I Asked for a Part-Timer and Got a Bandit

The next morning, I slapped a notice onto the shop's door board—hanji, brushed in ink, posted square and proud.

"Good. Perfect."

That ought to be clear enough. I shuddered, the nightmare of last night still clinging to me. I was not going through that hell alone again. Before the day was out, I had to hire a slave—no. A worker.

I set up for the morning trade and waited. Lunchtime came and went, and not a single word arrived that anyone had been sent my way. All I got were the trainees who came in for dumplings, murmuring among themselves as they studied the notice.

"Hey, look at that. They're hiring a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shop assistant."

"If you work under the proprietor, think you could pick up a secret art?"

"It says right there he won't teach martial arts."

"Come on. Eccentrics always play hard to get. Show him you're sincere and he might take you."

A bad feeling slid through me. Those eyes were not ordinary. They weren't looking at dumplings. They were looking at me the way a man looks at a secret martial manual.

And that bad feeling became fact in the early afternoon, right when I should have been prepping ingredients.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Someone was knocking. Glad of it, I opened the door.

"Welco—hk!"

A black shadow fell across my face the instant the door swung wide. A person. Or was it a bear? He had to be seven feet tall, shoulders broader than the shop door, a mass of muscle from neck to heel, with a vicious scar slashed diagonally across his face.

"Heard ye were hirin' a shop boy, so I came."

The voice was a gravelly boom, with iron in it.

"Ah... yes. Come in."

The moment he stepped inside, the narrow shop looked full. I thought about offering him a chair, then pictured the chair exploding, and decided we'd conduct the interview standing.

"Name and experience?"

"Name's Heuk-ung. Used to be deputy chief o' the Green Forest Eighteen Strongholds."

"...The Green Forest?"

"Washed my hands of it. Come down to live a new life. Hard labor, I'm yer man. I can split boulders."

He clenched a fist to demonstrate. The crack of his knuckles went off like a cannon.

"No, I don't need anyone splitting boulders. Can you use a knife?"

"A knife? Hahaha! Twin axes are my specialty! I've felled more men—no, trees—than I can count!"

He reached for his belt, about to produce a pair of axes the size of house beams.

"Rejected."

"What? Why? I'm strong! I'm sturdy!"

"This shop does not fold dumplings with an axe. And the customers will run screaming. Please leave."

Heuk-ung stormed out, snorting. On the way he cracked his head on the doorframe, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the frame dented. My shop... Should I bill him for repairs?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

A little later, the second applicant arrived. This one was gaunt, with eyes sharp as a drawn blade.

"My name is Sama Dok. Collateral branch of the Sichuan Tang Clan."

Oh. The Sichuan Tang? The great house of poison and hidden weapons. The hands, at least, ought to be clever.

"Then you'd be good with a knife? Fine work?"

"I am. I can pin a fly's wing with a poison ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠needle from a hundred paces."

"Hoh. Impressive. Then you could roll a dumpling skin thin?"

"Of course. And if you wish, I could also slip a colorless, odorless poison into a rival proprietor's filling and assassinate—"

"Rejected."

"What? Why? Isn't assassination a basic strategy of restaurant management?"

"What country are you running a restaurant in?! Out! Before I report you to the magistrate!"

I clutched my head. Was there not a single normal person in this neighborhood? A bandit, a poison specialist... what was next? An assassin?

The third applicant was worse. A youth in the training robes of the Murim Alliance, eyes shining like polished beads.

"Greetings! Kim Cheolsu, trainee of the Azure Dragon Hall! I applied because I want to learn the proprietor's Dumpling Fist!"

"There is no such thing as Dumpling Fist."

"Oh, come on, we all know. That divine display, subduing the Black Tiger Hall with flour dough! I'll wash the dishes, sweep, do the laundry—please, take me as your disciple!"

"I wrote that I'm not taking disciples."

"Then at least the secret to making the dumplings!"

"Get out and go train!"

Fourth, fifth, sixth... The applicants never stopped coming, and every last one of them was a disaster. An Iron Palm master crushed every dish in his grip while washing them. Rejected. A lightness-skill master carried food fast enough, then failed to stop and slammed into the wall. Rejected. A sonic-arts master took orders in a voice so loud he ruptured the customers' eardrums. Rejected.

By early evening the sun was sinking, and I was worn to the bone. Finding one normal shop assistant was harder than uniting the murim.

"Haa... Should I just give up?"

I was seriously considering the clone technique again when the bell chimed.

Ting—

The last applicant stepped in, and this one looked different. A youth in a worn conical hat, dressed in the shabby robes of a wandering swordsman, but the presence he carried was calm. A single cloth bundle rode on his back.

"I heard... you're hiring."

The voice was low and quiet.

