I was exactly eleven years old. I still remember it vaguely. The day I lost my parents to a flood and was dragged away by a distant relative, forced to turn my back on the hometown where I was born and raised.
That damn day. I didn't want to leave. It was a terribly destitute and poor neighborhood, but for me, there was a small future in the form of Sister Soso who lived nearby.
I planned to propose to her when I grew up. Even now, I sometimes get lost in futile daydreams. I wonder what it would have been like if that distant relative had been killed by bandits, a tiger, or a venomous snake on his long journey, and had turned his steps toward the distant afterlife.
If that had happened, the bandits would have made money and the tiger would have filled its belly. I would have grown up sturdily like a weed in my hometown and married into the home of Sister Soso, who was an only daughter.
We would have had sons and daughters and lived quite happily together, but this damn dog of a world was never on my side, then or now. Among the countless bandits and beasts swarming in every mountain valley, not a single one attacked that bastard.
Perhaps they saw he was dirt poor and had nothing worth taking, so they couldn't be bothered to move. After that, I regretted it thousands, tens of thousands of times, grinding my teeth. I should have taken a kitchen knife, crept up behind him, and slit that damn bastard's throat.
It's a horrible thing for an eleven-year-old to do, but if I had known he was going to sell me to a gambling den, I probably would have grabbed the knife without hesitation.
That son of a bitch, who I had never seen before in my life and who claimed to be something like my father's fourth cousin's eighth nephew, was a gambling addict.
He was a piece of human trash who was so addicted to the thrill of holding and squeezing the tiles that he had not only lost his entire fortune but had also sold off his wife and daughter.
He had come to borrow money, but upon finding me, an orphan, he ruined my life for a few coins without a moment's hesitation. Naturally, I resisted, saying I wouldn't go. It was useless.
At that time, I couldn't win against a grown man. Even after talking to him, I doubted if he was a real relative, but he wore a sword at his waist, so even Sister Soso's family couldn't stop him. After a tearful farewell, I was dragged along, sleeping on the streets for a month, to a shabby gambling den.
It was like a waiting room for hell, a place where life's losers and thugs stop by before they go to meet the King of the Underworld. I was sold to that place.
That son of a bitch who called himself a distant relative took one silver tael as my price right in front of me and joined a gambling table. A gambling den was no place for a child to be sold to.
At first glance, it seems better than a group of assassins like a guild of assassins, or the Demonic Sect of the Heavenly Mountains. But in the sense that there was no chance to become stronger, it might have been the worst.
While kidnapped orphans became assassins in the guild of assassins and demonic warriors in the Demonic Sect, I did menial chores in the gambling den. I was also used in scams, like spiking drinks with drugs or secretly peeking at a mark's tiles and signaling with prearranged gestures.
If I didn't do my job properly, I would be beaten black and blue. One day, unable to bear it any longer, I secretly ran away. The security at the gambling den's dormitory was surprisingly lax.
Without looking back, I sprinted out of the city. When I was trapped in the gambling den, I was like an arrow pulled taut, aimed at my hometown. I thought that as soon as I was free, I would fly there like a shot.
I did run, but I didn't get far. My hometown was far, far away. I didn't know the way and had no money.
Even begging wasn't easy. Wherever I went, there were beggars who had claimed the territory. I had to flee after being hassled by them, unable to even beg once.
The price of freedom was starving for three straight days. I returned to the gambling den, figuring that if I was going to die, I might as well die after eating my fill. For some reason, the owner didn't beat me.
He silently looked down at my wretched state, then took me to the kitchen and gave me a bowl of white rice and stir-fried vegetables with tofu. He didn't say a word, even watching me devour it greedily. He knew without me saying it.
With that one bowl of rice, he had fastened an invisible leash around my neck. After that, the owner never laid a hand on me. There was no need to.
Instead, that son of a bitch, the fake relative who sold me, beat me. He would show up occasionally, holding out his hand and demanding a finder's fee for arranging my job. He acted with the shameless audacity of a savior, even though he had forcibly kidnapped and sold me.
He robbed me of every last coin I had painstakingly collected, bit by bit, from customers who were excited after a big win. He would take that money, get drunk, and come back with a flushed face, then beat me like crazy, calling me an ungrateful brat. After suffering that a few more times, something finally snapped.
I finally did what I should have done before leaving my hometown. When I came to my senses, that son of a bitch was a corpse, sprawled out in a dirty alley. I was holding a kitchen knife dripping with blood, panting heavily like a wildcat.
