That Sting at the Tip of the Nose
A heavy silence had settled over the banquet hall. The stillness was so complete that even the sound of someone swallowing rang out with painful clarity. The only person at ease through it all was Sun Wukong.
He kept plucking food from the dishes, watching the unfolding situation with bright, interested eyes.
Ojeong nudged him with an elbow.
"You're just going to let that slide?"
"This is good. Try some. Never seen fruit kernels like these before — fried in oil, they crunch just right."
"That's corn, brought over from across the sea. I've never seen it fried, either... Wait, that's not the point. The atmosphere in here is one spark away from a bloodbath."
"That's what makes it taste better. Nothing beats a meal with a fight to watch."
Ojeong could not share Wukong's ease. His throat felt scraped raw and his mouth had gone bone-dry; he could not have swallowed a bite if he tried. Several hot-blooded elders of the Namgung Clan rested their hands on their sword hilts, watching the scene with grim attention.
Through that taut, straining silence, Hwangbo Yong bowed to Namgung Muyoung with a grave face.
"Brother Namgung — no. Young Master. I have committed a grave error for which there is no excuse."
An error — or intent?
If it had been deliberate, it was far too obvious. And even if it had been deliberate, even if Namgung Muyoung had taken that blind blade and died, the problem would have been no smaller. War would have broken out on the spot. Not a single member of the Hwangbo Clan present would have left these grounds alive. The Namgung Clan, which had crushed the Sama Order and taught the entire martial world what a blood feud truly meant, would never have tolerated the death of their heir right under their noses.
So it was not deliberate. Even the hot-tempered Namgung elders understood that much. But neither could it be dismissed as a simple accident. This was not the sort of thing a man could laugh off with a good-natured smile.
The martial world had always looked more kindly on the cold-blooded than the generous. The orthodox sects were no exception. In the end, was this not a life lived on a knife's edge, blades pointed at one another's throats?
"……"
Namgung Muyoung rose from his seat. Every gaze in the hall swung toward him at once — the Namgung Clan watching with a measure of worry, the other Five Great Clans studying the situation with cool, careful eyes. Yet even under that weight of attention, Namgung Muyoung remained composed.
"I do not doubt the Hwangbo Clan's intentions. I accept the young master's apology."
The tension broke all at once. The Namgung elders looked less than pleased. The Hwangbo party, by contrast, let out a collective breath of relief. Everyone understood the situation: they could not fight openly here, and so they had no choice but to accept it as an accident rather than intent. But whether the world outside would call Namgung Muyoung generous — or take this as proof that the Namgung Clan had gone soft, unlike themselves — was another matter entirely.
That was when it happened.
Steel whispered from its sheath. Namgung Muyoung had drawn his sword.
"I, too, am a martial artist. I am no spineless fool who laughs off a blade flown at my head. As representative of the Namgung Clan, I challenge Young Master Hwangbo Yong, representative of the Hwangbo Clan, to a spar."
"……!"
The contrast in expressions was vivid. Namgung Jinbaek grinned with open satisfaction. The faces of the Hwangbo martial artists twisted.
The Dragon-Phoenix Assembly always included a martial contest toward its close. A spar itself was no problem. The problem was the circumstances.
A spar — as representatives of our clans?
Namgung Muyoung's nerve set the hall murmuring. Hwangbo Yong faltered for a moment, then offered a cupped-fist salute. Refusing the challenge here would have been equally awkward. And more than that, Hwangbo Yong quietly welcomed the match.
Better him than Namgung Seowol.
Namgung Muyoung was the Namgung Clan's heir, but it was Namgung Seowol whose martial prowess was better known. She was the daughter of the previous patriarch — the Sword God himself — and once the two of them had stepped into the martial world, it was Seowol who had handled most of their affairs. Hwangbo Yong had never once beaten her.
Namgung Muyoung, on the other hand, was widely rumored to be comparatively soft. He had not mentioned the word "spineless" by accident. Hwangbo Yong was confident. He was the heir of the Hwangbo Clan. He had felt a wall when Sun Wukong stopped his sword on the road here — but that man was not of the same generation.
The moment Hwangbo Yong accepted, the central stage was cleared into a sparring ground. The Black-Faced Iron Sword, the most skilled of the guest retainers, stood as witness alongside the Hebei Peng Clan, the Jegal Clan, the Sichuan Tang Clan, and the rest, and the match began.
