Chapter 77
Chapter 77
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: What Happened at the Inn
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The porter pulled his head lower, covering his face even more thoroughly.
"You must have the wrong person."
As if.
Even making every concession, a guard who had at least trained in basic martial arts might have been able to block Dang Mujin's hand. But a mere porter and odd-job man like this one? No way he could fend off Dang Mujin's strike.
'So that's how you want to play it.'
Dang Mujin glanced around to check if anyone was watching, then reached out even more persistently.
In the same vein, the porter blocked Dang Mujin's hand with increasingly blatant palm strikes, and at the end, he subtly unleashed a grappling technique.
Had the porter not held back just right, Dang Mujin's wrist might have been snapped.
"..."
A brief silence passed.
Dang Mujin was already certain of the porter's identity, and since they had to travel together for the time being, he couldn't press the issue to the end.
The porter let out a sigh and lowered the hand covering his face. Sure enough, it was Namgung Myeong.
Truth be told, Dang Mujin didn't have particularly fond feelings toward Namgung Myeong.
Namgung Myeong had apologized for his wrongdoing and the Namgung Clan had offered compensation, bringing the matter to a close. But hadn't it all started with Namgung Myeong's theft in the first place?
Still, it had been so long since he'd seen a familiar face that Dang Mujin felt more gladness than resentment. Like reuniting with a childhood friend you'd bickered with endlessly—time made it a bit welcoming.
"Young hero Namgung Myeong. What brings you here?"
"Shh."
Namgung Myeong lowered his voice and scanned the surroundings.
"Just call me Porter Myeong."
Just as Dang Mujin was using a false name, it seemed Namgung Myeong was hiding his identity too.
Of course. If he'd revealed the name Namgung Myeong, people would have treated him coldly or clung to him desperately, eager to make connections.
"Our situations must be similar. Just call me Jin."
The two nodded, sharing a subtle bond.
At that moment, the caravan began to move. The mules and packhorses whinnied lightly, and with a faint creak, the cartwheels started rolling.
Dang Mujin considered climbing onto the cart right away but changed his mind. He limped awkwardly alongside Namgung Myeong.
"Myeong Porter... no, Brother Myeong, what are you doing here? You're not out on another excursion into the martial world, are you?"
Namgung Myeong gave a wry smile.
"It's not a martial world jaunt. After you left last time, Brother Jin, my father told me to go learn about the world. To become a person first—and an adult—before a warrior."
Dang Mujin nodded unwittingly.
In his eyes, there was nothing wrong with Namgung Myeong's martial prowess. In fact, compared to other young experts, Namgung Myeong's skills stood out.
Namgung Myeong's issues lay elsewhere, beyond his martial arts.
He was clumsy with people, ignorant of the world, simple-minded, and never considered consequences. Probably because he'd lived a life where he never had to.
At only twenty-something, he wasn't old. But even accounting for his youth, Namgung Myeong seemed immature beyond his years.
That immaturity had shone through clearest in last year's sword theft incident.
The heir of a prestigious clan running off with someone else's sword? Unthinkable.
They'd managed to smooth it over somehow, but Namgung Jincheon must have felt a real crisis.
"Then why a porter, of all things? If you're following the caravan, you could easily land a guard or even escort leader spot with your skills."
Namgung Myeong's expression darkened.
"My father said flaunting force or the family name would teach me nothing. He forbade using the family name or touching a sword. Said he'd rip out my tongue if I used the name and chop off my arm if I picked up a blade..."
Harsh words for a father to say to his son.
But coming from Namgung Myeong's father, Namgung Jincheon, it felt plausible. No, Dang Mujin could even imagine him actually doing it.
After all, Namgung Jincheon had once tried to sever Namgung Myeong's wrist right in front of Dang Mujin and the masked one.
Dang Mujin scanned Namgung Myeong up and down.
He wasn't carrying the sword Dang Mujin had gifted him, and unlike last time, his nose was crooked. Probably broken by Namgung Jincheon.
"It wasn't a meaningless time, at least. Brother Namgung... no, Brother Myeong, you seem different somehow."
"You're the same, Brother Jin. Sharper somehow."
Namgung Myeong had been calling him Brother Jin from earlier.
Though only a little younger, Dang Mujin found the "brother" title awkward.
"Brother Myeong, speak comfortably. You're the elder."
"Does birth order matter? You're the benefactor who saved my wrist. Calling you brother is right."
No sarcasm in his tone, no mocking expression. Dang Mujin nodded reluctantly.
"Understood. Call me as you like."
"When there's a chance, let's share a meal."
"Sure. Then I'll be off."
Dang Mujin strolled to the cart and perched on it, while Namgung Myeong, laden with a massive pack, followed the caravan on foot.
*
Talk of "let's eat sometime" often fades into vagueness. But for these two, the evening promise became reality the very next night—no drawn-out delay.
Though their ordeals differed, both Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong had endured heavy mental strain. And neither had anyone to confide in.
Now, with a fitting conversation partner at hand, there was no reason to drag it out.
As soon as the caravan entered the village, Namgung Myeong shot Dang Mujin a silent glance.
It conveyed meaning as clear as a transmission. Dang Mujin got it instantly: after unpacking, let's grab a drink.
The porters spent half a shichen unloading, unpacking, and sorting the luggage.
Finally free, Porter Namgung Myeong approached Dang Mujin.
"Let's go. Dinner's on me tonight."
