The Pretty-Boy Gambit

Back in my days as Myeong-gae, the intelligence I had poured the most effort into concerned entry into the Fourth Stage of the Yakseon Heart Decision. The reason was the Ten-Thousand-Year Fleeceflower Root—unlike every other elixir, this one alone had been a troublemaker.

It had been when Myeong-gae, with Chwipung-gae's help, took up the Yakseon Heart Decision and cultivated it precisely to the Second Stage—a future lying ten years from where I stood now. And that year was also the year the Great War of Righteousness and Evil broke out.

In truth, the Empty Blue Stone Milk and the Vermilion Fruit had been cases of sheer luck. Those elixirs, whose self-generating habitats I had secured in preparation for my regression, happened to be the very ingredients for the Heart Decision's First and Third Stages.

It goes without saying, but my information did not encompass every elixir in this world. I had merely made a thorough study of the people who came to acquire the elixirs discovered after I became Myeong-gae, along with their habitats and the like. Regrettably, the Ten-Thousand-Year Fleeceflower Root simply had not been among them. Considering how seldom an elixir of ten thousand years appeared in the Jianghu, that was only to be expected.

If it was the Ten-Thousand-Year Fleeceflower Root, surely there would be at least one more out there...

And yet—was not the Fleeceflower Root the most plentifully supplied of all the ten-millennium elixirs? Having made every word of the Yakseon Heart Decision my own, I had scoured for it actively from that moment on. If I was to enter the Fourth Stage at all, I wanted to do so with the root Yakseon himself had recommended, not with some substitute.

Found it. The Ten-Thousand-Year Fleeceflower Root.

In the ocean of information that was the Beggars' Gang, I had at last dredged up word of it.

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

I examined the timing. Ten years ago.

Roughly two months before I turned my back on the Dancheon Clan over the succession contest. The thing had slipped out of my information net by the skin of its teeth. With two months left until this life's succession contest, that meant it was happening right about now.

Unfortunately, I could find no further word of other Ten-Thousand-Year Fleeceflower Roots. News ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of a ten-millennium elixir—never mind a mere thousand-year one—could hardly be heard every day. The trail was already more than a decade cold, and pursuit beyond it proved difficult. I was sorry not to learn its natural habitat, but I folded the investigation there; in the thick of the brutal Great War of Righteousness and Evil, I lacked the strength to spare for a journey to the Black Water Gate in Shanxi to dig for more.

After my regression, I could always attempt a trade with the Black Water Gate using the Empty Blue Stone Milk—and even were that to fall through, I had substitutes. They would fall short of the Fleeceflower Root for entering the Fourth Stage, but I already held information on the Ten-Thousand-Year Snow Spirit Grass, the Ten-Thousand-Year Supreme Blood Treasure, and the Ten-Thousand-Year Snow Ginseng.

"Myeong-gae, have you heard the news?"

In the thick of the Great War of Righteousness and Evil, a comrade from the Secret Pavilion had struck up a conversation with me.

"What is it this time?"

Sharing whatever one had picked up amid life-and-death struggles was the Secret Pavilion members' only pastime, so this was everyday routine.

"The Black Water Gate?"

"So it is."

The Black Water Gate. How could I not know that name?

If they were servants of the Demonic Cult, then did that not hand me a righteous justification to take the Ten-Thousand-Year Fleeceflower Root with an easy conscience? Might heaven not have arranged for me a complete Fourth Stage?

I remember thinking exactly that.

Becoming a beggar of the Beggars' Gang means receiving all manner of training—from the philosophy of begging, how to coax a living out of strangers' hands, to the philosophy of the informant, how to catch useful intelligence by ear. Those beggars who look like lazy good-for-nothings are, in truth, better-trained operatives than anyone. At least the main-branch lot is.

And of all that training, what the Gang stresses above all is the eye for reading people. Information itself is drawn from people, and in the Jianghu and Murim alike, the intelligence that matters is usually about people.

The word "eye" wears many meanings, but the Beggars' Gang's eye-training sets its mark on one thing above all: maintaining objectivity. Given that Gang intelligence travels from mouth to mouth, anything that fails to secure objectivity warps in circulation and curdles into meaningless noise.

That was a long preamble, but the point I wished to make was this: I, too, could claim a sufficiently objective eye, honed over years of training. In any case, judged by that eye, Dancheon Myeong in his twentieth year was a remarkably fine-looking young man. Whether it was the Vermilion Fruit's doing or what have you—this was my face now, was it not?

Many would say a handsome face alone is not enough to win the hearts of women, but in truth, an outstanding face alone can. Isn't that simply how the world of people works?

"Myeong, my friend—you mean to go about dressed like that?"

"Envious? Shall I buy you a set as well, Brother Chun-baek?"

"...No. I'll pass."

"Just say the word if you change your mind. Money's no object."

"Don't you dare lay a hand on my person. I won't forgive it."

At the sight of me, Yi Chun-baek recoiled as he spoke. He was one who always insisted on the guise of a vagabond, so my present appearance stood at the very opposite pole from his.

I turned to the bronze mirror. I had thrown off the comfortable martial garb I used to wear and bought myself silk robes, loose in the cut and luxurious to the touch. I had oiled my hair and combed it sleek, and lent my face a healthy bloom with the sort of powdering only women usually wear. My skin had always been fine, and now it seemed to gleam.

The man in the bronze mirror lacked nothing were one to call him a "Flowery Young Master." If even my objective eye—tempered by ten years of begged meals—saw him so, I could be certain the ladies would rate him full marks.

"Not bad, eh?"

"Not bad at all."

Yi Chun-baek, apparently wary that I might have him dolled up next, hastily put distance between us.

"Hm."

