Mugajang: The Hairy Warrior Gang Ryong (Age 28)
Mugajang. The hairy warrior Gang Ryong (age 28). A mid-tier fighter who earned some respect in Hwang Sabang, recognized for his skills and loyalty, he'd been put in charge of the action squad as a dodu. With the gang leader's trust, a solid future seemed guaranteed—until one moment of misjudgment led him to this place, the Yi Gajang manor, where he would slumber eternally—
"...No way!!!!"
With a thunderous shout of denial, Gang Ryong's eyes snapped open. He frantically checked his body. Scratches covered him here and there, and blood from his cracked scalp had dried stiff. But he was still alive, not dead. The single stroke that should've cleaved him was nothing but his own delusion.
What the hell happened?
Only then did he look around, and what he saw was—a boy perched atop his piled-up subordinates, leisurely puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. The one who'd taken him down. The mad third young master. No, the insanely strong third young master. Skinny and small-framed. His clothes were ragged and worn, but his posture was regal. He sucked deeply on the pipe until his gaunt cheeks hollowed out, then pursed his lips and exhaled a puff of smoke. Rings curled out like lotus blossoms. The third young master smacked his lips repeatedly, crafting five or six in a row, then—with a final whoosh—shot a small puff straight through their centers.
......
A kid still green as grass, smoking a pipe? What a rotten seed. But the way he smoked was surprisingly skilled, even stylish. Like he had some hidden backstory, an air of mystery about him. Gang Ryong was inwardly impressed.
Not bad... knows his flavor and flair...
The third young master, gazing at the smoke drifting skyward, turned his eyes toward him. Gang Ryong, who'd been staring blankly, flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. But it was too late. He scrambled to sit up, knelt properly with hands on his thighs, and shouted deferentially.
"My apologies for the rudeness! I failed to recognize a man of such extraordinary caliber..."
The man Gang Ryong. He bowed properly to the strong. Had his tactic worked? The third young master smirked, sucking on the pipe before tossing out an unexpected line.
"Hey. You gotta use good tobacco. Cheap leaves like this just burn your mouth, and they're no good for your health. At least danhyangcho makes it worth the smoke."
Gang Ryong realized it then—that the pipe the boy was using was his. Who didn't know good danhyangcho? It was the price that kept them away. For this brat to steal his pipe and then nitpick? But he replied all the same, humbly and vigorously, as if struck by great enlightenment.
"Yes, sir!"
"You took quite a beating, but your durability's better than expected?"
"I hear that a lot."
"Don't worry about your men. I only hit 'em with the flat of the blade. I'm not the type to slaughter folks just for picking a fight."
"We are eternally grateful for your mercy..."
He kowtowed repeatedly. The man Gang Ryong. He expressed his thanks properly. But the third young master's demeanor had shifted completely from before. The madness was gone; his face now beamed with a relaxed smile. He even looked refreshed. The tobacco? Or maybe beating the crap out of them? Either way, for a botched first move, the mood wasn't half bad. Until the third young master asked that question.
"Alright. Now spill it."
"...Spill what, young master?"
"Why you Hwang Sabang thugs came here."
Damn it all. Gang Ryong had no choice but to hesitate. Their purpose here was no good news for the Yi Gajang folk. It would've been easier if the eldest or second brother—who knew the full story—were awake, but they were still out cold. Gang Ryong rolled his eyes desperately. But the moment the third young master's brow twitched, he spat it out without further thought. Hadn't the kid made it clear? He hated repeating himself two or three times.
"...To collect a debt."
"A debt? What debt? Got some grudge against our house?"
"No, no! Nothing like that!"
Gang Ryong waved his hands frantically.
"A straight-up debt. Yi Gajang borrowed twenty seok of rice from Hwang Sabang."
The third young master's face twisted. The air turned icy, unlike moments ago. He muttered with disbelief.
"No way."
"It's... it's true! Ask your elder brothers—they'll confirm it. About a year ago, they borrowed twenty seok themselves. Here's the IOU!"
Gang Ryong fumbled in his bosom and pulled out the note. He'd brought it just in case, figuring it wouldn't be needed. But the third young master had zero interest in the scrap of paper. Without even glancing closely, he just stared blankly and murmured.
"Twenty seok of rice. Just twenty seok... How did it come to this?"
Twenty seok wasn't exactly peanuts. But to Third Young Master Yi Jinpyeong, the shock seemed to stem more from the fact that his family had borrowed from a third-rate gang like them.
"Has Yi Gajang borrowed from anywhere else besides you?"
