Middle is Good
The next morning.
As soon as dawn broke, the bell tolled. The children scrambled to the dining hall. Breakfast was noodle soup with pork. It wasn't anything special, but the starving kids slurped it down to the last drop.
After eating, the children gathered in a huddle around the dining hall. Winter's chill had faded with the arrival of spring, but up in the mountains, it was still brisk.
No one knew why they'd been brought here or what lay ahead. As the kids clustered in anxious groups, murmuring among themselves, a man in black robes approached.
"Everyone, head to the training ground you see over there."
The wide open field below was the training ground. At one end stood a platform about two ja high, flanked by a tent draped on all sides with black cloth.
Once the children assembled, a dozen or so black-robed men lined up beneath the platform. Moments later, a man who appeared to be in his forties climbed onto the stage.
The man on the platform had an unusually ruddy complexion. His sturdy square jaw clenched as he swept a chilling gaze over them.
"I am your head instructor, in charge of your training. These men before you are your instructors. Don't ask questions. Don't try to figure things out. For the next ten years, you will learn every martial art and every scrap of knowledge there is. Anyone who falls behind dies by my hand."
One child burst into frightened tears at the instructor's savage expression and the blunt mention of death. The head instructor scowled, shot forward in a blur, seized the boy by the collar, and smashed his fist into the child's skull.
Thud!
The boy's head cracked open, blood spraying everywhere.
The children gaped in horror at the sudden brutality, too stunned to even scream. But not all of them—one bolted from the training ground in terror.
"Aaaah!"
Without a hint of hesitation, the instructor drew the sword from his belt and hurled it.
"Gah!"
The fleeing child crumpled, the blade piercing his back, blood gushing as he fell.
Having slain two children like swatting flies, the instructor glared at the rest.
The kids froze like statues. Some pissed themselves right there.
Won Seung's senses sharpened. He'd thought this place might not be so bad after a full belly that morning. Now he realized it was hell.
The instructor fixed them with eyes like chips of ice.
"Anyone else want to die?"
Dead silence blanketed the training ground.
"Speak up if you do. I'll kill you anytime."
No one dared breathe, let alone speak.
Satisfied that his brutality had worked, the instructor smirked. The dazed looks in the children's eyes had sharpened in an instant. The road ahead would be grueling; plenty would die acting foolish. Better to break their spirits from the start.
He pointed to the side.
"See that tree atop the cliff? Climb up, circle it once, and come back. The last one down dies."
The children flinched, then surged forward in a frantic rush. Some grabbed the collars of those ahead and shoved past. Panic erased all thought but one: lag behind and die.
At the slanted cliff face, there was no time to plan a route. They clambered up blindly. Some tumbled after a few steps; others collided and fell.
Won Seung ran wildly too. Raised in a fine house with good food, he was better fed than the others. Plus, he'd trained under a martial tutor with leg-strengthening exercises. He reached the tree first, circled it, and descended in the lead.
'?!'
His eyes met the instructor's distant stare from the platform. In that instant, Won Seung tripped over a rock, tumbling down. A pack of kids surged past. He scrambled up and ran on, but the fall had slowed him, his leg aching.
The instructors lined up the arrivals by order, tallying ranks.
"...Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!"
There were exactly a hundred children. The last arrived pale as a ghost, legs buckling as if he'd collapse any second, convinced he was dead. The instructor who'd counted shouted to the head instructor on the platform.
"Exactly one hundred!"
The head instructor scowled.
'I asked for a bit of leeway, and they only sent two extras?'
He glared at the last child.
"First day, so I'll spare you. But no mercy next time."
Soon, Won Seung understood why. The instructors handed out necklaces with wooden tags marked 1, 2, 3, and so on.
There were exactly one hundred tags.
'They meant to kill a few as examples from the start.'
A chill ran down his spine at the thought it could have been him.
Won Seung checked his tag: fifty. Right in the middle.
The head instructor spoke.
