Chasing the Traitor

"Oh, meat dumplings."

I took a big bite of a meat dumpling still billowing white steam. Ages ago I'd meant to eat at this very shop, only to get swept into a brawl and never get the chance. Two copper coins apiece, yet the flavor could stand beside any high-class dish.

"Delicious."

Maybe nostalgia was doing some of the work, but the dumpling skin and the juice inside felt alive.

Through the pale steam rising from the steamer, the dumpling-shop owner watched me carefully, then spoke with a puzzled look.

"Hey, aren't you that kid from back then...? The beggar who got into a street fight right outside my shop."

It had been quite a while, yet he still remembered.

"Not a beggar anymore."

I shrugged my shoulders as if to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠say, Look at this glossy outfit.

The owner let out a disbelieving chuckle as he kept shaping dumplings.

"Heh, silk clothes and everything... Looks like you've made it in the world."

Beggars usually drifted into the unorthodox path or the black ways, so seeing one return having properly succeeded seemed to fascinate him. As long as I was around, my crew would never take that delinquent route. These days they all held legitimate jobs and earned their living the legal way.

"Right, Hong Mae?"

I called out to Ilhong while still chewing a dumpling, but oddly enough she didn't answer. When I turned to look, her gaze was locked on the alley behind us; she didn't move an inch. Her face had gone deathly pale, as if she'd seen a ghost.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Sensing something was off, I dropped the lovers' act and gave Ilhong's arm a light tap. Her eyes trembled without pause as she looked at me in jerky, broken motions.

"I think I just saw him..."

"Him who?"

How was I supposed to know if she left out the subject? But then I saw the fury in her eyes—and the thirst for revenge I'd thought long buried—and I understood who "him" was without needing any explanation.

"The man who stabbed my father in the back... who killed my mother, my little brother—everyone!"

There had been a time when she'd even affectionately called him "Uncle" and followed him around. She'd treated him like family even though he wasn't. All the while, beneath that smiling face, he'd been sharpening the blade of betrayal.

"Heuk... Jin-jo."

The young lady of Haoman, who had lost everything to that betrayal, spotted her mortal enemy and unconsciously clenched my sleeve tight. Through the fabric I felt a faint vibration—her whole body was trembling. Only moments ago she'd been beaming with pure joy. Now resentment and bitter hatred stormed across her face.

"That Heuk Jin-jo bastard—where did he go?"

"There. He disappeared into the back alleys."

Her fingertip pointed toward Beijing's back alleys, tangled like a maze. She went on to describe his appearance: a dark-green long robe, with a flashy dagger at his waist.

"I'll go in and track him down. You head back to the office for now..."

Even at a glance it looked dangerous, so I meant to send Ilhong—whom they would be hunting—back to the agency. But she suddenly seized my wrist as I prepared to dash off.

"I'm going with you, Boss."

"No. They're after you. It's too dangerous."

She tore a strip from the hem of her gray skirt and wrapped it around her face like a mask, then held out the leftover scrap of cloth to me as well, stubborn as ever.

"My wish ticket... isn't used up yet."

"..."

I had promised to follow her lead for the entire day. And I'd even added that a man's word was heavier than gold.

"...Please."

"Haa..."

Heuk Jin-jo, the current master of Haoman. The man had been hiding under ironclad protection all this time—yet for some reason he'd shown his face outside. We didn't know his intentions, and it could well be a trap, but this was a lead we'd barely managed to snag. We had no choice but to chase it.

"The moment it gets dangerous, you pull out. And since it might be a trap, we keep our distance and just watch for a while. Got it?"

It had always been this way. With Ilhong beside me, I held back, afraid something might happen to her.

"Don't worry. I'm not a kid anymore."

She coated the edge of her hand in pure white qi and spoke with quiet confidence. Right. She had awakened to the existence of qi. She was a proper martial artist of the Murim now—one of the Central Plains' experts, capable of projecting her internal energy outward.

"Alright. Let's go."

"Yes!"

Beijing's back alleys, thick with the stench of refuse, where no one ever went. What had started as a spring outing to build memories just for the two of us was turning into a chase that dredged up another of Ilhong's nightmare ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠memories.

Taat—

The stench of refuse in Beijing's back alleys stabbed thickly at the nose. Heuk Jin-jo's dark-green long robe fluttered in the dark. His flashy dagger caught the light—the same tool the usurper had once used to stab Hong Gak-jan, the previous master of Haoman, in the back.

"Master of Haoman... must you really ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠join hands with those people?"

One of his subordinates asked carefully.

"Be quiet."

Heuk Jin-jo narrowed his eyes and snapped. Recently, a cord he had trusted without question had snapped with hollow ease. Because he had risen by rebellion, he had always feared another rebellion might topple him in turn—and the force he had believed would shore up that precarious footing had been the Second Prince's faction in the Imperial Palace.