"I don't know everything, but... yeah, from all over, quite a bit..."
Gang Ryong's voice grew smaller, though it wasn't his debt. A heavy silence fell. The third young master took a deep drag from the pipe. The smoke he exhaled this time was different—weak, drifting limply before scattering into nothing. How much time passed? He finally looked at Gang Ryong and spoke softly.
"Tell me. Everything you know. How our Yi Gajang ended up like this."
"...Yes."
Gang Ryong began cautiously. The story everyone in the world knew—except Third Young Master Yi Jinpyeong.
I remember when I first came to Dongjeong Lake. Seven or eight years ago. Back then, Yi Gajang was still a bustling place. Not the empty shell it is now. They'd feed and house you for free, even give you living expenses—I crashed there myself for a bit. Even a country bumpkin like me back then was blown away. I asked around: How do such good people exist in this harsh world? How can they give endlessly like this? They said it was the Yi Gajang tradition, passed down from their ancestors. A century ago, the world's greatest martial artist left a deathbed wish: "Live by giving." Absurd. The top guy leaving some monk's sermon as his last words, and his descendants following it to the letter, without end. But thanks to that, I ate my fill and slept warm, so I was just grateful.
But here's the thing. After generations of endless giving, people finally caught on! Ah, it's okay with these folks. That's just who they are. Word spread: Yi Gajang grants any request. Only a fool leaves empty-handed. Once the rumors flew, crowds poured in uncontrollably. Dogs and pigs alike banging on the gate—Times are tough, a little charity? Need business funds, mind if I borrow some? No interest, of course. When to repay? When things improve! Even the previous patriarch, who kept the house afloat somehow, died suddenly a few years back. Left with naive brothers clueless about the world. From then, it was over in a flash. Folks swarmed like vultures, the brothers gave freely without checking the stores—within years, they were flat broke. Now there's nothing left to squeeze, so the visitors dried up. Forgetting all the help they'd gotten. And at some point, the brothers started borrowing themselves. That's probably when it began—when this place went from Yi Gajang to Mugajang...
"Hold up!!!"
Only when the third young master bellowed did Gang Ryong stop. Damn! He should've noticed sooner. Lost in his own tale-spinning, he hadn't seen the kid close right up to his face. A murderous glare. A chilling aura Gang Ryong couldn't handle.
"What's this Mugajang crap? You mocking us? Turning our Yi Gajang into a punchline?"
He swallowed hard. His voice trembled on its own.
"C... calm down. It's not something I made up... the people... the people call it that."
"Hmph. You spread it, didn't you? Looks like you love yapping."
What nonsense. Gang Ryong waved desperately.
"Aigoo, no way! This man Gang Ryong doesn't make up lies. You told me to spill everything I knew..."
The third young master glared with mad eyes. Trouble any second. Luckily, it didn't erupt. He snorted roughly, barely suppressing his rage, and asked.
"After all that giving over the years, no one helped back?"
"Everyone's scraping by—who's got the spare cash? More like folks demanding interest. They started carting off furniture and goods instead of grain or money your brothers borrowed... Nothing left to take now."
Gang Ryong gestured around. Just land and buildings remained—the epitome of desolation in Yi Gajang.
"So?"
"So... what?"
"You Hwang Sabang thugs came for debt too. Nothing left in this manor—what'd you plan to take?"
A bullseye question. Gang Ryong's breath caught. Stuck. But what could he do? Orders from the boss.
"Young master, please understand. I owe Yi Gajang from the past, and I'm on good terms with your brothers. But our gang leader's pissed this time. They ignore debts to others but keep putting off ours, no intent to pay."
"Get to the point. No rambling."
"So the boss ordered: If nothing else, rip off the gate plaque and bring it. Holding the plaque means they'll pay up first, right..."
Gang Ryong finished, peeking at Yi Jinpyeong cautiously. For any house or sect, big or small—the plaque was their final pride. Sure enough, the third young master's brows shot up.
"Rip off the plaque?"
He stepped closer. Gang Ryong felt his hot breath vividly. His knees shook. His body reacted instinctively to the predator's killing intent...
"The plaque I wrote myself for Yi Gajang. Who the hell dares?"
Confusion. He wrote it? What nonsense was this? The kid was nuts after all. Oh no! Should've held his tongue. Made up some BS excuse. Hell, never come to Yi Gajang at all. Heh, heh, heh! Too late for regrets. Sensing his doom, he squeezed his eyes shut.
The man Gang Ryong (28). One moment of misjudgment, and he'd slumber eternally here in Yi Gajang manor...