Chapter 45
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: Side Story: The Circumstances in Which Those Men Reached the Peak (1)
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"I can't make a hand."
"Haha! Taek, you're going down alone again this time."
Moyong Taek flipped over his tiles with a click of his tongue and downed a shot of liquor.
He was out of luck.
Lately, he had been way too out of luck.
Of course, surviving Mount Tai unscathed could be called heavenly fortune, but after that, luck had completely abandoned him.
For instance, whenever he wandered into the Kokushi Musou Club out of sheer boredom, his sister—no, that ice bitch—would sense it like a ghost and come chasing him down to wreck the game.
Thinking the academy grounds were safe, he'd poke his head into a nearby gambling den, only for her to show up without fail, dual swords drawn for an "illegal gambling crackdown."
He'd even overcome all those sabotage attempts and timed his visit when the ice bitch was busy.
"Ron! Full house."
"Gah!"
This was ridiculous.
It felt like the entire universe had conspired to brutally strip him of his luck.
Clack, clack.
Moyong Taek listlessly joined in shuffling the tiles.
The smooth jade tiles glided under his fingers, but rather than excitement, a heavy lethargy dragged at his ankles like damp rot.
They built the wall, rolled the dice to determine seats.
Dealt four at a time, four at a time, methodically gathering thirteen tiles to birth a new world before him.
In the world spread out before Moyong Taek's eyes.
There were several character tiles, utterly useless on their own.
Unlike the central numbers that could branch out anywhere.
Several ones and nines, trapped at the extremes, unable to extend in any direction.
Nine kinds, nine tiles.
Nine of the nine types of "useless tiles" gathered together.
"Haa..."
Expressing emotion through one's plays at the table was nearly taboo.
But Moyong Taek couldn't hold back the crashing wave of emptiness and let out a deep sigh.
The game was nearly over already.
The fourth round, with South wind blowing.
Earlier, Geum Sihyeon had said something like this.
A guy who gets trash tiles at the end of the South round is trash no matter what.
True skill is drawing good tiles at the endgame.
Right.
For the overwhelming last-place player with utterly abysmal luck.
This was a sliver of mercy granted.
With nine kinds nine tiles in hand, he could declare pon and reshuffle for a new game.
But.
What would change if he peeked at new tiles and opened the world's possibilities once more?
A profound self-loathing surged in, blanketing Moyong Taek's mind.
They say life is contained in mahjong.
Just as you seize the right tiles moment by moment to achieve victory and completion.
To succeed in life, you must grasp what's needed in each moment.
But what about me?
Did I seize a good birth?
Was I born not just with good bloodline, but talent as well?
Neither.
His birth wasn't the lowliest in the world, but his talent was all lopsided toward his sister—he could even mock himself for that.
Then.
At the very least, innate talent.
Skill.
None of that.
In this game decided purely by the luck of the moment, shouldn't fortune at least take his hand?
The instant Moyong Taek's self-loathing tipped into despair.
- Taek-ah. In this world, nothing is useless, and hope exists in any situation. Look at this flower blooming in this barren land. It's not flashy, but how beautiful is it?
Suddenly.
His mother's voice echoed in his head.
Even the weak have their purpose.
And if the weak gather, they can surely accomplish great things.
And the scene he'd witnessed not long ago overlapped in his vision.
Himself, endlessly weak against a formidable foe.
But with the single-minded will to aid his sister, swinging sword after sword.
Yes.
Despair forges a man!
Moyong Taek, on his turn, chose to continue the game instead of declaring pon—folding and reshuffling for a new one.
He picked up the closed-off tiles and added them to his hand.
Discarded the endlessly expandable numbered tiles onto the floor.
East, South, West, North, White, Green, Red— the seven character tiles etched into the world.
Come to think of it, it was the same not long ago.
Geum Sihyeon, that damned bastard, had proven with a single sword that even at the tender age of twenties, one could reach the Peak realm.
And right before his eyes, he'd shown that gathering weakness could pile into a massive mountain.
Compared to that, what was he?
A mere collateral branch kid anyway.
He hadn't even properly learned swordsmanship.
How could he catch up? How could he proudly bear the Moyong name? How could he even call that man "Father"?
Wasn't he just pretending not to give up?
Next turn.
He discarded another 4 from his hand and picked up what seemed useless at a glance: a 1-dot tile.
Before he knew it, his hand had grown quite splendid.
East-South-West-North-White-Green-Red, 1-1-9 Man, 8-9 Pin, 1 Dot.
A tremendously powerful yaku in the game of mahjong.
Famous enough that the club was named after it.
Just one step from Kokushi Musou.
Sometimes, extreme misfortune flips into extreme fortune.
The useless, weak tiles—usually discarded as inefficient—gather one by one to prepare a mighty blow.
Endlessly suppressing itself, then in the final final moment, bursting into brilliant flame to overturn injustice, just like Xiang Yu.
"Haha."
"Hm?"
"Suspicious discards and a suspicious laugh."
Moyong Taek burst into laughter, heedless of the stares around him.
Normally, he could've advanced this far with tiles that let him fold early and eye the next game.
Or, forcing a good hand by discarding everything else, he might not have even completed the thirteen-tile world.
When his next turn came.
Moyong Taek felt a powerful certainty.
No need to trace the jade tile's pattern with his index finger—he knew the tile he needed had come.
