In Chapter 332 of “Tangmunjeon,” a man with a thick beard, Wang Sopyeong, found himself utterly bewildered. He would have been less shocked if his opponent had blocked or dodged his sword with a weapon. But to catch the blade with mere fingers? The thought made his stomach churn as if he might vomit. The skill gap was undeniable.
Wang Sopyeong’s vision went white.
“I thought he was just a worthless beggar…”
Even when he had faced the terrifyingly strong Taoists of the Cheongseong Sect or the nuns of the Emei Sect, he had never encountered such a master.
“This damn—”
Unaware of Wang Sopyeong’s inner turmoil, the beggar asked again, “Where are the villagers?”
The murderous intent behind the question was palpable.
Wang Sopyeong realized that although he was still breathing, his life was effectively over. Attacking a master was a death sentence, and this beggar seemed to have some connection to the villagers.
Most would have cowered in fear, but Wang Sopyeong prided himself on his courage. So he shouted defiantly, “Where do you think, you filthy beggar? I sent them all to the afterlife!”
In the next instant, he saw a staff swinging toward his head. It was the last thing he ever saw. He felt his skull shatter.
Hong Geolgae reacted almost instinctively, smashing the man’s head with his staff. It was rare for him to kill; he usually preferred to incapacitate his opponents. Even during the Great Martial Arts War, he often left his foes with a few broken bones rather than taking their lives.
But now, a surge of anger welled up within him. He had been frustrated with the villagers of Jueul Village, but he had never wished them dead.
“It might be a lie. Maybe he was just spouting nonsense after drawing his sword.”
Hong Geolgae looked around, intending to ask the same question again. The people nearby recoiled in fear when they met his gaze. One of them raised a hand and spoke up.
“I told them not to kill!”
The words were meant as an excuse, but they confirmed the massacre of the villagers. Hong Geolgae’s mind was in turmoil. He tapped the ground with his staff, trying to calm himself.
Then he asked a single question, “Why?”
It was a question easily misunderstood, but the man understood Hong Geolgae’s intent. It wasn’t “Why did you say not to kill?” but “Why did you kill them?”
The man hesitated, unable to answer.
Hong Geolgae sighed deeply and began to attack the men with his staff. This time, he wasn’t holding back to spare lives. Those who only ended up with broken limbs were considered lucky. Many had their heads smashed or were left in a state worse than death.
Even those who survived didn’t last long, as Hong Geolgae finished them off with his staff.
The disparity in skill was so overwhelming that the gang occupying Jueul Village couldn’t even think of challenging Tang Mujin’s group and began to flee.
As they ran, Tang Mujin considered using his flying wheels to kill them all but decided against it. He figured Hong Geolgae would have asked for help if he needed it.
Uncertain, Tang Mujin looked to Hyeongong for guidance. When unsure, following Hyeongong’s lead usually avoided problems. Fortunately, Hyeongong remained still, not drawing his sword.
Yeom Uiwon watched Hong Geolgae’s rampage, realizing anew the kind of people he was traveling with. They seemed like playful youths, but each one possessed power greater than the leaders of any major martial arts sect. It was a surreal truth.
After a while, Hong Geolgae, still seething, caught the wrist of one fleeing man.
The man screamed at the top of his lungs, “Spare me! Please, my lord!”
“I have a few questions.”
There was no promise of mercy, but the man, clinging to a sliver of hope, nodded desperately.
Hong Geolgae asked, “Who are you?”
“We’re just stragglers! I swear!”
“Stragglers? From where?”
“We were just hangers-on in the Great Martial Arts War, there to make up numbers!”
Hong Geolgae surveyed the area. Among the dead and the fleeing, there were no true masters.
“Why are you in this village?”
“After entering Sichuan, we were ambushed by Emei Sect nuns, and then the Cheongseong Sect appeared. We couldn’t break through Sichuan and scattered. We found this village to heal and eat…”
“And the villagers?”
