Step. Step.
As always, I made my rounds carrying the slop bucket.
Time moved slowly in the underground prison, yet it passed as steadily as the clock at the Ministry of National Defense.1 I was already entering my sixth day down here, and the routine was gradually becoming familiar.
Clank. Screeeech.
I opened the rusted bars and strode into a cell filled with filth and stagnant water.
An old man bound to a torture rack greeted me with a sly grin.
“You’ve come?”
He was the Killing Ghost, who had joined the Demonic Cult during the Great Faction War and killed more than a hundred martial artists of the orthodox faction.
Now reduced to a toothless old man, he continued through slurred words.
“I tell you this for the last time…”
I cut him off as I scooped up some slop with a long ladle.
“Didn’t you say yesterday was the last time?”
“This time, it truly is the last.”
“Sure. And tomorrow will be the real, real last time.”
I’d been through this countless times over the past six days. It wasn’t even surprising anymore.
The old man flinched at my indifference, then shouted, “You! Become my Disciple!”
“You! Get hit.”
Whack!
The ladle struck him squarely on the crown, and the old man writhed in pain. The chains binding his limbs swayed and clattered noisily.
“Graaaagh!”
“Keep it down. You’re loud.”
“Ugh! You little bastard!”
The old man was about to start yelling at the top of his lungs when his eyes suddenly widened and his nostrils flared.
He had caught the scent of oil beneath the prison’s stench.
“W-what is that smell?”
“Nothing you need to know about.”
“Roast duck. It’s roast duck! Do you have liquor too?”
“What liquor?”
“Liar! That aroma is unmistakably Jiannan Chun!”
“…With a sense of smell like that, you’re on the level of a drug-sniffing dog.”
“Hand it over! Now!”
Whack!
“Graaaagh!”
“It belongs to someone else. Just eat your damn slop.”
I set down the bucket and headed for the last cell.
Far deeper and darker than the others, it held a familiar old monster who was waiting for me.
Clank.
“I brought your meal.”
“……”
“You must have had a hard time waiting. By the way, why is it so cold in here? Your sleeping arrangements must be terribly uncomfortable. Should I ask the Tang Clan to lay down an animal-hide blanket for you?”
“……”
So this was how he wanted to play it.
Despite my soft, gentle tone, as soothing as a cat’s paw, the Heavenly Power Demon remained stubbornly silent.
Ever since what had happened three days ago, he had kept his eyes and mouth firmly closed.
Of course, that wasn’t enough to make me give up.
“Come on, don’t be like that. Try some of this.”
I took out a sheet of grease-stained paper and unfolded it.
A whole duck, coated in spices and roasted to perfection, revealed itself in all its plump glory. As a bonus, its mouthwatering aroma was strong enough to drive away the stench of the cell.
“What is this? It’s roast duck made by a former imperial chef. I tried some myself, and the duck is definitely tender. The flavor is very consistent too.”
“……”
“And roast duck calls for liquor. Jiannan Chun, the famous liquor of Sichuan! Liquor and meat suit a Great Hero like the Heavenly Power Demon, don’t they?”
“……”
A frigid silence settled over the already chilly cell.
I kept smiling brightly at the Heavenly Power Demon as he sat cross-legged. At last, I let out a deep sigh.
“Fuck, I can’t do this anymore.”
For three days, I’d bent over backward to please him. I’d softened my voice, spoken with scrupulous politeness, praised him as a Great Hero of benevolence and righteousness, and kissed his ass shamelessly.
But the Heavenly Power Demon had refused every offer and comfort I provided. No matter how much food or clothing I brought him, he never touched any of it.
“I’ve done more than enough by now. Are you really going to keep this up?”
“……”
“I’m only being this courteous because I’m such a gentleman. What do you think will happen if the Sichuan Tang Clan finds out, huh?”
At that moment, the Heavenly Power Demon finally spoke without opening his eyes. It was the first time I’d heard his voice in three whole days, and it had grown terribly hoarse.
“Do so.”
“What?”
“This old man has endured enough torture to be sick of it. Even if I depart this world, I will have no regrets.”
He had spent more than forty years imprisoned in the underground prison. Faced with his serene detachment, like some enlightened monk, I clicked my tongue.
“Good grief. You really don’t make things easy. Is it really so difficult to tell me only what you know about Dark Heaven?”
“I have said all there is to say. Kill this old man or torture him. Do as you please.”
“No, what kind of old man is this?”
But the Heavenly Power Demon had already sealed his lips again. He probably wouldn’t open them a second time.