The previous master, Hong Gak-jan, had warned him: imperial factions were fickle and would always treat people like disposable pawns, so never get involved. Heuk Jin-jo had ignored that advice, taken their hand—and as a result the Empress faction's position had been badly shaken, leaving every connection of his on the verge of collapse.

"Damn imperial blood..."

So he had found a new partner. A force more interested in the whole of the Central Plains than anyone else—and one that understood better than anyone what mattered most when laying plans that spanned a hundred years. The masters of Sipmandaesan, who knew the value of information warfare better than any other.

If the war they were planning truly began in earnest, the Central Plains would be scorched first. The righteous factions—especially the Nine Great Sects—would take the worst of it. Once the Righteous-Demonic War erupted, the Beggar Sect would be gutted as well, and the only information network left standing would be Haoman. They would take money from both sides and cleverly slip free of the fighting itself.

Reports from the cultists he had scattered everywhere suggested war was already inevitable. There had already been one major clash near the border regions, and the Demonic Cult's movements and momentum both reeked of a call to arms. If it could not be avoided, then at least they should profit from it—while also shoring up a foundation that was still ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shaky without outside support.

"We remain neutral. Anyone who pays gets information. This time the customer simply happens to have come from a very long way off."

The lines the righteous drew—labeling someone a great villain, an enemy of the world—meant nothing to them.

"Truly a masterful insight, my lord."

Several subordinates flattered him and bowed their heads deep. But a few still voiced concern about allying with the Demonic Cult.

"If word gets out, the backlash will not be small."

Meaning their fellow wanderers of the jianghu might turn their backs. But if the likes of them turned their backs, so what? By then the Beggar Sect—which had only just started coiling itself back around the capital and reopening for business—would already be smashed to pieces. In that last border clash alone, hadn't the Beggar Sect agents who'd slipped into the area been the first to get crushed? When that time came, no one would have a choice left.

"These are the ones the Nine Great Sects and the Five Great Clans have named public enemies of the Murim."

"Ha. Are we the Nine Great Sects? The Five Great Clans? Since when did society's bottom-feeders become righteous comrades?"

Heuk Jin-jo gave a cold snort and spoke. His voice rang down the alley. The subordinates who had objected fell silent.

If one had to pick a side, they were closer to the unorthodox path. A gathering of the cast-aside. That was Haoman. The so-called righteous factions had never once treated them as equals. Not once.

And at last, deep in the maze of back alleys, they came face to face with guests who had traveled from very far away, intent on invading the Central Plains: martial artists of the Demonic Cult. Wrapped in black robes, they radiated a keen killing intent sharp as a single blade. One of them saw the Haoman master and his retinue arrive and spoke quietly.

"Heuk Jin-jo, Master of Haoman."

To make this contact, Heuk Jin-jo—who had been hiding deep within Haoman, never stepping outside—had been forced to come out into the open, risk and all.

"I am. I am Heuk Jin-jo, Master of Haoman."

"According to the intelligence we had, the Master of Haoman was Hong Gak-jan."

"...He was replaced several years ago."

Intelligence gathered from Sipmandaesan often went stale like this and lost its value. They had been sending agents into the Central Plains with renewed vigor of late, but even so it was not enough to know everything about this vast land. That was precisely why they needed the aid of Haoman, an information network that spanned the entire Central Plains.

"Then do you hold the official seal that marks the master?"

"Not yet... But the real power of Haoman is in my hands. If you want information, you will have to go through me."

The Demonic Cult experts glanced at one another, exchanging looks. What they wanted was intelligence ahead of an invasion of the Central Plains—not the succession politics of Haoman. So they simply nodded and accepted it.

"Very well. Your precarious position is no concern of ours. We will form an agreement."

"If you hand over the Central Plains' intelligence as promised, we will form an agreement with you."

"We will also dispatch some experts fit to serve as blades."

The Demonic Cult martial artists murmured in turn. And this was exactly the situation Heuk Jin-jo wanted most. Realizing the talks were going well, he carefully drew a thick scroll from his robes and handed it to the Demonic Cultist. Inside was roughly half of the truly important information—where it hurt most to strike, where defenses were weakest, troop numbers, armaments, and the like.

The Demonic Cult expert read through the contents carefully, then nodded as if deciding it was trustworthy.

"Solid intelligence. It will help when we cut the lifelines of those righteous hypocrites."

"I held back half as an advance. Now fulfill the agreement."

At Heuk Jin-jo's demand, the experts shrugged. One of them, looking as if something had pleased him, began to speak.

"We've received good information, so we'll grant you a piece of information in return."

The Demonic Cult—the organization they themselves called the Ming Cult—was not an information guild. But they possessed a Divine Maiden who held heaven's prophecies, and a flame, and through those they could glimpse certain things.