Chapter 81
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 81
Chapter Title: Chapter 24. Blitzkrieg (1)
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Along the river, vast yellow earth mountains stretched out in grandeur, forming a dense thicket of soil. Deep within that labyrinthine maze emerged a towering cliff of a mountain, sheer as if hacked apart by a heavenly blade.
The cliff soared over a hundred and fifty zhang high, and nestled against it stood the headquarters of the Locust Division.
It was a small fortress.
Outwardly, it featured two layers of walls dividing the outer and inner baileys, while inward tunnels had been dug to claim more space.
Seeing it with their own eyes, it was indeed as small-scale as Dang Geum had described—no more than three hundred could fit inside.
Yet the only approach was straight on from the front, and even that path grew precipitous and narrow, making it a natural fortress where a few hundred could hold off thousands.
"At this rate, even a massive army would struggle to breach it."
"Exactly. Force won't cut it. But think about it—if we just seal the entrance, they're trapped rats in a hole. No need to fight; a siege alone will make them crumble on their own."
"Ah, I see. It has its flaws too."
This was the hushed exchange between Na-mok and Wang Baek-gun as they surveyed the Locust Division headquarters. With the enemy camp now right in front of them, they couldn't afford to speak loudly.
But Flying Tiger, overhearing from nearby, saw it differently. Back when he operated beyond the Central Plains, he'd seen a similar stronghold.
'Easy to say, but a prolonged siege isn't always the best play. They'd have stockpiled enough water and food for that exact scenario. With so few people, it's no hassle. At least a year? The attackers—outnumbered several times over—would have to sustain their forces that long. Not easy at all. The costs alone would be staggering. More likely, the besiegers break first.'
Flying Tiger pondered this, then tilted his head.
'Still, Protector Wang has a point. From the bandits' view, it'd be like boxing themselves in voluntarily. Why choose a spot like this? Hidden gold mine nearby? Or... could it have the same setup as that other place?'
A plausible theory came to him about why the bandits had picked this location.
But he brushed it off indifferently. It didn't concern them. The Jeong Unit planned a surprise raid, not a frontal assault.
At that moment, Jin Ga-yong, scouting ahead, signaled from across the way. The waiting Jeong Unit members swiftly filed out from hiding.
They arrived at the rendezvous point Jeong had set as their midpoint.
It lay at the entrance to a narrow path leading to a sally port attached to the left end of the walls—a small side gate besides the main one. Flanked by a steep slope, it was a sunken nook visible only by circling around. About half a pyeong in size, it dropped off into a cliff below and was fringed by weeds that nicely concealed the interior.
In short, a naturally formed hideout in a perfect spot.
Everything was ideal—except it was cramped for seven full-grown men. The slight-built Wang Baek-gun and surprisingly slender Jin Ga-yong fared better, but bruisers like Ye Dok-du and Dang Geum filled it to bursting.
But what could they do?
The Jeong Unit hunkered down shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee, mouths shut, waiting in silence.
It wasn't exactly cheerful, a bunch of burly men crammed like that. They just hoped one of the Ten Phantoms would show soon.
......
Damn it all, a whole sikgyeong—thirty minutes—dragged by in that state.
Already stifling, and now past the appointed time, folks started fidgeting here and there. Poor Flying Tiger in the middle took elbows and knees from all sides.
He got shoved bit by bit, and Jin Ga-yong recoiled, frowning as Flying Tiger kept bumping into him.
—What are you doing?
—Huh?
—You're crossing the line. Watch it.
—The guys are squirming so much, it just happened...
—Why me, of all people?
Why?
Everyone else is packed tight, but you've got breathing room around you. Water flows to fill space, right?
You think I did it on purpose?
Flying Tiger shot Jin Ga-yong a look that said as much.
—Ahem. I'm sensitive, so mind yourself.
—Oh, come on, like I'm not...
—Quiet!
Jin Ga-yong cut him off, pointing upward with a finger.
Someone was approaching.
One of the Ten Phantoms? ...No.
There were two or three, and they walked without that signature caution.
'No idiot mistakes that noise for friendlies, right?'
Flying Tiger whipped around—and sure enough, two idiots.
Na-mok beamed, about to blurt something like "Finally!"
Before he could, Flying Tiger clapped a hand over his mouth.
Mmph.
At the same time, he tapped Ye Dok-du's head— the guy was half-rising, ass lifting—intending a warning.