"Forget your names from now on. You'll be called No. 1, No. 2, by the numbers on your tags! Survive ten years of training, and you'll become martial masters of the jianghu. Fail to keep up, and you die."
Emphasizing death once more, he scanned them and curled his lips in a cold smile.
"By the way, out of you hundred, I figure maybe twenty will make it. One in five."
The children were paralyzed, barely daring to breathe.
With a nod, the instructor signaled. One called out the frontmost child.
"No. 1, into the tent."
They were summoned in numerical order into the black tent.
When Won Seung's turn came, he entered. Inside were a few writing desks, and a man with a brush sat at one.
Piles of documents covered the desk beside him.
The man glanced at Won Seung.
"Name."
"No. 50."
He frowned.
"Your real name."
"A-gu."
Won Seung tossed out a random name. No way he was leaving his real one in this nightmare.
Jang Chil was No. 7, sold by his father—surely A-gu was a plausible number for a sold kid. No suspicion.
"A-gu?"
The man rifled through papers, found no match, and scowled.
"Not here. Where you from?"
"Near the capital... Hagok County."
He recalled Jang Chil mentioning a cart from Hagok County and blurted it out. The man pulled a sheet from the Hagok kids' files.
"Hmph. Sloppy work."
Won Seung peeked: name blank as "unknown," origin "Hagok County."
'What's Hagok County?'
He'd never heard of it, wondering why he'd supposedly boarded a cart there.
"Parents?"
Seeing most fields blank, Won Seung improvised.
"Both died when I was little. Lived with others after."
The man eyed him. The boy spoke clearly, logically—unusual for a kid.
His clothes were ragged like a beggar's, grimy from days without washing, but his face was pale and clean, hands soft and white.
No thought he was lying.
"What house? We'll check, so tell the truth."
Won Seung noted the man scrutinizing his hands. Time for a better story.
"A big house with many halls..."
He described Won Mansion vaguely.
"What did you do there?"
"Grinded ink, cleaned brushes... played with the young master."
This time, thinking of his book servant and friend, Jo Hyo.
The man assumed servant boy in a great house. Just as Won Seung intended.
Wealthy, powerful families assigned playmates and errand boys to their sons.
"Ink grinder, huh?"
"Ink grinder? I don't know those terms."
"Idiot. That's why you got sold."
He figured the boy botched the job and got dumped.
"What was the house master's family name?"
"Jang."
Won Seung picked the commonest surname.
A few more vague answers, and the man scowled, unable to pin his background.
"What do you know?"
He sighed. Checking origins mattered, but most kids would die anyway. Half these papers would be trash.
Irritated, he scribbled: name A-gu, from Hagok County, orphan, Jang household ink grinder.
"Out."
Won Seung bowed and left.
Back outside, he sat in his spot.
Staring at the long row of kids' heads, a thought struck.
'No. 50—smack in the middle.'
The instructor said only one in five survives. Fiftieth was no good.
He could've placed top ten if he'd tried. Even first with full effort. But he'd intentionally lagged.
At home, he'd often played under his father's office window, overhearing talks with guests.
To Won Seung, officials formed cliques, scheming to hobble rivals. Stars got dragged down, heads crushed. Capital luminaries ended in exile, execution, families enslaved.
Father always sighed: "The tall poppy gets cut."
Locking eyes with the instructor mid-descent, that sigh echoed. So he tripped "accidentally," paced to land mid-pack.
'But only one in five survives! Middle's dangerous. Needed top twenty at least.'
Spotting Jang Chil at seventh in front. Good walker, great runner too.
'To stay safe, top ten's the play.'
Won Seung resolved, eyeing the front row. Still no first—no sense drawing envy.
Once all had passed the tent, the instructor waved them on.
"Dorms by number too!"
An instructor led Nos. 1-20 to the first dorm. No boys-girls split. No. 50 meant third dorm for Won Seung.
Inside, beds assigned by number. No. 50 got the left row's end.
The instructor sat them row by row, then pulled a vial from his bosom. Opening it released a sour medicinal scent.