After finishing my morning training, my clothes reeked of sour sweat. I opened the wardrobe to find a change of clothes. It was empty.
When the weather was hot, I would wash my martial robes at the well every two or three days. But now, the well water was as cold as ice, and I couldn't bring myself to put my hands in it.
Since I had only been changing out of my dirty martial robes without washing them, the two remaining sets were piled up as laundry, giving off a musty smell. Most wandering swordsmen lived like wild beasts. They rarely washed, and their clothes were like a second skin they hardly ever took off.
I used to be like that. I was a rootless man, drifting like a waterweed, and I never cared about such smells. Now that I had settled down and was living quite comfortably, the foul smell started to bother me.
Even if I did the laundry now, it would take a few days to dry. It seemed I needed to buy a few more sets of martial robes. I didn't know how cold this winter would be, so it seemed like a good idea to buy a padded cotton-stuffed outfit while I was at it.
Small cloth shops only sold fabric; they didn't have ready-made clothes. To get proper clothes, whether martial robes or long robes, I had to find a place of some size. Fortunately, there was a suitable cloth shop in the Western Village.
“Aigoo, it’s been a while, Great Hero.”
Bang Yong-seong, the owner of the Bang Cloth Shop, greeted me with good-natured flattery. My first meeting with Bang Yong-seong had been quite tense. If the misunderstanding hadn't been cleared up in time, I might have cut him down right there.
Fortunately, that didn't happen. As his eldest son, Bang Hojin, became friends with Gu-sam, I could now come and go without any issue.
“I’m here to buy clothes.”
“Please, come in and have a look. Our shop may not be the largest in the Western Village, but we have the widest selection of clothes. I'm sure you'll find something that catches your eye, Great Hero.”
Bang Yong-seong's boast was not an empty one. The walls and ceiling of the rather large shop were packed with a variety of clothes. Most were everyday clothes for common people.
The clothes for martial artists were displayed separately in one corner. Drab long robes. Colorful traveling clothes for women. ......
There were also various types of martial robes to suit different tastes. Sleeves long or short, wide or narrow, collars high enough to cover the whole neck or low... I preferred sleeves that were moderately narrow and short.
And the body should be a bit roomy, in case I needed to wear a leather vest underneath. I chose two sets of martial robes and a thick, padded winter outfit. All in black, so dirt wouldn't show.
As I was taking out my pouch, I noticed a pile of martial robes stacked haphazardly in a corner.
“Are those for sale too?”
"Of course."
“They don’t look new.”
“They’ve been worn by others, but they’ve been washed clean and are in good condition. Would you like to take a look?”
I picked up the black martial robe on top of the pile and unfolded it. It showed signs of use and the color had faded slightly, but compared to the clothes I was wearing, it wasn't in bad shape. There were no tears or holes.
It seemed good enough for comfortable wear during saber practice.
“How much is this one?”
Bang Yong-seong named a price. It was one-third the cost of the new martial robes I had just bought. It was too cheap for the condition of the clothes.
There was a reason for the low price. Since all the clothes were black, it wasn't easy to see, but upon closer inspection, I could see a long, stitched-up mark. It was around the lower abdomen when worn.
The left side was also stitched. This wasn't from natural wear and tear. These were marks from a blade.
I brought the martial robe to my nose and sniffed. It seemed they had been soaked in lye for a long time to get rid of the smell of blood, as a pungent odor still lingered. The other martial robes were the same.
Only the location of the stitches differed—chest, back, arm, waist. A large, navy blue martial robe, clearly worn by a massive man, was in a terrible state. The chest, stomach, back, waist, and sides were all covered in hideous stitches, like centipedes had been plastered all over it.
Whoever it was, they must have been surrounded by many and hacked to pieces.
“Where did all these come from?”
After glancing once at the door, Bang Yong-seong lowered his voice.
“You know about that big fight between the dark path factions in the mountains outside the Western Village a while back, right?”
The night the Underworld Information Clan had plotted against the Choi Family Manor. The Blood Snake Gang and Heaven-Shattering Sect, who had joined hands with Choi Sa-deuk, went to attack the Black Night Gang but were ambushed in the mountains and nearly wiped out.
“These are the clothes from there.”
He was saying these were the clothes worn by the martial artists of the Blood Snake Gang and Heaven-Shattering Sect.
“Why are they... here?”
“The officials stripped them. Well, they didn't do it themselves. They brought in some contractors to collect everything. Swords and blades are the most valuable, but I heard martial robes also bring in a decent profit.”
“What about the consequences?”
“It’s the officials’ business, so would there be any trouble? I don’t know if the robes had any faction names on them, but even if they did, they would have removed them all. As you can see, they’re clean. Just like any other martial robes.”
“Did you wash and mend them yourself?”
Bang Yong-seong let out a hollow laugh and waved his hands.
“Oh my, do you think I know how to do such things? A business that deals with leather did it. I just buy them and sell them with a small margin, so I don't know the details.”
