The Nobles of Hwiju (4)
Son Yeong-ui, known as the Cute Dog. He was from the Sun family, one of Hwiju's fifteen great clans. I hadn't expected him to be the Salt Trade Chief Manager at this point in time.
"Pleased to meet you."
Son Yeong-ui extended his right hand to me. I immediately offered mine and shook it firmly. His expression turned peculiar.
"Pleased to meet you, Salt Trade Chief Manager. I'm Muk Hwi-yeong, head of the Hwi-yeong Merchant Group."
"You know the Western greeting."
"Personally, I prefer it to the cupped-fist salute."
The handshake originated from the Western regions, not the Central Plains. It was a mark of high-class culture known only to merchants who dealt directly with Western traders—a rare breed then and now.
"I've heard that a handshake signifies you're unarmed. Shaking up and down shows your sleeves are empty too."
"Yet you've got a sword at your waist."
"I'm a Lay Disciple of Wudang."
"Oh. I see."
Not just Son Yeong-ui—even Ho Geum-yang, watching from the side, eyed me with budding curiosity. It was obvious what they'd thought of me at first.
A clueless intruder into Hwiju merchants' turf, a thunderbolt fool or something like that. But after actually talking, they sensed something different.
"Yes, I'm having quite the lucky day. I planned to visit Salt Trade Supervisor Yeom Un-sa first, then you next, but here you both are in the same place."
I flashed a smile. Ho Geum-yang smiled back, and Son Yeong-ui reciprocated. Laughter was contagious, after all.
"Lucky indeed. If you'd come to me directly, I might not have met you."
That didn't mean the smile was friendly. In merchant talk, smiles were just baseline courtesy. Son Yeong-ui dropped the line casually while grinning.
Of course—the Salt Trade Chief Manager of Hwiju was no one any merchant could ignore. He wouldn't mince words for a mere newbie caravan head.
"Hahaha."
"Hahaha."
"Hahaha."
Our three laughs blended in eerie harmony. I could hear the officials around us swallowing hard. A sign of the tension crackling between us.
"So, let's cut the crap. What the hell are you thinking, coming to the Hwe-eum Salt Fields?"
Ho Geum-yang spoke first. Son Yeong-ui watched with keen interest.
"Aren't the Hwe-eum Salt Fields the biggest salt producer in all the Central Plains?"
"We've barely talked, but you don't strike me as dumb enough to miss my point."
"Haha. Thanks for the compliment, Lord Ho. Let me rephrase, then."
I shifted my gaze from Ho Geum-yang to Son Yeong-ui.
"Because it looks like something I can swallow."
"……!"
One official clapped a hand over his mouth. Even I knew it was bold—a fresh caravan head picking a fight with Hwiju's Salt Trade Chief Manager.
"Heh heh heh……."
Son Yeong-ui bellowed with laughter. His guffaws alone echoed through the Salt Office. Even Ho Geum-yang, the Salt Supervisor, stayed silent.
When the laughter died, only a chill smile lingered on Son Yeong-ui's lips.
"I don't hate young men with your kind of guts. A real man should harbor dreams that touch the heavens."
"Thank you."
"But public and private are different beasts. As Hwiju's salt trade rep, I can't let this slide."
"And what will you do?"
At my taunt, Son Yeong-ui leaned in close to my ear and whispered.
"Bury you so deep you'll never trade in the markets again. Crushing a pipsqueak caravan like yours is child's play."
"Whoa, scary."
"You think this is a joke?"
"Of course not. I've drowned an Infinite Merchant Group myself, so I know."
"Comparing us to some podunk local outfit? Don't insult me. Is that why you're so cocky?"
"Not exactly. But how could I possibly take on Hwiju merchants?"
A chill ran down my spine. After dealing with amateur locals, facing a real-deal merchant brought real pressure. Being around my martial brothers had dulled my edge a bit. Still, a famed sword doesn't lose its sharpness in the mud.
"I just want to say—don't do it."
"Threatening me now?"
"Yes."
"Thought you were different. Just another crazy bastard after all."
"I get that a lot."
"You think because we're Hwiju merchants, we'll play nice and polite?"
Son Yeong-ui growled. His protruding lips and drooping eyes made him look like a man-faced dog—or dog-faced man.
"I'll spell it out. I'm heading back to the guild right now, putting out a warrant on your caravan, and trashing it. Report me to the yamen? Go ahead if you've got proof."
I smiled. As if I didn't know Hwiju merchants' tricks.
Actually, this was every merchant's playbook. Hwiju's just crushed harder—that was their style.
So Son Yeong-ui had it backward. I knew they used the roughest methods in the Central Plains—not polite ones.
Son Yeong-ui stormed out, slamming the door in rage. A few faint-hearted folks flinched.
"Are you insane?"
Ho Geum-yang shouted the moment he left.
"Why?"
"You can't be that clueless about the world. No one to mess with, so you pick Hwiju merchants? The salt traders, strongest of them all?"
