Mouth Fight
The gates of the 4th Sector Outpost slammed shut with a deafening roar, like a massive scream echoing through the frozen air.
The heavy iron doors ground together, the sound reminiscent of the final link to the Great Wall snapping.
Kang Jinhyuk, hunkered down amid the dim watchtowers atop the wall, smacked his lips bitterly.
Han Noya and Jo Gang, leading their supply convoys, had already vanished beyond the Great Wall toward the rear lines—not even a puff of dust lingered on the horizon.
"All the talking business partners have pulled out. Guess this leaves us in beast-mode hell, full of non-negotiable animals."
Jinhyuk shifted his gaze downward to the base of the wall.
In the flickering torchlight below, amid thick shadows, stood the five-company overseer—mounted on horseback, presumably heading back to the Wall—with his Iron Blood Unit soldiers and slave troops in tow.
And right in front of him loomed Wiji Gang, leader of the Iron Blood Unit.
Jinhyuk held his breath, watching their every move.
Wiji Gang discreetly pulled something from his bosom, wrapped in fine silk.
It was a jade plaque radiating a subtle glow—a sacred relic of the renowned So Clan, his maternal kin and power brokers in the central bureaucracy.
The precious item dropped into the overseer's greasy palm, twisting the man's lips into a greedy smirk.
For this local bumpkin who'd hit promotion ceilings for three straight years, a tie to a central noble house was more than a bribe—it was a lifeline.
"Rest easy, Commander Wiji. As of today, distribution rights for official court supplies and labor assignment for 500 non-combat slaves are delegated to the Iron Blood Unit."
Jinhyuk watched the scene unfold, muttering coldly under his breath.
It was a dangerous gamble.
Wiji Gang had sold his clan's last heirloom to buy the outpost's leash, but ignoring the emperor's tally defied military law outright—and smacked of treasonous collusion.
"Dancing the gallows jig, eh, Wiji Gang. Get caught, and your head'll bid your body 'farewell, folks.'"
Moments later, the outpost's central government hall thrummed with barely contained killing intent.
Dust sifted from the creaking rafters under the weight of the stifling air.
Wiji Gang sat at the head table, tapping bamboo slips with his fingers as he declared faction territories.
Beside him stood Jo Pil, his Iron Blood deputy, eyes steady and composed.
"As of today, we reorganize order in the 4th Sector Outpost. Eastern barracks to Regular Corps. Western walls to Black Snake Unit. Northern watchtowers by the cliffs to Heavenly Wolf Unit."
"Court-issued barley, supplies, and rations will be distributed sequentially under Iron Blood control. Non-combat civilians—500 slave laborers—will repair the outpost and handle menial tasks under Iron Blood command."
Regular Corps leader Baek Unhak straightened, speaking up at Wiji Gang's arrogant proclamation.
Beside him sat Zhuge Hwi, squint-eyed strategist from the Zhuge Clan, pale-faced and clutching worn bamboo slips.
"Commander Wiji, that's dangerous talk. Forgotten the age-old 'Civil-Martial Triad Pact' between court and murim? No approach, no distance, no invasion. We're convicts, sure, but meddling with faction autonomy and fair supply shares shakes the pact's foundation."
As Baek Unhak finished, Zhuge Hwi lightly tapped his slips, chiming in with a cool voice.
"Lord Baek speaks true doctrine, but it seems lost on Commander Wiji. Very well—let's discuss terrain. Northern yin qi has long eroded the walls, twisting the ley lines. 'Lips gone, teeth cold,' as they say. Even if Iron Blood monopolizes labor to fortify only the central keep, if west, east, and north walls crumble, this hall becomes a dead-end trap. Commander, if you value your clan's honor, don't ruin the big picture with petty greed."
Jinhyuk watched, inwardly whistling.
Damn, dropping the 'lips perish, teeth cold' bomb. Zhuge Clan lives up to the hype. Dantian shattered, but still verbally grilling folks. That's the real wuxia brainiac. But that uncle—scholar face, total vet eyes.
Wiji Gang's face twisted in humiliation.
He snorted derisively, glaring at Baek Unhak and Zhuge Hwi.
"Pact? Ley lines? Zhuge Hwi, the Wall's chill must've frozen your brain. Whatever fame you had in central murim, you're now dantian-busted slave soldiers, exiled riffraff. Here, law ain't some pact—it's my command authority, delegated straight from the five-company overseer!"
As Wiji Gang slammed the table in fury, deputy Jo Pil subtly gripped his arm, whispering.
"Commander, steady. Zhuge Hwi cuts deep, but he's not wrong. If their resistance turns to force, even the overseer's jade plaque's worthless. Fake benevolence, grab the gains first."
Tamed by Jo Pil, Wiji Gang barely caught his breath—but kept pounding the table.
