Yangyang
Tang Mujin's group headed for Jingajang on the outskirts of Yangyang.
Namgung Myeong asked,
"What will you do if we run into the Taeui Sword Sect disciples?"
"Hmm… I doubt we'll meet them."
Tang Mujin judged that the chances were low.
The Taeui Sword Sect bore deep grudges against him and Namgung Myeong.
But since they were not a black-path sect, it wasn't easy for them to join hands with Salmak—the most notorious of all black-path groups.
In fact, their brief attempt at cooperating with Salmak earlier had been an exceptional case.
And the last thing they had witnessed was Tang Mujin's party fleeing, with assassins rushing out in pursuit. There was no way they could have predicted that Tang Mujin's group would overturn the battle and then return here.
As Tang Mujin expected, there were no Taeui disciples around Jingajang.
After scanning the surroundings once more, the three pushed off the ground and leapt onto the courtyard wall.
The compound was spacious, but inside it was sparse. Aside from a few small sheds and outhouses, there were only three main buildings. The sense of presence inside wasn't large either.
If assassins had been living in noisy crowds, that would have been stranger still.
Hong Geolgae asked,
"Which building should we strike first?"
"No need to worry about that."
At that moment, an assassin who had spotted them bit down on a small wooden whistle.
Piiiit! A shrill note pierced their ears. Doors burst open, and more than a dozen assassins emerged.
Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong gauged their level. Since the stronger ones had already been killed or had fled, none of these seemed particularly threatening.
As Hong Geolgae and Namgung Myeong raised their weapons, Tang Mujin stopped them.
"I'll handle this. Just make sure none escape."
"You sure?"
"More than enough. No need to hold back here."
Those present could be divided into two groups: clear allies, and those who would die. There was no reason to restrain himself with poison arts.
Hong Geolgae stayed on the wall. Namgung Myeong leapt to the roof of the tallest building. Tang Mujin dropped down and walked toward the assassins.
Though they hadn't heard the conversation, the assassins understood one thing clearly: Namgung and Hong Geolgae weren't joining the fight immediately.
Tang Mujin slid his sword back into its sheath with a metallic click.
The assassins' eyes darted about, searching for a gap in his guard.
Tang Mujin murmured,
"Do your best."
The assassins bent their knees, shuffling uncertainly. At first glance, it seemed like hesitation from fear. In reality, they were spreading out, making it harder for Tang Mujin to track them all at once.
The moment Tang Mujin reached into his robes, two assassins lunged, blades flashing.
Tang Mujin glided aside with Cloud-Stepping Footwork, evading, but daggers came whistling toward him, cutting off his retreat. He twisted his body to avoid the ones aimed at his vitals, though a couple grazed his skin. The burning sting brought him a strange thrill.
"Ha ha!"
By then, six slender needles were already in his hand.
With a sweep of his arm, they shot through the chilly night air.
The assassins had never faced someone who wielded needles as concealed weapons, but their senses were sharp enough to dodge what came right at them.
Like sparrows scattering in autumn, they leapt and twisted, and the six needles sliced harmlessly through the air.
But some felt a prick of pain even before landing—at the nape, the back.
The message was clear: though they had dodged, the needles had curved in midair and struck from behind. A feat they could never imitate.
Luckily for them, the poison wasn't lethal.
Judging from the stiffness spreading through their muscles, it was some form of paralysis poison.
Most charged again with grim resolve, but one assassin made for the wall instead.
At that instant, Hong Geolgae swung down from above. Crack! His bamboo staff smashed into the man's head.
The fleeing assassin staggered once, then toppled headfirst off the wall, neck snapping.
Seeing the first death so abruptly, Tang Mujin clicked his tongue.
"You're all going to die anyway. At least try to land a cut before you go."
The assassins glared at him, then attacked again.
They were killers who had each slain anywhere from a handful to dozens. Many deaths were from missions, many more just for amusement.
But this fight was different at its core.
This wasn't an order to kill Tang Mujin. Nor did they hate him enough to wish him dead.
Yet they swung with all their strength, hurled their weapons. Simply because it was their only choice.
No other reason.
***
After a while, Tang Mujin muttered,
"Fourteen."
Fourteen assassins remained alive. The only dead one was the man whose skull Hong Geolgae had crushed.
None of the survivors had been fatally poisoned, crippled, or knocked unconscious.
Their breathing was slow but steady, their senses dulled but intact. Only the paralysis prevented them from moving.
Tang Mujin grabbed them by the legs one by one, dragging them into the largest hall.
Hong Geolgae approached.
"Need a hand?"
"No. I've got it."
Tang Mujin bore a few small cuts, his clothes were torn in places. His breathing was rough, sweat trickled down his face.
But his expression was bright, almost playful—like a child eager for a prank.
After a steady back-and-forth, he had all the assassins neatly laid inside the building, lined up facing the ceiling.
Then he asked,
"Any of you never been on a killing mission?"
They couldn't speak; mouths and tongues were paralyzed. But one assassin rolled his eyes desperately, clearly wanting to answer.
Tang Mujin stepped closer and asked again,
"You? Never been on a mission?"
The man blinked.
"I see."
Tang Mujin drew his sword and slashed his throat.
Blood spurted wildly, droplets spraying across the others.
