The Iron-Blood Instructor and the Makgeolli Brothers

"Kyaah—!"

A rough, satisfied cry rang through the shop. Jang Mugi, the tiger of the Murim Alliance and its Iron-Blood Instructor, slammed an empty bowl of makgeolli down on the table.

"Now that's the stuff! This is the taste!"

The killing intent that, only moments ago, had looked ready to smash the place flat was nowhere to be found. Bliss colored his flushed face, as if every care in the world had been forgotten.

"Boss! Another bottle over here!"

"Yes, yes. Coming."

I drew a kettle of cloudy rice wine from the ice cellar, a skin of thin ice still floating on top, and carried it over. Jang Mugi snatched it as if seizing a weapon and poured again, the wine gushing into his bowl with a thick glug.

"I-Instructor... you really ought to stop now..."

One of the aides behind him ventured it carefully. Jang Mugi didn't so much as pretend to hear.

"Quiet! What kind of nagging is this, ruining a man's drink? Go run laps around the training ground!"

"But even so..."

"That's an order! Get out!"

The aides traded pitiful looks, faces crumpling, and in the end were all but driven from the shop. Now it was just the two of us.

Well—strictly speaking, that included me, still frying leftover dumpling skins in the corner of the kitchen.

"Boss, we're out of snacks! Got any more of that crispy stuff?"

"Frying them now. One moment."

I heaped a plate with dumpling-skin fritters fresh from the oil. In truth, this was closer to scrap disposal than cooking: nothing but the tail ends of dough left over from wrapping dumplings, rolled thin and fried. Still, they say even a straw sandal tastes good once it hits hot oil. Crisp bite, the nutty richness of the fat, and the clean chill of the rice wine—put together, it was a match made in heaven.

"Here you are. It's hot, so do be careful."

"Ooh! Much obliged!"

Jang Mugi grabbed a fistful and crunched it down, crack and shatter between his teeth.

"Haaah... unbelievable. This is fit to present to the Alliance Lord himself. A hundred times better than that well-water bean meat they serve at Shaolin."

True to his origins as a secular disciple of Shaolin, he seemed to nurse a deep grudge against temple food. I perched on the chair across from him. The door was shut, and I was out of ingredients besides—no more customers coming. The sensible play was to humor this terrifying old soldier and send him on his way as fast as I could.

"You seem quite fond of your drink."

"Fond? Without wine, how is a man supposed to endure this parched life in the martial world?"

Jang Mugi gave a bitter little laugh and filled the empty bowl.

"You'll have a cup, won't you?"

"Ah, I'm in the middle of work..."

"Come on, the door's closed! A man doesn't weasel out of a drink. Here, take it!"

He shoved a bowl at me whether I wanted it or not. Refuse, and he looked ready to flip the table, so I had no choice but to accept.

"Thank you."

I swallowed. Cool makgeolli slid down my throat, and a "haaah" escaped me before I knew it. Come to think of it, I hadn't managed a single mouthful of water all day—from the dawn market straight through the war that was lunch. On an empty stomach the wine spread through me in a sharp, tingling rush.

"See? You've got a drinker's face!"

Jang Mugi laughed, booming, and clapped my shoulder.

"Boss, what's your name?"

"Baek Wun."

"Baek Wun? White cloud... Heh. Quite a poetic name for a dumpling-shop man."

He went on, picking at the snacks.

"I'm Jang Mugi. Instructor over at the Murim Alliance. I teach the kids."

"Yes, I've long heard the name. You're the Iron-Blood Instructor, aren't you?"

"Iron-Blood, my foot. Just a crusty old nag."

He smiled at his own expense. The wine seemed to loosen his tongue, and out came the stories he'd been holding in.

"Kids these days, I'm telling you—no hungry spirit. No, no fighting spirit. Wasn't like that in my day. Master said 'plant your head in the dirt,' and we planted it all day. Said 'jump off the cliff,' and we at least made the motion of jumping."

The classic back-in-my-day refrain had begun. I equipped myself with a soulless chorus.

"Aigoo, you don't say. How impressive."

"But these brats nowadays have no discipline left in them! Push the training a little hard and they run to the Alliance Lord with a complaint about 'harsh treatment' or whatever. Well?! Who do they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠think I'm doing it for! It's all to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠keep their own hides alive!"

He slammed the table. The plate of fritters jumped.

"You're right, absolutely. They simply don't appreciate your heart, Instructor."

"Right?! You actually talk sense!"

Jang Mugi brightened and filled my bowl again.

"Especially those Demonic Cult bastards! Those ones aren't human. Beasts. Beasts, I tell you."

"..."

I stopped with the bowl halfway to my lips. He was cursing me out, right to my face.

"Ten years back, in the Great Orthodox-Demonic War, I fought those cult bastards on the front line, you know? Whoa... you seen their eyes? Blood-red, whites rolling as they charged—I nearly pissed myself, I'm telling you."

"Ah... it must have been terrifying."

"Terrifying, who! I cracked dozens of their skulls! The name I earned back then was Butcher of the Demonic Cult!"

A lie.

Jang Mugi had been with the rear supply unit. I'd seen it myself, back when I was still Cult Lord, in a scouting report.

But there was no need to pick at truth and falsehood and spoil the mood.

"My, how incredible. A true hero."

"Right? Hahaha! I really like you!"

Thoroughly pleased, Jang Mugi knocked back drink after drink. Before I knew it, three kettles stood empty. His eyes were slowly losing focus, and his tongue was starting to tangle.

"Say, little brother Baek Wun."

