Becoming a Porter (3)
“I-Iron Fist Throwing Ghost Yeo Ilsang!”
“The devil of Liaoning Province!”
“Public enemy of the martial world, hunted by the Moyong Clan!”
Not just the porters of the Gold Amount Escort Agency, but everyone gaped in shock at the true identity of Soon-gwang—no, Yeo Ilsang.
And well they might. The Iron Fist Throwing Ghost Yeo Ilsang was a notorious villain whose evil fame echoed across Liaoning Province, the farthest eastern fringe of the Central Plains.
He had not only slain one of the Moyong Clan’s promising young talents, the hegemons of Liaoning, but ruled the province like Yama, King of Hell himself, boasting unparalleled fist and leg techniques.
“You know me well.”
As the crowd shouted his infamous name like it was some grand honor, Yeo Ilsang grinned in satisfaction.
Shing!
Then he upended the load on his back, dumping it straight onto the ground.
And to everyone’s astonishment!
“Real gold bars and ingots!”
“Gasp! How?!”
“Where did this come from?!”
Amid the cheap metals and stones meant for windbreaks poured a dazzling golden glow.
The sheer amount was staggering—enough to outfit a small merchant caravan.
“Where from? I took the third steward’s brat hostage, of course. Told him to bring every scrap from one of the warehouses or I’d slit the kid’s throat. Simple as that.”
Yeo Ilsang spoke as casually as if recounting someone else’s tale.
“Such heaven-defying outrage!”
“The third steward’s son just passed his first birthday!”
If anything, Yeo Ilsang couldn’t fathom why they were so worked up.
“Why so sensitive? It’s just one of the Gold Amount Escort Agency’s three warehouses’ worth. We could always split it.”
Yeo Ilsang was devilishly cunning.
He had meticulously targeted just one of the agency’s three internal warehouses.
Going for all would’ve raised alarms too soon, so he’d blackmailed the hostage-holding third steward into handing over one warehouse’s haul of gold.
To execute the perfect crime, he’d infiltrated as a porter, eyeing this push-escort where the leader and escorts would let their guard down.
“Too bad, though. No big loss? I planned to slaughter you all here in the rear wagon anyway and make off with the gold.”
His words sent not just the escorts into a trembling rage, but the porters too, shaking with barely contained fury.
Yet no one dared charge first.
Among the escorts, only Table Wind Sword Gong Uryang, a first-rate master, held any real skill; the other two were mere second-raters.
The porters went without saying.
In contrast, Iron Fist Throwing Ghost Yeo Ilsang teetered on super first-rate.
The current martial world’s rankings divided prowess into third-rate, second-rate, first-rate, super first-rate, peak, super peak, the Entering Divinity realm, and the Martial God realm.
Super first-rate referred to those who had shattered the first-rate barrier but stalled short of the transcendent peak, blocked by an unbreakable wall.
One super first-rate master could fend off three or more first-rates with ease.
“Oh, and one more thing for the third steward. Your kid’s already croaked—buried under the warehouse. Kahahahaha!”
Yeo Ilsang clutched his belly, roaring with laughter at the crowd’s stunned horror.
His earlier affable, kindly facade had vanished, leaving only the savage murderer and bandit in stark relief.
Grind!
The onlookers gnashed their teeth in outrage but could neither advance nor retreat.
As escort agency members, they yearned to reclaim their goods, but the foe was overwhelmingly strong.
Perhaps fleeing was the wiser course.
“By the way… you. How’d you know there were gold bars and ingots in my load?”
As Yeo Ilsang stretched leisurely, approaching the crowd, his gaze fixed on Hyeon Yucheon—the boy who’d ruined everything.
Truth be told, he’d eyed Hyeon Yucheon from the start and probed his martial knowledge out of caution, fearing even the slightest interference with his flawless scheme.
“I heard it.”
Amid the collective shock, only Hyeon Yucheon remained unflappable.
He answered with utter composure, face unmoved.
“What?”
“The whole trip, it jingled constantly. That’s the sound gold makes.”
There was another reason too.
As heir to the Mangeum Clan, Hyeon Yucheon had trained in merchant operations amid overflowing treasures.
The clink of gold bars colliding or ingots clashing was unmistakable to him.
Yeo Ilsang shook his head furiously, refusing to buy the bold yet calm claim.
“Lies! No way. Even on this dull, quiet escort, no one could’ve picked up that sound.”
Yeo Ilsang was no fool.
Quite the opposite—his cunning matched his brutality and skill, underpinning a meticulously laid plan.
He’d mixed the gold with stones precisely to muffle any noise.
‘That faint little sound?’
Not even this super first-rate master detected it?
“You little shit. You’ve been grating on my nerves since earlier.”
Truth be told, there was a reason Yeo Ilsang kept engaging Hyeon Yucheon.
To his expert senses, the boy showed no inner power, no trace of martial training—yet his villain’s instincts flared.