"Yes. Name and specialty?"

"Yujin. As for a specialty... I don't really have one. I'll do whatever I'm told."

Oh. At last, a person capable of a normal conversation. No boasting about martial arts. No boasting about muscle.

"Can you use a knife?"

"I've never cooked, but I've handled a sword, so cutting and slicing I can do."

"And dishes?"

"If it's a matter of wiping something clean, I'm confident."

The eyes were clear. No killing intent in them, at least, and no madness. The build was reasonable, and best of all, there was no hunger to learn martial arts. Just a swordsman who needed to eat.

"All right. You're hired, for now."

"Truly?"

"Yes. I'll watch you for three days. If you can't do the work, you're cut on the spot."

"Thank you. I'll work hard."

Yujin removed the hat and bowed with careful courtesy. The face beneath it was rather fine. Some young master from a fallen yangban house? Well. Who in this world didn't have a story? So long as the work got done.

"Then show me right now. Start with that pile of dishes."

"Understood."

Yujin set the bundle down and rolled up both sleeves, then stood before the washbasin. The moment those hands took up the scrubber—

Shuk.

The movement was anything but ordinary. No wasted motion. Grasp, wipe, rinse, set down: one continuous flow, smooth as water. And the hands on the bowls were delicate.

Well, now.

I admired it in silence. Handled a sword, had he? The foundation of swordsmanship—softness, yielding—was soaked into the body. That was a pass. At last, the savior who would rescue my wrists.

"Good. You're hired. Come in starting tomorrow."

"Thank you, Proprietor."

Yujin smiled, faintly. I sank back into a chair and let out a breath of relief. I might actually live. I had a worker. Tomorrow's trade might even be comfortable.

But was the word peace simply absent from my life?

Rumble—crash!

Thunder cracked outside, and fat raindrops began to pour. A summer squall.

"It's raining..."

Yujin murmured it at the window. For an instant the eyes darkened, as if watching for something.

"Proprietor, you'd do well to bar the doors properly."

"Hm? Why?"

"On rainy days... they smell things better."

"They?"

Whatever else he meant to say, he swallowed it. A strange tension hung in the air. From the youth who had looked so plain and honest a moment ago, a killing intent flickered past—very fine, and very sharp.

This one... is hiding something.

I pretended not to notice. No martial artist is without a story. I was hiding that I'd been the Heavenly Demon; I didn't need to dig up a shop assistant's past. So long as the work got done.

"Don't worry. This shop is sturdy."

I brushed it off and finished closing up. I'd just sent Yujin off and was about to leave myself when—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Someone hammered the door like a madman. Not a polite knock. A desperate pounding, hard enough to break the wood.

"Who is it? We're closed!"

I shouted, irritation thick in my voice. The pounding didn't stop.

"Please, save me! Open the door, I beg you!"

A man's voice, hoarse. And through the crack of the door, mixed with the rain, a raw smell. Blood.

Again.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. A rainy night, a customer drenched in blood. The tired opening of a third-rate martial novel, and the omen of a disaster. Ignore it? But outside there came the sound of a body collapsing. If a corpse turned up in front of my shop, the magistrate's office would investigate. That would not do.

"Haa... It really never ends."

I took up a paper umbrella and went to the door. I slid the bar and opened it a crack. A middle-aged man lay collapsed in the rain, a deep sword wound across his back, his clothes soaked red. And far off in the dark, three black shapes in conical hats were cutting through the downpour toward us, naked blades in their hands.

Assassins.

That was the whole of it. I looked down at the fallen man. Expensive silk. A jade ring on his finger. He smelled like money.

Save him, and I can collect a reward.

I seized him by the collar and hauled him inside.

"Come on in, mister. It's cold out there."

I was about to shut the door when the assassins reached the front of the shop.

"Hold it, shopkeeper."

One of them spoke in a voice like a grave.

"Hand him over. Otherwise you die too."

Textbook intimidation. I swallowed a yawn and answered.

"We're closed. Not taking customers."

"So you want to die!"

The assassin raised his blade and charged. Rainwater and mud spattered across my floor. I had just finished cleaning that.

"Take your shoes off before you come in!!!!"

I snatched up the broom propped beside the door and laid into its tip the faintest thread of inner energy—just enough for a proper cleaning.

"Urk—?!"

He didn't even manage a proper scream before he went flying back into the rain, like a fallen leaf. The two behind him froze. What had they just seen? A broom?

"The floor will get dirty, so let's settle this outside."

I opened the paper umbrella, gripped the broom like a sword, and stepped out. A rainy night. In the yard before a dumpling shop, a short and very thick conversation was about to begin between a former Heavenly Demon and three third-rate assassins. The medium of that conversation, of course, was going to be force rather than words.