”…”
When no answer came, Hong Geolgae tightened his grip.
Crack. The man’s wrist broke.
“Aaagh!”
The man screamed in agony, tears and snot streaming down his face as he clutched his broken wrist.
He knew that if he hesitated any longer, his head would be next. With his unbroken left hand, he pointed to the center of the village.
“There, over there!”
He pointed to a well.
Hong Geolgae remembered it as an old, dry well in the village center. Because it had dried up, the villagers on the west side used stream water, while those on the east used another well.
Hong Geolgae had a good idea why the man pointed to the well. He had heard a similar story not long ago.
He approached the well and opened the cover. As expected, it was filled with bodies.
Too lazy to bury them and unwilling to deal with the smell or insects, they had simply tossed the bodies into the well.
“Why did you kill them?”
Hong Geolgae approached the man with the broken wrist, his eyes blazing with fury.
“We came to the village to heal and get food, but some villagers resisted sharing. I just wanted a little food, but some of the others…”
The rest would be pathetic excuses and self-justifications. Hong Geolgae swung his staff at the man’s head.
Thwack!
With a sound almost cheerful, the man collapsed, his head shattered, blood pouring from his nose.
Hong Geolgae returned to the well and looked down.
He recalled a story he had heard recently about Yang Uiwon, who had been thrown into a well after death. It was dizzying.
Another thought filled his mind.
The story of Daepunggae, who had warned that Hong Geolgae’s luck was running out.
He had felt it recently. From losing money in simple dice games to the many small misfortunes around him.
Hong Geolgae sat down heavily, staring blankly at the sky.
Tang Mujin, Namgung Myeong, Seolhwa, and even Yeom Uiwon worked together to dig graves in a sunny spot on the village outskirts.
The ground was frozen from winter, but with several shovels, it wasn’t too difficult. They were all martial artists with excellent physical abilities.
While the others prepared the graves, Hyeongong descended into the dry well to retrieve the villagers’ bodies.
The dry well found new occupants. The bodies of dozens of dead martial artists filled it.
Hong Geolgae spoke to Tang Mujin.
“Mujin, can you give me some Hwalgolsan?”
He didn’t want these scoundrels buried in the same village as his master, Majonga.
Understanding Hong Geolgae’s feelings, Tang Mujin handed over the Hwalgolsan. Hong Geolgae poured nearly half of it into the well.
Though there wasn’t much Hwalgolsan, soon smoke began to billow from the well.
Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae closed the well’s cover halfway and stepped back. The bodies would soon vanish without a trace.
Even with their combined martial prowess, it took them a full day to dig dozens of graves. They finished by the next day’s sunset.
The group washed in the icy stream and retired for the night. With so many empty houses, finding a place to sleep was easy.
Instead of seeking a bed, Hong Geolgae headed south of the village.
There lay the grave of his master, Majonga. Hong Geolgae stood silently before it.
”…”
He had built Majonga’s grave alone.
The mound wasn’t exactly a masterpiece, having been crafted with nothing more than bare hands and a single stick. It was low, uneven, and seemed so unstable that a single rain might wash it away.
But now, the mound over Majon-gye had transformed.
It was a well-packed, high mound, not just tall but also perfectly rounded. Even grass of just the right length grew beautifully on top. Anyone could see it was a grave made and maintained with great care.
Only then did Hong Geol-gae realize. The villagers hadn’t mistreated him and Majon-gye out of hatred.
They had to exile the one who had killed to preserve the village, but in their hearts, they still held gratitude for Majon-gye and Hong Geol-gae.
That’s why, even knowing there would be no reward, they rebuilt Majon-gye’s grave and tended to it diligently for years, even if no one would notice.
Tears welled up for some reason. Hong Geol-gae sniffled and cried, eventually sitting down and sobbing.
But like most tears, he wasn’t quite sure what he was mourning.
Perhaps it was regret for realizing the villagers’ feelings too late, or sorrow for losing his home. Maybe it was disappointment that his plans to boast and show off to the villagers had crumbled. Or perhaps he just needed to cry.
