The Weight of a Word

Ratmen are weak. And they live slavishly faithful to instinct.

Had just one of those two traits been missing — or had the worse of the two, if anything, run even deeper — then either way, this race would never have had to survive as something quite so pitiful.

To be faithful to instinct is to possess senses honed razor-sharp by the wild. Just as rats that spend their days hidden in every crack and corner are the first to flee in a chittering tide when the first tremor of a disaster comes creeping — a tremor no human can yet perceive — the senses of the Ratmen were so extraordinarily keen that a human observer might well have suspected them of prophecy.

And so. They were born with senses that told them, everywhere they turned, of battles their frail little bodies could never win. A future of defeat, perceived more clearly than by any other race — and that very wild instinct was what summoned tragedy.

Sensing danger raises one's odds of survival by leaps and bounds. But the Ratmen, blinded by survival itself, had overlooked one simple truth: that a moment can come when merely staying alive is not enough…!

Because they knew better than anyone how certainly they would lose, they always ran. Because an intelligence equal to any human's let them imagine the fate that follows in defeat's wake. And at some point, without ever noticing the change, the Ratmen had become frail cowards who did nothing but flee.

"Jjijk... jjijk!"

And that held just as true for the Red Heart Clan — the clan where War Chief Letius had been born and raised.

When Letius was born, the home of the Red Heart Clan was a sewer and a cesspit, built by human hands and then abandoned. Ratmen, by their nature, were a race born in the forest and living in the forest. But in an ecosystem of merciless survival of the fittest, there was no place left for a cowardly race whose only talent was running. They carried bodies every bit as frail, yet lacked the cunning of goblins; they were clever enough, yet lacked the orcs' iron-hard strength and headlong ferocity. Hands that could have drawn a hunting bow spent themselves pawing through garbage; teeth that could have torn flesh gnawed on scraps. Creatures whose entire existence consisted of secretly stealing bites of whatever others threw away.

Letius thought. He thought and thought, and thought again.

"Jjijk... jijijijik!"

This life of a gutter rat. This scrap-heap of an existence — sneered at as a coward, expected to nod along and call it a natural fate. How could any soul accept so servile a reality…!

To change the wretched destiny of so contemptible a race, Letius tempered himself into a warrior day after day, without fail.

And then. A great rift of impossible colors tore open in the sewer and swallowed the Red Heart Clan whole. When Letius opened his eyes, he stood in the soul-homeland said to be where the primordial Ratmen had once lived — the very heart of the Great Forest.

Fate. For Letius, this, too, was fate.

He would take this return to the ancestral home of his race as his chance — cast off the weak past, and lead his people toward a new destiny. He would forge the young kin into warriors and, through battle after real battle, scour away the instinct to flee. Along the way there had been the small mishap of, for reasons no one could explain, attacking a female kinswoman he had somehow mistaken for a human — but regardless. This time, he had believed, fate could truly be changed.

But. The instant he saw dust billow up and his kinsman go rolling across the ground, he understood at last: it had all been nothing but delusion.

"Jjijk... Jjiiiiiiik!!!"

A wail drenched in terror. They were fleeing the pursuit of the giant bear — the tyrant that strode the Great Forest — when the smallest, weakest of the young warriors clipped a jutting stone and went tumbling. A moment where scrambling upright and running again would not have been too late, were it not for the hind ankle trembling, bent at an impossible angle.

"Jjijk, jijk…"

"Jjijk, jjijk…!"

As a warrior, he must save his kin. The conviction Letius had spent a lifetime cultivating in a warrior's heart surged to manifest — but the cursed instinct of the Ratman clan, so keen it verged on literal prophecy, already knew: the moment he leapt in to save the young kin, he would die. Certainly. Inevitably. As though fate itself had already been written. A horrific massacre unspooled across his mind in vivid clarity — naturally, the fallen kinsman left unsaved, every last one of them dying for nothing. The enemy was the tyrant of the Great Forest, before whom neither the cunning goblins nor the stubborn orcs had ever dared resist.

Ting-ting-ting. Death's alarm pealed through his skull, shook his spine to its roots, and summoned a terror vast beyond measure. Swept under by a wave of pure instinct unlike anything he had ever felt, Letius understood — understood how worthless the thing he had called conviction truly was.

"Jjijk, jijjiik…!"

Letius took a step. That step carried him not forward, but back. And in the very instant the gutter rat — warrior no longer — readied to bolt—

Tap. The sound of a single step, deliberately taken.

"……Jjijk?"

Hair darker than any Ratman's black fur — an ink-black cascade — swirled into the air.

"………!!!"

Passing straight by the fleeing gutter rat. Toward the front. A pair of crimson eyes traced a single red ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠streak through the air as their owner advanced.

Ah. I might actually die here.

So I thought — and promptly found myself on the verge of bawling. Everything I had built up as a martial artist told me it was so, and judging by how this body, slavishly faithful to instinct as it was, kept wringing out tear after tear without end, there was no doubt whatsoever: the terror of death was being felt from the very root of instinct itself.

But. I took one step — through the opening form of the Gentleman's Step, toward the fallen ratman.

"Hsssssss…!"

Bonjwa. The Blood Demon, Cheon Yujin. A word once declared to heaven and earth is kept — oath or no oath. To every enemy written in the Kill Ledger, revenge would come by whatever means necessary; and this world would be remade, without fail, into a hell of royalties — crammed wall to wall with all-in-one desks and ringing with the screams of herniated discs and scoliosis. Such is the weight of a word.

"Bonjwaaa… whyyyy…!"

