Chapter 85
Chapter 85
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 85
Chapter Title: Ban Yonggweol
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That night, six of Ban Yonggweol's gang gathered at the well, each grabbing a black mask.
They weren't new to beating people up, and they occasionally pulled off petty thefts, so they had masks on hand.
"Let's go."
The six pulled on their masks and crept forward stealthily.
The Dang Clinic was close to the Qingcheng Chengdu Branch, which made them a bit tense, but it was late enough that no signs of life came from inside the branch.
One of the thugs whispered softly.
"We just barge into the clinic and drag him out like this?"
"Nah. I saw him heading out around dinner. We wait a bit, and when he comes back, smack him on the back of the head and get started."
Ban Yonggweol fiddled with his roughly carved oak club.
A solid hit to the back of the head with an oak club would end things right there. No time for resistance—just instant collapse.
The six hid in a dark alley, waiting for Dang Mujin.
There was a peculiar thrill in the stuffy tension that came with committing misdeeds.
It wasn't long before Dang Mujin appeared.
The sight of that pathetic sword hanging awkwardly at Dang Mujin's waist was laughably arrogant. Of course, no one there feared Dang Mujin's half-baked swordsmanship.
As Dang Mujin drew near, Ban Yonggweol quietly approached him from behind.
*
Dang Mujin was on his way back after a short training session.
He had planned to practice his swordsmanship, but he never even drew it. He'd intended to loosen up with some light fist techniques, only to discover a subtle commonality between the Secret Flower Palm and the White Lotus Divine Fist.
A few more days of fist technique practice like this, and enlightenment seemed just around the corner.
As he mulled over the gains from his session and headed home, Dang Mujin sensed movement behind him.
At first, he thought it was Namgung Myeong. The guy had been going out at night quite a bit lately.
But there was more than one presence, and no voice called out like Namgung Myeong's would.
Dang Mujin turned around. Masked figures came into view. His hair stood on end.
'The Salmaek.'
Even in the leisurely days back home, the anxiety about the Salmaek had lingered in a corner of his heart.
His stomach dropped at the thought that the Salmaek had finally caught his tail. But at the same time, a strange thrill washed over him. The time for revenge against those masked fiends had come at last.
The club in the assailant's hand sliced through the air without warning. Straight for Dang Mujin's nape.
'Not a staff. A staff? Or an iron rod?'
No time for deep thought. Dang Mujin drew and swung his sword in one fluid motion. Draw and slash as a single strike—the black-clad man's club snapped in two.
"Huh...?"
The black-clad man froze stiff.
Dang Mujin swung his blade again, eyes gleaming like a beast's, brimming with killing intent.
Die in one stroke, counterattack—it didn't matter. They'd die by his hand in the end.
But the masked man neither died nor mounted a proper counter. He flung himself to the ground in the clumsiest roll imaginable. Naryeotagon's footwork.
Forget how uncool it looked—the technique left him wide open to the next attack, something no martial artist would ever choose.
'Betting his buddies will cover him?'
Probably. But Dang Mujin had no intention of letting the fool escape the crisis so easily.
He charged at the rolling assailant, intent on cutting off his breath, while scanning the surroundings.
The other masked figures would interfere, no doubt, but he'd dodge and finish the downed one.
Unexpectedly, though, the others didn't block his path. They just stood there rigid, staring at Dang Mujin in shock, as if facing something unforeseen.
Dang Mujin felt a sharp dissonance as he drove his sword down at the rolling masked man.
The masks were black cloth, but their clothes weren't sleek assassin garb.
Moreover, Salmaek killers varied in skill, but even accounting for that, these masked men were far too weak.
Decisively, none of the masked men's weapons had an edge. All six wielded crude clubs.
Clubs could kill, sure, but they weren't optimized for it. No killer in the world used one.
'Not from the Salmaek after all?'
Even as the thought formed, the Soulsever Sword in Dang Mujin's hand plunged toward the fallen man's face.
On a hunch, Dang Mujin twisted the blade's path at the last second.
The sword's trajectory jerked awkwardly, grazing the man's cheekbone instead of piercing his face center and embedding in the ground. Thin trails of blood trickled from around the cheekbone and ear.
Still, Dang Mujin's killing intent didn't waver. He had to hold the advantage until he could judge clearly.
He kicked the downed man's club far away, then planted his right foot on the man's throat. Ready to crush it at the slightest twitch.
Dang Mujin scanned the surroundings.
As expected, the masked men showed no intent to attack, just standing frozen in tense rigidity.
A faint stench of urine wafted from somewhere. The crotch of the downed man's pants darkened with wetness.
Hoo, hoo—
Dang Mujin's breathing, heavy with vengeful fury toward the Salmaek, killing intent, and a touch of anticipation, boomed like thunder in the ears of Ban Yonggweol's gang.
Only now did the prone Ban Yonggweol grasp his dire situation. His face had nearly been pierced, and one press of Dang Mujin's foot would end him.
Ban Yonggweol had plenty of experience bullying and beating the weak.
But he'd never faced a real blade in a life-or-death duel, never confronted death's terror. Belatedly, he let out a wail like a dying beast.
"Aaagh, aaagh—!"
The noise made Dang Mujin reflexively press down.
Ban Yonggweol's throat compressed, his scream turning to choked gurgles.
That's when one black-clad man called Dang Mujin's name.
"Wait, wait! Dang Mujin, stop!"
"Who are you?"
"It's me! Hu Wan-cheong!"
