Episode 324

As expected, Dang Mujin couldn’t bring himself to kill Tuhee right away.

It wasn’t just because he couldn’t fulfill Tuhee’s request for a painless death, one that left no body or grave. That was part of it, but not the whole story.

In fact, the manner of death was a relatively minor issue.

Dang Mujin spoke to Tuhee.

”…I’ll need to think about it a bit more.”

“Take your time.”

Tuhee didn’t press him.

Later, Dang Mujin discussed Tuhee’s request with his friends.

When the conversation ended, Namgung Myung shared his thoughts.

“I didn’t expect you to hesitate over something like this. You’ve probably killed more people than any of us. What’s one more?”

”…You think I’ve killed the most?”

“When we take down one person with a sword or a club, you take out several with your flying discs.”

It was a strangely convincing argument. But the number of people he’d killed wasn’t the point.

“That’s different. I don’t kill people recklessly.”

“What’s so different about it?”

“Killing someone who’s trying to kill me is different from killing someone who isn’t.”

“If Tuhee loses her mind, she’ll try to kill you. In that situation, you’d kill her, wouldn’t you?”

He was right.

If Tuhee had threatened his life when they met at the cave, Dang Mujin would have killed her without much remorse.

But now, even with Tuhee’s request, he felt uneasy about killing her.

Why? Was it because they had talked?

That wasn’t it. If Tuhee went mad again and tried to kill him, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her life.

So what was the problem? What made him decide who to kill and who not to?

Even Dang Mujin couldn’t answer that.

Though he couldn’t bring himself to kill Tuhee, Dang Mujin felt it was right to at least prepare a way to fulfill her request.

He believed the answer lay in poison. A poison that would cause a painless, unnoticed death. A clean end.

But thinking alone wouldn’t create such a poison, so Dang Mujin often wandered the village, talking to the villagers to clear his mind.

It was an unremarkable village.

There were no martial artists, no inns that every village seemed to have, and no ruffians lounging around.

Suddenly, a question unrelated to poison came to him.

Dang Mujin went to find Tuhee. She was sitting on the porch of a small house, basking in the winter sun.

He asked her, “How did you end up living in this village? It seems like you’ve been here a while.”

Tuhee smiled faintly and replied, “When the madness came, and I was sure I couldn’t drive it away, I left the orthodox martial world. Too many people there knew me, so I had to go somewhere.”

“That makes sense.”

“I had two choices: the unorthodox martial world north of the Yellow River or south of the Yangtze.”

“Why did you choose the south?”

“The north is cold. I can’t stand the cold.”

Dang Mujin watched her closely. It didn’t seem like a joke.

That’s how people are.

Even when leaving home in despair, they avoid the cold. Even when contemplating death, they avoid pain.

Even knowing that nothing matters after death, they cling to the fleeting glory of youth.

They live on, knowing such a life can’t be happy. That’s life.

“In those days, the madness came shorter but more intensely. Unlike now, when it hit, I had no idea what was happening. Often, when it passed, I’d find myself surrounded by a sea of blood.”

“Did you kill people?”

”…Yes. I killed many wild animals, but I killed many people too. I still vividly remember the eyes of those who were angry but too afraid to show it. Eyes filled with hatred and cowardice… By the time I got used to those looks, I arrived at this village.”

As Tuhee spoke, she drifted into memories of the past.

Tuhee, or Wi Jinahyang, once again lost consciousness and then awoke.

She was indoors, the air thick with the smell of blood, and her body felt sticky.

She realized she had done it again.

A fresh wave of self-loathing filled her chest. She muttered softly to herself.

”…I should die.”

But she knew she wouldn’t. Even knowing she brought nothing but harm to the world, she couldn’t leave it. She feared death and clung to life as much as she loathed herself.

Wi Jinahyang was still young, beautiful, and full of dreams. She was just mad.

As she inhaled, the metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils, making her gag.

When she sat up, her hair made a small cracking sound as dried blood peeled off the floor.

Around her lay half-dried pools of blood and two mangled bodies—a man and a woman. Behind them, a child, about six years old, sat watching her. At least she hadn’t killed the child.

Wi Jinahyang didn’t offer the child any words of comfort or apology.

Apologizing after the fact to ease her guilt felt cowardly.

She glanced at the child and thought, ‘What a wretched life.’

Turning away, she stepped outside.

After killing, one of two things usually happened.

Either the villagers, led by a brave soul, would come seeking revenge, or they’d all flee, leaving no trace.

But the result was always the same. Even the brave ones would run when faced with a blood-soaked madwoman. She wasn’t someone they could reason with.

Wi Jinahyang hoped the villagers had fled.

Though she was used to their fear and hatred, it didn’t mean she liked it. She still hated being looked at with eyes full of loathing.

It was strange. To do things that earned hatred, to be used to it, yet still hate it. It was a little frightening.

But this village was different.

The people hadn’t fled, nor did they show anger or seek revenge.

They shuffled about, dragging their feet, absorbed in their own tasks, as if indifferent to what she’d done.

