Chapter 4: No. 92...
As spring arrived, the training truly diversified and grew even more grueling.
Once the children had grown accustomed to the eighteen conventional weapons, the instructors taught them how to kill with everyday tools like iron rakes, mortar pestles, and even fishing rods.
One child was killed when an axe head flew off its handle. Another drowned during water combat training and never resurfaced.
They began learning the sword and saber as well.
Won Seung happened to overhear the instructors talking and realized they were meticulously observing the children, recording who excelled with which weapons.
They're evaluating us. Good thing I've been playing it safe.
For some reason, he sensed that excelling too much would only bring danger.
Half a year later, a calligraphy master arrived to teach writing, painting, and the like. The children found it boring, but the fear of falling behind—and dying—drove them to learn diligently. Their skills improved by leaps and bounds.
If they teach with this intensity and we learn with such desperation, we'd all pass the civil service exams.
When another line was added to the tally by Won Seung's bedside, making three in total, two music masters arrived this time. One was a woman who taught dance and the qin, while the man instructed on wind instruments like the flute and hand drum.
Won Seung couldn't fathom why they needed to learn such things. The girls were far better at music. To keep up with the thirty or so of them, he had to put in real effort.
The female music master took a shine to Won Seung for his dedication. The other boys scoffed at dancing, standing stiff as poles, but he tried his best to master the movements.
One day, the woman said to the male master,
"I'm giving No. 50 top marks. I've never seen a kid this hardworking."
"Rare for a boy to like music. That one could make it big as a musician. I was thinking top marks too."
A sinister voice cut in.
"Hey, don't you know trainee evaluations are top secret? How can we be fair if you discuss them?"
"Ah, sorry. Instructor Jang."
Reprimanded by Jang Gyo-du, the music masters bowed and scraped with apologies before hurrying away.
Back in his office, Jang Gyo-du took a swig from the liquor bottle on his desk and let out a long sigh.
Life in the mountains bored him to death too. Drinking in broad daylight, he suddenly recalled the masters' conversation.
No. 50, huh? A boy getting top marks in music?
Spotting talented trainees was the instructor's job, and he was already watching the top ten or so. But No. 50 wasn't among them.
Jang Gyo-du went to a corner of the office and opened the cabinet holding the trainees' background files and evaluation sheets. He pulled out No. 50's documents and grades.
Aguk, from Hagok County. Jang family servant boy... Swordsmanship: top-low, saber: top-low... Huh?
As he scanned the sheet, something caught his eye.
Trainees were graded in tiers—top, mid, low—for each category: ga, eul, byeong, jeong. With so many subjects, scores varied wildly. A top-high in lightness skill might mean low-low in saber.
But Won Seung's were remarkably consistent. Mostly top-low, with plenty of top-mid and even top-high. Occasional mid-high or mid-mid, but overall, above average across the board.
How did I miss this one?
He realized he'd only focused on top-high scores before. Won Seung's came in calligraphy, painting, and music—subjects for scholars, which he'd glossed over.
Hmm... This kid's no assassin. He should be cramming for the exams.
As he lost interest and moved to close the sheet, "Basic Poison Arts: top-high" jumped out. A thought flashed through his mind.
Wait... Top-high in calligraphy, painting, music, and basic poisons? Doesn't that scream potential for a Ten Perfect Assassin?
Jang Gyo-du examined the sheet again, calmly.
His martial scores were top-low or mid-high—excellent for his age, and with focused training, they could rise. But poison arts, notoriously tough? Top-high...
Ten Perfect Assassin!
His heart pounded.
A Ten Perfect Assassin mastered ten fields. Plenty of martial prodigies became killers, but ones excelling in arts, music, poisons, and strategy? Rare.
Boost his martial skills, max out poisons... It's possible!
He scrutinized the sheet once more, then placed it atop the drawer with sheets for kids of interest.
Produce a Ten Perfect Assassin, and I'll snag a spot at headquarters!
Muttering to himself, he took another gulp of liquor.
It tasted sweet.
At ten years old, the curriculum shifted again. The children learned hidden weapons: darts, water combat, sand flinging.
