Episode 85: The Night of Reckoning
That night, six members of the Ban Yong-gweol gang gathered by the well, each with a mask in hand.
This wasn’t their first time roughing someone up, and they had dabbled in petty theft before, so having masks was nothing new to them.
“Let’s go.”
With masks on, the six moved stealthily.
The clinic was close to the Chengdu branch of the Qingcheng Sect, which made them a bit nervous, but it was late, and the sect’s grounds were silent.
One of the thugs whispered, “Are we just going to storm in and drag him out?”
“No. I saw him leave around dinner. We’ll wait until he comes back, then hit him from behind.”
Ban Yong-gweol toyed with a roughly hewn oak club.
A solid blow to the back of the head with that club would end things quickly. No chance to resist, just collapse.
The six hid in a shadowy alley, waiting for Tang Mujin.
There was a familiar, uneasy thrill that came with committing such acts.
Before long, Tang Mujin appeared.
The sight of a clumsy sword hanging at his waist was irritating. None of them feared his mediocre swordsmanship.
As Tang Mujin drew near, Ban Yong-gweol quietly approached him.
Tang Mujin was returning from a short training session.
He had planned to practice swordsmanship but ended up not even drawing his sword. Instead, he had been lightly practicing a martial art form, having noticed a curious similarity between the techniques of the Biseo Palm and the White Lotus Divine Fist.
He felt that if he continued practicing for a few more days, some insight would surely follow.
As he mulled over his training progress and approached his home, he sensed movement behind him.
At first, he thought it was Namgung Myung, who had recently taken to nighttime strolls.
But there was more than one presence, and Namgung Myung’s voice was absent.
Tang Mujin turned around. Masked figures stood before him, and his hair stood on end.
‘Could it be the Assassins’ Guild?’
Even while living a laid-back life in his hometown, the fear of the Assassins’ Guild lingered in a corner of his heart.
The thought that they had finally caught up with him made his heart sink. Yet, at the same time, he felt a strange exhilaration. Wasn’t it finally time to avenge the strange one?
A club in the opponent’s hand sliced through the air, aiming for the back of Tang Mujin’s head.
‘It’s not a staff. A cudgel? Or a baton?’
No time to think deeply. Tang Mujin swiftly drew his sword and swung. In one fluid motion, the club in the masked man’s hand was cleaved in two.
“What the…?”
The masked man froze in shock.
Tang Mujin’s eyes gleamed with a predatory intensity as he wielded his sword.
He was ready to kill or be counterattacked. Either way, they would die by his hand.
But the masked man neither died nor counterattacked effectively. He clumsily rolled away, using a technique that left him vulnerable to a second attack.
‘Does he think his comrades will protect him?’
That must be it. But Tang Mujin had no intention of letting them off easily.
He charged at the fallen masked man, intending to finish him off, while keeping an eye on his surroundings.
Though he expected interference from the other masked men, they stood stiffly, watching him with wide eyes, as if caught off guard.
Tang Mujin felt a strong sense of unease as he brought his sword down on the fallen man’s face.
The masked men wore black masks, but their clothes were not the neat black attire of the Assassins’ Guild.
Moreover, while the skill level of the guild’s assassins varied, these masked men were far too inept.
Crucially, none of them wielded bladed weapons. All six held crude clubs.
Clubs could kill, but they weren’t optimized for it. There were no assassins who used clubs.
‘Are they not from the Assassins’ Guild?’
Even as he thought this, Tang Mujin’s sword was descending toward the fallen masked man’s face.
With a sudden realization, he twisted the sword’s path.
The blade veered awkwardly, grazing the man’s cheekbone instead of piercing his face, and embedded itself in the ground. A thin trickle of blood ran from the man’s cheek and ear.
Yet Tang Mujin’s killing intent remained undispersed. Until he was certain, he needed to maintain the upper hand.
He kicked the club from the fallen man’s hand, sending it flying, and placed his right foot on the man’s throat. A slight twitch, and he could crush it.
Tang Mujin surveyed the scene.
As he suspected, the masked men showed no intention of attacking. They stood rigid, tense with fear.
A faint smell of urine wafted through the air. The fallen man’s crotch was damp.
Huff, huff—
Tang Mujin’s heavy breathing, fueled by vengeance, killing intent, and a hint of anticipation, thundered in the ears of the Ban Yong-gweol gang.
The fallen Ban Yong-gweol finally grasped his situation. He had nearly been skewered through the face, and even now, a slight pressure from Tang Mujin’s foot would end him.
Ban Yong-gweol had often bullied and beaten the weak.
But he had never faced a life-or-death duel with a real sword, nor had he confronted the fear of death. He let out a belated, shrill scream.
“Aaah, aaah—!”
The loud noise prompted Tang Mujin to reflexively press down with his foot.
The pressure on his throat turned Ban Yong-gweol’s scream into a choking sound.
At that moment, one of the masked men called out Tang Mujin’s name.
“Wait, wait! Tang Mujin, stop!”
“Who are you?”
“It’s me! Hu Wancheng!”
The man who identified himself as Hu Wancheng hastily removed his mask, revealing a slightly chubby, mischievous face.
Not exactly a friend, but Tang Mujin recognized him as the rascal Hu Wancheng from his childhood.
“Why did you attack me? Who is this?”
Tang Mujin pressed down again, and the choking sound grew louder.
