The Secret of the Dongjeongchun
“A, an assassin? What could I have possibly done to warrant an assassin coming after me?”
At the mention of an assassin, Do Il-ho’s face turned deathly pale. The condescending air he had worn just moments ago, treating Seong-jin like a mere greenhorn, had vanished without a trace. After all, had this boy not narrowed down the culprit’s identity based solely on a few footprints and the state of the ransacked warehouse?
“It could be a grudge you aren’t even aware of, or perhaps the work of someone who simply finds the Dokjak-dang an eyesore,” Seong-jin replied calmly.
“I, I have nothing but this brewery and my liquor! Who would go so far as to send an assassin to destroy a mere brewery?” Do Il-ho beat his chest in frustration, but Seong-jin shook his head.
“Is the Dokjak-dang not the only brewery in this vicinity? Every tavern and inn here must trade with you to stock their spirits; you effectively hold a monopoly. There are bound to be those who find that disagreeable.”
If the liquor were rare and expensive, importing it from afar wouldn’t be an issue. But for the common spirits people drank daily, there was no reason to pay a premium to source them from elsewhere. Since most ended up buying from the Dokjak-dang, Do Il-ho’s business was by no means small.
“Besides, I have never heard of an assassin who works for free.” Seong-jin pointed to the intruder’s footprints. “These are the marks of the Seven-Viper Steps, a footwork style favored by assassins.”
This unique gait, which involved dragging the feet, mimicked the movement of the seven-spotted viper—the snake from which the technique took its name.
“This? But isn’t the Seven-Viper Steps a famous assassin technique? Couldn’t someone just be mimicking it to frame an assassin?”
“That is true. But not in this case.” Seong-jin then pointed to the handprints left by the intruder as he rummaged through the goods. “There are many finger marks, but the left pinky is missing. This is a telltale sign of an assassin who has severed their ring finger to better handle throwing knives.”
“Could that be a coincidence? Isn’t it common for martial artists to get cut in a fight? Maybe the pinky was lost then?”
“On the left hand, not the right hand used to grip the sword?”
Most martial arts were designed for right-handed users, so even left-handed practitioners usually adapted to right-handed forms. Assassins, however, typically held their sword in their right hand and used their left for throwing knives, which was why they severed the left pinky. While there were rare cases of left-handed swordsmen in the Murim, it was highly unlikely for all these conditions to align by chance.
“Then why did this fellow steal the liquor instead of targeting me?”
Seong-jin answered in a level tone. “If the culprit had intended to target you from the start, they wouldn’t have made a scene rummaging through the warehouse; they would have slipped silently into your bedchamber. The fact that they targeted the warehouse first means that what they wanted was actually there.”
“If they wanted to steal liquor, they should have sent a thief, not an assassin!”
“Perhaps the target wasn’t the liquor.”
Seong-jin scanned the messy warehouse. While many jars were broken or overturned, one corner filled with wooden crates showed signs of being meticulously picked through. If the goal had been the liquor, there would have been no reason to smash the jars.
“What was kept in these crates?”
Do Il-ho followed Seong-jin’s gaze and his face stiffened. “Those held items left behind by my great-grandfather, the founder of the Dokjak-dang... but as you can see, there was nothing of any real value in there.”
The items scattered among the debris were old spatulas and yeast molds—things so worn they were no longer usable. To Do Il-ho and the Dokjak-dang, they were keepsakes of their ancestor, but to anyone else, they were mere junk.
“Is anything missing from among these items?”
At Seong-jin’s question, Do Il-ho rummaged through the wreckage, scratching his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. There was so much junk in there...”
Do Il-ho handed him a book. Upon checking, Seong-jin saw it was a collection of poems.
“It’s a poetry book written by my great-grandfather. Even to someone like me, who is a layman in literature, it’s hardly a masterpiece. Since there were all sorts of things in there, I wouldn’t know if something went missing.”
“Hmm.” Seong-jin looked back and forth between the poetry book and the remaining junk.
“Since they didn’t get what they were looking for, that assassin will return tonight.” Seong-jin recited a line from the book.
“‘Among the flowers, a jug of wine; I drink alone, for no one is here to join me. Joy can only be found in spring.’”
It was a famous verse.
“It seems your great-grandfather wrote this based on Li Bai’s Drinking Alone Under the Moon, which he supposedly wrote while drinking under the moonlight.”
“Even if he wasn’t a scholar, he couldn’t have run a brewery by Dongting Lake without knowing Li Bai and Du Fu. He even named the brewery Dokjak-dang, after all.”
“However, the characters and the order of the phrases differ slightly from the original. Furthermore, the altered verses possess a peculiar rhythm—a form that no martial artist could fail to recognize.”
“A form no martial artist could fail to recognize?”
“It is a martial arts manual.”
Martial arts manuals were often written in the form of poems filled with metaphors and allegories. “Passing down techniques in the form of poetry serves to prevent the manual from leaking and makes it easier to memorize, but the rhythm itself is also a form of information.”
A technique’s true power only manifests when the movement of Qi and the physical body are in perfect harmony. Since Qi is guided by the practitioner’s intent, the body and mind must be one to fully execute the form.