Won Seung enjoyed throwing darts. Even in the dorm, lying down, he'd fling them at the ceiling.
"That's right. Daily practice is key. Follow No. 50's example."
The dorm instructor praised him—unaware Won Seung pictured their faces as targets. He did the same with sword and saber swings, imagining slicing instructors' throats and guts.
Time passed, and the kids grew close. The Soul Oblivion Pill's numbing side effect faded; they felt almost normal again.
Won Seung warmed up to Jang Chil, and they stuck together.
Jang Chil was light on his feet and strong, but weak in scholarly stuff like writing and painting. Won Seung realized it wasn't stupidity—just lack of practice—and helped him secretly.
In return, Jang Chil lent a hand during tough drills.
One day, during a brutal cliff-climbing exercise. Near the top of the fifty-jang sheer face, Won Seung heard sobbing and turned.
It was No. 92, the girl with big, round, sparkling eyes—now trembling in despair and terror.
"No. 92, what's wrong?"
"No more holds."
One foot planted, one hand on a protruding rock, but nowhere to go next.
No descending these cliffs.
Worst-case scenario in cliff training. Exhausted from the climb, her gripping hand shook visibly.
Left alone, she'd slip and die for sure.
Instructors might lower ropes to save her—but they wouldn't care. Probably boozing atop the cliff right now.
Won Seung spotted a vine dangling between them.
"Grab that vine and swing over here."
"N-no."
She looked plump enough. Trained, but jumping to the vine? Too far.
"Wait. I'll try."
He extended the stick from his back, hooked the vine, tugged to test. It felt solid for two.
To Jang Chil climbing beside him:
"No. 7. Find something solid and hold tight. I'll fetch No. 92 on my back; you catch her."
"Got it."
Physical stuff was Jang Chil's forte. He nodded, gripped a protruding root with his left hand.
His foothold was a good ledge—stable. Confirming it, Won Seung yelled,
"No. 92! When I get there, hop on my back."
"I... I'm heavy."
She made a miserable face.
"I know. But I've hauled heavier rocks. Don't worry."
Won Seung leaned back, grabbed the vine, and dashed along the cliff—tatata—spinning to face her.
She hooked her free hand over his shoulder and hopped on.
Ugh! She is heavy.
Gripping the vine tight, he dashed back up the cliff.
Tatata.
Four leaps to Jang Chil. He reached out, shouting,
"Grab my shoulder!"
No. 92, trained body responding quick, seized his other shoulder. Meanwhile, Jang Chil slipped hands under her armpits, around her waist.
"Hoo. You're heavy."
"Hic... Thanks."
She clung to a rock with her free hand, sobbing.
"Wooah!"
Cheers erupted from kids along the cliff, who'd watched tensely.
Instructors punished mutual aid harshly, so their daring rescue naturally stunned everyone.
Won Seung climbed up via vine, then helped No. 92 down. She scrambled atop precariously, one hand on vine, one on rock.
Those bastards really aren't human.
The instructors, partying on the far side, oblivious.
That evening.
At dinner, No. 92 approached with her tray and portioned her meat to Won Seung and Jang Chil.
"Thanks. You saved my life."
"No need."
Won Seung gave it back, plus his share. Jang Chil did too.
"You're plumper than most. Eat more."
No. 92 pouted.
"I don't eat more than others, but I still gain weight."
"Must be your constitution."
From then on, No. 92 slotted in between Won Seung and Jang Chil.
Group drills: they stuck together. Lessons in writing or music: side by side.
One day.
After group outdoor training, Won Seung returned to the training ground and saw instructors circling, beating someone.
Through their legs: the victim.
Jang Chil?
Beatings were common, but not for him. Good grades, obedient—model trainee.
He'll die at this rate.
Rushing to intervene, he heard Jang Chil's frantic scream.
"Aaaah! Save me! Save No. 92!"
The wail halted Won Seung cold. He turned to the platform. Dead trainees went there on stretchers.
His eyes shook violently. A straw mat-covered shape.
He bolted over, flung it aside.
His eyes widened impossibly.
"!"