“That’s… Ban Yong-gweol!”
“Ban Yong-gweol?”
Tang Mujin swung his sword, slicing through the mask covering the man’s face. He recognized the face. He could guess who the others were too.
In a cold voice, Tang Mujin asked, “Why did you attack me?”
“Uh… sorry.”
Hu Wancheng hesitated, unable to give a clear answer. His reaction alone hinted at the reason.
It was likely something foolish, embarrassing to even speak of.
Relief washed over Tang Mujin, knowing it wasn’t the Assassins’ Guild, mixed with a tinge of disappointment.
He sheathed his sword with a frown.
They weren’t close, but they had known each other since childhood. He didn’t want to kill someone like that.
“Don’t pull stunts like this if you don’t want to die. What if someone got hurt or killed? If I hadn’t pulled my sword aside at the last moment, Ban Yong-gweol would be dead.”
“Uh, uh…”
“It’s late. We’ll talk later. Go home.”
Tang Mujin waved them off with an irritated gesture.
The bumbling masked men hesitantly approached, gathered the fallen Ban Yong-gweol, and left.
It was a bit unsettling, but not a major disturbance.
Tang Mujin lay down as usual and quickly fell asleep.
Unbeknownst to him, he drifted into a dream.
In the dream, Tang Mujin was with the strange one. Despite being with someone deceased, he felt no oddity.
The strange one was as carefree as ever, constantly teasing. It was hard to believe he was older than Tang Mujin’s father, given his childish demeanor. But that was what made him endearing.
The two strolled through a meadow, exchanging all sorts of trivial banter, half of which was playful jabs and jokes.
As they talked, the strange one grumbled, “Sometimes, teaching you is frustrating.”
“What now?”
“You’re a slow learner.”
“You used to say my strength was picking things up quickly.”
“You learn medicine and martial arts well enough. But there’s something you don’t grasp.”
“What is it?”
“Want me to show you?”
Tang Mujin nodded. The strange one stood with a meaningful expression and walked toward a tree in the distance.
He leaned casually against it.
Then, a black-clad figure, unseen until now, appeared and tugged at Tang Mujin’s sleeve.
“Come with me.”
“Uh… why?”
“Watch closely, I’ve got something to show you.”
The man in black pulled a dagger from his cloak, tossing it into the air and catching it with ease as he approached the strange figure. Tang Mujin felt an inexplicable sense of dread, wanting to stop the man, but his body refused to move.
The figure urged him on impatiently.
“Quit stalling and get on with it, will you?”
“Understood.”
With a nod, the man in black began to stab the figure in various places—heart, neck, side, and stomach. Each strike was lethal, yet the figure seemed unfazed, nodding in satisfaction.
“Impressive skills.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Now, let’s finish this, shall we?”
“Yes.”
The man in black stepped back, moving closer to Tang Mujin. Despite knowing he should intervene, Tang Mujin remained frozen.
With the flair of someone skipping stones across a pond, the man in black threw the dagger. It flew straight and true, embedding itself in the figure’s forehead. Blood trickled down, turning the green grass into a field of white snow.
At that moment, Tang Mujin felt the unforgettable chill of Qinghaeseong—a biting cold that gnawed at his flesh, a blizzard that made it hard to keep his eyes open.
The figure, dagger still lodged in its forehead, spoke in a stern voice.
“You fool. Are you sure those masked men have nothing to do with the Assassins’ Guild?”
“I’ve known Hu Wancheng and Ban Yonggweol since they were kids! They’re just loafers, not assassins!”
The man in black burst into laughter.
“Haha! You really don’t learn, do you? Anyone would think assassins are born, not made.”
The masked man pulled off his mask, revealing Ban Yonggweol’s face.
Tang Mujin struggled to comprehend the situation.
Seeing Tang Mujin’s bewildered expression, the figure chuckled and spoke to Ban Yonggweol.
“Look at his face! Traveling with him was never boring.”
“He seems quite shocked.”
“Of course. But he’s not slow-witted. He’ll figure it out after a few more lessons.”
“How many do you think it’ll take?”
“Hmm. Three’s too few. Five should do it.”
Suddenly, the single tree in the snowy field multiplied into five.
And with them, five figures appeared, leaning against the trees. The first was the figure with the dagger in its forehead. The others were his father, Dan Seolyeong, Namgung Myung, and Hong Geolgae, all waiting expectantly.
“Let’s begin.”
Ban Yonggweol drew four more daggers from his cloak, throwing them with the same skill. Each found its mark, and the number of bodies with daggers in their foreheads grew from one to five.
The snowfield was now stained red with blood. Tang Mujin’s teeth chattered.
Was it the cold, fear, or a mix of dread and anger? His heart pounded wildly.
The figure whispered to Tang Mujin.
“Well? Have you learned your lesson now?”
Tang Mujin awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. He had the vague sense of having dreamt, but his mind was a tangled mess, unable to recall anything clearly.
It felt like sleep paralysis, or perhaps a nightmare. Or maybe he was still dreaming.
He sat there, dazed for a long time.
Suddenly, he remembered the thugs he’d encountered outside his house, and Ban Yonggweol’s face beneath the black mask.
Tang Mujin staggered to his feet, grabbed his sword, and headed out.
Whether it was fortune or misfortune, Tang Mujin knew where Ban Yonggweol lived.