It was the first murder of my life. It was long overdue, but it was bound to happen someday. Looking back, that guy wasn't even a martial artist.
Just an irredeemable gambling addict. A wretched piece of human trash who ruined his own life and took out his frustrations on an innocent kid. That pathetic weakling, who looked like he'd lose a fight with a tough housewife, was as terrifying to my younger self as a Great Demon from the Heavenly Mountains.
After killing him, I felt like I understood how a great hero in the epic tales felt after defeating a villain from an evil sect. For a few days, I was anxious that I would be caught by the authorities. Fortunately, that didn't happen.
A murdered corpse showing up in the entertainment district was as natural as fruit growing on a tree. The Officials were also indifferent to the death of a worthless nobody from the bottom rungs of society. They didn't even try to find the killer.
The case was closed by loading the body onto an oxcart, covering it with a straw mat, and dumping it far away. Maybe it was because I had vented my pent-up resentment, but strangely, things started going well for me after that first murder.
I was praised a lot for being quick and nimble, and the number of times I received small change from customers increased. The gambling den, which had felt like a huge prison, became a tolerable place to live. My expression, which had always been gloomy and sullen, became quite slick.
My body was still far from fully grown, but I felt like my mind had matured greatly. I also found a goal in life. To become a gambling master, I practiced with tiles in my spare time and observed the expressions and habits of the gamblers.
After about a year, when I became able to roughly guess the value of the tiles someone was holding just by looking at their face, the owner gave me a chance.
“I thought you only had a good face, but your eyes are sharp too. Good. Practice your hand skills a bit more, and you can sit at the table starting next year.”
When you become a gambling master, one-third of the winnings is yours. Of course, if you lose, you accumulate a debt equal to the stakes. I was confident.
My hand skills were still lacking. But my ability to read the tiles was far better than the other gambling masters. As I practiced desperately, I went beyond simply guessing the value of the tiles and reached a state where I could see what hand my opponent held reflected on their face.
This might not seem like much, but it was a great help later on after I became a martial artist. Whether you're fighting with tiles or swinging a sword, it's still something humans do. If you can read your opponent's inner thoughts by looking at their face, you can always move a step ahead.
That way, you're less likely to be stabbed in the back. It's also easier to get out of the worst situations. I honed my tile skills, even sacrificing my sleeping hours, dreaming of the glorious moment I would return to my hometown as a famous and wealthy gambler.
But I never got to sit at the table. Because exactly six months later, the gambling den was destroyed. It was because they failed to manage the customers properly.
In a corner of the gambling den, which was growing more heated as the night deepened, a sucker who had lost his money erupted in rage and shouted. This was a common occurrence in the gambling den. It was a minor disturbance that would usually end with a guard coming in to drag the sucker out.
It was a scene I had witnessed countless times, so no one paid any mind. Everyone was focused only on the tiles in their hands, afraid their opponent might cheat if they looked away even for a moment. But this time, things didn't go that way.
“How dare you use such petty tricks against me! You must be prepared to meet the King of the Underworld!”
The middle-aged man glaring at the gambling master while holding his wrist looked exactly like a sucker. A slightly plump, ordinary build. A weak-looking face like a scholar's. The only peculiar thing was that both his hands were abnormally large, not matching his body.
“Aaaargh!!”
When the sucker clenched his fist, the gambling master's wrist was torn off as if bitten by a tiger. The two guards who approached to throw the sucker out were sent flying in opposite directions. They slammed their heads against the wall with a loud thud, then went limp, bleeding.
I couldn't even see what he had done. The gamblers holding their tiles finally jumped up from their seats in fright. The sucker, having finished crushing the gambling master's head, turned around.
His face, which looked like it should be quoting the words of a great sage, was filled with a crazed killing intent. It was as if he were about to tear them limb from limb while holding them to a strict moral standard, saying, “You have failed to uphold the moral code again today, haven't you?”
White steam rose from his bizarrely large fists. Something bulged beneath the shirt covering his forearms and shoulders. It was as if his arms and shoulders were gradually growing larger.
A monster like that should have been weeded out at the entrance. The guards at the front of the gambling den weren't just big and intimidating. They also had exceptionally sharp eyes.
And yet, they had missed him. The owner was no different in failing to recognize the danger. He watched the sucker with cold eyes before calling for the swordsmen.
