Lunchtime in the Murim Is a Battlefield

"Hey. You hear that rumor?"

Murim Alliance Headquarters. The third training yard of the Blue Dragon Hall.

Morning sword drills had ended, and in the break that followed a hush of conspiratorial whispers began to thread through the trainees as they flapped their sweat-soaked robes and fanned themselves against the heat.

"What rumor?"

"The new dumpling shop out front of the main gate."

"Oh, that cramped little hole? Fancy sign, and nothing inside but flies?"

"Flies? Please. They say the owner is no ordinary man. Yesterday the boys from the Hao Sect's Black Tiger Hall went in to make trouble, and every last one of them crawled back out with his arms and legs bent the wrong way."

Jo Sam, a fellow trainee who had been listening in, let out a snort.

"Pfft. Don't blow smoke. You know who the Black Tiger Hall Master is? The man came up as a lay disciple of Shaolin. His Diamond Fist has reached the fifth attainment. Your average third-rate martial artist isn't even fit to hand him a calling card. And a man like that got taken down by some dumpling-shop owner?"

"I'm telling you, it's true! I saw it with my own eyes!"

Park Dal, the one peddling the rumor, dropped his voice as low as it would go and scanned the yard, wearing the look of a man leaking a first-class secret. One by one, the other trainees nearby drifted closer, ears tilting in.

"I snuck out last evening and watched the whole thing. The Black Tiger boys were about to raise hell inside the shop, and the owner just flung something out of the kitchen."

"Threw what? A hidden weapon?"

"No."

Park Dal swallowed hard.

"Dumpling dough."

"...What?"

"A lump of white flour dough flew like a meteor hammer and wrapped their joints right up! They were screaming and crawling across the floor, and the owner just smiled and went, 'Aigo, my hand slipped.' That was no human skill."

Silence held for a beat. Then the jeers came pouring in.

"You maniac. You been listening to too many storytellers?"

"Taking people down with dough? That's not even Tang Clan hidden-weapon work. How does that make any sense?"

"He's hungry. He's seeing things. Definitely seeing things."

Tongues clicked, and the trainees began to scatter.

That was when Park Dal, looking thoroughly wronged, thumped his chest and shouted.

"If you don't believe me, go ask the Namgung Young Family Head! Young Family Head Namgung Seol was right there!"

Dead stop.

Every foot bound for the dining hall halted at once. The teasing faces turned grave in a heartbeat.

"...Who?"

"Young Family Head Namgung Seol! After the Black Tiger boys were driven out, she picked a scrap of dough up off the floor, stared at it for a long while, and said this."

Park Dal cleared his throat and did his best impression of Namgung Seol's cold voice.

No one breathed.

The air of the training yard settled, heavy as stone.

Namgung Seol.

Cherished daughter of the reigning Murim Alliance Leader, called the Fairy of the Ice Palace, and a candidate for the next Alliance Leader. In matters of martial arts she was a purist to the point of obsession, a woman who did not know the meaning of compromise. If someone like her had called a person master—

Jo Sam's voice shook.

"So... then that dumpling-shop owner is..."

"A hidden eccentric."

Park Dal declared ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it, conviction burning in his eyes.

"And not just any eccentric. A supreme master who has reached the Transformation Realm, no question. There's even a rumor that eating his dumplings clears blocked meridians and builds your internal energy."

A sharp gasp ran through the trainees. Greed and curiosity glazed their eyes.

They were still chicks, not yet true martial artists of the murim, and this was the age when spirit elixir and fated encounter were the two words that undid them fastest.

Then, from the bell tower at the heart of headquarters, the chime announcing lunch rolled out across the grounds.

Dong— dong— dong—

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Run."

No one needed it explained. Dozens of trainees kicked off the earth at the same moment.

The dining hall's rice? Not worth a damn thought. They had a single objective: Baek Family King Dumplings, right in front of the main gate.

"Welcome in— no, forget that. Please, just form a line!!!"

I was swallowing a scream in front of the steamer.

