Chapter 93
Chapter 93
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 93
Chapter Title: Gentleman Thief
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I know the situation is ridiculous. But Namgung Myeong's demeanor had been so serious that Dang Mujin found himself gripping the mask, as if overpowered by the intensity.
"Try it on."
Dang Mujin nodded and pulled the mask over his face. It felt a bit stuffy against his skin, but nothing more.
Namgung Myeong spoke, tense as ever.
"Feel anything? Anything strange?"
"Not really."
"Wait a moment."
Namgung Myeong stepped out and returned with a polished brass bowl. It wasn't something commonly used, and Dang Mujin couldn't fathom why such a thing would be in an inn. He had no idea why Namgung Myeong had brought it either.
Namgung Myeong wiped the bottom of the bowl with his sleeve and held it up to Dang Mujin's face. The reflection showed a man wearing a hood. It was being used as a mirror.
The masked figure reflected in the brass bowl's base was as small as the bowl itself, trapped within its confines. It clearly posed no threat to anyone.
No surge of killing intent or rage. Just a vague sense of daze.
Namgung Myeong, arms spread shoulder-width as if ready to unleash Golden Rings at any moment, asked,
"How is it?"
"Still fine. Seems like it'll stay that way."
"Then don't just stand there—move around. Raise your hand or something."
Dang Mujin raised his hand. The masked figure in the bowl did the same.
He wondered anew what he was even doing.
"I don't notice any difference."
"Don't stop. Keep moving."
He slowly shook his head side to side, leaned forward then back. He made odd faces and waved his hands about.
The man's movements in the brass bowl never deviated from Dang Mujin's expectations.
It was utterly ordinary, yet his mind felt strangely at ease.
Dang Mujin realized once more where his heart demon came from.
Whenever he looked at the black-clothed man, it felt like his guilt was being draped over him again.
If only I hadn't hesitated and killed Baek Chaseo. If only I'd been a better disciple. If only I'd followed Master Yi more astutely—Master would still be alive.
Hoo.
Dang Mujin let out a deep sigh. It felt like he exhaled three times the breath he'd inhaled. Yet somehow, his mind cleared.
As Dang Mujin removed the mask with a satisfied expression, Namgung Myeong looked flustered.
"Already taking it off?"
"I feel a bit better now."
"No. Heart ailments don't vanish in an instant. It's not something you overcome with mere understanding—it's a process of slowly erasing the anxiety and fear etched into your body. It's not about realization; it's about growing accustomed."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. The more familiar you get, the more the aversion fades, and the cleaner the recovery. Wear the mask tonight."
Dang Mujin's insight into Namgung Myeong's intentions was crystal clear. He let out a hollow chuckle.
Not a laugh of pity, but one of simple amusement.
A friend willing to pull off such antics to cure his heart demon, his heart ailment.
What was so hard about playing along once or twice? One night wouldn't hurt.
"You want to hop the Jo manor's wall together? Become thieves together?"
"Let's call it gentleman thieves."
Namgung Myeong didn't deny it. Dang Mujin snickered.
"When do we go?"
"Whenever. Right now?"
"Yeah. Let's go."
The two donned night-traveling clothes and slipped quietly out of the inn.
*
Late at night in a small village. No one wandered the streets. Merchants had all closed up and gone home; farmers had been asleep for hours.
Yet Namgung Myeong kept cautioning Dang Mujin.
"Shh. Suppress your presence. Move stealthily."
"No one's around?"
"I told you—it's about getting accustomed. You need the mindset of a true black-clothed man. Act the most black-clothed way possible. As if eyes might be watching from somewhere."
"Ah, sure."
The two fools dashed across rooftops instead of taking the easy paths. That was the black-clothed way.
They moved with the thrill of black sect spies infiltrating the Murim Alliance, or divine thieves stealing a cult leader's cherished blade.
Their steps naturally grew stealthier, their presence so faint it surprised even them.
Even without rigorous training, moments of enlightenment come now and then.
Dang Mujin asked Namgung Myeong,
"I've always wondered—why do you like thieving so much?"
It didn't seem to be about money.
Namgung Myeong carried little personal wealth or baggage, and the items he stole while roaming Chengdu were more like souvenirs or trophies than valuables.
A high official's hat cord, the red tassel on a mid-tier sect leader's sword hilt, a rich lady's leather shoes.
He even returned many to their places after a day or two. Returning them was far harder than stealing, yet he did it.
Thanks to these antics, rumors now swirled in Chengdu of a divine thief's appearance.
He'd earned the shadowy moniker of divine thief before any splendid heir-of-Namgung title. Only Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong knew the divine thief's identity.
"It's like a sense of liberation."
"Liberation?"
"Yeah. Back in the Namgung family, this was unimaginable. It's the feeling of choosing a path no one forced on me."
"What if you're caught and word gets back to the Namgung family? You're done for."
"That's what makes it thrilling. And turns out, I've got talent for it."
Then it wasn't liberation—it was reveling in deviance and indulgence.
But Dang Mujin didn't pry. Namgung Myeong knew the risks better than anyone; no need to warn him again.
"You've had this hobby since before?"
