Chapter 5: Was I Outstanding in Ten Fields?
Water-soaked and deathly pale, No. 92's face swam into view, her usually large, sparkling eyes now tightly shut.
For a split second, Won Seung's mind went blank.
Just this morning, she'd been laughing with him over breakfast...
"Hey, open your eyes. This is a joke, right?"
Won Seung reached to pry open her eyelids, but a sudden thud slammed into his side, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He tumbled away like a ragdoll, and a harsh instructor's voice boomed overhead.
"What's this little shit doing?"
The instructor who'd spotted Won Seung rushing to No. 92 kicked him aside. Scrambling up, Won Seung charged back at him.
"You bastards!"
More instructors rushed in, beating him senseless until he blacked out.
"Throw this one in solitary."
Jang Gyo-du's voice echoed as Won Seung's consciousness faded.
"Where the hell am I?"
He opened his eyes in pitch darkness.
His whole body throbbed, dredging up memories of the beating—and No. 92's lifeless face. Tremors wracked him.
Then came a faint sob from somewhere nearby.
"No. 7?"
No reply. Won Seung realized this was the infamous solitary cell, where they locked up disobedient kids as punishment during training.
Built of logs like everything else, faint sobs leaked from the next cell.
"She slipped at the waterfall... got caught in the whirlpool and couldn't get out. If the instructors had bothered to help, they could've saved her."
Over the ten days of confinement, Jang Chil sniffled like this off and on.
Jang Chil's got a soft heart.
Won Seung's own heart hardened to ice in the dark. In his mind, he slashed Jang Gyo-du and the instructors to ribbons with a frozen blade.
I'll avenge you with my own hands, No. 92. I promise.
It was a horrific memory from when he was ten.
After that, Won Seung kept his distance from the other kids except Jang Chil.
Watching them die off one by one during training, he figured it was the right call. A kid's death hit hard—some even killed themselves after losing a seatmate.
Once basic poison training wrapped up, a new poison master arrived: Dok Sabu.
"This is the esteemed Dok Sabu who'll teach you intermediate and advanced poison arts. Consider it an honor—he's a renowned figure."
For some reason, Jang Gyo-du introduced him with uncharacteristic glee.
Dok Sabu was an old man with disheveled hair, an obese frame, pitch-black skin, and a staff he leaned on. Whispers spread that he'd turned that color from handling every poison under the sun.
On the first day, Dok Sabu cackled.
"Heh heh heh. You think you can master poison arts through theory alone? Even basics? That's not poison arts—that's child's play. You learn by handling it yourself."
Unlike before, his lessons used real poisons. By day ten, a spilled bowl of powder nearly killed half a dozen kids, cementing it as the most terrifying subject.
Won Seung was extra cautious in poison class. Forcing open a venomous snake's jaws to milk it, or foraging for toxic mushrooms in the mountains to taste and analyze them—it was life-or-death every time.
That day, focused on extracting venom from a poison toad's skin, he sensed someone watching.
Turning, he saw Dok Sabu.
"You've got nimble hands."
Won Seung bowed silently, plotting how to slip away unnoticed as always.
Dok Sabu seemed pleased by his silence.
"Quiet for a kid."
The odd compliment left him uneasy.
That evening, heading back to the dorm after duties, the supervising instructor called him.
"From tonight, bunk in Dok Sabu's quarters up top and attend him."
"Pardon?"
"The last poison boy serving him died of poisoning a few days ago. Dok Sabu says you're the one he wants. Pack up and head to the upper camp."
"B-but I'm... not worthy..."
Won Seung's face drained of color, but he shut up when the instructor's glare turned fierce.
Protesting was pointless. In this merciless hellhole, he was just a fly they could swat anytime.
Still, he tried.
"What about the other training...?"
"You'll handle quarters up top, but training stays the same. Morning and evening service to Dok Sabu—that's it."
Added chores on top of training?
Grousing inwardly, he perked up at the instructor's smug tone.
"Jang Gyo-du arranged this for you. Make the most of it."
Arranged my ass!
Fuming, he had no choice but to pack and head up.
The upper camp sat on a plateau above the valley, lined with log cabins: Jang Gyo-du's office, instructors' quarters, mess hall.
Dok Sabu's place was midway up a sloped hill, offset from the rest—a sturdy log house.
Approaching, Won Seung saw a fence enclosing a garden. It was the biggest, nicest in the upper camp.