‘Something about him reeks of danger.’
Branded a public enemy and fleeing the Moyong Clan, Yeo Ilsang had once dominated the unorthodox martial world.
He’d sensed this peril only once before: encountering Demon Sword Sect members.
Their masters exuded a unique aura on sight.
Not some detectable odd inner energy or obvious trait.
Only wicked villains could sniff out that scent of danger!
Crunch!
At last, the Iron Fist Throwing Ghost clenched his fists.
The Liaoning villain who could shatter steel with those fists and rip out throats or hearts!
As he gripped them, the escorts—duty-bound to protect the agency’s wealth and the porters’ safety—were the first to bolt.
“Eeeek!”
“Run!”
“Scatter in different directions!”
Gong Uryang, the acting leader, and the other two escorts fled without a backward glance.
‘Even all three of us together… we can’t beat him.’
Gong Uryang was mid-tier first-rate at best, the others scant help.
The porters were useless.
So they split, fleeing every which way—hoping luck might spare one.
“Heh heh heh, cute trick.”
As the escorts claimed different directions, Yeo Ilsang didn’t panic—he laughed, amused.
His lightness skill was top-notch; he wasn’t fazed.
‘Run all you want.’
He’d planned to deal with the nagging boy first, before chasing escorts.
“Let’s see how good your martial arts really are.”
Ignoring the escorts entirely, he blocked Hyeon Yucheon first.
It wasn’t mere curiosity.
The boy still stood near Yeo Ilsang’s gold-stuffed load—he aimed to secure it first.
Just as Hyeon Yucheon moved to assume a stance.
“Porters, run too! I’ll hold him off!”
Another unbelievable turn.
Jeong Gap, the lead porter who’d scolded and eyed Hyeon Yucheon warily till now.
Jeong Gap drew his machete and swung bravely at Yeo Ilsang.
Whoosh!
Not wildly, either.
A third-rate saber art like Three Talents Swordsmanship, but backed by some inner power and proper form.
“Ho~ A porter who trains martial arts? Still just third-rate trash, but… keh heh heh.”
Though interrupted, Yeo Ilsang didn’t bat an eye.
He smirked as if savoring the sluggish saber work.
The kindest porter turned out a wicked fiend; the prickliest one threw his life for his juniors.
Crack!
Third-rate couldn’t beat super first-rate.
In one clash, Jeong Gap’s machete snapped, his body flung back—neck on the verge of breaking.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
That’s why he’d snapped at Hyeon Yucheon earlier for claiming martial skill.
For porters, martial arts were a luxury.
A porter using them signaled the escort’s disastrous end and utter failure.
That’s why he’d shot Hyeon Yucheon a dirty look for boasting.
And… another miracle unfolded.
“...Huh?”
No matter how tight he shut his eyes, his neck and body felt fine. Startled, Jeong Gap peeked.
To his horror, Iron Fist Throwing Ghost’s massive fist was gripped in the pale, small hand of a young boy.
Shudder!
Even more shocking: Yeo Ilsang strained to yank free, but no matter his might, Hyeon Yucheon’s grasp held ironclad.
“Wh-what the….”
Jeong Gap blurted in dazed shock at the absurdity.
“Urgh! Aaaagh!”
Yeo Ilsang, in bone-crushing agony, could endure no more and screamed like a child.
“A porter with such killing intent… I figured you had a story.”
Hyeon Yucheon said.
Omitted after: Like me.
“But all this… for mere gold?”
Hyeon Yucheon’s ire mounted.
Oddly, Yeo Ilsang’s gold-lust evoked memories of raiders storming the Mangeum Clan, looting their riches—igniting explosive rage.
Tremble!
As Hyeon Yucheon unleashed his killing intent, Yeo Ilsang—facing it head-on—found his legs quaking uncontrollably.
‘Me? Shaking?’
He couldn’t believe it.
He’d bluffed fearlessly before Demon Sword Sect members, who reeked of that same danger.
Yet trembling before some mid-teen punk?
Unthinkable.
“I won’t forgive you.”
Hyeon Yucheon released Yeo Ilsang’s hand and assumed a drawing stance.
“...?!”
Swordless yet drawing—Yeo Ilsang puzzled, but not for long.
Invisible sword qi sliced across his eyes.
True to its name, the formless qi sword left no trace, invisible to others.
It struck Yeo Ilsang’s face in a formless rush.
“Gaaaaah!”
Iron Fist Throwing Ghost Yeo Ilsang—slayer of a Moyong Clan junior, murderer of over a hundred martial artists from orthodox and unorthodox alike.
In one exchange, he lost both eyes to a boy young enough to be his nephew.
They say making others weep draws bloody tears from your own eyes.
That was Yeo Ilsang now.
“Filthy worm.”
Hyeon Yucheon gazed mercilessly at the screaming villain clutching his ruined eyes.
He’d spared the life, but the technique was ruthlessly domineering.