“…What a stubborn old man.”
I heaved a sigh deep enough to sink the earth, placed the liquor and roast duck within his reach, and turned away.
“Fine. For now, just eat that. You haven’t had anything in three days.”
Even as I spoke, I knew. Whether I returned tomorrow, the day after, or three days from now, the food would still be exactly where I’d left it, stone cold and untouched.
“Damn it.”
With the Heavenly Power Demon fed—or at least served—I finished my rounds and dropped to the floor in a corridor far from the cells.
The Heavenly Power Demon.
His rigid face and that indescribable look in his eyes kept flashing through my mind. There was no mistaking the agitation those two words—Dark Heaven—had stirred in him.
The problem was that he refused to say a word about it.
But he definitely knew about Dark Heaven long ago.
I hadn’t heard it directly from the Heavenly Power Demon, but it was already as good as established fact.
The real question was how he knew about Dark Heaven, and how much he knew.
I slowly retraced the conversation I’d had with the Heavenly Power Demon three days ago.
After putting the brain that had earned me seventh-tier school grades2 through its paces, I arrived at only one plausible conclusion.
Dark Heaven and the Demonic Cult are deeply connected.
No. They might even be one and the same.
The Heavenly Power Demon had once been an Elder of the Demonic Cult. Even after spending forty years imprisoned and tortured in the underground prison, he had never lost his loyalty to the Cult. His silence was proof enough.
If Dark Heaven were an enemy of the Demonic Cult, he would’ve talked by now.
Then what the hell was Dark Heaven? Some splinter faction that had broken away from the Demonic Cult? Or another organization created within the Demonic Cult itself?
A branch of Shincheonji3 called Sick Shincheonji. Something like that.
Whatever they were, one thing was certain: the bastards were a plague.
I’d been lost in thought for quite some time when Cheongpung appeared with a spring in his step, trailing a sweet aroma behind him.
“Hey!”
“…Your grandpa lives on Lotus Peak at Huashan, right?”
Cheongpung swallowed what was in his mouth before answering.
“No! He’s in Henan right now!”
“Yeah, sure.”
Why did I even bother talking to him?
The mountain of food piled in Cheongpung’s arms left me speechless. I was starting to feel sorry for the former imperial chef, and I’d never even seen the man’s face.
“You went out for all this?”
“Yes! And while I was at it, I brought a letter from the Beggars’ Sect.”
“…Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”
“Hehe.”
“Don’t smile. I’ll get attached.”
I answered gruffly and accepted the letter Cheongpung held out.
When I unfolded the grimy paper—wherever he’d been keeping it, it couldn’t have been clean—three strands of yellow dog hair drifted out.
A three-knot4 Disciple. The branch leader sent it.
Just as I’d expected, the letter was addressed to Gung Gibang from the Beggars’ Sect’s Chengdu branch leader.
Of course, Gung Gibang was at the Divine Physician’s secret refuge, so the branch leader had probably sent it to me for convenience.
A moment later, when I looked up from the letter, Cheongpung asked, “What does it say?”
“Nothing much. They’re still searching.”
The Beggars’ Sect had originally combed through Sichuan with a fine-tooth comb in search of the Divine Physician, but it had since changed targets.
Now it was hunting the culprit who had murdered the Poison King and the Heaven-Shaking Venerable Nun.
Not that a man like that would be easy to catch.
Tang Sadok had initially insisted on settling the matter with the Sichuan Tang Clan’s strength alone, but his attitude had changed after he lent me the Myriad-Poison Ring.
Yet even with the Tang Clan’s full cooperation, the culprit’s trail had vanished like a ghost.
“Do you think they’ll find him?”
“Who knows? We’ll have to hope for the best. We have the Beggars’ Sect, and the Tang Clan’s Green Shadow Squad are experts in reconnaissance and pursuit. Surely they’ll turn up something.”
“What about the government troops?”
“They seem to be pulling their weight too.”
Prince Shangshan, Zhu Bao, wielded tremendous influence.
Won Gyun, the City Lord of Sichuan Province, had readily agreed to my request to search for the culprit instead of the Divine Physician.
The individual fighting ability of the government troops couldn’t compare to that of Murim warriors, but their sheer numbers—several thousand men—couldn’t be ignored.
“Wow! Thousands?”
“I don’t know the exact number, but apparently they’re swarming all over the place. You saw the government troops too, didn’t you, Cheongpung? On our way back to the Sichuan Tang Clan.”
“Oh, but there weren’t that many when I saw them.”