"Maybe. Nothing for the Salt Supervisor to worry about. It's our caravan's business."
"Obviously. We won't interfere. This is me worrying personally."
Beyond obvious—they'd side with Hwiju merchants if we sued. Hwe-eum Salt Office had no choice, regardless of Ho Geum-yang's feelings.
I couldn't call in that Censorate Deputy like last time to raid them. Salt Supervisors were rank 3rd junior—high up—and Hwiju had connections to devour even a Censorate Deputy.
I considered flashing Wang Song's inspector badge but dismissed it. It was for monitoring the murim, not officials. They wouldn't blink at some "inspector."
"Thanks for the concern."
"If I were you, I'd chase the Chief Manager, grab his pant leg, and beg forgiveness. Might crawl through his legs unscathed."
I nodded—not in agreement, but because it explained why this Ho Geum-yang ran the Hwe-eum Salt Office. The epitome of a savvy bureaucrat.
"Even begging the constables at the magistrate's office won't help. Runners don't prevent trouble—they clean up after."
"True enough."
This time, I nodded for real.
"Anyway, we'll proceed with the salt exchange as scheduled."
"……Yeah."
Ho Geum-yang shook his head, deeming further words pointless. I left the Salt Office promptly. The officials' stares screamed "madman."
As my manager in Hwe-eum had arranged, the inn was near the salt fields. The office was downtown, as government buildings usually were; fields on the outskirts.
"That didn't take long?"
"Yes."
My martial brothers were sparring in the inn's front courtyard—probably right after arriving.
Traveling by horse left little training time.
The three-story inn's windows framed eager onlookers watching the matches.
Folks at a salt-field inn were either salt traders or laborers—neither much tied to the murim. No wonder they gawked. Jiangnan's Hwe-eum had no major sects or clans.
"Flashy. What caravan hires guards that skilled?"
"Gotta be Nine Great Sect disciples, right?"
"Heh. Even Hwiju merchants can't use Nine Great Sect disciples as guards. Maybe short-term, but dragging them to salt fields? Those guys have egos sky-high."
The merchants at the windows chatted freely, assuming we couldn't hear.
Why would commoners imagine third-floor talk reaching the first? Murim folk and civilians lived in different worlds. I straddled both.
I wanted to shout these were Wudang disciples from the Nine Great Sects, but held back. We hadn't flown Wudang banners for good reason.
I sat on the veranda, watching the spars. I seemed to have reached a level where just observing built experience—no need to join.
True warriors, those martial brothers. Like merchants boozing for deals, they swung swords till sunset. Even the window-peepers shook their heads in awe and left.
"Time for dinner. Aren't you hungry?"
No end in sight, so I clapped—infusing qi for a clear ring.
"Huh? Already this late?"
"Yeah. When did the sun set?"
They echoed each other like scripted.
"Felt stiff without proper training since Hwe-eum. Loosened up now."
"Eat, then back at it?"
"Damn right. Now that we're warm, let's go hard."
Everyday in Wudang, but outside, it hit different. Nine Great Sect disciples weren't dime-a-dozen.
"Speaking of, don't you train, junior brother? Body not itching?"
"Hold it in too long, you get sick."
They crowded me. Truth be told, I itched too—same training routine back home. But I could endure.
"I'm fine. Feels like a chance to cut loose soon."
"What’s that mean?"
"Junior brother's rambling again?"
"But his ramblings hit more often than not."
"Chills thinking about it."
They snickered among themselves heading to the dining hall. Our caravan folk had claimed a corner of the first-floor restaurant.
"Over here, Caravan Head. Daoists."
The manager waved. Food steamed fresh, as if timed perfectly.
"Figured you'd arrive around now, so I ordered ahead."
"Smart guy."
"Haha, too kind."
Told Jo Chung-heon not to skimp on hiring. Top talent indeed. Easy working with pros.
Commercial hubs meant good eats, even outskirts. Catering to merchants was toughest—they'd sampled every delicacy across the land. That's why trade centers brimmed with great spots.
Caravan folk and brothers, starved since Hwe-eum, devoured ravenously.
Then someone kicked the inn door open.
"Where's this Hwi-yeong Merchant Group?!"
A thug with a pudao over his shoulder. Metal jangling at his waist blanched the patrons.
"Unrelated folk, drop your spoons and scram!"
We watched calmly; guests fled like tide. Thugs filled the voids instantly.
"Oho. You lot sticking around? Must be the Hwi-yeong bastards."
The black dao thugs glared, advancing slowly.
"Heh heh heh……."
Our staff exchanged smirks—they knew who backed us.
The clueless thugs' brows shot skyward.
I chuckled too. I'd half-expected this, but black dao punks challenging Nine Great Sect disciples was funnier than imagined.
"Real soon, huh."
Myung-yeop grinned, piecing it together.
"Brothers. Skip post-dinner training. Real combat this time."
"Yes!"
No need for me. At Myung-yeop's call, the four Wudang warriors surged with aura. The thugs' faces drained to ashen gray.