Cornered
Mechanisms, of course, could mean anything from a simple waterwheel mill to the most intricate devices. Yet when people spoke of them, they usually pictured flawless automatic clocks, doors that opened and closed of their own accord, or lifelike dolls that moved as if they were alive. Though the Central Plains had yet to see the rise of smoke-belching factory districts, and local lords still squabbled over patches of farmland, such contraptions existed here all the same. The land was vast, and anyone could cultivate inner energy; together, these two facts allowed the wealthy and powerful to commission wonders beyond ordinary imagination.
Those wonders were not limited to rare flowers, spirit beasts, or precious gems from distant lands. The most astonishing creations were the mechanical marvels crafted by master artisans. A skilled craftsman could earn a fortune, and some even received official rank. Naturally, countless talented artisans competed to refine their techniques, and those who reached the pinnacle developed their own inner laws of craftsmanship, just as martial artists did. If a martial artist could measure distances with the eye and control a blade with perfect freedom, why should a master artisan be any different? With precise measuring tools and lathes—whether forged of steel or existing only within the mind—there was no reason one could not build spring-driven clocks or elevators. It was said that Gong Shuban had constructed a wooden bird that flew on its own hundreds of years ago. I did not think the claim exaggerated. Three centuries past, artisans had already built gliders and automatic doors. If Gong Shuban truly was the greatest craftsman of all time, how difficult could it have been to construct a biplane? There was no need even to invent an internal combustion engine; the raw power of a high-level cultivator or spirit beast pedaling furiously would rival any gasoline engine in efficiency per weight.
Still, rarity kept prices astronomical. Only a handful of master artisans existed, and everything had to be made by hand. Even so, a commandery prince like the King of Han would hardly find the cost prohibitive.
The floor beneath my foot sank a fraction and clicked. The pressure plate had been cleverly disguised, yet it could not be entirely silent. I swept a hand through the air; several thin iron needles flew from gaps in the wooden wall paneling and were caught between my fingers. Their tips glistened with a pale brownish oil. Poison, obviously. I had no desire to test its potency, so I simply drove the needles back into the wall.
Since entering the Han Royal Palace I had already encountered three groups of hidden assassins and bypassed five mechanical traps. Two layers of formation mazes had also been laid, though both were crude enough that they barely slowed me. I continued dashing forward, kicking off the ground. As I cleared a high threshold, blackened swords thrust at me from below and both sides—the fourth group of assassins.
“Hup…”
“Hrk…”
They had suppressed their breathing and body heat well enough, but traces of movement and scent still lingered; I had sensed them from twenty jang away. Killing them would take no extra time, so I struck the two on either side at the temples to knock them unconscious, then stomped the one beneath me on the back of the neck. Without pausing, I kicked off the floor again.
The Han Royal Palace was far larger than any ordinary estate. Understandable for a commandery prince’s residence, yet the vastness only irritated me now. After several more leaps, a sizable hall blocked my path. From the traces, Cho Yak and Guiseon appeared to have entered it. I pushed the doors aside and stepped inside.
The interior was a lavish study: an ornate desk and chair, tall bookshelves divided by silk curtains into several sections. The trail ended before one of the corner shelves. The sight reminded me of Teacher Ju’s hidden chamber. Such classical designs possessed a certain austere elegance; under different circumstances I might have smiled. But I had no time for riddles. Instead of laughing, I dropped to one knee and struck the floor with all my strength. The boards, infused with my inner energy, shattered, and I plummeted with them down a long vertical shaft.
After falling roughly ten jang, I landed. The underground passage was pitch black; I had to navigate by the sound of my own footsteps. Descending a short flight of stairs brought me to a corridor lined with storerooms on both sides. Gold and silk lay scattered within. Once again the trail ended at a storeroom wall. Without hesitation I drove my fist forward. The wall split open, revealing a doorway. Beyond it lay another corridor flanked by rooms—identical to the previous one. Yet something felt wrong. A familiar metallic tang grew stronger in the air, and though I needed no breath, my heart began to race.
Time was short; there was no need to look inside. Gold and silk would be strewn about, as before. I tried to pass by, but one door stood open. Before my mind could register the fact, my neck turned of its own accord.
Inside lay many small corpses.
* * *
I stood before a great door. The memory of the bronze gate at Wugeuk Castle rose unbidden. Once again I faced a door of similar size and for similar reasons, yet my heart was nothing like it had been then. Was it because there was no courteous guide? Because I could not guarantee Cho Yak’s survival? The most rational explanation was that Sama Geon, twisted though he was, had still cared for his disciples in his own way, whereas Guiseon was an irredeemable villain. But was that truly the reason? If Guiseon had possessed some plausible justification, would my heart have felt any lighter? If a plausible reason had existed back then, had my heart truly been at ease?
Again, unwelcome memories rose like mud from a swamp, clutching at my ankles. I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath, and forced them down. My attention returned to the door before me. Another trivial mechanism was attached to it. Since the door only needed to function as a door, I saw no reason to decipher how the device worked. With a heavy metallic crash, the door swung open.
As its size had suggested, the space beyond was a vast cavern. Roughly twenty jang in diameter, the hemispherical chamber was empty save for a few night-luminescent pearls embedded in the ceiling. At its exact center stood a single altar. Upon it lay a familiar figure.
“Cho Yak?”
There was no answer. Had she been conscious, she would never have remained still. Fortunately, she was still breathing. Relieved, I started forward—then remembered the possibility of traps. Guiseon had clearly used Cho Yak as bait to lure me here. The fact that he had left her unattended meant he wanted me to enter and remain inside this cavern. Yet I could not afford to waste time searching for traps that might not even exist. According to the remaining traces and scent, Guiseon had entered no more than a quarter of an hour ago. If I lost him now, he might repeat this elsewhere—or collapse the cavern entirely. I pressed an ear to the wall and struck it with my fist. The sound traveled through stone and earth. No hollow spaces. The floor was the same. No faint breathing, heartbeat, or scent could be detected nearby. Any hidden measures would likely be poison or formations. I was confident in holding my breath, and while I might not be able to set formations, I was quite capable of breaking them.
I rose, sealed my pores and throat as a precaution, and stepped toward Cho Yak with every nerve alert. One step, two, three—until my waist touched the altar. Nothing happened. Not poison, then? Merely bait meant to let him escape? Or perhaps I had arrived sooner than expected, forcing him to abandon whatever preparation he had planned. Failing that, he could simply seal the cavern to buy time while attacking the others. The Heavenly Demon was present, and Ju Tongsu had been described as her friend—a capable shaman in his own right. They might hold out for a while, but if Guiseon’s skills lived up to his reputation within Guyeongmun, the outcome would not be good.
Thinking only of returning quickly, I lifted Cho Yak into my arms. At that instant, a faint but countless overlapping sound of something igniting scraped against my ears. Before I could even register its meaning, I was already clutching Cho Yak tightly and leaping away.