East-South-West-North-White-Green-Red, 1-1-9 Man, 1-9 Pin, 1 Dot.
The tile with nine dots.
If he drew the 9 Dot himself, or snagged someone else's careless discard, he could achieve the feat of Kokushi Musou.
A situation that should make his heart race.
But Moyong Taek's heart was utterly calm.
The sensation of cosmic energies gathering toward him.
An omnipotence as if only he, among all creation, were blessed by the Primeval Lord of Heaven and Amitabha Buddha.
He glimpsed the future.
In the next sequence.
"..."
The final step to Kokushi Musou.
He would draw the 9 Dot.
If he just called "Tsumo" now, everyone would applaud his feat, and the game score would snap back to even in one go.
Even.
Back to even.
He'd lost so many points already.
Even snagging 32,000 from a single yaku wouldn't vault him to first—it'd end with second place.
"Haha."
Moyong Taek considered himself a rational man.
And in this cursed game where anyone but fourth place meant happiness, second was plenty respectable.
The rational choice here.
Was to declare victory.
Rationality.
Yes.
Rationally.
If he kept doing as he always had—content with what was given, submitting.
Grateful for second place.
"Riichi."
Moyong Taek tossed the scoring stick—polished wood tipped red—gently into the center of the tile wall.
The meaning of riichi declaration.
The world built before me.
Just one more piece to complete this thirteen-tile hand that ends the game—I vow to hold it unchanged until the end.
His hand picked up the 1 Man that had never left his world and discarded it to the floor.
Finally, what remained in his world.
East-South-West-North-White-Green-Red, 1-9 Man, 1-9 Pin, 1-9 Dot.
An invincible hand: among the thirteen tile types in his grip, any tile drawn allowed him to declare game end.
Kokushi Musou Thirteen Faces.
One of the rarest and most powerful yaku in mahjong—one no one in the Kokushi Musou Club had ever achieved.
But great power came with great cost.
On the very next turn, even when a club member discarded a 1 Man following suit, Moyong Taek couldn't call victory.
The side effect of forsaking a completable world.
He couldn't snipe other players for a win using any tile related to those completable possibilities.
Thus, from now on, this table's universe was Moyong Taek's solitary battle.
Had the other three conspired against him?
Or were they simply cowed by his momentum?
The weak tiles that hadn't been discarded till now began hitting the floor one by one.
There was nothing Moyong Taek could do.
Just on his turn, draw one tile from the wall and check it.
Realize it wasn't what he wanted, and quietly set it back down.
Repeat.
No one wanted to risk facing him and handing over a reversal.
In the end, the final moment.
With only one tile left.
Moyong Taek drew the last one from what could hardly be called a wall anymore—a lonely, detached islet.
His thumb brushed the tile's underside.
Having toyed with mahjong tiles in his pocket all day, the habit let him know by feel alone: not the one he wanted.
Of course.
I'm the idiot for getting greedy.
If I'd just called the win earlier, I'd have gotten second—at this rate, I can't even break even and it'll end in fourth.
The instant self-loathing welled up.
Moyong Taek's time slowed to a crawl.
The near-miraculous movements he'd seen before flashed through his mind.
Geum Sihyeon, seamlessly swapping drawn tiles with discards on the floor—so natural it might not even have been cheating.
That moment.
Moyong Taek returned to innocence.
His sister dancing butterfly-like with dual swords, endlessly cool and beautiful.
- I'm gonna be as cool as Sis too, Taek!
Proudly declaring it, hugged by Sis, head patted by Mother—that era.
Unable to lift even a wooden sword, he'd swung tree branches, mimicking her form—that memory flickered by.
Moyong Taek's right hand moved naturally, returning to the world he'd built.
No clack of jade on jade.
With his own technique, he fished the moon from the deep sea.
He twisted the fated fourth place.
Yes.
My path is one I forge myself.
I ignore limits others impose.
"Tsumo. Kokushi Musou Thirteen Faces Wait. Double yakuman. 12,000 to 32,000."
With lightning insight crashing in, Moyong Taek drew a deep breath and murmured low.
Right after.
Moyong Taek crossed his legs into lotus position right at the table.
"Taek, you?!"
"Suddenly?"
Soon, a warm spring breeze began swirling around his body.
No matter that the Kokushi Musou Club gathered only mahjong maniacs—at root, they were martial artists.
"Everyone, hold still."
"Today's Kokushi Musou Club ends here. Sorry, but head your own ways."
"...That junior gets enlightenment mid-game..."
How could they not gladly stand guard—or at least show consideration—watching a martial artist shed the First-Rate shell and step toward the new Peak realm?
Having heard Moyong Taek's full tale, Geum Sihyeon wore an incredulous expression.
"So, to sum up."
Geum Sihyeon sighed once.
"You fiddled with the discards to complete Kokushi Musou Thirteen Faces Wait, enlightenment hit you like a truck, reaching Peak. Congrats. But your qi overflowed and polluted the club room, so you need money to clean it—lend you some?"
Moyong Taek nodded.
Geum Sihyeon kicked him in the ribs.
"What lunatic gets enlightenment from bottom-dealing in gambling? Just die, you bastard!"
Dongcheong Hall Building 1, Room 304's sole First-Rate.
Unhak slipped out of the dorm alone while the two Peak experts bickered shamelessly.
His deep sigh spread into the air.