If We Don't Protect Them (2)
"Heard you filed another complaint?"
Jong-bae was the enforcer for the Taejeong Faction. Flashy tattoos, knife scars all over, and a vicious scowl—terrifying just to look at. But the old man didn't flinch.
"Yeah, I did. You damn bastards! I'll keep filing till the day I die."
No matter how hard he worked to earn money, the Taejeong thugs took thirty percent under the guise of protection fees. It had started at ten percent, but by this year, it had tripled.
No merchant could sustain that. All his labor just fed those bastards.
"Go ahead, file it. Keep filing."
Jong-bae smacked the back of the old man's head repeatedly, disgustingly.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
It wasn't meant to knock him down—just to humiliate him in mockery. Yet the elderly man staggered.
"File it, old fart. Come on, let's go file it together. Do it right in front of me!"
Thwack! Thwack!
The blows grew harder until the old man finally collapsed in place.
Jong-bae menacingly raised his foot to stomp the old man's head.
"Ugh, can't even just crush you."
The old man sat slumped, head bowed. It hurt, it was unfair, it was heartbreaking.
He'd endured until now, but no more. His days left weren't many anyway.
Before dying, he'd decided to sacrifice himself one last time for the market merchants. The local officials, long in bed with the Black Society, did nothing, so he'd filed complaints with the Murim Alliance branch. But despite several filings, there was still no response.
Jong-bae squatted beside him, speaking coaxingly.
"You've lived a full life—why make trouble now? Quit the greed, help the young folks with a good heart, and live quietly."
"What? Greed?"
The old man grabbed Jong-bae's collar.
"You punk—how dare you say that? Coming out of your mouth?"
Jong-bae shoved him off roughly and stood.
"Listen, geezer. File all you want a hundred times. You ever even seen a Murim Alliance guy around here?"
"If the branch won't act, I'll go to headquarters myself!"
"You damn old coot! Won't listen when I'm being nice? Wanna die?"
"Kill me then. Do it!"
"Think I won't? That's why you're pulling this crap."
Thud!
Finally, a merciless kick smashed into the old man's face.
He flew back and crumpled.
The others started smashing the shop's goods in earnest.
The surrounding merchants stamped their feet in frustration but couldn't intervene against the bloodthirsty Taejeong thugs.
Just then, a shout came from afar.
"You bastards! Cut it out!"
The Taejeong men's eyes snapped toward the voice.
It was Beon Saeng rushing in.
Recognizing him, Jong-bae smirked and stepped forward.
"Well, if it isn't Squad Leader Beon."
He sidled up, throwing an arm around Beon Saeng like old pals.
"Haven't seen you in a bit—looking sharper than ever. Who's the greenhorn? New recruit? Ooh, Squad Leader Beon, bringing underlings now? Stylish."
"Get your hand off."
"What's got you in such a mood today?"
"I said get it off, punk."
Beon Saeng irritably shoved Jong-bae's hand away and helped the old man up.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
But he wasn't. One eye was swollen shut, blood streaming from his mouth.
As Beon Saeng tried to lead him out, the Taejeong thugs blocked the way.
"Where you headed?"
Still sore from being shoved earlier, Jong-bae pressed on. Black Society types thrived on bravado—acting tough, fierce, ruthless. Especially in front of subordinates eyeing their spot.
"To a doctor, obviously."
"Old man's barely scratched. Step aside. We'll have the kids wipe his blood."
"I said move."
When nice words failed, Jong-bae leaned in close, whispering gutturally.
"Don't wanna lose face in front of everyone? Get lost quietly."
The others didn't hear, but the old man did.
He told Beon Saeng, "I'm good. Don't get involved—you'll just get hurt too."
Meant protectively, but it shattered Beon Saeng's already frayed pride.
Beon Saeng seated the old man in a back chair, then bellowed at Jong-bae and the thugs.
"You're all under arrest for violence and extortion. Drop your weapons and kneel."
Jong-bae and the Taejeong crew stared in disbelief.
"What'd you say?"
"You're all arrested. Drop your swords and kneel. Now."
Jong-bae wasn't scared. He advanced, threatening.
"Squad Leader Beon, you handle the fallout?"
"Can you handle me?"
Beon Saeng's fist smashed into Jong-bae's face.
Crack!
Caught off-guard, Jong-bae tumbled across the floor. Before he could rise, he shrieked.
"Kill that bastard!"
Having been beaten in front of his men, it was all or nothing.
The Taejeong thugs drew weapons in unison.
Fire blazed in Beon Saeng's eyes.
"You dare draw on Murim Alliance warriors?"
He drew his sword and charged.
First target: Jong-bae. Beon Saeng leaped, kicking Jong-bae—rising with sword in hand—square in the face.
Thud!
Jong-bae sprawled again.
A burly thug nearby swung a massive blade wildly. Beon Saeng dodged nimbly and slashed.
Whoosh, slice.
The blade gashed his thigh.
Squirt!
The thigh split wide, blood spraying. The thug, stunned by his first major wound, screamed.
There was a clear skill gap. None of these Taejeong punks had proper training—just months or two years at a martial hall at best.
