Chapter 38
Chapter 38
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 38
Chapter Title: Lowly Jeong Jin-young - [3]
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These days, subcontracting is the big trend even in the gangster world.
The world has changed, hasn't it? If you go around throwing punches like it's 1988, you'll land straight in the slammer, so you can't just do that recklessly.
If you really need some hired muscle for security gigs or whatever, it's better to subcontract it out to specialists. Do that often enough, and you'll even spawn full-time thugs who make a living off those jobs alone.
Even the Japanese yakuza these days subcontract to biker gangs or local punks whenever they need to throw hands, right?
After enough of that, a few years back, something weird popped up: teenage hitmen.
Underage contractors, that is.
You know how minors get away with serious crimes scot-free? Well, some punks started banking on that and turned pro. They'll beat someone senseless or even commit murder for half price.
As we all know, trends from Japan always make their way to Korea. What started over there showed up here too.
So now you've got these kids who barely have dry blood on their heads running around as hitmen...
It's terrifying. Scary as hell, brutal beyond belief.
Gangsters are too scared of torture porn to touch that stuff, right? They only do it to the guy they're gonna ice anyway. Why film some gore fest when you won't even kill the bastard? One snitch and your whole organization's done.
But these teen punks? No mercy. They torture first, ask questions never. If shit doesn't go their way, they just cap you.
Like they saw it in some comic—beating a guy, shoving him in a barrel of concrete mix, then it swells up and snags them. But they're so cocky they'll walk with a slap on the wrist, they just go wild anyway.
In my book, the gangsters subcontracted to these kids. They don't give a damn about martial artists or whatever.
If that's true, they might try something way riskier than just trashing an acupuncture clinic. Stay sharp out there...
After Jeong Jin-young and Kim Seong-jin left, Yi Pung slumped in his chair with a sour look on his face.
Suddenly, he glanced at Yi Do-hyeok and cracked an awkward smile.
"Do-hyeok-ah?"
"Yeah?"
"Sorry if I came off rude earlier. It was a slip of the tongue. I was just in a bad mood."
Yi Do-hyeok nodded.
"It's fine. But is something bothering you? Things have been going great lately..."
"Mm, you know about the Bandit Crew and the Martial Alliance heating up, right?"
"Yeah."
"You know there's a bandit stronghold on Manwol Mountain?"
"Sure. They're clashing with the O Family Manor in Mansu-dong, from what I hear."
"Mansu-dong's not far from here. So as Incheon martial artists, shouldn't we get in on that fight?"
"Well, yeah, I guess?"
"But the Martial Alliance isn't calling us! The O Family Manor won't even ask us to join the fray. If they did call us to fight, our peerless master could probably smash the Manwol stronghold single-handed..."
"They just shelled out 20 billion to the Martial Alliance the other day. Calling us for another scrap would cost a pretty penny even if it's less—probably too much for their budgets right now. Especially with both the Alliance and the Manor burning cash on other stuff."
"What do I care about their problems? Point is, we're not raking it in!"
"We just locked in a new tribute deal. That's extra income, isn't it?"
"That's chump change. Fuck..."
Yi Pung spat a curse and started venting.
"Look, I'm a simple guy. I make decent money but keep the office in this dump, drive the same old junker. I know the value of every little buck."
"You're frugal as hell compared to what you pull in."
"But then we bag 20 billion in one go last time... Now pocketing a few hundred mil or even a billion feels like kids' play, you know? That day I pocketed 1.5 billion—enough to order elixir for our girl.
Felt so damn good. Wish we could pull that kind of haul again. But we can't..."
"Yeah, I get it."
That day, Yi Do-hyeok hadn't done squat but still scored ten mil in bonus. Enough to snag another cheap elixir.
Yi Pung kept whining.
"And then these random martial artist wannabes show up with their pitch. Instead of scoring hundreds of billions, we're scraping for pocket change. Pissed me off."
"Still... it's good money."
"I know, I know. But check out our peerless master. Guzzles one 20-billion elixir and starts whipping out sword beams. What if he downs another?"
"Maybe palm blasts?"
"Could be. Might even pull True Samadhi Fire and fireball yells like the Heavenly Demon. Toss in two or three more elixirs like that, and boom—ascension. Gets me antsy thinking about it. One more big payday, snag more elixirs for Baram, turn her into a real master..."
Three days later, Heo Pung-gae was still running his acupuncture clinic.
Business was slow today for once. He was just sitting in lotus position, running through some breathing exercises.
The door burst open, and something flew in with a whoosh.
Heo Pung-gae had his eyes closed but had heard it coming and tracked its path.
He snatched it effortlessly out of the air. It was a Molotov cocktail. He had to chuck it out the window pronto.
"Aw, shit, missed!"
The thrower bolted, giggling like an idiot—not desperate flight, just playful scampering.
Heo Pung-gae charged out of the clinic.
He spotted the punk's back. No bike this time; the bastard was on foot. Why?