"Anyone else never been on a mission?"
This time there was no reaction. Tang Mujin nodded slowly.
"Then you won't feel wronged."
The words sounded oddly ominous.
A few writhed faintly, but couldn't rise.
Tang Mujin left the hall, shutting the doors carefully—and dropped the bar across them.
Then he went to the hearth, took a small burning ember.
Namgung Myeong paled.
"...Don't tell me?"
"Yes."
Tang Mujin pressed the ember to a pillar of the great hall. Flames began to spread.
Though a light drizzle continued to fall, the faint raindrops could not snuff out the flames.
Like ivy creeping up a pillar, the fire climbed upward, wrapping itself around the roof like a gourd vine. Then, like rain trickling down a body, the flames crept back down again from above.
Namgung Myeong felt a tightness in his chest.
He had killed before. It was the fate of one who bore the sword, the fate of a man born to a martial household.
But Namgung Myeong had only ever killed one way: by swinging his sword to grant the swiftest, cleanest death possible. Never like this.
"I understand your feelings, but your method is a bit…"
"It's too simple, isn't it?"
"No, that's not what I meant."
"Really? Then what's the problem?"
"…Nothing."
Tang Mujin fetched a small stool, sat down comfortably, and gazed at the burning building.
Crackle, crackle. The sound of flames leaping. Between those sounds came faint groans, or small screams.
The fragrance of good timber burning filled the air, mixed with a choking stench.
And faintly, beneath it, the smell of roasting flesh—though faint, for compared to the building itself, the human body was small.
Tang Mujin leaned his head back, looking at Yangyang's night sky. Between the thin rainclouds, stars sparkled.
He raised his hands upward. Between his arms, the flames roared. Sparks rose from the burning hall like stars in the night, the smoke enveloping them like clouds in the sky.
Since Goiyi's death, a suffocating heaviness had always lodged in his chest. Now, a little of that was burned away. And Tang Mujin felt joy.
"Thanks to the drizzle, at least the fire won't spread too far. That's a relief."
He propped his chin on one hand, watching the blaze.
Namgung Myeong turned to look at him—the flickering firelight glistening on the side of his face.
Namgung Myeong stared for a long while, then let out a heavy sigh.
***
Late that night, the fire at Jingajang lit up the outskirts of Yangyang.
Most of the townsfolk were long asleep, and noticed nothing.
But the disciples of the Taeui Sword Sect, awake late, saw the flames quickly. And the place burning was none other than Jingajang—Salmak's den.
They rushed toward it at once.
"Did the assassins set the fire themselves as they fled?"
"They must have. Once their base was exposed, they'd have no choice. Looks like the villains have been dealt with."
"Good."
As they approached, they roused the nearby townspeople, urging them to evacuate. The startled folk fled, thanking them for their aid.
But when the Taeui disciples reached Jingajang, they noticed something strange.
The fire hadn't spread to the other buildings. Only one hall was burning.
If the assassins had set the fire, then surely all of Jingajang would be aflame.
Cautiously, the Taeui disciples entered.
And there they found three young men at the well. Two stood, one sat, all gazing at the fire.
"Those wretches!"
One disciple drew his sword.
But he did not swing. He paused long enough to understand.
If these three had set the blaze, it meant they had killed all the assassins who had pursued them—and every assassin that had remained here.
And none of the three bore a serious wound.
"Why burn Jingajang? Where are the assassins' corpses?"
His thoughts did not last long. Amid the smell of burning wood was another scent, unmistakable.
And faint cries were still heard from inside. Only then did they realize what these three had done.
The sword drawn in rage now trembled in fear. Vengeance for the former sect leader or not, they did not dare rush forward. They could barely keep from collapsing.
Even the Sect Leader of the Taeui Sword Sect was no different. The emotion on his face was not vengeance, but fear.
Yet he forced it down, and stepped toward the young man watching the flames.
When he had closed to just a few zhang, the young man spoke.
"Do not draw your sword."
"Ridiculous nonsense!"
The youth murmured,
"Do you know why I came this far?"
"I don't care!" the Sect Leader barked, but the young man continued.
"Salmak killed a man. So I killed the assassins. I counted how many I've slain so far—it's well over twenty."
"You boast of your cruelty? Lawless cur!"
"No. What I mean is, giving back only what was taken is not enough. Burning more than ten men alive cannot fill the space left by a single person."
Tang Mujin looked straight at the Sect Leader as he finished.
"Do not draw your sword. I cannot guess how great my next vengeance may grow."
His gaze swept over the disciples of Taeui.
Only then did they truly see his face—a young man with a kind expression, incongruous with the horror around him. He was no villain hiding behind a mask of goodness.
He was simply one born good, who lived in kindness—except in those moments when he could not.
In that dissonance, the Taeui disciples felt an overwhelming fear.
Tang Mujin remained until the hall was burned down to embers. Then he rose.
The three young men walked toward the Sect Leader. Despite himself, the man shrank back.
"My condolences for your father. But you know well—this was no senseless slaughter."
With those words, Tang Mujin turned and walked toward the gates.
The disciples shrank aside, opening the path for them.
Not a single man moved until the three had vanished from sight.
At last, silence fell.
The Sect Leader, hands trembling, raised his sword—only to cast it into the ashes.
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