"Erased from sect rolls, convicts lecturing on propriety? I decide the 500 slaves' assignments. While you cling to past glories and huff, remember—one word from me decides tomorrow's gruel bowl. Starve, and you'll chew that flimsy pact for supper?"
Black Snake leader Sima Ung rose, radiating killing intent.
Beside him, hulking enforcer Ak Chung slammed his rusted axe into the floor, amping the threat.
"Wiji Gang! Hiding behind that scrap command chit to treat our 1,600 warriors like dogs? Dantians burst or not, we're beasts who'll rip your throat with teeth. Supply monopoly? Try it. See if your tent's barley sacks survive the night!"
Jinhyuk smirked at the spectacle.
Popcorn time—this is prime entertainment. One side's boomer righteous faction clinging to sect pride, other's classic demonic pushovers, middle's parachute hack officer. Meanwhile, deputies and strategists hard-carrying. Screenshot for the gallery? Easy 1k ups.
From the hall's shadowy corner, Survival Demons elder Gui-an cackled eerily, butting in.
"Heh heh heh! Pacts, authority... Chattering corpses! Wiji Gang, fix walls with slaves or not—I don't care. Touch our private stockpiles from Han Noya deals? That pretty neck rolls before the overseer's plaque. We've nothing to lose."
In the taut tension, Jinhyuk slowly rose.
Leader of the Heavenly Wolf Unit, commanding the outpost's largest force: 1,300 men.
He scrawled 'North Wall Defense / Meat Supply' on a rag with charcoal, tossing it onto Wiji Gang's table.
Stepping closer, Jinhyuk tilted his head down at Wiji Gang, spitting in Korean.
"Hey, Wiji Gang. Tough gig politicking. But I'm not into that boring crap. North wall's mine—keep your rotten barley. We take meat only. And those 500 civilian slaves? Skim one for your bedroom repairs, and hell breaks loose. Got it? You know my style."
Words meaningless, but Jinhyuk's twisted smirk, blatant contempt in his eyes, arrogant dismissal—like trash underfoot—crushed Wiji Gang's pride.
Wiji Gang read it clear: classified as 'parachute hack officer,' mocked.
His fists whitened, trembling with rage as he bellowed.
"Fine! Hunt your precious meat yourself! North wall overrun by beasts or nomad arrows? Not my problem! Get out of my sight, you barbarian scum!"
The meeting dissolved in chaos. Factions glared murderously, dispersing.
Outside, biting winds whipped the government hall gates, where Hwang-yeonggam puffed his pipe, waiting for Jinhyuk.
"Rookie, face pale... Scared by their Civil-Martial Pact yapping? No qi, must sound brutal. That Zhuge Hwi—silver tongue like a snake, eh?"
Jinhyuk chuckled, shaking his head.
"Scared? Felt like lurking in forums for keyboard wars. Strategist's fact-smasher, demons itching for real scraps."
"Huh? What? Key... board? Fan... whatever. Gutsy kid, though."
Jinhyuk scribbled 'Qing Bing Lang Subjugation' on the rag instead of replying. Hwang-yeonggam eyed it, inhaling deep on his pipe.
"Knew since Han Noya slipped you fire oil via Jo Gang... Qing Bing Lang's a yokai. No inner power—we can't touch it. Don't die, rookie. Waste it, and Han Noya's new trade line's trash."
Hours later, the outpost fractured into factions.
Near central hall, Wiji Gang's Iron Blood drove 500 civilian slaves to sort supplies and repair inner walls—screams and whips nonstop.
Regular and Black Snake's 1,600 sealed their zones, rebelling against control. South walls toward the Wall—shrunken Iron Blood orders under Manma Guang—ran workshops with artisan slaves: smiths, carpenters.
Jinhyuk's Heavenly Wolf 1,300 claimed the wind-lashed north wall base.
Jinhyuk cracked seals on wooden crates from Han Noya and Jo Gang.
Wax-sealed oil jars gleamed, spearheads sharp under moonlight.
> Status confirming...
> Current survival rate: 16.93%
Jinhyuk pried open a jar.
Pungent oil stench assaulted— no mere lamp fuel, but premium mix of herbs and combustibles.
Eyes on the torch's dance, he whispered low.
"Civil-Martial Pact? Command chit? Bullshit. War's about firepower. Politic among yourselves. We're off to the real meat party."
Torchlight rippled in the oil. In this qi-less outpost, Jinhyuk gripped humanity's cruelest, oldest weapon: fire.
He pictured the Qing Bing Lang lurking in the distant Black Forest shadows.
Wild, chilling death—far rawer than the hall's rotten politics—wafted from the north woods on the wind.
Jinhyuk set the fire oil down carefully, signaling his men.
"Let's go. Time to prep for shift."