No. 640 Daeeung Escort Bureau (2)
Following the ronin at an easy pace, I soon found myself standing before an enormous building. A banner fluttered overhead, emblazoned with a hawk soaring on outstretched wings, and the plaque above the gate bore the name Daeeung Escort Bureau in bold, imposing calligraphy — the House of the Great Hawk.
And right on schedule, too.
Stepping through the wide-open main gate, I saw escort guards standing rigidly at their posts. Not one of them opened his mouth to point the way, but by barring every restricted passage they funneled the stream of ronin toward a single destination as naturally as water finding its course. Following that current brought us to the training yard. For all its considerable size, the place seethed with warriors, and even one glance was enough to tell that the fighting spirit here ran over.
At the far end of the yard, Go Hyeon-woo caught my eye — already deep in conversation with a few warriors, no doubt thanks to his trademark affability. He spotted me in turn, and his gaze flashed for an instant, but per the walkthrough we played perfect strangers. Even mid-chat, he was calmly sweeping his eyes over the surroundings, taking stock of the ronin's faces.
All to identify this walkthrough's key figures — or at least the ones worth watching. Who wielded what weapon, whose skill stood above the rest, who was hiding their true identity, and so on.
For instance —
Take the two behind me.
"They let a green pup like you live by the sword too, eh?"
I turned toward the voice and found two ronin standing there, staring me down. One had a face as shifty and mean as a rat's, with a mustache bristling like whiskers to match — hence the nickname I'd given him in my walkthrough notes: Jwidori, Rat-face. The other was built like a fortress, but his features, from the set of his eyes on down, sagged so heavily that he wore a perpetual look of being wronged by the world. True to his face, his nickname was Eoguri — the Woeful One.
The pair looked for all the world like the classic extras who pick a fight with the protagonist and get schooled for their trouble, yet contrary to first impressions they were both thoroughly kind at heart. Their skills were passable, too, by ronin standards. So even though their opening gambit leaned toward provocation, my answer came out mild.
"A man's got to eat somehow. Even if it means living off a blade."
"If it's a living you're after, go be a fortune-teller's errand boy at some inn or other. What's the use of staking your life at your age?"
Jwidori's question was as gruff as ever, sounding for all the world like more baiting, but a thread of genuine worry ran beneath it. I let my expression darken and heaved a long sigh.
"Whew… Let's just say there are circumstances. I can't go into detail, but I've made enemies of some exceedingly dangerous people."
The Swordsmanship Club, to be precise — a pack of blade-toting seniors who would be hunting me down before long. I'd handed them the reason myself, granted, but the fact remained that I was in their bad graces.
At my words, Jwidori's and Eoguri's faces darkened in sympathy. Eoguri, who looked aggrieved even at the best of times, now looked doubly so with his expression clouded. Holding that face, he rumbled:
"Mmm… Seems you've been snagged in the murim world's tangled grudges."
"Young friend, how did it ever come to this…? A crying shame, it is."
The two ronin exchanged a glance.
"If they're as dangerous as all that, they could be masters beyond the likes of us. Best not to get involved."
"But how does a man just walk away from someone who needs help?"
"Mmm… True enough."
Somewhere in the course of their exchange, I had apparently been reborn as a hero of tragedy. To distill the story of "me" as they told it: my house had been scattered to the winds, I'd been parted from my flesh and blood while they still lived, and hunted by a pack of villains, I had barely drifted through the doors of this Daeeung Escort Bureau with my life.
The two put their heads together and muttered, and before long they seemed to reach a conclusion — Jwidori spoke up.
"Nothing for it, then. We can scarcely mind our own noses, so we can't step in directly — but as far as our strength reaches, we'll help you."
"Thank you, great heroes."
And with that, Jwidori and Eoguri were recruited to my cause. Once we'd exchanged names, I was promoted from "young friend" to "Kim A-woo."
Before long, the guards who had stood sentinel stirred into motion and barred the main gate fast. Anyone who failed to arrive by the appointed hour would find the way in shut against them, just like that.
Then a middle-aged man among them walked slowly toward the makeshift platform erected at the head of the yard. Between his attire, the deference the guards showed him, and the air of authority he carried, it took no great insight to guess that this was the Chief of the bureau. A guard beside the platform stood ready to pound a drum and rally every eye, but the need never arose: the ronin fell quiet of their own accord, one by one, their gazes fixing on the Chief, and the din of the training yard gradually died away.
At length the Chief stepped up onto the platform, swept a measured gaze across the crowd, offered a courteous bow, and spoke.
"A pleasure. I am called Jang, and though my talents are modest, I have the honor of heading this Daeeung Escort Bureau."
Chief Jang's tone was scrupulously courteous. As a rule, murim folk were inclined to look down on ronin — rootless drifters, men who'd do anything for coin, mayflies living day to day. But today he was the one who had gathered those mayflies to ask a favor of them. And with who knew what masters lurking among such a horde of ronin, his polite speech came only naturally.
The Chief continued.
"As you are no doubt aware, the purpose of gathering you all here today is to seek your aid for the escort journey soon to come."
