Merchant Guild (3)
The merchant whose life I'd saved introduced himself as Jeong Cheol-won. Glancing around warily, Jeong Cheol-won swept back the cloth covering his goods and unlocked the bolted door.
The nearby merchants, seeing him open shop, began whispering and shooting glances his way.
"Those merchants are probably all from the Muhan Merchant Guild, right?"
"No 'probably' about it—definitely. Everyone doing business out of Muhan these days is with the Muhan Merchant Guild."
"There must've been some from the Dongho Merchant Guild too, huh?"
"Of course. But no real grudge. If you're Dongho, they swarm like hornets to sabotage your trade. Even I'd bend the knee to Muhan."
"Then why didn't you, Guild Master? If they shut down your business completely, how do you even survive?"
Song Hwan-yeong gave a wry smile at my words. He didn't seem to find the question rude. He must've heard it a thousand times before.
"Well... I thought about it at first."
"But?"
"You martial folk might not get it. We merchants grovel to customers daily, tumbling head over heels for a coin—but we have our pride too."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Heh. Knew you'd say something like that. Pride for a merchant? Sounds all wrong."
"No, I laughed because I get it."
"You get it?"
"Told you—I'm a merchant too. Folks think we're shameless scum, but we're surprisingly proud, aren't we?"
Myeong-gyeong clicked his tongue in distaste beside me, but our conversation rolled on.
"Whether Muhan gouges double fees, turns a blind eye to price-gouging customers—or worse, encourages it—honestly, none of my business. People puff me up, saying I stick with Dongho for some noble stand. Total nonsense."
"I know."
"I'm no saint. Private gain trumps the public good in my book. And yet..."
"Wrong is wrong."
Song Hwan-yeong cut in, eyeing me with crinkled eyes that scrunched even deeper.
"Exactly. Wrong is wrong. Can't put it into words, but this is wrong. My merchant's soul rejects Muhan. Give that up, and I'd crumble entirely. That's the feeling."
I knew that feeling intimately. And unlike him, I could even explain it.
"It goes against your values."
"Values, huh. Hell if I know mine."
I flashed a grin. Most people haven't a clue about their own values. But realizing your ignorance beats fooling yourself into thinking you do.
A fool of a merchant hears the call of coin. A wise one hears the call of people. Money sets the price, but people set the value.
In that sense, Dongho's guild master Song Hwan-yeong was a fine merchant. He followed the voice from within, not just the jingle of silver. Though his conviction still wavered a bit.
"They're coming."
Song Hwan-yeong's tone turned grave. Sure enough, ruffians began slinking around Jeong Cheol-won's shop.
Their beefy arms were covered in tattoos—not the marks of honest folk.
"Hey, still not wised up? Wanna trade? Pony up the Muhan membership fee."
The man swept the goods from under the cloth, dumping them on the ground. Towering two heads over Jeong Cheol-won, they looked plenty menacing.
"Let's watch for now."
I said it and did just that. Jeong Cheol-won didn't flinch, even against the size mismatch.
"I'm trading in my shop. Why cough up a fee?"
"Then no trading for you."
Crash. Goods hurled into the street, shattering. Passersby jumped in alarm, veering clear of the shop.
"You bastards! Pay for those!"
Jeong Cheol-won grabbed a thug's arm and dangled like a ragdoll. But the men ignored him, focused on trashing the place.
Nearby merchants just watched from their stalls. Fear and relief flickered in their eyes—the terror that it could be them next, mingled with relief that it wasn't now.
"How long we waiting?"
"Just a bit."
Song Hwan-yeong sounded antsy, but I held back. Even Myeong-gyeong, usually unflappable, furrowed his brow as the mayhem dragged on.
Before long, constables clutching clubs came sprinting from afar. Street-level disturbances always drew them out.
But spotting Jeong Cheol-won and the tattooed pair, they cleared their throats awkwardly and turned to leave.
That was my cue. I bolted forward, blocking their path.
"Officers, really? Witness this thuggery and do nothing?"
"W-what the—?"
They startled. No wonder—it was blatant dereliction of duty. But they recovered quick, turning the intimidation on me.
"We say it's fine, it is. Butt out of official business!"
"So officials ignore this rampage?"
"Not our job for petty squabbles."
"Petty? One shop's getting wrecked unilaterally."
"We say petty."
They smirked. What're you gonna do about it?
That confidence had roots. To smash them, I needed those roots first.