"Y-yes? Little brother?"

"That's right! Let's be sworn brothers! I look older anyway—you got a problem with that?"

"Not at all. It would be an honor."

Just like that, I was about to become sworn brothers with an instructor of the Murim Alliance. Was this a good thing, or a bad one? It would help keep my cover, but if my identity ever came out, he'd come after me sword in hand, sick with the sting of betrayal.

"Call me big brother."

"...Big brother."

"Good! Little brother! Come on, a toast!"

The bowls cracked together. We became brothers in rice wine and drank deep into the night—though for the most part he talked, and I listened.

Then it happened.

"Little brother. Listen."

Jang Mugi's face turned suddenly serious, and he seized my forearm. The grip was no joke. That hand had trained in Shaolin's famed art, the Iron Sand Palm, said to pulverize rock.

"You... why are your sinews this hard?"

"...!"

Damn.

I'd thought he was drunk, but a martial artist's instincts were still alive. An ordinary shopkeeper's arm ought to be soft flesh. Mine had been tempered by the Heavenly Demon Divine Art until it sat close to an adamantine, indestructible body. The density of the muscle itself was different.

"Uh... well, that's..."

I scrambled for an excuse.

"I haul flour sacks every day. One sack is twenty gwan—some seventy-five kilos—and I move dozens of them a day, so..."

"Hoh? Flour sacks?"

Jang Mugi kneaded my forearm, eye gone suspicious.

"This isn't simple labor muscle... It's as solid as the muscle of a Golden Bell Cover master I know."

Cold sweat ran down my back. This old man had an annoyingly sharp sense.

"Oh, come now, big brother. What martial arts would I know? It's just the callus you get from thrashing around trying to make a living."

I deliberately let every bit of strength drain from my arm, then pointed at the empty plate to change the subject.

"More to the point, the snacks are gone. Shall I make you something special?"

"Something special?"

His eyes lit up. Put food in front of him, and the man grew simple.

"Wait just a moment."

I fled into the kitchen. This wouldn't do. I needed one heavy blow to blast his suspicion clean away—and knock him flat so I could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠send him home.

I opened the ice cellar. Yesterday's ugly dumplings sat frozen inside, sides split while I'd been wrapping them, too sorry-looking to sell. Beside them, scraps of leftover vegetables.

I'll fry these into a savory pancake.

I mashed the burst dumplings, chopped the vegetables in, and loosened flour and egg through it until I had a batter. A so-called dumpling pancake. I spread it wide across the broad face of a well-oiled pot lid.

A long, fierce sizzle. Rich smell flooded the kitchen. Pork, tofu, and chives—the savor of dumpling filling—met the oil and exploded. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I cooked the surface until it crackled like scorched rice.

"Big brother! Something to line your stomach, coming out!"

I set the golden-brown pancake before him.

"Whoa... and what's this?"

"A pancake made from burst dumplings."

"The smell... is insane."

Jang Mugi didn't even reach for chopsticks. He tore the pancake with his hands, and the instant a steaming piece entered his mouth—

...!!!!

His eyes rolled back. The chew of dumpling and the crisp of pancake lived in the same bite, and the crushed filling scattered across his tongue in a nuttiness beyond reason.

"Delicious! This isn't a drinking snack—it's a meal!"

He wolfed it down. Suspicion? Muscle? Such things were already nowhere in his thoughts.

"Little brother! You're a genius! Nothing I've eaten until today even counted as dumplings!"

Overcome, he seized my hand.

"I've decided."

"Decided what?"

"Starting tomorrow, every group dinner for my training hall happens here. No exceptions!"

"...What?"

"Trainees, aides, I'll bring the whole lot! I can't be the only one who knows this taste! I'll make this the Murim Alliance's officially designated restaurant!"

"No, big brother, wait. The shop is small, and a group is a bit..."

"Don't worry! No room inside, we spread straw mats outside and eat! I'll handle everything!"

He seemed to have already drawn up the entire plan by himself. Swaying, he got to his feet.

"Ugh... I'm drunk. Little brother, that was a fine meal. The money's here!"

He pulled a pouch of silver from his robes and tossed it onto the table. The clink was heavy. It looked like ten times the cost of the wine.

"Next time I come, I'll introduce my disciples too. Not a lick of promise in the lot of them, but one bite of these dumplings and they'll come to their senses."

"Ah, yes... Please get home safe."

I supported him out to the door. Outside, the aides who'd been driven off were waiting, shivering in the cold.

"Instructor!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Let's go. The drinking must continue!"

"You're drinking more? Instructor, you have dawn training tomorrow..."

"Quiet! Training is training, and wine is wine!"

Even as the aides dragged him off, Jang Mugi waved at me to the very end.

"Little brother! See you tomorrow! I love you!"

"..."

I set the door planks back in place and let out a long sigh.

Love, my foot.

A group dinner. A disaster. Dozens of starving trainees throwing a drinking party, vomiting, brawling—and the cleanup and the dishes would fall entirely on me.

"No. Alone, it's absolutely impossible."

I went back to the kitchen and stared at the mountain of empty bowls. What Jang Mugi alone had eaten was already enough to fill the wash tub.

"People... I need to hire people."

Truly. I couldn't put it off any longer. The first thing I would do the moment dawn broke was not prep ingredients. It was to write the notice again, and paste it up far larger than before.

"The conditions... someone sturdy. And someone with grit."

I took up the brush and set the words down the page.

Tomorrow, please—let some savior appear, willing to climb this hellish mountain of dishes beside me.