Dolled up like this, I was every inch a gisaeng's brother—pretty enough to pass for kin to those painted entertainers. That fellow from the Mokga collateral line had known what he was talking about.

"Come now, don't recoil so. This is all in service of the great cause, is it not?"

"...I'm grateful you're not making me do it."

Gazing into the bronze mirror, I straightened my attire and gave myself a final inspection.

Well, look at you. Handsome devil, aren't you?

The pretty young man in the bronze mirror—gisaeng's-brother Dancheon Myeong—was the heart of this plan. I would christen this operation the Pretty-Boy Gambit: a stratagem I had yearned to attempt at least once before I died. Death I had tasted once already, but to see this dream fulfilled now made it more than worth the wait.

"How much longer are we to sit here and simply wait?" Yi Chun-baek asked.

Ever since I had mentioned the existence of the Demonic Cult's spies, he had been itching to hunt them down, the sooner the better.

"Brother Chun-baek, what would you say matters most in gathering information?"

"How should I know?" Yi Chun-baek gave a shrug.

Fair enough. What need had he, a man of practical combat, ever had to ponder the essence of intelligence work?

"Time. Time is what matters most."

He nodded as though conceding the point, then—

"Why's that?"

—threw the question back at me. He had not yet grasped where I was going.

"It means sit tight and wait patiently, that's all."

"Ah. So that's what you meant."

Looking resigned, Yi Chun-baek took a sip of the cloudy rice wine set before him.

"Ugh."

Then he promptly set it down. It clearly did not agree with his palate at all.

"Then could we not go to that fine wine house over there? Must it be a roadside tavern?"

"The tavern suits me fine."

"Good grief."

Yi Chun-baek heaved a sigh and took another sip of the rice wine, and then—

"Ugh."

—down it went again. If he loathed it that much, he need only not drink; why he kept this up, I could not fathom.

Seven days and nights had already passed since we took up our post at the tavern near the Black Water Gate. There was, naturally, a reason we had settled on a roadside tavern rather than a fine wine house.

"Say, did you hear?"

"Such a dog's life..."

"These days, the Black Water Gate..."

"Why, back in my prime—!"

"I say, Yong-il. Any interesting tales about lately?"

I caught the drifting talk in my ears, analyzed it, and sorted it. An open tavern draws far more of humanity than a sealed wine house ever could—which is to say, one can catch far more varied intelligence by ear. The roadside tavern was, in truth, the genuine treasury of information.

A shame, though.

Had I donned a beggar's rag and smeared a little dirt on my face, I was confident I could have gathered every scrap I wanted within three days. In my present guise, information-gathering had its limits, and that was why it had taken seven days and nights. Not that I could imitate a beggar of the Gang—given the Beggars' Gang's strict web of surveillance, an outsider like me posing as a beggar to gather intelligence risked a very serious thrashing.

Sip.

"Ugh."

Seven days and nights having passed meant Yi Chun-baek had spent all that time wrestling with the rice wine...

"That's enough. Let's go."

...and it also meant I had gathered roughly everything I needed.

When I rose, Yi Chun-baek brightened.

"Are we off to punish those bastards now?"

"Not yet. There is one last place to call on."

His disappointment lasted only a moment; perhaps pleased simply to be free of the tedious tavern, his face lit up again. But no sooner had we reached our destination than it darkened once more.

"...Why on earth here?"

Before his eyes stood a ramshackle Beggars' Gang shack that looked ready to collapse at any moment.

"Follow me."

"Are we truly going in?"

Leaving him—whose feet would not obey—I strode into the beggars' shack. I did not miss it, but the familiar smell pricked at the tip of my nose.

"Honored heroes of the Beggars' Gang, my greetings. I am Myeong, second son of the Anhui Dancheon Clan, newly come out into the Jianghu."

The beggars sprawled about the shack eyed me with wary gazes. Beggars are, by nature, a clannish lot—most of them come to the Gang after being wounded at some turn of life. But was I not Myeong-gae, ten years a beggar? No one alive knew better how to win their favor.

"I have come to share this with the honored heroes of the Beggars' Gang. What say you?"

In my hands steamed three boiled chickens, and a jar of rice wine hung from my arm.

"Do they not say that within the four seas, all are brothers? Come in quickly, Honored Dragon!"

Just as I thought—those lazy, wretched-looking fellows had known me all along. Such was the true ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strength of the Beggars' Gang.

"Much obliged!"

Amid the beggars' fervent welcome, I took my seat in the very heart of the shack. Two double-hours slipped by that way.

"You are a brother of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Beggars' Gang now! I shall not forget you!"

"Until we meet again."

"Come again, you hear? The Beggars' Gang never forgets its brothers!"

Stepping out into the street beneath the fervent send-off of beggars who were now my brothers, I found darkness had settled on every side.

"Weren't you the direct blood of a great clan?"

"I'm a bastard child."

"Does the Dancheon Clan raise its bastards in beggars' dens? How can you be so at home in this?"

asked Yi Chun-baek, who had kept his seat like a sack of barley propped in place. He, too, was a vagabond who often begged sleep from the open road, but his way of life could not help but differ from the beggars of the Gang. Even a seasoned vagabond would have found it hard, yet I—direct blood of a great clan—had tucked into begged food without a flicker and gulped down cheap rice wine besides. To him, it must have been an incomprehensible sight.

"That's a secret."

I would not deal in falsehoods with a trusted friend, but neither could I tell him everything. Does not everyone carry at least one secret?

"Even if you fall to ruin, Myeong, you need never worry. I daresay you would carve out a place for yourself even in the Beggars' Gang."

"I think so too."

A satisfied smile settled over my face. Thanks to the beggars of the Gang, I had obtained all the information I wanted.