The pivotal event of this dungeon, and its objective: the recruitment of temporary escorts.
On its face, the notion made little sense. An outfit this vast, so short-handed it had to hire outside help?
The answer could be deduced by observing our surroundings closely. Count the escort guards and escort chiefs ringing the training yard, and their number was far too small for an establishment of this size. No commander would deliberately field a skeleton crew at so critical a juncture — which meant this was all who remained.
And why was so little left?
Because the rest are dead.
The vast majority of the guards had been killed or gravely wounded in a string of ambushes. And yet the cargo was of paramount importance and had to reach its destination posthaste —
not that they could ever say so out loud.
It was unthinkable to advertise such a fact. An escort house as large as the Daeeung Escort Bureau had enemies to match, and the moment word spread that its strength had ebbed, the vultures would come circling. Clients, too, would think twice before entrusting it with new cargo. And setting aside such practical concerns entirely, for an escort bureau to proclaim "we are in crisis" was a bruise to its pride all its own. Hence, as a desperate last resort, they had put up a fortune in pay and summoned the ronin — such was the story behind this recruitment of temporary escorts.
"Given the importance of this journey, we have prepared compensation that will not disappoint. That said, the road ahead promises to be every bit as perilous, and frankly, it is my sincere hope that those with the skill will lend us their strength."
Rendered plainly: if you can't fight, get lost.
The bureau wasn't paying out a small fortune because its coffers overflowed.
It was hazard pay.
Transport something valuable, and predators inevitably gather along the road to take it — and the greater the prize, the deadlier the predators. Moreover, it was a foregone conclusion that whoever had ambushed the guards before would strike again. Naturally, then, the bureau wanted to hire the strongest fighters it could: men who could withstand the coming assault, or failing that, at least serve as a shield to catch the first blade.
The problem was that the ronin thronging the training yard had long since overflowed mere fighting spirit — there were simply too many of them. From among them, only a select few of the truly skilled could be winnowed out.
"I am grateful for such an overwhelming turnout, and yet at something of a loss as to what to do with it."
Just then, a goateed man standing beside the platform spoke up. His every aspect, from face to dress, announced to anyone with eyes: I am the General Manager of the Daeeung Escort Bureau~
"Chief, an idea occurs to me."
"Let's hear it."
The General Manager looked out over the ronin filling the yard.
"Pairing off that host of champions two by two to sort the strong from the weak would take more than a day or two, I fear."
"No doubt it would."
"Furthermore, I expect the battles on the road will seldom be duels — far more often they will be group engagements, melees of many against many."
"Most will be, yes."
"Then might I suggest we assume precisely such a situation, and sort the strong from the weak in a melee?"
The preamble ran long — he had a justification to establish — but the gist came down to this:
Fight until nothing remains but the strong.
The Chief rumbled in thought for a moment, then put the question to the assembly.
"It strikes me as a far from bad idea. If any man objects, or has a better design in mind, let him speak now."
A low murmur rippled through the yard…
The stir in the crowd swelled. For murim folk, brawling in a scrum like back-alley thugs held little appeal. But given that much the same fighting might well erupt on the road, it was hard to fault the logic there. And besides — what if it did resemble a back-alley free-for-all? The pay was generous. Ordinary murim folk might turn up their noses, but a ronin could never pass up a chance at a serious score.
In the end, only a handful of warriors who couldn't stomach the format turned and left; the rest stayed exactly where they stood.
The Chief went on.
"Then I shall take it that there are no further objections, and we shall proceed. Bring out the wooden swords."
At his word, the guards fetched wooden swords and other training weapons and dealt them out to the ronin one by one. A contest of skill this may have been, but live steel was out of the question — and in a melee, a stray blow could maim as easily as any duel.
Jwidori took up a pair of wooden blades, Eoguri a long wooden saber befitting his bulk, and I a short wooden sword. Next, the guards marked out a broad circle in the very center of the yard and herded the ronin inside it. No one could be allowed to scatter and flee every which way, or slip clean off the training ground, so the bounds were fixed from the outset.
Chief Jang gathered it all into a few words.
"Use whatever means you please. Be that as it may, any man rendered unable to fight, or driven beyond the line, will be counted out. This contest will proceed until I judge that a suitable number remain."
……
"One final word of caution, if I may. This bureau wishes injury upon none of you. Nor can we answer for any wound you may suffer — so if you feel your strength failing, I bid you withdraw of your own accord."
Even a man who survived the melee would find the escort journey beyond him if his injuries ran deep, so when doubt crept in, it paid to pull out with one's hide intact. To ruin your body and forfeit your place on the journey in one stroke was a loss no one could shrug off.
A taut tension settled over the ronin, and they began trading glares sharp enough to draw blood. Amid it all, Jwidori and Eoguri took up positions at my flanks, as if to shield me.
"Kim A-woo, you stick close to us, hear?"
"Yes, brothers."
So it was that we had already become "Kim A-woo" and "the brothers."
Before long, satisfied that everyone had found their place, the Chief gave the order.
"Begin."
At once, a guard brought his arm down and struck the drum with all his might.
— THOOM—!