"Nah. First time was sneaking in to grab your sword. My head was pounding, heart racing—and that tension? Not bad at all."
Namgung Myeong grinned as he spoke.
Dang Mujin felt a faint pang of responsibility. He wasn't at fault, but he couldn't shake the thought that he'd played a tiny part in veering Namgung Myeong's life astray.
If he hadn't met Namgung Myeong on the Yangtze, how would he be living now?
Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong roamed every rooftop in the village, avoiding their target. A rooftop stroll in circumvention.
Finally, they hopped the Jo manor's wall late and hid in the shadows.
The Jo manor had three buildings. The smallest was a kitchen-cum-storehouse. Snoring roared from the largest.
The mid-sized one was better appointed—straight pillars, neatly cut foundation stones. Likely the Jo manor lord's quarters.
One room in that building had a light on. Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong crept to the window and peered inside.
A man sat ramrod straight, examining a small box about the size of two palms.
The box brimmed with yellowish gold nuggets and other valuables.
Paper and ink lay before him; he occasionally jotted notes, appraising the contents' worth.
"Stealing—no, taking that is righteous action. Only by taking all that money can the villagers live free from the Jo manor lord and his thugs."
It wasn't wrong, but Namgung Myeong's eyes gleamed with greed, which looked suspicious.
Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong muffled their steps and entered the building. A couple of people slept in the unlit rooms.
The two whispered carefully to avoid waking them.
"What now? Kill the Jo manor lord?"
He'd asked knowing the villagers despised him. But Namgung Myeong shook his head at once.
"No. Killing or harming for loot is bandit or assassin work."
"Then?"
"Take the goods without harm and slip away. A gentleman thief is still a gentleman—and gentlemen don't casually harm people."
"But how? He'll shout the moment we enter."
"Wait till he sleeps."
"When's that?"
"Who knows."
Namgung Myeong shrugged. These things always involved some luck.
But a thought struck Dang Mujin.
"There's a way to snag that box before he sleeps."
"How?"
"Watch closely."
Dang Mujin drew a needle from his bosom. At the same time, transparent poison dripped from his fingertip, coating it.
"Not dangerous poison?"
"Not lethal or crippling, so no worries."
Dang Mujin stood still, focusing. Light leaked from the room at the hall's end—about twelve steps away.
He inhaled slowly and held his breath.
His hand flicked lightly. The poison-glistened needle sliced through the air.
Just before it hit the wall at the hall's end, Dang Mujin's palm twisted sideways.
The needle veered impossibly, heading into the room. Through the thin strand of internal energy linking him to the needle, Dang Mujin felt it lodge somewhere.
It was his first real use of the technique; Namgung Myeong had never seen such a feat.
"Air-snatching object?"
"Yeah."
Namgung Myeong had once taught him Air-snatching Object.
What he'd taught was accelerating small wood chips, but Dang Mujin had practiced and devised this variant.
Only for light things like needles, of course.
They held their breath and listened. Soon, a low thud. Thunk.
"Got him. Let's go."
Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong entered the lit room. The Jo manor lord lay slumped sideways, needle in his forearm, drooling.
The box of treasures sat before him.
Namgung Myeong expressed silent joy with gestures and grabbed the box.
Dang Mujin picked up the brush and wrote on the paper.
[I’ll visit again.]
That should keep him from tormenting the village and make him leave.
They slipped out the window at once.
Dang Mujin felt a sense of mischief, accomplishment, and faint guilt for thieving. Complex emotions, yet distinct from mere greed.
Namgung Myeong's "liberation" fit perfectly.
They climbed to a nearby rooftop.
A moonless night. But Dang Mujin felt it wasn't dark.
Cool wind blew across the roof, cooling the sweat on his nape. He inhaled deeply, savoring it.
The breeze carried away a large chunk of the stuffiness in his chest.
Somehow, he felt happy. Somehow, joyful.
They didn't leave right away—sat on the roof chatting for a while before vanishing into the darkness.
*
Lame Song woke to the rooster's crow.
He reached for his bedside crutch while trying to rise—a habit since the Jo thugs beat him lame.
The memory was vivid: beaten, jade ring stolen—the one his mother left as a keepsake.
He'd never sworn never to sell it. If times got truly desperate, he'd planned to. He'd just treasured it since desperation hadn't struck.
Yet in one day, Song lost the ring and his livelihood.
A lame farmer—what could he do to survive?
'They could've just said they wanted the jade ring.'
Losing only the ring would've angered him, but not left him so hopeless.
A sturdy body and arable land let farmers scrape by.
But the Jo thugs beat him without warning, stole the ring, and snapped his ankle.
Song sighed deeply, groping beside his bed. His hand closed on the crutch. How to get through today? Tomorrow? Despair loomed.
But as he gripped it, something rattled.
He turned—dozens of yellowish gold nuggets rolled beside it. Money he'd never held. Enough, if saved, to stave off starvation.
Beside them rolled a clear jade ring.
Song stared blankly, scratched his head furiously, then lay back down.
'Must be a dream.'
With a resigned expression, he lay there, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Song hoped this wasn't a dream.
At the same time, he thought it too vivid for one.