Why did Bonjwa go and blurt out the words 'temporary alliance' on a moment's impulse! They say a single word carries the weight of a thousand taels of gold — who knew such an idiotic moment would drive that lesson home so hard?

The weight of words. Even spoken in jest, a word once given must be honored. That is what makes a martial artist. A warrior may weigh victory and defeat through experience and instinct alike — but to grip ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the sword knowing one will lose: that, too, is what makes a warrior.

Tap, tadat! Whipping my body into reverse and accelerating in a single beat, I felt joints and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠muscles creak out in protest. The bloodshot eyes of the giant bear bore down on me, thick drool streaming from its jaws — and however I ran the numbers in my head, there was no path that saved us both. So, without easing my speed, I stretched my right hand toward the ratman.

It took its name from the way the curled fingertips looked for all the world like a dragon clutching its talons. For forging the muscles and grip of the hand, no golden-callus art compared — and back in my Murim days I reached for it often, to finish the hand-washed laundry that much faster…!

Kwak! The hook of my lightning-quick right hand clamped onto the ratman's nape — grab! — and with the very motion I had once used to snap out wet laundry, I flung the little body hard into the air. Granted, the poor novice had never learned a proper breakfall, so that bent ankle might snap the other way when he landed. Still — it beat being flattened into rat jerky alongside Bonjwa…!

KUWOOOOOO—!!!

Its prey re-designated, the giant bear roared and swung a forepaw in a savage, sweeping arc. Unlike the metal golems, this thing's frame shared nothing with the human form — and above all, it out-massed and out-muscled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any golem alive. In my current state, even unleashing Shifting Flowers Grafting Trees to its absolute limit would not pass the full force of that blow along. I soothed my terror-trembling body with the Forged Blood Art, let my mind settle into glacial calm, and swept my spread palm and qi force through a half-circle, bracing for the instant of impact. Even scattering as much of the shock into empty air as the technique allowed, with fortune's favor it was a coin toss for grievous injury — and the other face of the coin, of course, was instant death.

And so Bonjwa smiled, thin and cool.

KUWOOOONG!

A shockwave blasted outward; the scenery whipped past like the view from a speeding car. Wind slammed into my face, my limbs flailed helplessly — and in the instant my palm collided with the bear's forepaw, I realized the sheer impact had launched me skyward.

But. "It... doesn't hurt?!"

Rising that high, I had assumed, meant torn flesh and a one-way ticket to death's doorstep. Yet — technique or no technique — the body soaring through empty air was without a single wound. Across the hoodie and the mask Se-ah had gifted me with her own two hands, circuits of a bizarre pattern were glowing, and mana streamed through them in torrents vast enough for even my qi sense to register.

"Whoa... Cheon Se-ah, you absolute lunatic…!" Clothes prepared for me — me, the poor soul forced to wear a hoodie even in sweltering heat. When I'd seen the astonishing built-in climate control, I'd naturally assumed that was the whole miracle. But in this moment, I could only gape at my little sister's obsession — and at a homeland whose technology had transformed beyond all recognition in a mere ten years.

CapitalistBody-Protecting Gang Qi. What kind of demented era is this, where even the Body-Protecting Gang Qi — the very badge of a Peak Master — can simply be bought with money?! The world had gone mad back when a humble bowl of gukbap soup started costing more than a hamburger; I should have realized it then…!

"K-Kwooooh?"

Blank-faced, the giant bear stared up at me in midair. Normally, no attack from this body could pierce that hide and muscle; its bulk, larger than a country cottage, had always kept my fists from reaching anything vital. But yes — from up here, right now, it was possible.

"Haaaaaaah…!" I drank in a breath, drove the Forged Blood Art through a full cycle, gathered the spiral force — and amplified it as I spun through open air. Becoming, quite literally, a single whirling gale, I plunged like a bolt of lightning toward the bear's forehead…!

Tak. A sound pitifully small, considering the grandeur of the descent. And yet I smiled. With the Forged Blood Art's qi force still short of proper training, the high techniques of the internal school — arts like the Heavy Hand Method — remained beyond me. But by wringing every last fiber from these frail muscles and drawing the spiral force to its absolute ceiling, I could pass straight through hide and skull and — just this once — detonate a Penetrating Force built on external power alone…!

"K-Krooooh?"

The giant bear pawed blankly at its own forehead. Then — KUWUNG — it keeled over face-first into the dirt, drool strung slack between its teeth.

"...Hoo-hah, hoo." A mild concussion. I had failed to punch clean through the skull; the strike had settled for rattling the brain inside it. It would likely stay senseless for a few dozen minutes, and all I had to do was spend that time hammering its head with everything I had — but. Soreness howled from every muscle in my body. Dizziness spun in giddy circles. "Pushed... too... haraaard…" Dangerous. My mind was going dim.

Shivering, I toppled over backward — and the last thing I saw was the ratmen sprinting desperately toward me. When consciousness returned and my eyes opened once more—

"………Huh?"

A primitive mask, the kind one might picture on a totem-worshiping shaman. Molded in the likeness of a rat's skull, it gleamed a deep ink-black with a metallic sheen, and around my shoulders hung a black leather cloak trimmed in thick, plush fur. From behind that mask, Bonjwa's crimson eyes burning red, I gazed down at what lay below.

"Jjijk, jijjikiik!"

"Jjiiikiik…!"

Just as the demon folk of Blood Heaven Castle had once groveled before Bonjwa's might. Just as Left Protector Cheol-myeon-mujeong had. Just as the strategist Mano had. At the very head of them, flat against the earth with his whole body, a scarred ratman. And behind him, prostrate, ratmen beyond counting.

"………H-huh?"

S-something... something is happening.