The Wine Bottle That Makes Poison
A few days later.
Won Seung ate lunch at the lower barracks dining hall. He usually brought food up to Dok Sabu and ate with him, but today he'd deliberately come down here.
Before digging into his meal, Won Seung gulped down a bowl of water. In the same motion, quicker than the eye could follow, he slipped a vial from his sleeve and emptied it into the water jug. No one noticed a thing.
The kids finished eating and drank from the jug. The water was a bit murky, but no one batted an eye.
Soon the children scampered off after their meals. Won Seung, seated right next to the jug, confirmed they'd all had their fill before slowly following behind.
To be thorough, I should spike the antidote tomorrow too, right? You guys owe me big time. I'm clearing out your Swolhyeol San for you.
The kids would take another dose of Myeonggeon Dan come spring next year. But that wouldn't trigger the poison's effects—just boost their internal energy.
Keh heh heh...
Dragged around like a puppet until now, laying the groundwork for revenge for the first time felt good.
Training went on as usual.
Mornings were for swordsmanship and martial arts; afternoons for miscellaneous skills. They'd started pottery, and Won Seung found it endlessly fascinating.
One day, Won Seung shaped a wine bottle on the wheel. It had a long neck, and he painstakingly etched a design into its surface: a figure clutching the bottle, gazing toward a distant peak piercing the clouds. He even carved letters into it.
One cup to climb that mountain. Two cups to reach the heavens.
He thought it a splendid phrase.
And it dovetailed perfectly with the bottle's hidden secret. After firing it in the kiln, Won Seung filled it with water and stashed it in his room.
A few days later, Dok Sabu visited Won Seung's room and took a sip from the bottle. Won Seung, walking in at that moment, rushed over yelling.
"Master, don't drink that!"
At Won Seung's shout, Dok Sabu spat it out immediately. He'd sensed a faint off-taste anyway and had no intention of swallowing. But it was so subtle, even he couldn't identify the poison.
"What poison did you put in it?"
"It's not poisoned water—it's the bottle itself."
"Eh?"
Won Seung explained proudly. He'd mixed flame stone powder into the clay and ground dragon's blood tree root into the glaze before firing. Dok Sabu was floored.
Both ingredients were rare and exorbitantly expensive—materials he'd kept under lock and key. He'd pulled them out once to save Won Seung's life and forgotten to put them away. Won Seung had ground them up and made a bottle out of them.
Dok Sabu, incredulous, asked,
"You used those precious herbs for a mere bottle?"
"Anyone who drinks from this bottle won't live long, right?"
Childish nonsense. Dok Sabu started to snap but sighed instead, too weary for anger.
"They'll die of old age before the poison kicks in."
"What about liquor, then?"
"Mm."
Dok Sabu let out a thoughtful hum.
Liquor's fiery nature would pierce the dragon's blood tree sap in the glaze, dissolving the flame stone's toxins. The clashing energies of wood and metal would brew a deadly poison. Fill it with strong liquor, and the drinker wouldn't last long.
Their body would stiffen, their liver fail—easy to pass off as death by drunken excess.
After a moment's consideration, Dok Sabu burst into booming laughter.
"A poison bottle. What a stroke of genius."
His poison liquor skills were still crude, but the ingenuity in wielding poison was undeniable.
But Dok Sabu shook his head.
"Still, it's no good. Innocent bystanders could suffer. Unnecessary grudges would follow. Remember the basics of poison arts: kill only your target."
"True enough."
Dok Sabu meant for him to smash it, but as Won Seung meekly agreed, he slyly tucked the bottle under his bed.
What's this kid scheming?
Dok Sabu knew Won Seung was up to something but didn't press. He had another reason for coming.
"Tell Jang Gyo-du I'm quitting the trainee poison lessons."
Won Seung dawdled instead of going right away.
"Why the delay?"
"You're scary enough that Jang Gyo-du'll buy any vague excuse from you. But I'm not."
"And?"
"If he asks why, what do I say?"
Dok Sabu cackled—keh keh keh. In his old age, his clever disciple had him making excuses to trash like Jang Gyo-du.
"Tell him I'm brewing a new poison."
The poison lessons had half a year left. When Dok Sabu abruptly quit, as expected, Jang Gyo-du scowled and demanded,
"Why the sudden change? Know the reason?"
"No idea, but sounds like he's making a new poison."
Jang Gyo-du eyed Won Seung before waving him off.
"Fine. Out."