"Hah!"
Hwangbo Yong shouted and struck first. Two swords crossed in midair and crashed together.
Kagagagang!
"……!"
Hwangbo Yong's eyes flew wide. He had swung with such fine spirit — and now he understood something he had gotten wrong.
The rumor that Namgung Muyoung was too soft to be a proper Namgung heir. It was not entirely false. He did not have the savage temperament of his bloodline, the kind that led with the blade first. But there was one thing Hwangbo Yong ought to have known.
"Kh—!"
Namgung Muyoung was still a son of the Namgung Clan.
Hwangbo Yong swallowed a groan and was driven back. His Thunderbolt Sword Art was built on speed married to the crushing weight of an iron mace — but before he could even bring it to bear, Namgung Muyoung's sword came pouring down.
A speed that surpassed the Thunderbolt Sword Art itself. The Namgung blade was, by nature, a weapon that poured a warrior's full power into heavy, decisive strikes. And yet—
The one Namgung sword art that leaned almost entirely into speed — and still never shed the clan's true nature. Lightning-swift strokes, each one heavy as a man's entire strength, came crashing down in an unending storm.
Hwangbo Yong, forced onto the defensive, felt a fleeting illusion that the keen tip of that sword had already pierced his chest. He flinched and gave ground — one step, then two — and before he knew it he had been driven into a corner. Heat flooded his face.
Excitement surged through Hwangbo Yong. On Namgung Muyoung's face, as he pressed the attack, there was not a trace of it. Even overwhelming his opponent like this, he showed not the slightest flush of thrill. Those eyes, settled to a stillness that was almost frightening, sent a sudden chill down Hwangbo Yong's spine.
Damn it…!
Hwangbo Yong clenched his teeth. Had this been an ordinary friendly spar, he would never have grown so agitated. An exchange between friends, between rising talents of the same generation — that was one thing. The weight of a match fought as the face of one's clan was something else entirely.
Hwangbo Yong was the heir, but he had several younger brothers. The attendants who had followed him here might watch today's spar and begin to harbor other thoughts. The moment that possibility touched his mind, his sword grew rougher. A faint inner demon had slipped in.
That in itself was no great problem. Every martial artist felt such things when honest emotion ran high — a few sparks, nothing more. At times they even became fine fertilizer for growth. But if someone poured oil on those sparks, the story changed.
Kagang. Kagagagang!
A killing intent settled onto the blade, sharp enough to make a man flinch. A sword steeped in murderous will grew fiercer still. The resolute desire to kill one's opponent made the sword path all the more savage.
Killing techniques.
One by one, Hwangbo Yong's strokes became killing techniques. Namgung Muyoung was the first to recognize it.
This man… he's far too worked up.
Namgung Muyoung did not answer in kind. Meet killing technique with killing technique here, and the meaning of a friendly exchange would vanish. It would become a fight that ended only when one of them lost an arm — or worse. He judged that going that far would do grave harm to the Namgung Clan's aim of binding the Five Great Clans together.
But even an ordinary man, charging in with killing intent and a will to die, was a fearsome thing. How much more so a rising talent like Hwangbo Yong? As the attacks sought his vitals, Namgung Muyoung drew a sharp breath — and at last began to unleash killing techniques of his own.
Or rather, he was about to.
"Achoo!"
"……!"
The silence of the banquet hall — broken until now only by the clash of steel and the sound of breathing — shattered in an instant. The atmosphere, so thick with tension that people had been holding their breath, was suddenly aired out. Hwangbo Yong, who had been pouring out killing techniques, flinched as if the spell had been broken and stepped back, as though only now realizing how far he had gone.
Every gaze in the hall turned as one.
Sun Wukong wiped his nose, utterly indifferent to the stares fixed upon him.
"Doesn't it seem like there's a lot of pollen flying around? The kind that gets a man all worked up for no reason. Stings the nose something fierce."
He said it as if faintly embarrassed. It was only a sneeze — but the mood of the hall went slack. The tension vanished as though it had been swept away in a single stroke. Namgung Muyoung and Hwangbo Yong were already standing apart, a proper distance between them.