The shop Namgung Myeong led Dang Mujin into was a small, shabby inn.
Not his first time here, apparently—before the waiter could even ask, Namgung Myeong ordered.
"One jar of cheap rice wine, a bowl of porridge, two dumplings, and plenty of fried dough balls."
The waiter nodded and left. Dang Mujin asked Namgung Myeong,
"I get the rest, but what's a fried dough ball?"
"It's dough portioned to bite size and fried in pork lard—no filling like dumplings. Cheap, quick to make, oily—perfect drinking snack. Anyone who's been here orders them."
Dang Mujin looked around. Sure enough, several patrons nursed drinks with fried dough balls before them. More like a humble tavern than an inn.
Namgung Myeong upended the money pouch at his waist. No silvers—just a clatter of coppers piling on the table. With utmost seriousness, he counted them.
"One jar rice wine nine nyang, five for dough balls, four each for two dumplings..."
He was calculating ahead to stay within budget.
Namgung Myeong thought a moment longer, then decided.
"We can add another jar of rice wine, or one more dough ball and one dumpling. Order more if needed."
A clear limit, yet tacked with "if needed." Amusing. Dang Mujin waved it off.
"I've got some money too—don't worry, eat up. We won't go short on the bill."
"No. I said I'm buying today. Leave your pouch at the inn."
Namgung Myeong spoke confidently, resolve firm to cover the tab.
Dang Mujin found the situation fresh.
He was used to cheap inns over fancy taverns and scrimping was habit. But the heir of a great clan counting coppers in a rundown inn? Different matter.
As Namgung Jincheon intended, Namgung Myeong had spent recent time wandering plainly, living simply.
Food arrived soon. The savory lard scent of the fried dough balls hooked Dang Mujin's nose.
They sipped rice wine, nibbling dough balls and dumplings. Not pricey or harsh, but plentiful. As time passed, a buzz set in.
They chattered about recent events.
"Shaolin Temple... Quite the experience. I haven't been yet."
"Worth a visit."
"By the way, Elder Yi Chung stayed in your hometown?"
"Yes. He did."
Unlike Namgung Myeong, who spilled everything openly, Dang Mujin held back on the masked one's death or Salmak matters. Not topics for a pleasant drink, nor to share lightly.
Amid the back-and-forth, a man entered the inn.
Not a stranger. One of the caravan guards, seemingly in charge of the porters.
Spotting Namgung Myeong's back, he raised one eyebrow crookedly and stomped over.
Dang Mujin thought he might chat casually with a comrade. Instead, he did something unexpected. He smacked Namgung Myeong's head hard—right on the crown.
"You punk. The youngest skips cleanup and holes up in an inn?"
Dang Mujin tensed slightly. Blood was about to spill for sure.
Namgung Myeong was a first-rate warrior. A mature one at that.
No sword in hand, a bit of drink—still leagues beyond a third-rate guard. A simple palm strike or two, and he'd have the man's collar ripped open.
Indeed, Namgung Myeong's eyes blazed with cold fury.
But the next instant, they cooled calmly.
Namgung Myeong fixed the guard with the look of a clueless fool.
"Guard Maeng, you're here. I finished cleanup. Checked the unpacking too."
"You punk. Unpacking done doesn't mean job's done. Gotta confirm your senior porters and guards are all in before it's over. You ducking into the inn before me? The hell?"
Utter nonsense. Even Dang Mujin, not the target, felt irritation rise.
As Dang Mujin opened his mouth, Namgung Myeong subtly shook his head, stopping him.
Then he replied with almost servile humility.
"I was too green to know. Sorry."
"You punk."
The guard finally looked satisfied and took a seat in the inn's corner.
Some people were like that. A scrap of authority, and they crushed others beneath it. Only by grinding people down could they feel authoritative.
Dang Mujin stared at Namgung Myeong with utter exasperation. Namgung Myeong let out a silent laugh.
"I can stomach this much now. Even among the family's lower warriors, this level of hazing exists."
"...Mustn't have been easy."
"Funny for me to say this in front of you, Brother Jin, but I've suffered plenty lately. Been through all sorts—now I can brush off most things. Compared to past ordeals, porter's not a bad lot."
Namgung Myeong said so, but to Dang Mujin, this wasn't a good change.
Precisely, the direction was fine—but the degree was excessive.
Sent to learn the world and ordinary lives, he'd gone from ordinary straight to rock bottom.
Dang Mujin spoke with displeasure.
"Well... Overstepping, but I doubt Brother Myeong's father wanted this much."
"It's fine. I haven't forgotten Father's teaching: a man repays in kind."
Namgung Myeong glanced around, then pulled a hefty-looking pouch from under the table and showed it to Dang Mujin.
Untying the strings, it revealed a decent pile of coppers and a few silvers.
Over Namgung Myeong's shoulder, the guard looked utterly flustered. In that split second of the head smack, Namgung Myeong had pickpocketed his money pouch.
Watching the guard get chased out by the waiter, Namgung Myeong grinned slyly.
"Lost his whole pay right after payday—will suffer till caravan's end. Let's thank Guard Maeng with some pricey drinks."
Beaming, Namgung Myeong called the waiter and ordered two jars of Bamboo Chrysanthemum Wine—at two silvers each.
Dang Mujin thought: Namgung Myeong hadn't learned to repay in kind. He'd just discovered his talent for theft.