Pushing through the gate, a pungent herbal stench hit him like a wall, dazing his senses.
Hesitating in the yard, Dok Sabu's cold voice rang from inside.
"If you're here, get in already—what're you waiting for?"
Won Seung hurried indoors.
A large table dominated the open space. Dok Sabu sat crushing thumbnail-sized white crystals into powder.
Shelves lined the walls, each compartment stocked with vials.
All poison?
Won Seung could see why the last boy died. Breathing the air felt toxic.
Dok Sabu eyed him with bulging eyes, then scooped the white powder and blew it right at him.
"Gah!"
Won Seung dropped his bundle, clapping hands over nose and mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. His legs buckled, heart plummeting like off a cliff.
I'm dead! Poison on sight? Did I kill him in a past life or what?!
Cursing silently, he heard Dok Sabu chuckle.
"Heh heh heh, relax. It's a calming tonic for body and mind."
Won Seung cracked his eyes but kept his nose covered.
"You don't just make poison?"
"Poison and medicine are one and the same. Medicine can be poison, poison medicine."
Won Seung gawked blankly, uncomprehending.
He'd hoped to play dumb and get booted, but Dok Sabu's next words snapped him alert.
"That last one was a real idiot. Got so frustrated I fed him black death poison."
Won Seung blurted hastily.
"Right, right. They say even execution drugs can be medicine for some."
Back in Huangdo, he'd heard of an official dosed with poison who miraculously recovered—only to get beheaded instead.
"Oh ho? I knew you were sharp. Don't think you can fool me with your act. Word is you aced scriptures, poetry, calligraphy, painting, music, and basic poisons?"
Dok Sabu grinned approvingly—or like the grim reaper to Won Seung.
Trainees didn't know their scores. Won Seung figured he'd aimed for mid-pack, around tenth, but this ignited his rage.
Those blockheads! I threw it on purpose, and they scored worse? How?!
Kids sold into poverty couldn't match a nobleman's head start.
Even so, he blamed the other boys.
"Jang Gyo-du plans to make you a Ten Perfect Assassin, it seems. For that, you need more than martial arts—you need mastery of poisons too."
Won Seung's hunch confirmed. They were being groomed as assassins. But a question nagged.
"What makes you think I'm cut out for this Ten Perfect Assassin thing?"
"Heh heh heh. 'Ten Perfect' means excelling in ten fields: civil arts, martial arts, etiquette, poisons, and more. Martial arts, poisons, strategy are musts, they say."
Me, outstanding in ten fields?
Won Seung mentally tallied his strengths as Dok Sabu cackled on, reading his mind.
"Intense mountain training can get anyone to first-rate martial arts. But poetry, calligraphy, painting, music? Most here never held a brush before—few master it. That's why they picked you, the literary prodigy."
"Mm. I just like reading, drawing, music—that's why my scores were decent. But martial arts? I'm nothing special. How could I become a Ten Perfect Assassin?"
Excelling in both civil and martial arts? In ten fields? No human could.
"That's up to Jang Gyo-du. Once real martial training starts, expect to be drilled harder than most."
Chills raced up Won Seung's spine.
Harder meant higher death risk. All his subtle sabotage had been for nothing.
His face paled unwittingly.
"What if I can't make Ten Perfect Assassin?"
"Even special-grade assassin gets you good treatment. No worries."
Fuck that, Won Seung thought. How good could treatment for killers be?
One failed mission, and he'd die miserably.
Gotta escape someday. Vanish where no one knows me. Or hole up in my Huangdo annex—they'd never find me.
Thank god he'd played the Hagok County orphan card day one.
Dok Sabu groaned, heaving his bulk.
"Dinner time. Fetch it from the mess."
Too lazy to go himself, apparently.
Won Seung lugged the food box to the upper mess, where savory aromas wafted.
"Oh ho, this is next level."
The kids' grub was decent, but the instructors' hall rivaled fancy restaurants.
They stuff themselves like this?
Stuck training brats in the mountains, instructors lived for food. They'd poached a top chef, and it showed.
The camp was huge: lower basin for farming wheat, millet, veggies; below that, livestock pens for chickens, ducks, pigs. Self-sufficient.
Fresh ingredients plus skill made upper camp meals Huangdo-worthy.
Won Seung's sole perk as Dok Sabu's boy? Gorging on this feast freely.
Lunch was optional due to training, but he insisted on three squares a day.