone. Hearing his brothers' desperate screams and seeing Flying Tiger emerge alone from the room, he'd decided things had gone straight to hell.
(*For the record, Pung-sam hadn't planned to just stand by while his brothers got taken down. It was just that everything happened too fast. What could he do? A guy who survives has to keep surviving.)
Flying Tiger gauged Pung-sam's speed from the fading footsteps. If he gave chase now, he could probably catch him.
But it would take time to go and come back, and in the meantime, he worried about wrapping up the mess he'd made—and about Gong Won-yeong, left alone.
Hoo—
In the end, Flying Tiger gave up the pursuit. He looked up at the sky, exhaled a stale breath, and drew in the cool night air. As he relaxed his tense body and breathed deeply several times, the dizziness faded.
Across the way, the revelry of all-night carousing still echoed, but the night sky was pitch black.
Flying Tiger went to find Gong Won-yeong first and reassure her. She offered to help clean up, but he told her to wait—it was fine. He planned to handle it roughly, and he didn't want her seeing that.
Then Flying Tiger returned to the room to dispose of the trash. By now, most of the poison smoke had cleared, leaving only a faint, acrid aftertaste.
Twitch, twitch.
Pung-i was dying but seemed oblivious to the fact—or unwilling to accept it, at any rate.
"I was wrong. Please spare me..."
Ignoring him, Flying Tiger peered into the secret passage and saw Pung-il's head, his corpse stuffed inside.
Cause of death: massive blood loss.
His side to the back of his thigh had been sliced clean open.
Pung-il had thought it was just a graze, but the sword wind from Flying Tiger had severed skin, muscle, and even bone. It was so cleanly cut that he'd mistaken it for nothing serious. But as soon as he started moving, disaster struck, and in the end, he crawled away in terror before dying.
The master Pung-il, who had hidden fully thirty percent of his true skill, died still concealing his abilities to the last.
Pung-il's pathetic end might have seemed empty, but knowing the truth, it was nothing special.
Secret techniques were hard to conceal, but even harder to deploy at the right moment.
The key here was that Flying Tiger had obtained prior information: Pung-il was a cut above the rest.
From the start, Flying Tiger had focused on Pung-il in this fight. Before the man could unleash anything, he'd struck first with one of his three signature killing arts, Heavenly Punishment.
And it had worked.
"Please spare me... I beg you, sir. Brother—no, elder, please."
Pung-i truly seemed to want to live. He'd been whimpering nonstop, throwing out every pathetic honorific he could think of.
At that moment, Flying Tiger was pulling out the jammed corpse, stuffing it into a sack, and wiping up the blood pooling on the floor.
He'd let Pung-i make such a racket because he wanted him to die slowly. But even in this situation, the fool couldn't get his head straight—he was begging for life, clinging desperately to it.
Flying Tiger didn't like that. So he paused his mopping and approached Pung-i.
And said,
"You're too bland."
"What?"
"I told you this afternoon, didn't I? You're a bland one."
That afternoon, Pung-i had gotten tipsy on daytime drinks, his face flushed, and he'd called out to Flying Tiger as he passed, mocking him.
Truth be told, such clumsy provocations were a mistake. They only put the enemy on needless alert and heightened their hostility.
As Flying Tiger figured it, Pung-i must have believed he could hide the truth with clever words. He'd probably gotten a thrill out of fooling people with his mouth.
Useless, idiotic behavior.
That was why Flying Tiger had called him bland back then.
"Looks like it won't do. Time to give you some flavor."
"Huh? What do you—"
Pung-i soon learned what he meant.
The mad bastard was prying open his wounds and dumping salt on them.
Kaaaaah!
The pain was enough to make his eyes bulge. He screamed until his voice gave out. And he thought: it hurt so bad he might as well be dead.
Before long, Pung-i trembled and tearfully begged,
"Sto... stop... just kill me..."
"Now that's more like it. Got it."
With that, Flying Tiger ended Pung-i's remaining life with a single stroke. He chopped up the body, stuffed it into the sack with the others, and finished cleaning the floor.
Flying Tiger worked busily, and only around midnight did he finally have time for a cup of tea.
He and Gong Won-yeong had taken rooms at an inn in the Hui district, two blocks from their old haunt in the southern market street. They planned to stay there for a while.
A hideout of sorts.
Their nest was mostly tidied up, but erasing the bloodstains and scrubbing every inch would take at least a few more days. And if they were unlucky, this incident might draw annoying flies buzzing around—like the escaped Pung-sam.
Slurp.
Gong Won-yeong sipped her tea, eyeing Flying Tiger across the table from all angles.
They knew each other too well, so he asked casually, face impassive,
"How do I look?"
"You finally look human again. Hoyah, why were you so angry earlier?"
"......"
"Don't let rage consume you. Be careful not to cross the line. Got it?"
"......"
"Hm?"
"Got it. I'll be careful."
"Good. By the way, one got away, right?"
"I'll catch him and 'teach' him... Ahem. Give him a proper talking-to he can understand."
"Just kill him."
"...?"
"Don't bother with all that bland-this, bland-that nonsense. If you can kill him, just kill him."
"Ah..."
"Heh! But don't push yourself. If it gets messy, we can just leave like always, right? We're planning our final trip soon anyway—that'll settle it."
"Uh..."
"So go get it done quick."
Flying Tiger felt awkward.
She'd heard everything. And quick on the uptake as always, she'd pieced it together. Of course she had—they'd been through thick and thin together; how could she not know him?
Gong Won-yeong had grown frail in body, but not in spirit. If anything, she was tougher than he was.
Flying Tiger said lightly,
"I'll be back."
"I won't unpack. Just don't be too late."
"Yeah."
Running away again... It's all too familiar for us. Maybe it's a fitting end. But I don't want to end things with you like that. I'm serious.
Lost in such thoughts, Flying Tiger walked with a staggering gait—the picture of a drunken wanderer. The kind you might spot one or two of on any night street.
Eventually, he stopped thinking and walking alike in a neighborhood lined with grand mansions.
There stood a manor where experts from the Six Jia Gate were temporarily staying. The sect was based north of Chang'an in the Weinan region, and this was their rented lodging for tomorrow's march with the other factions of the Martial Qin Alliance.
From what Flying Tiger had learned, the Fufeng Four Heroes had been staying there since three days ago as well.
The question is whether Pung-sam actually fled here...
Flying Tiger figured the odds were less than fifty percent.
Normally, he'd rush back to his sect as fast as possible to report the disaster.
But the Fufeng Four Heroes were recent recruits to the Six Jia Gate—bound more by money than loyalty. And the one they'd truly valued was the real master among the four: Pung-il. Who was now dead.
In other words, they were like newly bought shoes with the laces already snapped.
Plus, what brag was there in admitting they'd broken into someone's home for murder and rape, only to get stabbed?
All things considered, Pung-sam was more likely to hole up somewhere than come here.
But... if by some chance he had fled here anyway and tried to spin a convincing lie to turn the Six Jia Gate against him, that could spell big trouble.
Even a slim chance required checking it out.
I'll know when I see. And if he crosses my path, he's dead!
Flying Tiger pulled out his prepared mask and slipped it on. His eyes turned icy cold, as if the drunken stupor had never been.