As he wept for a long time, he sensed someone approaching.
He had a good idea who it was. Only one person knew Majon-gye’s mound was in the south of the village.
Turning his head, he saw it was indeed Dang Mu-jin.
Hong Geol-gae hastily wiped his tears. There was no point in pretending; Dang Mu-jin would surely notice.
Dang Mu-jin asked, “Feeling sad?”
Hong Geol-gae nodded silently.
Then he remembered he had something to tell Dang Mu-jin. A story Daepung-gae had shared.
He didn’t want to recount every detail in this situation.
So he cut to the chase and said, “My master once told me I was born destined to die young. But I survived a near-death experience and gained great fortune, though now it seems my luck is running out.”
“Really?” Dang Mu-jin nodded indifferently, and Hong Geol-gae found comfort in his nonchalant response.
Hong Geol-gae continued, “Did I contribute to the villagers’ deaths? Did they die because an unlucky person like me came here?”
Dang Mu-jin paused, contemplating before answering.
“You could think of it the other way around.”
“How so?”
“Jueul Village might have disappeared much earlier. It’s not exactly a place where a thriving village should be.”
”···.”
“The fact that the village survived precariously, wasn’t attacked by bandits or martial artists, and that many survived the plague, meeting me and the old master—maybe all of that was thanks to your great fortune.”
“Or maybe not.”
“When in doubt, it’s better to think positively.”
It was sound advice. The heaviness in his heart lightened a bit.
Hong Geol-gae awkwardly smiled and changed the subject.
“I’ve decided not to go to the capital.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure if my luck running out means just losing good fortune or if it means bringing misfortune. If it’s the latter, I’m afraid it might affect your family.”
Hong Geol-gae had thought long and hard before saying this, but Dang Mu-jin waved it off as nonsense.
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve come this far, and now you want to turn back? And you shouldn’t worry about things like luck.”
Hong Geol-gae glanced at Dang Mu-jin’s expression. He truly seemed unconcerned.
“Why?”
“If rain clouds followed only me, I wouldn’t wander to empty places. I’d find a house with a sturdy roof and rest comfortably. That’s what any sensible person would do.”
The sturdy house was undoubtedly a reference to Dang Mu-jin’s family estate. Hong Geol-gae asked again.
“And if it’s more than just rain clouds?”
“Even if a fierce storm comes and flattens rice stalks or blows away thatched roofs, a mountain of rock doesn’t crumble. And while my family estate might not be a mountain, it’s at least a sturdy hill. It won’t fall to a mere storm.”
Dang Mu-jin spoke calmly as he stood up.
Hong Geol-gae realized that his friend had grown into an adult, the head of a household.
Dang Mu-jin said, “We’ll leave early in the morning, so get some rest.”
He glanced at Hong Geol-gae with a smile, then walked off to find a place to stay for the night. The setting sun painted his profile a deep red.
After taking a dozen steps, Dang Mu-jin suddenly stopped and turned back.
“Hong Geol-gae.”
“Yes?”
“Just in case, don’t tell that story to Hyeon-gong. He might try to ditch you.”
Hong Geol-gae burst into laughter. That was exactly what Hyeon-gong would do. The fiery red Dang Mu-jin disappeared somewhere into the equally fiery red Jueul Village.
It was only after Dang Mu-jin had long vanished that Hong Geol-gae stood up and brushed the dirt from his pants.
He looked at his master’s neat and well-tended mound, reflecting on the villagers’ generous hearts.
Despite their own poverty, they had fed and sheltered the village’s two outcasts for twenty years.
They had built and maintained a beggar’s grave for years.
Hong Geol-gae headed to where the villagers’ graves were gathered. Dozens of graves clustered together, forming a new Jueul Village, a new home.
“I’ll come back to visit someday.”
With gratitude, Hong Geol-gae bowed deeply to them and turned to leave.