Not gas prices, that's for sure. Baiting him into a trap.
An ambush waited where he was headed.
Given how this scene operated lately, they wouldn't be packing just baseball bats. Pistols for sure. Or worse.
Heo Pung-gae knew it but headed in anyway.
"Quit chasing me, you fuck!"
The punk yelled it like he wanted to be heard, ducking into an alley blocked by a wall.
Heo Pung-gae half-closed one eye. The shut one pierced the wall, sensing qi beyond.
Six guys lurking in there. Two crouched low, arms up in a specific stance.
Pistol grip position. Holy shit.
He'd figured they'd have guns, but that didn't make it any less unnerving.
He'd flicked away three bullets in a row recently, jacking his price to 20 bil off one fight. Still hated guns.
Even that almighty Heavenly Demon couldn't handle a surprise shot—got a few hairs clipped by some patriotic swordsman's bullet. No dodging something faster than sound.
Even peerless masters don't see bullets; they sense a beat early and pull off miracles. Miss that instinct or screw up? Dead.
Going down to a bullet in some shitty alley? Pathetic, pointless death.
Unthinkable horror.
Heo Pung-gae would face death if needed but didn't enjoy it. Each brush stressed him out more than most.
Guns let lowlifes in petty scraps threaten peerless masters. He loathed them above all.
'Been sticking to Korea to avoid guns... Now this...'
Heo Pung-gae cursed inwardly, slipping a hand into his pocket.
Handling them was easy. He'd done it plenty before.
He pinpointed the ambushers beyond the wall and started firing BB pellets.
Screams of agony erupted—ack, ugh.
Guided by qi, the ricocheting BBs hammered five bodies. Perfect acupoint strikes; they were immobilized.
"What the...?"
One bolted out. Heo Pung-gae frowned at the baby-faced kid gripping a pistol. Damn East Incheon cops.
Yi Pung had warned him, so no shock. Just flicked a finger, nailing the chest.
"Uh, urgh..."
That one crumpled too. Six armed punks neutralized in seconds.
Standard fare from colonial-era martial world scraps.
But something new even then.
A roar of an engine approached.
He turned to see a bike barreling in. Driver and passenger, both packing heat.
Closing fast for point-blank shots.
First time for this. Heo Pung-gae eyed the bike, calculating. Two guns firing at once? Double the trouble.
Flick the guns?
Tough. Pocket held only plastic BBs now. No smashing or knocking loose.
Hit their wrists?
Even that. Gloves on—thick leather. BBs wouldn't acupoint through; barely sting.
Easiest: body shot for full paralysis. But at top speed...
Paralyze the driver? Bike flips, skull cracks on pavement...
No time to think. Heo Pung-gae gritted his teeth in frustration, clenching his pocketed fist.
The bike reached him. Still no shot fired—then something streaked from afar.
A sword.
The Taiji Sword. His wife's gift. Usually locked in the safe, but lately out for sword beam practice.
It flew from Yi Pung's office, arriving in a flash.
Heo Pung-gae couldn't fathom why. No mental command sent.
Whatever. It rocketed like a missile at the target.
"Huh?"
The driver braking and raising his pistol gawked. A heavy thud to his gun hand—pistol gone.
Sword hit the ground, job done.
The bikers didn't get it.
Passenger hopped off, aimed...
Heo Pung-gae's finger snapped first. Click—he dropped in shooting stance.
Now just the driver, unarmed and dazed on the bike.
"Wha—what?"
Finally clocking it? He glanced at his downed crew, tried to rev up.
Heo Pung-gae blocked him.
Strode over, grabbed the collar. Iron Claw Grip—no escape, even for masters.
Strength drained instantly. Heo Pung-gae dragged him into the alley.
The punk spotted the other five sprawled out.
Heo Pung-gae pulled a jagged acupuncture needle from the clinic kit. The punk knew it screamed "stab me."
Terror and fear flooded those eyes. Mouth opened.
"Sur—surrender!"
Heo Pung-gae said calmly.
"Self-defense."
"We're neutralized already! Doing shit to someone who can't fight ain't self-defense!"
"Is that so."
The punk shut up mid-rant. Needle plunged into his thigh.
Not thick, but diagonal jab made his whole body quake.
Shuddering, he rasped.
"You're... fucked..."
Heo Pung-gae twisted it. Threats turned to thick drool.
Deeper—more spit. Any more hits bone.
Instead, lips moved in incantation. Electricity flowed through the needle—yellow stream from the crotch.
Eyes rolled back.
Heo Pung-gae cut the juice. Consciousness returned from the dark.
With it, terror. Eyes and body twitched wildly.
Mouth opened.
"I..."
Shoved a needle in. Paralyzed the mouth—no screams.
Another needle out. Eyes bulged wider in horror.
Punk shook his head frantically. No.
Heo Pung-gae ignored. Plunged it in, repeated the process.