“Techniques requiring a calm, mirror-like state of mind are created with the imagery of a quiet country road, while aggressive, domineering techniques are crafted with the imagery of a wildfire on a dry day. The rhythm is a crucial clue for evoking that state of mind.”
“Then you’re saying these are actually martial arts manuals?”
Seong-jin shook his head at Do Il-ho’s question. “In my judgment, this is a poem containing a special brewing method.”
It was a record of the ingredients, timing, temperature, and ratios needed to brew a specific liquor, all written in verse. That was the secret of the poetry book.
“If one brews liquor according to this method, it would be called Dongjeongchun.”
The Spring of Dongting Lake.
Perhaps that was the very reason Do Il-ho’s great-grandfather had settled by the lake—to create this specific liquor.
“This was the brewing method for Dongjeongchun? The very one Su Dongpo praised?”
“I am not enough of a drunkard to imagine the taste of a liquor that hasn’t even been brewed yet, so I cannot say for sure. But it certainly seems worthy of being called a legendary spirit.”
“My great-grandfather passed away long before my grandfather could even speak. Perhaps you have recovered a secret manual of our family that was destined to disappear into oblivion.”
Do Il-ho bowed his head in gratitude.
“It is too early for thanks. The assassin who raided the warehouse to find this is still out there, is he not?”
As long as the manual remained, the assassin would return to the Dokjak-dang. “The assassin likely didn’t realize this poetry book was the manual he was looking for. Having left empty-handed despite having the treasure right in front of him, he will realize the truth too late and come back for it.”
“W, what? Then what am I supposed to do?”
Do Il-ho was so terrified he looked ready to cling to Seong-jin’s robes. Seong-jin pressed down lightly on his shoulder to calm him.
“Tonight, I will wait for him. You should go to your bedchamber as usual. And no matter what happens, you must not come out.”
On a moonless, pitch-black night, the wide courtyard of the Dokjak-dang was swallowed by deep shadows. Seong-jin hid himself silently on the roof of the warehouse. His senses were heightened to the extreme, missing not even the sound of a single gust of wind or a swaying blade of grass.
How much time had passed?
Whoosh!
With a light sound of wind, a shadow slipped over the wall and entered the courtyard like a sliding ghost. The way it navigated the path with familiarity suggested it had been here before. It was the assassin.
The man scanned his surroundings once, then headed straight for the warehouse where the manual was kept, without a moment’s hesitation. Seong-jin held his breath and watched his movements.
Just as the assassin reached the warehouse door and reached out to check the lock, Seong-jin dropped silently from the roof, blocking his path.
“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t be prepared after you were already exposed once, did you?”
The assassin jumped back in shock. In the darkness, his eyes flashed with a mix of bewilderment and killing intent.
“You...!”
Before he could finish, the assassin pulled a dagger from his robes and lunged at Seong-jin. With the dazzling footwork of the Seven-Viper Steps, the dagger struck at Seong-jin’s vitals like a snake’s tongue.
“Not a chance.”
Seong-jin parried the attack, striking the assassin’s wrist. The dagger, having lost its target, caught the moonlight and shimmered in the air.
The battle continued in the darkness. The assassin’s attacks grew faster and more vicious, but Seong-jin received and deflected them without a tremor.
‘This guy, what is his identity!’
The assassin was flustered. The martial arts of the opponent he had dismissed as a mere boy were far deeper than he had imagined. He could feel that he was being overwhelmed, especially in raw strength.
Just as the assassin, sensing that something had gone wrong, looked for an opening to flee, Seong-jin spoke.
“It’s already too late.”
At the same time, a blue light shimmered on Seong-jin’s hand as he grabbed the blade with his bare palm.
Gwon-gi (Fist Energy).
At the appearance of that hallmark of a First-rate master, the assassin’s dagger snapped helplessly. Now empty-handed, the assassin couldn’t hide his panic and tried to retreat. But Seong-jin was faster.
Seong-jin closed the distance and drove a straight punch into the assassin’s abdomen.
“Ugh!”
The assassin let out a short groan and collapsed to his knees. Seong-jin immediately struck his pressure points, sealing his movements.
Dawn was breaking. Do Il-ho, who had been trembling in fear all night, cautiously approached the warehouse at Seong-jin’s call. He gulped as he saw the assassin lying bound on the ground.
“A real assassin...”
Seong-jin removed the assassin’s mask. Revealed was a middle-aged man with a plain, ordinary face—the kind of person you might see walking down the street, patting a protruding belly. If he had managed to steal the manual and toss the mask aside, he would have melted perfectly into the crowd.
“Who hired you?”
“Hired? What are you talking about?”
“An assassin of your caliber wouldn’t move for free. Someone must have hired you to retrieve the manual.”
The assassin had seen the poetry book and left without realizing it was the manual. That was because he knew nothing of brewing. “You must have heard from your employer that it was the manual after the fact, and returned to retrieve it.”
Seong-jin’s voice was low and calm. The assassin merely glared at him fiercely instead of answering.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to answer.”
Seong-jin said this as he tapped the tip of his finger against the gourd bottle at his waist.
—Ugh, wh, what is it?
The ghost trapped within the gourd bottle woke from its slumber at Seong-jin’s call.