The man claiming to be Hu Wan-cheong yanked off his mask in a panic. A pudgy face with a mean look emerged.
Not close friends, but it matched the thug Hu Wan-cheong that Dang Mujin remembered.
"Why the ambush? And who's this?"
Dang Mujin pressed his foot again, and the gurgles grew louder.
"That's Ban Yonggweol!"
"Ban Yonggweol?"
Dang Mujin swung the Soulsever Sword with his right hand, slicing off the face mask. He recognized this face too. He could guess the rest.
In a cold voice, Dang Mujin asked,
"Why the ambush?"
"Uh... Sorry."
Hu Wan-cheong mumbled without a straight answer. That reaction alone made the reason obvious.
A pathetic excuse too embarrassing to voice.
Relief washed over him that it wasn't the Salmaek, mingled with faint disappointment.
Dang Mujin scowled as he sheathed his sword.
Not close, but they'd known each other since childhood. He didn't want to kill them.
"If you don't want to die, cut the pranks. What if someone got hurt or killed? If I hadn't pulled that last swing, Ban Yonggweol would've died here."
"Uh, uh..."
"It's late. We'll talk later. Go home."
Dang Mujin waved them off irritably.
The ragtag masked men shuffled over, picked up the sprawled Ban Yonggweol, and slunk away.
*
A bit disorienting, but hardly a big fuss.
Dang Mujin lay in his room as usual and soon fell fast asleep.
Unknowingly, Dang Mujin slipped into a dream.
In the dream, he was with the masked weirdo. Even with a dead man, Dang Mujin felt nothing amiss.
The weirdo was as nonchalant as ever, strutting about. Hard to believe he was an elder older than Dang Mujin's father—so immature. That's what made him great.
The two strolled through a grassy field, chatting idly. Half of it was joke battles and gentle ribbing.
Mid-conversation, the weirdo grumbled.
"Teaching you sometimes leaves me dissatisfied."
"What's the complaint now?"
"You're a slow learner."
"You said my knack for picking things up in one go was a strength."
"You grasp medicine and martial arts quick enough. But there's something you just don't get."
"What?"
"Want me to show you?"
Dang Mujin nodded. The weirdo rose with a meaningful look and walked toward a distant tree.
He leaned against it casually and sat.
Then, a black-clad man Dang Mujin had never seen grabbed his sleeve.
"Come here."
"Uh... Why?"
"I've got something to show you. Watch with eyes wide open."
The black-clad man drew a dagger, tossed it in the air and caught it, advancing on the weirdo. Dang Mujin felt inexplicable dread and tried to block him, but his body wouldn't move.
The weirdo urged the man on.
"Quit dawdling and get to it."
"Got it."
The black-clad man nodded and stabbed the weirdo's body in vital spots—heart, throat, flanks, belly. Multiple thrusts.
Each a fatal wound, yet the weirdo nodded contentedly, as if painless.
"Nice work."
"You're too kind."
"Time to finish up, then?"
"Yes."
The black-clad man backed away to Dang Mujin's side.
Dang Mujin thought he had to stop him, but still couldn't move.
Like showing off stone-skipping to neighborhood kids, the man flung the dagger with flair.
It flew true, embedding in the weirdo's forehead. Blood streamed down; the green meadow turned to a blinding white snowfield.
With it came the unforgettable chill of Qinghai Province.
The bone-chilling cold of trudging through that snowfield with the weirdo's corpse on his back. Flesh-ripping blizzard. Eye-watering gale.
The weirdo, dagger in forehead, spoke sternly.
"You soft fool. Convinced those masked thugs have zero ties to the Salmaek?"
"Hu Wan-cheong and Ban Yonggweol—I've known them since we were kids! Street punks who waste rice, sure, but not Salmaek killers!"
The black-clad man beside him burst into laughter.
"Ha! You really learn nothing. Someone might think Salmaek killers are born that way."
The masked man yanked off his mask by the crown. Ban Yonggweol's face appeared.
Dang Mujin couldn't grasp what was happening.
Seeing Dang Mujin's stunned face, the weirdo chuckled and said to Ban Yonggweol,
"Look at that shocked mug! Hanging with him keeps things from ever getting boring."
"Looks pretty rattled."
"Yeah. But he's no dullard—he'll get it after a few lessons."
"How many?"
"Hmm. Three's too few. Five should do."
Five trees sprouted on the snowy field.
And with them, five figures leaning against them.
The first tree held the weirdo with the dagger in his forehead.
The other four: Father, Dan Seol-yeong, Namgung Myeong, Hong Geolgae. All with expectant expressions.
"Here we go."
Ban Yonggweol drew four more daggers and hurled them with the same finesse. Not one missed. The forehead-stuck corpses multiplied from one to five.
The snowfield soon stained red with blood. Dang Mujin's jaw chattered.
From the cold? Terror? Fear and rage? His heart pounded wildly.
The weirdo whispered to Dang Mujin.
"How's that? Learned your lesson now?"
*
Dang Mujin jolted awake in a fright. His clothes were soaked with sweat.
He'd dreamed something, but his mind was a tangle—nothing clear came back.
Felt like sleep paralysis, or a nightmare.
No—even now, was he awake, or still dreaming?
Dang Mujin sat blankly for a long while.
Suddenly, the thugs from earlier popped into his head, Ban Yonggweol's face under the mask.
Dang Mujin staggered to his feet, grabbed his sword, and stepped outside.
Misfortune or fortune, he knew where Ban Yonggweol lived.