Curious.

As she stood there, an old man approached her. He wasn’t a martial artist. Judging by his demeanor, he was likely the village head.

He looked at her with a gaze filled more with pity than hatred.

Meeting his eyes, Wi Jinahyang steeled herself.

If he tried to kill her, she’d let him. This time, she’d find the courage to die.

The old man spoke.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

”…That’s a bold way to mock me.”

Despite her earlier resolve, Wi Jinahyang frowned.

“I’m not mocking you. Just asking out of courtesy.”

“Did you come to see if I’d cause more trouble?”

“No. There’s nothing we can do to stop you, whatever you decide.”

It wasn’t a warm conversation, but Wi Jinahyang found herself liking it.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a normal conversation with someone.

“You didn’t come to see a blood-soaked madwoman without a reason.”

“Honestly, I didn’t expect much, but talking to you now, I think I might ask a favor.”

“A favor?”

A favor? That was unexpected.

She could guess what he’d say next. Just die. Leave this village. Something like that.

Coincidentally, she was willing to grant both requests.

But the village head surprised her.

“Take care of Jisoo.”

“Jisoo?”

“Kang Jisoo. The daughter of the couple you killed.”

Wi Jinahyang turned to look. Through the open door, she saw the two bodies, the blood-stained room, and the child sitting there with a blank expression.

She realized for the first time that the child was a girl.

“Me? Take care of a child?”

“Yes.”

It was an absurd request. It wasn’t just that she’d never cared for a child, even when she was sane.

“Look, does that make any sense? I’m mad. When I lose it, I can’t see anything.”

With her hair matted with dried blood, her argument was quite convincing. But the village head didn’t back down.

“You killed her parents. It’s the least you can do. Without parents, Jisoo will die anyway.”

“Can’t the village take her in?”

“Our village is too poor to take in another mouth to feed.”

Wi Jinahyang looked around at the villagers. Their eyes were dull.

They were the eyes of people worn down by life.

Only then did she realize. The villagers hadn’t stayed because they were brave or bold. They were a little like her, perhaps even wishing for death.

Wi Jinahyang chuckled, looking at the village head.

She could see through his meager intentions. He didn’t ask her to care for the child because he thought she’d do a good job.

“They just don’t want to feel guilty.”

They didn’t want to take in another mouth to feed, nor did they want to think that a child might die because of them.

It was a shallow thought, but one that seemed all too human.

Though her mind told her to refuse, Wi Ji-nahyang’s mouth had a mind of its own.

“Alright. I understand.”

The village chief seemed a bit surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to actually accept the proposal.

Wi Ji-nahyang herself didn’t know why she had agreed, but she had no intention of taking back her words.

She had been willing to die if the old man had asked, so refusing such a small request seemed almost shameful.

In return for accepting the proposal, Wi Ji-nahyang needed something from the village chief.

“Take this.”

She tossed a sword to the chief. It wasn’t one of the expensive swords from the Wi family. It was a sword she had picked up somewhere along her travels.

But a sword, by its nature, is valuable.

“It should fetch a decent price. In exchange, get me four shackles.”

The chief nodded.

Wi Ji-nahyang sat in her home, staring at the child, Kang Ji-so.

Kang Ji-so stared back at her, both of them sitting still, not moving closer, not eating, for two whole days.

By the dawn of the second day, Wi Ji-nahyang realized she was on the verge of a breakdown.

Outside, she found the shackles the chief had brought. They were large, likely meant for animals rather than people.

Even if they were too big, she could still use them.

She tied the four shackles to the foundation stones supporting the house’s beams, fastening them around her knees and forearms instead of her slender wrists and ankles.

Her breathing grew ragged, and soon her consciousness faded and then returned.

For the first time in a long while, Wi Ji-nahyang regained consciousness where she had lost it.

Looking back, she saw the child. Kang Ji-so was still alive, but Wi Ji-nahyang remained bound.

The problem now was her. She could shackle herself, but she couldn’t free herself.

If that child, Kang Ji-so, decided to bring a dull knife from the shed, she would be helpless. If he hardened his heart, he could bring the villagers to humiliate and kill her. Though she doubted a child would think that far.

But Kang Ji-so approached and freed her from the shackles.

No key was needed. There was no lock on the shackles to begin with. Pulling out the bar that crossed the shackles, they fell away easily.

Wi Ji-nahyang went to the well, took a sip of water, and returned to shackle herself again.

Three more days passed, and another fit came and went. Once again, the child approached and freed her.

Having not eaten for days, her limbs were weak.

But Wi Ji-nahyang ventured outside the village, found a bird’s nest, and gathered a few eggs. Instead of eating them herself, she gave them to Kang Ji-so.

The child accepted the eggs eagerly. Wi Ji-nahyang patted his head, then tended to the burial of his parents.

The commotion must have been considerable, yet the villagers still paid little attention to Wi Ji-nahyang.

They were exhausted, emaciated, and poor. More so than any village she had seen in the south.