But Beon Saeng had trained since childhood, even formally joining the Murim Alliance.
Another charged from the side, thrusting with decent form—a year at the hall.
Clang!
Beon Saeng parried swiftly and precisely. As the man staggered, he slashed the arm mercilessly.
Splurt!
"Aaaagh! It hurts! Aaaaaah!"
The man clutched his arm, wailing like he was dying. Blood poured; a nearby thug's legs buckled, collapsing.
Even amid chaos, Beon Saeng thought: Don't kill them.
"You punks! Drop the swords! Drop 'em!"
He had the edge, but excitement surged. Truth be told, this was his first real cut on a person. When would a backwater branch see action? Even wars passed quietly here.
"Watch your back!"
At the warning, Beon Saeng twisted away. Fallen Jong-bae had ambushed from behind. He barely dodged the sword, blood splattering his shoulder. Almost died, he thought—eyes rolling in rage.
"You bastard!"
Beon Saeng lunged, thrusting.
Stab. The furious blade pierced Jong-bae's shoulder.
"Aaaagh!"
Clutching the gushing wound, Jong-bae rolled. Beon Saeng pursued.
"You dog—I'll kill you!"
Whoosh.
His heated sword arced toward Jong-bae's prone neck.
Clack.
The blade halted just before the throat.
Baek So-cheon had grabbed his wrist, stopping him. He'd also given the back warning.
"Don't misunderstand. I'm not stopping you from killing. He tried from behind, so it's fine."
Led by Baek So-cheon's grip on his wrist, Beon Saeng's sword nicked Jong-bae's throat.
Pierce.
Blood trickled from the shallow cut.
Now Baek So-cheon blocked Beon Saeng from thrusting deeper.
Terror-stricken, Jong-bae begged.
"S-spare me! I'll live right from now on."
Still holding the wrist, Baek So-cheon said, "Think he'll go straight? All lies. He'll get revenge later."
Beon Saeng's sword trembled with fury. A slight push, and the man died.
Blood dripped with each quiver.
Baek So-cheon released the wrist.
"I said kill if you want—but on your own will. Don't just kill in the heat. Looks like your first murder. Give your reason a say too."
His calm advice steadied Beon Saeng's frenzied heart.
Finally, he saw around him.
Jong-bae stared up, blood pouring from his shoulder, face pale with fear.
Blood everywhere. Slashed men groaned scattered about; the rest clutched swords, frozen in terror. The tough ones were down—no one dared charge.
Beon Saeng exhaled deeply.
"This is enough."
He slowly withdrew the sword from Jong-bae's neck.
He wanted to slaughter them all, but he was a Murim Alliance warrior—bound by its laws.
Baek So-cheon nodded once, then addressed the remaining thugs, swords awkwardly raised.
"Drop 'em and kneel where you stand. One, two..."
Before three, they dropped weapons and knelt.
Baek So-cheon asked Beon Saeng, "Regrets?"
Beon Saeng scanned again: wailing fallen men, staunching wounds, bowed heads, kneeling glares. If that was all, he'd regret it.
But beyond them: merchants.
They beamed. Faces flushed with rare vitality.
Daily tormentors beaten badly—it thrilled them, like dancing. Hope flickered: freedom from abuse?
The old man, one eye open, wrapped Beon Saeng's shoulder wound with white cloth.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine—wipe your blood, elder. Your face is wrecked."
"Kid, what's a busted body to a grave-bound old man? Your long road ahead matters more."
He finished bandaging.
"...Thanks for the help."
Those words surged hot in Beon Saeng's chest.
...No, I'm sorry. Took this long to help.
His gaze fell to the old man's thin, wrinkled hands bandaging him—the very hands he'd ignored for six years.
Yeah. This is why I became a warrior.
Looking at Baek So-cheon, Beon Saeng replied belatedly.
"No regrets."
Baek So-cheon smiled faintly—the first since they'd met, a soft chuckle.
"Now you look like a Murim Alliance warrior. Since we started, let's finish right."
"Finish" snapped Beon Saeng alert.
Right. This isn't the end.
Far from it—the start.
Jong-bae was just an enforcer. Botch the follow-up, and he, the old man, merchants—all faced revenge. Branch head and branch in trouble too. Taejeong would retaliate; even Shin-hwa-bang might.
Worry hit; legs shook belatedly.
This fight started because of Baek So-cheon.
Not pushed, but still.
Days known, yet he'd eagerly called him big bro, promised to crush Black Society unasked. Today, he could've walked away—chose to jump in. Drummed and pan-ed solo. A farce without the ritual.
A thought struck.
Like hauling cheap herbs to haggle with a con, buying pricier ones instead.
—Why'd you do that then?
Fine from others—his heart already whispered it.
But from Baek So-cheon? Terrifying. Everything started because of him—yet if he denied it all? Baek So-cheon just a passing breeze, while he filmed a storm solo like a madman.
Unaware of Beon Saeng's turmoil, Baek So-cheon squatted by the Taejeong men staunching wounds.
"First sword cut, huh? Hurts bad? Press here—worse."
Squeeze.
"Aaaaaaaagh!"