As Won Seung left the office, Jang Gyo-du sank into thought.
He was covertly watching Dokgoe, scheming to steal his poison treatise. He'd noticed Dokgoe's condition worsening by the day.
A new poison? Unlikely. His illness must've progressed too far for lessons.
Opportunity loomed. Yet something felt off.
Jang Gyo-du had once been a first-rate assassin. Never made special rank, but he'd pulled off countless hits flawlessly. Age had dulled his edge, but decades of instinct remained—and it screamed wrong.
When Dokgoe arrived as poison master, Jang Gyo-du had been stunned.
This was a poison expert rivaling the Ten Great Experts. Without the Poison King, Dokgoe would've claimed that spot.
For such a master to teach at a lowly assassin camp? Unthinkable.
Soon he learned Dokgoe nursed hidden wounds. Dokgoe hid it well, but Jang Gyo-du's senses picked it up.
Of course, he played dumb in Dokgoe's presence. Wounds or not, the man could still wield poison. Best not tip him off.
Things had chugged along fine until this sudden quit notice. Suspicious.
Are the wounds truly that bad? Or does he want me to think so?
In the jianghu, weakness invited predators. A wily old fox like Dokgoe wouldn't show frailty until death's door.
A trap, maybe.
He's baiting me to lunge for the treatise.
From his vantage—coveting that book—it fit. Kill him, and no one else knew of it.
Old man's desperate. But time's on my side.
Dokgoe looked too frail to leave these mountains alive. Let the sick tiger die on its own; then claim the pelt. No need to stick your head in its jaws.
Enjoy your final days in peace. I'll handle the rest.
Jang Gyo-du grinned wickedly.
Autumn deepened, trees baring skeletal branches.
Dok Sabu, gazing at the leaf-strewn garden from his chair, deemed Jang Gyo-du craftier than he'd seemed. After finishing his treatise, he'd feigned worsening wounds. Truth be told, they had worsened—he'd just concealed them before, revealing now.
Yet Jang Gyo-du hadn't stirred.
Is my poison treatise worth so little?
Anyone would snatch Dokgoe's work before word spread. He'd expected Jang Gyo-du to scheme covertly, but nothing.
Come spring, the trainees would hit their ninth year. Per his knowledge, evaluation reports on survivors like Won Seung went to Jeokhyeolsan then.
The camp was a black op known only to the sect leader and top brass. Expose the child-killing assassin factory, and the court or righteous sects would eradicate Jeokhyeolsan.
Operations stayed airtight. Only Jang Gyo-du and key instructors hailed from headquarters; most staff and outsiders knew nothing of it—just that assassins were trained somewhere.
Reports waited till year nine to hide ties.
Must destroy that evaluation first.
Dokgoe's original plan: kill Jang Gyo-du, fudge Won Seung's scores.
Classify Won Seung as average second-rate, and Dokgoe could claim him as poison apprentice—citing their bond. Headquarters would oblige for face, especially with extra poison secrets thrown in.
But reveal special-grade or Sipjeon Salsu potential? No chance. That was Jeokhyeolsan's whole purpose here.
Yet Dokgoe couldn't just kill Jang Gyo-du. Needed motive to dodge suspicion.
He'd plotted Jang dying to treatise-theft poison—but the man had sniffed it out.
Patient... or honest?
Having seen the world, Dokgoe knew Jang Gyo-du's power lust. This trap confirmed his cunning exceeded expectations.
No turning back. If Jang suspected a ploy, he'd dig into motives. Their bond exposed? All for naught.
After deep thought, Dokgoe pivoted: no faking scores—erase them entirely.
Gazing at the last leaf dangling from a barren twig, Dokgoe muttered,
I'm not dead yet. Think I can't take one man before spring?
"Cough, cough."
The old tiger rallied his decrepit frame, plotting the fox hunt.
Won Seung sensed the odd tension between Dok Sabu and Jang Gyo-du. But not that it centered on him.
Jang Gyo-du was equally in the dark on Dokgoe's intent. Thus, he hunkered in his office-residence, venturing out only for dire need—like a deer in its lodge.
Won Seung found it frustrating.
He knew Dok Sabu at his peak could've razed Jeokhyeolsan solo—a towering jianghu legend. Maintaining this standoff with a mere instructor meant his illness was dire.
I need to be his strength, Won Seung thought.
He'd tried brewing a cure, but it was hopeless. Who knew poison better than Dokgoe? If even he couldn't fix himself, what chance did a novice have?
"What can I do...?"