A Merchant's Bargain
The Assassination Sects.
In a martial world built on killing and being killed, those who make murder their profession are an inevitability. They harbor no lofty ambitions of advancing the martial arts. To an assassination sect, martial skill is nothing more than a technique—a craft whose only value lies in how efficiently it ends a life.
Assassins refined their arts from a single premise: that a person is a tool. What they cultivated was the perfect ambush and a murderer's thoroughness. It is an unspoken truth, one everyone knows and no one says aloud, that the methods of the assassination sects outstrip even the most celebrated martial arts in raw efficiency.
In a world where grudges flow as endlessly as the Yangtze, it is only natural that assassination sects accumulate enemies beyond counting. Sect after sect has risen in blood and fallen the same way.
Only three have never fallen.
The Three Great Assassination Sects.
The reason they have stood unbroken through the long sweep of history is simple. They are too strong for anyone to touch, and too closed for anyone to approach. Anyone who has dealt with them and then lets slip what they know is repaid with a vengeance so complete it becomes legend.
Their revenge is never so simple as a mere killing. They slip a blade beneath your pillow, tuck another into your blankets, leave one under your bed. You wake to find animal carcasses hanging from your door. They smear every manner of poison across your tableware, openly, as if daring you to notice—a demonstration, a warning. They do not kill you. They wither you.
Even the stoutest courage dries up under that kind of siege. When a man lives every hour knowing his head might leave his shoulders at any moment, he comes apart. He wastes away in a slow agony of pressure and dread, until at last he reaches for his own life.
And even that mercy, they will not grant. If you try to take your own life, they intervene. They save you. And then they torture you, thoroughly and without end, until you die.
The method became a model for every lesser assassination sect that came after. The Yusal Sect, infamous enough to rank among the ten most notorious in all the Central Plains, was no different.
"But… how?"
Chu Jahon stared at Sun Wukong with a face that could not quite catch up to what he had witnessed. Wukong, looking thoroughly refreshed, had already bathed a second time and settled himself across the table as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
"They weren't exactly the stout-hearted type. I barely touched them and they started screaming like children."
Chu Jahon opened his mouth, then pressed his lips shut. He barely touched them?
It was the most horrific screaming he had ever heard in his life. Just listening to it had felt like something inside him was coming unstrung. A man dying on a blade does not make a sound like that. Is that what a ghost's wail sounds like? It had not been a noise a living throat should make. It was the kind of shriek a soul itself might tear out of the dark.
Thanks to that, things worked out well enough for me, but…
Chu Jahon allowed himself a bitter smile. The screaming had rolled through the entire manor. Even with his hands over his ears it had driven itself into his eardrums. Everyone locked in the cells had heard it with perfect, merciless clarity—that scraping, soul-raking shriek, and the sobbing that came after. It had been devastatingly effective at breaking people. Hardened martial artists had gone white as paper and shaken like leaves. There had been no need for torture. No one had even laid a hand on them, and they had spilled everything they knew as if the words were trying to escape on their own.
Thanks to that, seizing control was easy. No one can challenge my position now.
Chu Jahon glanced at Sun Wukong and took a sip of tea.
"Did you obtain everything you wanted?"
"I got what I needed. Doesn't look like they knew anything more."
"Do you intend to move at once?"
"I only came to sleep for a night. Time I was going."
Wukong said it as if he had not a scrap of unfinished business left in the place. He might have been a traveler who had stopped for lodging and nothing more.
Chu Jahon, however, was a merchant. A transaction in which only one side profits is not a good transaction. People are thoroughly vulgar creatures. Let a man feel he has taken even a small loss, and he will not forget it easily.
Even if one side has in fact gained far more, both sides must walk away satisfied.
He held to that merchant's discipline. This man's original goal was information on the Yusal Sect. He was no wandering hero who had come to save the life of a stranger named Chu Jahon. And yet, in the end, he saved my life.
Chu Jahon's gaze settled, cool and still. He had never dreamed, not even in sleep, that someone would commission an assassination sect to murder his own brothers. I nearly died today alone. Fresh sweat beaded along his throat; he touched it without thinking. If Namgung Seowol and Muhwa had not arrived in the middle of the siege, the manor walls would have been breached. If Wukong had not ended the fight in a single stroke, a brother crushed in each hand, the damage would have been far worse.
A flicker of genuine gratitude toward Sun Wukong rose in him. Then the seasoned merchant's eye flashed sharp again.
Who in this world clings to debts of blood and gratitude more fiercely than martial artists? Wukong almost certainly understood that. And more than that… the Namgung Clan. The master of the Young Clan Lord.
The facts he had learned too late set Chu Jahon's head spinning. The man's backing was staggering. And the backing was only the beginning—what of the man himself? Wukong's boldness, the decisiveness with which he acted, made it obvious he was no ordinary figure. This was not some muscle-bound martial brute who knew nothing but the sword. The way he leaked rumors to provoke a rebellion in the first place—that was the work of a man who knows how to lay a scheme.
Would such a man fail to grasp the situation as it stood now? He has to leave here satisfied.
There would be no problem, strictly speaking, if Chu Jahon simply closed his mouth and ended the transaction here. It was not as if Sun Wukong was going to swing that iron staff and split his skull. The problem was the future. The possibility that a master of this caliber would carry away an ugly impression of the Chuhyeon Merchant Guild. When things go sour in the martial world, people speak with steel. To remain on uneasy terms with a supreme expert of this order was a nightmare he did not care to entertain.
A merchant who understood that connections are sometimes worth more than goods, Chu Jahon chose his next words with care.
"I was late in hearing the news. Word has it that the great hero known as the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven is the one who captured the culprit behind the Wudang Blood Tragedy that shook all of Anhui."