“…Of course not. Did you think thousands of men would all travel together?”
It wasn’t difficult to imagine the government troops gathered in groups of three or five according to their assigned formations, stopping and searching people.
The government troops are gradually expanding their search area and advancing toward Qingcheng and Emei.
They appear to be searching for the culprit while preparing for a possible incident.
I read the last line of the letter and let out a quiet laugh.
They’re doing better than I expected.
Won Gyun, the City Lord of Sichuan Province, looked every inch the corrupt official, but apparently he wasn’t completely incompetent. Either that, or the military officer in charge of this operation knew what he was doing.
But what if they still can’t find him after all this?
I’d talked a big game in front of Tang Sadok, so the thought was seriously worrying.
Of course, Jeok Cheongang’s safe recovery came first.
I glanced at the treatment room, whose door remained firmly shut, then casually asked Cheongpung, “What kind of food did you bring?”
“Sho mush!”
“…Finish what’s in your mouth. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Jang Il was a two-knot4 Disciple of the Beggars’ Sect.
He had become one out of necessity rather than choice. He’d heard a rumor that anyone who formally joined the Beggars’ Sect, underwent the initiation ceremony, and became an official Disciple would receive a whole dumpling.
What could an eight-year-old beggar brat who hadn’t eaten in four days have known?
Clutching his empty stomach, he had gone to the Chengdu branch and become a Beggars’ Sect disciple that very day.
“They only gave me half a dumpling, too. Just thinking about it still makes my teeth grind. Goddamn it.”
The beggars listening to Jang Il yawned quietly. They’d already heard the story dozens of times.
More than ten years had passed, but Jang Il’s anger had yet to subside.
“I gritted my teeth over that half dumpling and worked my way up to deputy branch leader. So you lot should…”
As the story showed signs of dragging on, the three one-knot4 Disciples exchanged glances.
“Oh! My stomach suddenly hurts!”
“Gasp! Mine too!”
“Ugh, the latrine! Where’s the latrine?”
“You little bastards!”
Jang Il shouted, but the three beggars had already bolted.
“Those damn brats… Just wait until they come back.”
That was when a group of men caught Jang Il’s eye.
Uniform clothing and weapons. Their lack of military discipline was an added bonus. The sight was familiar enough that Jang Il muttered,
“Government troops.”
These days, government troops were more common than neighborhood stray dogs.
Normally, they slacked off so thoroughly that no one ever saw them, but now that the high and mighty had stepped in, they seemed to be scrambling to at least put on a show.
They said they were expanding the search area. Are they already this far out?
As he wondered about it, a middle-aged military officer who appeared to be leading the group approached him with a smile.
“Are you, by any chance, a Beggars’ Sect disciple?”
Jang Il nodded casually.
“As you can see.”
“I thought so when I saw your knots.”
“Anyone can tell just by looking. Still, you’ve made good time. You’re already this far out.”
“Ah, they say the Beggars’ Sect has the finest intelligence network under heaven. I suppose you already knew we were coming?”
“This much is nothing out of the ordinary for our Sect.”
The military officer smiled along with the smug Jang Il.
“But there are no villages nearby, and hardly anyone passes through here. Why are you alone?”
“Don’t ask. The branch leader kept nagging me, so I brought a few men out for some fresh air. Things have been pretty noisy lately with all this talk of a murderer and whatnot.”
“I see.”
“Well then, take care…”
Jang Il never finished.
The moment the officer nodded with a smile, something cold pierced his chest.
Shnk!
…Huh?
Cough.
Jang Il stared blankly at the sword buried in his chest and coughed up blood.
Why? How?
The questions never escaped his lips. His knees buckled as he stared at the officer through clouding eyes.
His face struck the new shoots just beginning to emerge from the earth, and a cold voice reached his ears.
“Find the others. They should be nearby.”
“As you command.”
“Stupid beggar bastard. Why did he have to be here of all places…?”
That was the last thing Jang Il heard.
He was twenty-five years old.
The young beggar died in a secluded forest two days from Emei Sect.
Footnotes
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The comparison invokes the passage of time during mandatory military service in South Korea: the clock keeps moving, however slowly it seems to those serving. ↩
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South Korean school-record grades use a scale on which one is highest and nine is lowest. A seventh-tier grade is poor. ↩
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Shincheonji is a South Korean religious organization. ↩
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In the Beggars’ Sect, the number of knots denotes a disciple’s standing; more knots indicate higher standing. ↩ ↩2 ↩3
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