Hwangbo Yong thought for a moment, then composed his expression and offered a cupped-fist salute, a touch of shame on his face.
"I grew too agitated and used my sword excessively. The fault is mine. I concede defeat, Young Master Namgung."
Namgung Muyoung accepted with modest grace.
"It was a fine spar. I learned a great deal."
His gaze did not rest on Hwangbo Yong. He turned, quietly, and looked at Sun Wukong.
…A coincidence?
That sneeze, cutting in at the precise moment he had been about to answer with killing techniques of his own. The timing had been exquisite.
It broke the rhythm of our breathing.
If it had been mere noise, Namgung Muyoung's sword would never have stopped. And Hwangbo Yong, who had been strangely overwrought, had snapped back to himself as if doused in cold water. The entire atmosphere had been cleared in a single stroke, as though someone had intended it.
Intended it…
Namgung Muyoung shook his head. Was that even possible? It was not a matter of interrupting one man's rhythm. This entire spar, this hall where the tension had grown so thick that everyone held their breath — to air all of that out so perfectly, all at once, and call it deliberate? Could a person even read a pulse like that?
It was a coincidence.
So he told himself, looking at Sun Wukong.
His nose just itched, that's all. As he said… wait.
Only then did he feel it himself — a tickle at the tip of his own nose. A subtle quality in the air, threaded with the faint scent of face powder. Namgung Muyoung looked at Sun Wukong with an odd expression.
And just then, Sun Wukong was looking back at him. Their eyes met. Wukong smiled, bright and cheerful.
Answering killing techniques with that stiff, frustrating restraint… honestly.
Sun Wukong's face took on a complicated look.
Reminds me of Sanzang. That same frustrating stubbornness.
That unshakable firmness — the kind that never wavered in the eyes, even when the man was in dire straits, even when he was weeping. Namgung Muyoung had it. Wukong decided he would have to watch the young man more closely. Above all, that peculiar air unique to Sanzang — something he had not felt from the other three — came off Namgung Muyoung with unusual strength. Soft-seeming, yet firmer than anyone. Stubbornly righteous to the point of frustration. Earnest enough to be almost dull. It was a freshness he had not encountered anywhere else in the Namgung Clan.
That aside — first things first. Let's have a look at the little schemers pulling these cute tricks.
The banquet petered out after that. Once the spar was over, there was no returning to the earlier warmth.
"Ah — but is this really all right?"
Ojeong, trailing after him, spoke in an uneasy voice.
"Is what all right?"
"Going to the courtesans' annex. In the middle of the night."
"What's the problem?"
"They're people the Hwangbo Clan brought, after all. Great Hero, I don't care how high your appetites are running, but even if they are courtesans — you don't just barge into their quarters."
Sun Wukong snorted. When they reached the annex, he gave a firm order.
"Keep watch. Don't let anyone in."
"What? You're actually going in? Look, even for a red-blooded man, this is starting to sound like a crime."
"It's not that."
Wukong cut him off, flat and final. Laying hands on courtesans at night? He was not that kind of creature.
I'm not Zhu Bajie.
He had come looking for the courtesans for an entirely different reason.
Hwangbo Yong flying into a rage during the spar — that was the powder, too.
That scent of face powder, seeping in so quietly. At first he had thought the Hwangbo Clan had brought courtesans skilled in charm arts, intending to use them against the Namgung Clan somehow.
It's the other way around. Feels more like they're moving the Hwangbo Clan to suit their own purposes.
Making someone throw a sword during a sword dance. Working Hwangbo Yong into a frenzy during the spar. It all had the look of an attempt to drive a wedge between the Hwangbo Clan and the Namgung Clan. And the truly frightening part was that the Hwangbo Clan had no idea it was happening.
The flavor of the scheme felt familiar to Wukong. That particular craft of handling people as though they were already in the palm of one's hand.
"Ah, Great Hero. If their identities are in doubt, wouldn't it be better to make it public first? Tell the Namgung Clan, for instance…"
"Don't worry about it. The patriarch is the one who pushed me into this."
Even so, slipping into the courtesans' annex in the dead of night was, well…
"Doesn't this seem a little strange, right now?"
The voice that cut in was nothing like Ojeong's. Sun Wukong let out a sigh. He had been sensing a presence for a while now, hadn't he. Clicking his tongue, he turned his head.