The Hour of the Horse, that span from eleven in the morning to one in the afternoon, and we were already in its second quarter — the absolute peak of the lunch rush. My modest shop had already been overrun by a swarm of human locusts in blue training robes.

The four tables had been packed for ages. Those who hadn't claimed a seat squatted on the floor, propped themselves against the walls, or hung off the windows outside, howling like the stiff-limbed dead.

"Owner! Three platters of meat dumplings over here! Hurry, I'm getting dizzy!"

"Are the kimchi dumplings not out yet? If I'm late to training, the drill instructor will kill me!"

"Hey, wait your turn! I ordered first!"

"Pickled radish! More pickled radish! I'll drink the brine if I have to!"

I felt my mind going faint.

Until yesterday this had been a shop where the flies went hungry, a peaceful place where Namgung Seol was the only soul I had to face. So why, overnight, was it this disaster?

This is all that damned rumor's fault.

The root of it was how flashily I had used my techniques when I drove the Hao Sect thugs off. Rumor had put on flesh and grown bones, and somewhere along the way I had been remade into a legendary Daoist who poured internal energy into people through dumplings.

"Owner! Pleat the wrappers a little thinner over here! I want to raise the qi absorption rate!"

Absolute bullshit. Make them thin and they just burst, you little shit. But there was no time to complain. Order slips were stacked like a mountain, and white steam poured from the steamer without a pause. Taking orders, carrying dumplings, settling bills, and cooking — all of it fell to me alone.

This was harder than the days when I, the Heavenly Demon, had fought a hundred thousand orthodox allied troops by myself.

"Hoo..."

I drew a deep breath and narrowed my eyes. There was simply no way to move this volume by ordinary means. I had sworn, when I retired, that I would never again show my martial arts to another person. But this was an emergency. If I didn't use them, the dumplings would burn to cinders, or the customers would riot. One of the two.

Don't get caught. Use them very, very quietly.

I swept a look around the room. Every one of them was lost in the business of stuffing dumplings down their throats. Now.

Flash.

My feet slid across the floor.

In a blink I was at the icebox, drawing out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the chives, then back at the board to slice them. To the stove, to temper the flame. To the counter, to take the coin. The whole sequence passed in less than an instant. To the customers, I would have looked like nothing more than a man flashing east and flashing west, running himself ragged.

"Owner, clear these empty dishes!"

"On it!"

I reached out. Five empty plates lay strewn across the table, and there was no time to pick them up one by one.

Vmmm—

A small whirlwind stirred in my palm.

Once, a wicked demonic art for draining an opponent's internal energy. And now?

Clack. Clack.

The plates scattered through the air flew to my palm as if a magnet had called them, stacking themselves neat and tight. I lifted the tower lightly in one hand and tossed it into the sink.

"Whoa... the owner's hands are seriously fast."

"You see that? The plates just stuck to his hand."

Fortunately, they didn't seem to realize it was martial arts. To them I was just a middle-aged man with clever hands. Good. Ride this momentum.

I turned back to the dough. The rolling pin was gone. Where had it walked off to? No time to search. So I simply brought my palm down on the lump.

Bang!

The dough screamed and spread flat. A thickness that would have taken a hundred passes of the pin was finished in a single blow.

Now this is true hand-pounded dough.

I dropped filling onto the flattened wrapper and drew my fingers in as if flicking them shut.

Three dumplings in the space of one breath. My hands had already left the realm of human skill and become a machine for pleating dumplings.

That was when a trainee seated by the window shot to his feet.

"Aaaagh!"

The sudden scream dragged every eye in the shop toward him. His face had flushed a deep red, and he was clutching his dantian.

"Hey, what's wrong with you? Qi deviation?"

"N-no! It's hot! My dantian... my dantian's burning!"

He shouted, shaking head to toe.

"These dumplings... what in the world did you put in them? I feel like my clogged meridians are about to burst open!"

In an instant the trainees began to murmur and shift. Three Yang True Qi? His meridians cleared?

