Chapter 21
Chapter 21
"So, the charity project you mentioned, young master..."
"A gambling den. In other words... you're planning to build a casino?"
Hiring contracts, material lists, and building blueprints crowded the space before my eyes. Tae-woong and Moo-young, who had been silently staring at them, finally turned to me.
"That's right. We'll lure in the moneyed VIPs, let them blow off steam to their hearts' content, and rake in the profits for our 'charity'... or to put it plainly, stockpile revolutionary funds."
I'd saved Yu Sang-hyun and planted the seeds of revolution in his heart. I'd preserved Hwae and forged the dagger to stab the nobles in the back. Compared to my previous life, the situation couldn't be better.
But even so, something was still lacking. No matter how much I twisted the future, saved lives, and pulled off all sorts of bullshit, there was one thing that always came down to the wire in the end. The one resource that Yu A-rin's revolutionary army, which had burned Joseon to the ground, had desperately lacked.
Money.
Hwae had provided some funds, but pocket change like that wouldn't even make it to the capital, let alone fund a revolution.
Overthrowing a nation took cash. We noble revolutionaries had to pay salaries to our warriors, feed them, equip them to set the country ablaze. And that was just the start. We'd need factories to produce weapons and ammo, infrastructure to transport the war materials we'd made. It all boiled down to money. Not a few coins, but a staggering fortune.
So here's the problem. Where the hell do you get that insane amount of cash?
Beg the Chinese warlords for funding? No way. They're too busy butchering each other.
Pitch investments to the Japanese corporate syndicates? Insane. If word got out that the funds to topple Joseon society came from Japanese pockets, the nobles would lop off my head and hang it from the city gates before I could even torch them. That much was certain.
In the end, it had to be native production for native use. If Joseon natives were going to spark a revolution, we'd make it and spend it ourselves. And luckily, Hanseong was home to the richest degenerates on earth.
The very bastards we aimed to topple. The Sedao Clans.
"Unlike pleasure hubs like Busan, Hanyang has barely any entertainment fit for nobles. Just polo for the elders or archery spots with gisaeng girls."
The reason was simple. Kim Jung-heon, perched at the top of Hanseong, was glaring daggers at anyone sullying noble dignity.
But the yangban couldn't just abandon the political heart of Joseon either. So the hot-blooded young scions of noble houses had no choice but to use fake identities, sneak around, and jump through all sorts of hoops to unwind.
"That's why I'm finding the right spot and setting up Hanseong's biggest gambling table... a casino."
"......"
"A spotless facility run by someone who's tasted the noble life firsthand. Honest games with no funny business! Top-tier service! Doesn't it just scream money pouring in?"
"You make it sound so easy."
I'd been rambling excitedly, but Tae-woong shook his head and continued.
"A casino is no different from running a massive enterprise. But young master, you've never even run a business, let alone traded goods."
"......"
"Even seasoned entrepreneurs can't guarantee success. For a complete novice like you to tackle something this huge..."
"Don't worry."
'No experience.' 'Total outsider.'
Hearing that, I smiled warmly.
"It won't fail. Not even once."
If they thought I had no experience, I'd be offended. This was my specialty.
"I've got the construction plan set. Now we just need staff and land."
"What's your plan?"
"I've got a spot in mind from before. And for staff, I know some people in the industry."
Of course, they didn't know me yet. Muttering that to myself, I climbed into the vehicle heading underground in Hanseong.
Time to tap into my old life's connections.
"Exciting for no damn reason."
Thinking about it, at fifteen and in my prime, I'd rolled through hell and back. Saving heroes, igniting revolutionary fervor, protecting the organizations that backed them.
But heroic deeds like that? Not my wheelhouse. The opposite, actually.
'You killed a guy for bumping your shoulder, and the press sniffed it out? Let me introduce you to this friend.'
'Oh, that company trashed your clan online? These guys will handle it.'
'Ah, need a toy to play with for the night? I recommend this outfit.'
'Oops, the 'merchandise' you sold as a toy has a brother coming after you? Heh, you're screwed.'
The work I'd done my whole previous life was the filthy, sordid shit no one with a shred of honor would touch. In Japanese terms, I was the Doraemon of the underworld for the nobles.
'And now, I'm earning money for the revolution.'
Not by wiping noble asses, but to smash the backs of their skulls.
What could be more delightful?
Splash.
Splash.