The swordsmen who rushed in to earn their keep for the first time in a while were finished before they could do anything. With a few light punches, the heads of three swordsmen burst simultaneously like watermelons. Red blood and white brain matter brutally stained the floor, walls, and ceiling.
The more the sucker used his fists, the redder and hotter they grew. Only then did someone shout with a deathly pale face.
“Explosive Flame Fist? The Explosive Flame Demon?”
“So there's someone in this damned gutter who actually has eyes in his head. As a special treat, I'll kill you last!”
The Explosive Flame Demon, Mok Saryong. I found out later that he wasn't some mid-level master from an unorthodox faction, but a demon lord from the Demonic Sect. A gambling addict who loved gambling so much that he supposedly spent more days in the Central Plains than in the Heavenly Mountains.
A murderer who always ranked high on the most wanted list issued by the Alliance. The object of longing for the ambitious young disciples of famous righteous sects, who yearned to meet him even more desperately than Heeyue of the Blue Moon Pavilion. The bounty on his head alone was a staggering 500 silver tael.
The walking pile of silver tael, Mok Saryong, blocked the only exit with his back to it and massacred the swordsmen and gamblers. With each punch, a head was shattered. Limbs were torn off.
A blow to the torso was even more horrific. A fist would pierce through the back, rip through the chest, and tear out the heart. The intense Yang energy radiating from his fists heated the air of the spacious room as if it were the dead of winter.
Everywhere his fists passed, the stench of burning flesh stung my nose. The reek of blood was overwhelming. I had never in my life seen such a terrifying and overwhelming sight.
It was as if hell had opened up. It was like a punisher from hell inflicting judgment upon the sinful gamblers. The heat from the Explosive Flame Fist set the surrounding furniture on fire.
The room blazed as hot as hell itself. Even knowing it was a demonic art, I still don't understand how a human could do such a thing. Perhaps he was something else wearing human skin.
I froze in place while carrying a bottle of liquor. As I stood there, half-dazed and captivated by a mixture of terror and wonder, hot blood splattered onto my face. Startled, I flailed my arms and then realized.
My turn was next. There was no way a crazed murderer like that would spare me just because I was a kid. I finally snapped back to my senses.
I hid behind a gambling table, watched for an opening, and then darted into the kitchen. I climbed onto the unlit stove, squeezed through a small window, and escaped outside. The gamblers who followed me in also scrambled to get to the window.
As I ran desperately toward the mountain, I trembled and looked back at the horrific sound of a head being crushed and a desperate scream. There was no one outside the window. It was a window that even I, not yet fully grown, had struggled to squeeze my body through.
It was impossible for an adult to pass through it. I ran up the back mountain, covered myself with fallen leaves, and hid my body behind a rock. The screams from the gambling den died down quickly, as if he had killed all he wanted to kill.
With a dull roar, the door was smashed. Someone stepped out, treading on the shattered, flaming pieces of the door that were scattered about. It was a pitch-black, moonless night.
Even so, thanks to the intense light pouring out from inside, I could recognize his face even from a distance. The Explosive Flame Demon who had turned the gambling den into a fiery hell had grown incomparably larger than before. His physique now matched his enormous fists.
Whatever it was made of, the black robe he wore had only swelled up; it hadn't torn or caught fire. Mok Saryong looked up at the back mountain where I was hiding. A gruesome face covered in blood.
Eyes glittering like a beast's. A chill ran down my spine, making it hard to breathe. I felt like he would rush over at any moment and crush my head. I desperately suppressed my instinct to run and huddled in the fallen leaves.
Mok Saryong turned his gaze toward the other end of the alley. The onlookers who had been timidly poking their heads out flinched and hid. The patrolmen on their rounds blew sharp whistles.
The sound of footsteps grew hurried. Mok Saryong kicked off the ground and leaped onto the roof of the shop across the way. It was a light movement that didn't suit his massive build.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Leaping between the roofs, Mok Saryong vanished in an instant. The gambling den burned brightly all night long, along with dozens of corpses.
I couldn't tell if the owner was inside. Seeing as he didn't show up the next day, he was probably dead. The twists and turns I'd been through for over two years since being practically kidnapped and sold by that fake relative.
The neighborhood drifters and novices who stared at their tiles all night with bloodshot eyes. The hopeless suckers. The worthless guards and the swordsmen with no tomorrow.
The only job where I could eat two meals a day and save up some spare change. The future I had ambitiously prepared for as a gambling master, handling tiles until my hands cramped. All of it turned to ashes overnight.