"Petty squabble, you say. We'll hold you to that."
"Huh?"
I slipped past the flustered constables and planted myself before the thugs.
"Hah. What's this pale scholar wanna be?"
"One kick, that leg snaps."
Crude from the jump, as expected. No need for words. I grabbed the man's face and slammed it into the wall, dragging it along.
"Try breaking me."
"Gahk!"
A death-rattle scream trailed blood in a brushstroke across the wall.
The head in my grip twitched, then stilled. Nose pulverized—too much pain, out cold.
I released the skull and eyed the other thug.
"Eek!"
Now he knew: way out of his league. Despite his bulk, he ducked behind the constables.
"Off-officers! Do something! Why's a martial artist meddling in merchant biz?"
"Sheesh."
His lightning pivot drew a dry chuckle from me. The constables dithered, trapped by their own words—awkward as hell.
In the tense standoff, one constable peered at me intently, eyes widening.
"You from Hubei?"
"That matter?"
"Big time. Step over here."
He tucked away his club and beckoned me into the alley.
I followed. He flashed a sleazy grin.
"Haha. Wasn't sure from afar, but a Hubei man? Didn't recognize you—my bad."
"Wrong thing to apologize for."
"C'mon, don't be prickly. You know the Finance Minister, right?"
"Just faces."
"Muhan Guild Master's tight with him."
"Ah."
Everything clicked. So that's why Jin Mu-byeok figured they'd hate Muhan meddling.
High officials cozying with merchants? Par for the course.
"So, for the Minister's sake, let this slide. You're not even Muhan, right?"
He rubbed his hands with a fawning smirk.
Sometimes a man's scheming rub beats a fly's.
"Argh!"
Myeong-gyeong, who'd tailed us unnoticed, leaped high and cracked the constable's nape. I'd built tolerance for scum over years; he hadn't.
"Kek!"
Ambushed, the constable rolled his eyes back and face-planted.
"Filthy trash! And you call yourselves officials? Can't stomach it!"
"D-did you just hit a constable?"
The other jolted at his buddy's flop, clutching his club and quaking. He knew now: martial artists, way above a constable's paygrade.
"Martial or not, touching officials? Arrogance to the heavens!"
"Did I mess up?"
Myeong-gyeong glanced back. I shook my head.
"Nah. Spot on. Types like that only listen after a beating."
"This one too?"
"You're the senior brother. Need my say-so?"
"Right. I am the senior."
He flushed, embarrassed at not acting the part. Kid-like slip-up. But what's wrong with a bit of innocence? I just smiled.
My tacit nod launched him. He rocketed out, solar-plexusing the constable headfirst.
"Kwak!"
Watching Myeong-gyeong gleefully pummel with precise Wudang arts was a treat. Unlike my street-brawl face-mashing, this was art. Educational, even.
"Fine Taiji Fist."
"Right?"
He shook out his hands. Foaming at the mouth, the constable sprawled at his feet.
"Where's that other scum?"
Myeong-gyeong scanned around. Of the two shop-starters, one had vanished—fled. I shrugged.
"We'll cross paths again sometime."
"Should've thrashed him too."
Still fuming, the picture of an orthodox sect's core disciple.
"W-what possessed you to beat constables?!"
Song Hwan-yeong arrived late to the carnage, voice quavering. For a merchant, thrashing rival frontmen paled next to assaulting officials.
"It's fine."
"Fine? You trying to rot in jail?"
"No jail time. Don't fret."
"How not to?!"
"Heart that soft, how d'you run a guild?"
"Soft?!"
I laughed at his outburst. Myeong-gyeong grinned along.
As we chuckled, two shadows stretched long from the street's end, creeping our way. They thickened fast, soon engulfing me.
Smile lingering, I looked up at the square-jawed brute. Beside me, Song Hwan-yeong gasped in recognition.
"J-Jeon Gil-sang!"
"Who'd I figure—Dongho trash. Song Guild Master. Didn't I warn you? Show your face again, I'd bury you."
The second man panted up behind, scrambling after Jeon Gil-sang. No need to guess—the quick-escape artist from the beating.
He was big, but Jeon Gil-sang dwarfed him by half again. Looked like he could crumple me one-handed.
"Song, you trusting this scholar-punk to take me on?"
Jeon Gil-sang growled, lunging toward Song Hwan-yeong. I slipped in between.
Blocking him, he barked a scoffing laugh. I laughed right back.
The laughter snapped short. In a blink, we collided.