A gleam crossed Wukong's eyes.
"The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven?"
"Is that not your title, great hero?"
"It means a sage who rules the heavens."
"…Ah. Yes."
Wukong smiled, quietly and thoroughly pleased. He even gave his shoulders a proud little roll, and for a moment Chu Jahon did not know what to do with his face.
Wukong was, in truth, delighted. Every time he had introduced himself as the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, people had written it off as a madman's rambling. Ojeong had taken to shooting him looks that said, for heaven's sake, stop. And now, at last, the title had come from someone else's mouth. It felt as if something lodged in his chest had finally come loose.
"It is truly remarkable. I heard the men who murdered the Wudang envoys were no ordinary fighters—that the lord of the Namgung Clan himself took the field…"
"Only the ringleader put up a real fight. The rest were just small fry."
"The rumor that you cut those men down and rescued a direct disciple of the Wudang Sect has spread all the way here to Hubei."
It was information Chu Jahon had gathered in a hurry. The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven—master of the Namgung Clan's Young Lord. His eyes lit. A point of contact has formed between two great sects that have spent years watching each other as if the other did not exist.
And it was no ordinary connection. The Namgung Clan saved the Sect Leader's designated successor. That is a debt of gratitude too enormous to ignore. In a martial world that weighs blood-debts and favors with religious care, such a grace could not possibly be dismissed. The relationship between those two sects will deepen. That much is certain. Exchange would follow. And once Anhui's sects and Hubei's sects begin to mingle, our guild can move into Anhui ahead of everyone else.
The Chuhyeon Merchant Guild already kept its headquarters relatively close to Anhui Province. But more important than any of that is a point of contact with the hegemon of that province.
Chu Jahon looked at Namgung Seowol and Muhwa. His instincts had always been uncommon. I would never have guessed these two women were the Sword God's daughter and the current Disciplinary Hall Master. Guests of that caliber had walked through his gates. He was fortunate. If he had treated them with even a hint of carelessness—he did not like to finish the thought. The mere imagining turned his vision dark at the edges.
This is an opportunity for me as well. A sure chance to open a major line of trade into Anhui. The core figures of the Namgung Clan were sitting in this very room. He had to draw this transaction up to a level that would satisfy both sides.
Chu Jahon spoke slowly.
"We have received a great kindness. As a merchant, I ought to repay it. I will be frank. I would like to open a major trade route into Anhui together with the Namgung Clan."
Muhwa, who had been quietly eating and listening, snapped her eyes wide. Even after recovering the clan's businesses and interests, nothing would swell the coffers faster than opening trade with a great merchant guild. Most of the Namgung Clan's old partners had cut ties, driven off by old grudges and a reputation that had curdled into notoriety. And if the new partner was the Chuhyeon Merchant Guild, based in Hubei…
"If you would look on the idea favorably, might I visit the Namgung Clan myself to discuss the particulars?"
Wukong glanced at Muhwa and Namgung Seowol. Seowol, apparently bored, was half-asleep. Muhwa's eyes were shining; she cleared her throat and sat up straighter. Because Wukong had been the one to set this entire affair in motion, neither of them quite dared to answer first. They did not need to. Their faces said enough. The look they turned on him was frankly pleading.
Wukong gave a light nod.
"A deal big enough for you to come in person? The Namgung Clan will be glad to have you."
Chu Jahon's eyes brightened at the answer. This man matters more than the Disciplinary Hall Master. More than the Sword God's daughter.
He spoke with a smiling face.
"Hahaha. Of course. I am a merchant who lives by his word. I will not forget today's help, or the debt I owe."
Wukong nodded, unhurried. I don't know how much these human deals actually multiply a man's wealth. He let his gaze travel over the sprawling manor. But money does seem to go around and come back bigger than it left.
Wukong had never been particularly greedy for riches, and he knew next to nothing about how to grow them. He knew only one thing. If a trade line opens with a guild like this, at least the clan will be able to breathe.
He wanted the Namgung Clan stronger. There are too many of those bastards. Even Baekgwiwang, whom he had already dealt with, had been only one among the Seven Great Sages. Each of them was spreading power through a different reach of the Central Plains, and the sheer scale of it was more than even Wukong could easily guess. If the Namgung Clan grows sharp enough to serve as my blade, that will do.
He no longer needed to worry about his standing with the clan. Namgung Jinbaek addressed him as elder brother. What problem could there be? The Namgung Clan was the sword he would turn against that vast enemy. It needed to be honed, and hammered, and honed again.
"Ah—great hero. Might I have a moment of your time?"
Chu Jahon drew Wukong aside with a discreet gesture. Wukong tipped his head. Chu Jahon held something out, careful as a man offering a lit lamp in a high wind.
"A promissory note, guaranteed by the Chuhyeon Merchant Guild."
"A promissory note?"
"Take it to any merchant house or money exchange in Hubei and you will be able to draw as much gold and silver as you require."
"Hnh."
"A martial artist of your stature appears quite detached from money. But there are times when wealth solves a problem more cleanly than anything else in the world."
Wukong nodded, slowly. This was for him alone. Not for the Namgung Clan—for Sun Wukong, one man. He smiled inwardly. Sharp-eyed, this one. The moment Chu Jahon had understood who the important person in the room truly was, he had moved. Wukong was not the sort to refuse a gift. He might have been expected to decline at least once, for form's sake. He took the note as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He was largely indifferent to wealth, so it was not a present that moved him deeply. It'll do for buying a great deal of wine, at least.
He was still turning that thought over when a small gold token followed the note into his hand. He cocked his head. The token was finished in ornate, expensive workmanship; even at a glance it was no ordinary piece. Wukong's eyes narrowed.
"And this?"
Chu Jahon opened his mouth with care.
"This is none other than…"