Hanseong's underground district, where all the city's waste converged. Right above that landfill sat a relatively intact residential zone. Multicolored floating lanterns lit the streets in place of sunlight that never pierced the noon gloom. Neon signs glowed, soaked in the unending, sticky drizzle. It bustled like any busy district, but this place was worlds apart from the upscale zones above.
The biggest difference? The people living here.
"Those Kwangdeok Trading bastards, they really tried to screw me over. Felt off from the start when they handed me the job...!"
"So, what'd you do to the fuckers?"
"They threatened to cut my pay. So I split their heads instead. Vertically."
"Krahaha!"
Clank.
Clank!
Men with combat mech arms over pristine suits squared off. Cyborgs with hulking frames traded glares, while lunatics decked in monomolecular cutters strode past.
This was the zone right above the lowest layer: the "Special Security Management District." Sword gangs, druggies, fences, smugglers. Manchurian barbarians who'd trickled in, even occasional Japanese pirates crossing the West Sea. It was the hub of Joseon's underground economy, built by the dregs at Hanseong's bottom.
In short, "the neighborhood cops avoid."
Whirr—
The auto-door slid open, blasting cigarette smoke and booze stench.
Pyeongun Tavern, tucked in one corner of the Special Security Management District.
As the black-clad boy stepped inside, every seated customer's gaze snapped to him.
"Kid."
Dolsoe, guarding the entrance, blocked his path. Massive mech arms on both sides—hydraulics and heavy plating screamed illegally modded construction prosthetics.
"New face. Not one of our regulars. Wrong turn?"
"I'm here to see the madam. Send word inside."
Madam.
Dolsoe's demeanor shifted at the word. Thud! He slammed a fist into the floor, unleashing waves of chilling killing intent as he glared.
"Scram. Before I smash your face."
"......"
The boy didn't budge or speak. Confirming it, Dolsoe swung without hesitation.
A metal lump that could mince a man into hamburger in seconds.
But the next instant—
"You swung first."
Shink—!
A sharp slicing sound. Dolsoe's elbow detached in a flash.
Boom—crash!
The mech arm crashed into the tavern wall amid thunderous noise.
Squinting, Dolsoe finally spotted the boy's right arm. Precision black plating, gripping a curved blade.
"I'll say it once more."
"......!"
The blade at Dolsoe's throat. Artificially reinforced bones with marrow implants.
But that black edge could slice through his neck like tofu.
"Take me to the madam. Now. Or else."
"Fine, fine. Do what you want, just put the blade away first, kid."
A raspy voice from the kitchen. A middle-aged woman emerged from the back.
"......"
Plain as any housewife. But Moo-young, eyeing her closely, slowly lowered the sword from Dolsoe's neck.
No threat in her looks, yet those fierce eyes scanning him. Just as the young master described.
"Alright. What business do you have barging into my tavern and starting with swords? Huh?"
"The one I serve wants to talk to you."
"The one you serve?"
Moo-young showed her something from his pocket as she echoed.
A jade command plaque. Specially crafted for Joseon's Sedao nobles only.
"......Well, damn. A noble graces our humble dive."
No wonder Dolsoe got pushed around.
Sizing it up, the madam addressed the remaining customers.
"Everyone out. Closing early today."
They filed out without protest.
Left were the madam, Dolsoe, and Moo-young.
Confirming it, she crossed her arms and asked.
"So, what does a noble young master want with trash like us?"
No room for carelessness with his status confirmed. Her tone rose a notch.
Moo-young, silent till then, touched his earpiece.
"Yes. Confirmed. Security neutralized. No eyes on us."
Seemed like he was communicating somewhere.
And then—
Good work.
A voice leaked from the comms. Boyish timbre, around the intruder's age.
In that moment, the tavern's surveillance cams and recorders all shut off.
All electronics down?
He'd stalled at the door for this.
As she thought that, the auto-door opened. Someone entered.
"Like you said, this place is too dingy for me to show my face."
Unlike Moo-young's black garb, flashy blue attire. Casual swagger, ridiculous mask over his face.
But that wasn't the issue.
"Pyeongun Tavern owner, Park Bok-ja. Age 47. From Jeonju. Major priors: murder, incitement to murder, attempted murder... How many people have you killed?"
Personal details, rap sheet, hometown, family ties. Sensitive info she'd never shared, recited flawlessly.
"...Your young master did his homework."
"What homework? People I know pitched in."
Hearing that, Park Bok-ja's face hardened.
The noble already had all her weaknesses in hand.
"What do you want?"
"What else? Work."
"Work?"
The Sedao scion, Chang-un, grinned from behind his mask.
"Let's do business together."