The truth was simpler, and stupider. I had minced rather a lot of Sichuan numbing pepper into the dumplings that boy had eaten. When heart-fire builds up, nothing beats spice, so I had put out a hot, tongue-numbing dumpling and called it a new menu item — and the kid was mistaking a spice-burned stomach for his internal energy boiling over.

But reason had never stood a chance with the chicks of the Murim Alliance.

"For real? It's really a spirit elixir?"

"Owner! I'll have that too! The red dumplings!"

"Add-on over here! Five platters of the internal-energy dumplings!"

"No, that's not— they're just spi—"

There wasn't even a gap in which to explain. Orders detonated. The dumplings bound for the steamer ran dry.

I ground ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my teeth and struck the dough.

"All right! I'll give you all some, so quiet down!"

It was sheer pandemonium. Alone, I pleated, steamed, carried, cleared, took coin, and brought water to the ones weeping over the spicy dumplings. I was at the point of my soul slipping its moorings.

This can't go on.

I stared in despair at the mountain of dishes rising in the washbasin. The greatest man under heaven, the Heavenly Demon, on the verge of working himself to death over a sink. A humiliation that would be recorded in the history of the murim for ages to come.

I need someone. I need to hire someone.

Someone who knew martial arts. No — martial arts, whatever. I just needed a person who would wash dishes and wait tables. Someone sturdy, who would work in silence like a slave and never sniff out who I was.

Ring—

And then, with the storm of the lunch rush finally spent, the last customer came through the door. A familiar white martial ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠robe. Namgung Seol.

She took in the wreck of the shop and her eyes went round.

"Has a war broken out?"

"Something close to it."

I answered with sunken eyes, wiping a table with a rag.

"The ingredients have all run out. Business is finished for today."

"A pity."

She made a small, disappointed sound. But a moment later she was looking me over with keen interest.

"To shoulder so many alone. As I thought... this is no ordinary internal energy. Traces of footwork remain upon the floor."

A ghost-eyed woman, this one. I feigned ignorance and kept sweeping.

"I just have quick feet."

"Hmm."

Her gaze found the scrap of paper I had scrawled in haste and left in a corner of the shop.

"You are seeking help."

"Yes. As you can see, I can't manage it alone."

"I shall do it."

"...Pardon?"

I nearly dropped the broom. Had I misheard? The Young Family Head of the Murim Alliance, offering to serve as a shop assistant in a dumpling shop?

"I said that I shall. I require no wages. In exchange, provide me dumplings each day, and agree to spar with me when time allows."

"No — customer. No, Young Family Head. Please don't joke. If the Alliance Leader learns of this, I will be beheaded."

"My father is of no concern. It is training, in any case."

She stepped closer, her eyes entirely serious.

I was going to lose my mind. Put the Fairy of the Orthodox Murim to work carrying soup, and the whole of the Murim Alliance would turn against me. Her devotees might well come for my head.

"I'm sorry, but absolutely not. I need someone a little more... sturdy. Someone I can work to the bone."

"There is no one in the Murim Alliance sturdier than I."

"Your heart isn't sturdy! Splash a customer with water and you'll draw your sword on the spot!"

I drove her out with everything I had.

Namgung Seol left the shop unable to quite swallow her regret, but not before leaving a terrifying line behind her.

"We shall discuss this again tomorrow."

I shut the door and lowered the awning. Silence alone lingered in the shop.

I sprawled on the kitchen floor, arms and legs flung wide.

"Haa... haa..."

I stared at nothing but the ceiling and dragged in rough breaths. My wrists throbbed. I had burned far too much internal energy. To think that running one miserable dumpling shop would be a hundred times harder than ruling the Demonic Cult.

Soon. Soon, I am hiring a shop assistant. No matter what.

I didn't care who it was. Four working limbs, a passable hand with a knife, and enough sense to follow what they were told. That would do.

Orthodox or unorthodox, it doesn't matter. Please — just send me one person willing to work.