Only now did Wi Ji-nahyang question the village’s circumstances. The location seemed suitable for trade, and the land below the hill could support farming. Why were they so impoverished? The people didn’t seem lazy either.

She considered asking Kang Ji-so but decided to approach the village chief instead.

The answer was simple.

“We have no martial artists in our village.”

Having wandered for a couple of years after leaving the orthodox martial world, Wi Ji-nahyang understood what he meant.

This was the territory of the unorthodox martial world, where fists and blades held more sway than laws and rules.

In the unorthodox territories, each village had its martial artist. Some were little more than thugs, while others were quite skilled.

At first glance, they might seem like tyrants or nuisances, but they served a purpose.

Without them, drifters or martial artists from other villages could come, kill, and plunder without resistance.

The martial artists who settled in villages protected them from such threats. They might leech off the villagers, but they also served as their protectors.

In a way, the unorthodox martial artists were similar to the open sects of the orthodox world.

They lazed around, consuming resources, but were ready to stand up in times of danger.

Wi Ji-nahyang asked the chief.

“Was there never one here?”

“There was one, about seven years ago. But he was killed. He wasn’t very skilled, and there are quite a few capable fighters around here.”

That meant they had been living under constant threat, losing and losing again, for seven years.

Seven years. Enough time to break a person. Poverty had become a leech, impossible to shake off.

Only now did Wi Ji-nahyang understand the chief’s intentions.

He hadn’t kept her around out of concern for Kang Ji-so or to ease his conscience.

The village simply needed someone with a sword.

Wi Ji-nahyang understood her role.

“I’m a madwoman.”

“No one would deny that.”

The chief acknowledged immediately.

Wi Ji-nahyang chuckled. As before, she didn’t find the chief disagreeable.

“I might be a madwoman to you, but I can be a madwoman to others too.”

“That’s the most reassuring thing I’ve heard.”

The old man returned her sword. With the sword back in her possession, she owed the village four shackles’ worth of debt.

And the opportunity to repay that debt was approaching. Down the hill, four men with swords were swaggering toward the village.

Wi Ji-nahyang casually shook her right arm, shedding the scabbard, and descended the hill.

She advanced toward the approaching men.

The faces of the four men lit up with bright smiles at the sight of a rare beauty.

As Wi Ji-nahyang swung her sword, four smiling heads flew into the sky.

She thought to herself.

“Dying with a smile is a good death. It’s a promising start.”

Time passed, and the village emerged from its oppressive poverty.

The villagers were genuinely grateful to Wi Ji-nahyang.

The beam she used to bind herself became a cave, and the shackles turned into rocks blocking its entrance.

The once-silent child, Kang Ji-so, grew into a fine adult, and the already adult Wi Ji-nahyang’s face bore the marks of age.

The fierce battles faded, leaving only a guard dog behind.

Old, but with fangs sharper than ever, the mad dog.

Wi Ji-nahyang’s life settled into a peculiar balance.

She considered this life more than she deserved. But no one can remain content forever.

As her reality stabilized, Wi Ji-nahyang began to dream each night.

Different dreams each time, yet always the same.

In her dreams, she returned to her younger days.

She became Tu-hee, standing confidently before people. She mingled freely with her hometown folks, enjoying the dazed expressions of the men who admired her. Sometimes, she playfully toyed with their affections.

Wandering through her dreams, she would suddenly awaken in a dark cave.

With a sensation of falling into the abyss, she would rise.

”···.”

Even in the darkness, she would gaze at her reflection in a small puddle on the cave floor.

There, she saw not the lovely Tu-hee, but the mad Wi Ji-nahyang.

After a long, vacant stare, Wi Ji-nahyang would flee back into her dreams.

To the happiest times. To the lush summer of her life. To moments that would never return.

“···I’ve digressed.”

With that single remark, Wi Ji-nahyang concluded her long, straightforward tale.

Tang Mu-jin sighed and asked.

“Then there’s no reason for you to die, is there? You said you’re content with your life now.”

“I can’t be content anymore. The dreams remind me of even happier times.”

“Then why not live on, relying on those dreams? You’re needed by Miss Kang and the villagers.”

“I could have. But even the dreams are becoming unstable.”

Tu-hee murmured.

“Knowing that people remember Tu-hee fondly allows me to be happy in my dreams. If they don’t, I can’t even find happiness there. I wouldn’t be able to endure that… I’d go even madder. I wouldn’t even be able to play the guard dog.”

Tu-hee gave a bitter smile.

“I know my request is a burden. I know I’m not in a position to ask. But I’m just a guard dog. I don’t want to fall any lower. If you wish, I’ll even teach you the Great Bell Technique.”

”···.”

“Please extend a helping hand to this cowardly dog. It’s my only request.”

Tu-hee said to Tang Mu-jin, then rose from her seat.

She headed toward the dark cave instead of her home, muttering to herself.

“If only I could turn back time, to before I learned the Great Bell Technique.”

Tang Mu-jin watched as Tu-hee disappeared into the darkness.

He pondered her final words over and over.

From that story, Tang Mu-jin sensed a faint possibility.