But whether from urgency or some grudge, Flying Tiger put too much force into it.
Smack~
The sound rang out crisp and clear.
Ah, shit! What the—!
Ye Dok-du, caught mid-motion, glared awkwardly at Flying Tiger.
"Huh? Hey, hear that just now?"
The third party's voice came from the path's mouth—right above the Jeong Unit's hideout.
This early in, and already busted...
Tension spiked; eyes darted, especially sharp glares at Flying Tiger.
"Hear what? Stomach growling, probably. Fuckin' hell, should've fed you before sending you on errands—right at mealtime."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever. Be quick. Don't dawdle or we'll get chewed out. Patrols ramped up since dawn outta nowhere. Bullshit."
"Blame those Face Pursuit Squad assholes—we got our asses handed to us by them a few days back."
"That's why the second underboss took the young boss and the kids to round 'em all up."
"Headquarters is short-staffed now, so beefing up patrols makes sense."
"Those runaways coming here? That add up?"
"Why bitch at me? Who cares what we think? Orders are orders."
The bandits' chatter as they passed was ominous. Strengthening patrols on op day? Perfect timing.
Then something even worse: one bandit doubled back instead of moving on!
"Hey, where you going?"
"Hold up. Gut's killing me."
"Shit anywhere."
"It's a big one. Found the perfect spot—wait there. Be right back."
"Ugh, fuck."
No way that "perfect shitter" was here?
The Jeong Unit scrambled to the farthest corner, maximizing blind spots from the approach.
Already tight, now they piled up, rubbing together—but no time to complain.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dull footsteps closed in.
It was really here!
They exchanged awkward glances.
One shitter? Easy pickings. But his grumbling buddy at a distance spelled trouble.
The nook's inner corner made leaping out tricky, and darts wouldn't angle right at that range.
If he fired a signal flare like last time... horrifying.
So now what?
The moment crashed in mercilessly.
Suddenly.
"Ah, fuck, gotta go... Huh?"
The bandit rounded the corner yanking down his pants in haste, eyes bulging like saucers.
Guh.
Wang Baek-gun struck like a ghost, jamming index and middle fingers into the bandit's mouth while thumb clamped the jaw.
He yanked hard, dragging the bandit into the cramped space.
Ye Dok-du caught him, locked an arm around the throat, twisted—crack.
Gurgle.
The neck lolled; he crumpled, then a foul stench hit as his sphincter relaxed.
Meanwhile, Jin Ga-yong gripped a throwing star left-handed, checking outside. The waiting bandit seemed oblivious.
"Handled the urgent one, but what about the guy out there?"
"Flying Tiger, think you can sneak up?"
Wang Baek-gun asked, pinching his nose. Jin Ga-yong, pained, passed the buck to Flying Tiger—the nimblest of them.
Flying Tiger peeked out, gauging distance and terrain, then tilted his head.
"Hmm, worth a shot, but no guarantees."
"Fair enough. Try it. I'll follow—if you fail, I'll back you up."
"Hold on."
Before committing, Flying Tiger eyed Wang Baek-gun, who shrugged: no better ideas.
Fine then.
Flying Tiger cleared his throat, recalling the recent mishap.
"Let's do this."
"How...?"
As Jin Ga-yong wondered, Flying Tiger booted the limp, neck-broken corpse downhill.
Everyone jolted at the stunt; it tumbled with clatter. Flying Tiger shouted in a sharp, mimicked voice:
"Ah, fuck~ Slipped!"
He'd aped the dead man's timbre. Not perfect, but frantic yell in crisis? Plausible enough.
They'd see.
And soon enough, a bite:
"What the hell? Fella shit himself off the edge? Nah, not actually dead, right?"
The buddy trudged over, griping, to check the screamer's fate.
The unit marveled; Na-mok gaped, impressed.
Flying Tiger grinned, drew one crescent blade—Moon of the Mandarin Ducks pair—from his bosom. Counted three beats, then sprang.
Just then, the bandit peered down, yelling, "Hey, you alive?"
Flying Tiger adjusted grip, toed the dirt, lunged.
The breeze turned gale, whipping fiercely.
Slash. Gasp. Stab. Stab. Stab.
He was back before counting to ten.
Right hand's crescent dripped blood; left dragged a slack bandit by the collar.
Casual as a stroll, he said,
"Let's clean up quick."