I had been a wandering swordsman for a long time, but this was a first. Taking a dead man's belongings was common in the martial world. It wasn't unheard of to even strip their clothes.
I never knew where all those clothes went. I just assumed they were roughly washed and worn, but I never imagined it was like this. The pile of dead men's martial robes was as desolate as a grave.
It was strangely chilling, as if the skins of the beasts known as martial artists had been stripped off and tanned. If I were to be struck down and die somewhere, the clothes I'm wearing now would also be stripped off and end up in a pile like this. Such pointless sentiments filled my mind with unease.
“... Does anyone buy these?”
“Of course. They’re so cheap, we can't keep them in stock. Half of what we received is already gone.”
Clothing wasn't as expensive as weapons, but it wasn't cheap either. The poor had to endure the scorching summer sun and the harsh winter cold with just one set of clothes. Even wandering swordsmen who felt uneasy about touching the blood-stained clothes of the dead would probably shut their eyes and buy them if they were this cleanly mended.
When those men died, their clothes would be stripped off and come back here again. Continuously, as if being passed down from one generation to the next, until they became rags and could no longer be worn… * Seven days later, the woodcutter returned with more firewood as promised.
Seeing the shed filled to the brim with kindling finally put my mind at ease. The smell of opium on the woodcutter was as strong as before. I paid for the firewood without a word.
Neither of us mentioned our encounter at the Wandering Swordsmen Inn. There was no good in knowing, and it wasn't my place to interfere.
“If you need more firewood, you can come to that place from before.”
“Are you there every day?”
“I’m there during the day.”
"I see."
I answered, but I thought we would probably not meet again. I had enough firewood, and by the time the shed was empty, the woodcutter would likely no longer be there. After training, I stopped by the Wind River Inn in the late afternoon as usual.
Pung-chil had left a few days ago for day labor, so the inn was empty. I wondered how the inn could stay in business like this, but it had many lodgers and did quite well in the evening. I heard it was also busy in the morning with nearby merchants coming for a simple bowl of white porridge.
Gu-sam's eyes sparkled as he poured tea into my cup.
“Have you heard the news, Great Hero?”
“Did something happen again?”
The Western Village was quite large and had no shortage of martial artists, so not a day went by quietly. Finding a body or two in the back alleys was hardly news anymore. Those who fell to a blade were mostly useless martial artists.
When they died, the only ones who cared were the hungry beasts in the mountain valleys.
“They say there’s someone selling opium in the Western Village. The Black Night Gang is furious and says they'll gut him alive if he's caught.”
I recalled the middle-aged martial artist who sold opium to the woodcutter at the Wandering Swordsmen Inn. I didn't know where he got the opium or what guts he had to be selling it, but he would probably meet an unwelcome end soon.
Even ferocious swordsmen who boasted they couldn't sleep without bathing in human blood every day knew how to control their anger in front of the local factions or schools that ruled the neighborhood.
No matter how skilled they were, if dozens of men surrounded and stabbed at them, they would end up as nothing more than a slab of meat in a butcher's shop.
A master who had reached a high realm might create a legendary tale of valor, like a wolf thrown among a flock of sheep, but the skills of wandering swordsmen were all more or less the same. Since he sold opium in someone else's territory, he wouldn't die a clean death if caught.
Cutting off his head and dismembering him would be the bare minimum. They would probably stick him on a pole and display him on the street as an example. With his own intestines or arm stuffed in his mouth.
A warning is most effective when it is as gruesome and brutal as possible. If they were lenient after their territory was violated, others would surely bare their fangs from all sides.
“Food’s ready!”
At the cook's call, Gu-sam quickly ran and brought the food. Rice with stir-fried vegetables and a clear soup with chicken. The white rice, eaten after a full day of training, was sweet even without much chewing.
As the weather grew colder, my spoon kept going back to the warm soup. As I was enjoying my rather satisfying meal, someone came looking for me. It was a servant employed by Geuk-hwan.
“I thought I said I wouldn't be taking any requests for a while?”
“Someone who might know about Jeok Chu-yeong has appeared. He asked me to inquire if you might be interested.”
“Who is it?”
The servant came closer and whispered.
“A guest has arrived from the Murim Alliance.”
“The Murim Alliance?”
At the sudden news, I put down my chopsticks and asked the servant for more details.
The 'Murim Alliance' was the largest organization in the martial world, with the Nine Great Sects at its core, and the Five Great Families and various small and medium-sized schools that claimed to be righteous sects from all over the Central Plains as its members.
While the Underworld Information Clan might have superior intelligence, the Murim Alliance was overwhelming in terms of martial power and organization. With just one or two of the Murim Alliance's strike teams, each filled with the rising stars of the Nine Sects, they could wipe out a small faction overnight.
I heard they had little power north of the Yellow River or south of the Yangtze River, which were the domains of the dark paths, but there were likely many who had clashed with Jeok Chu-yeong. I hastily finished the rest of my food and headed to the Deep Fragrance Pavilion with the servant.
Geuk-hwan was waiting for me in a detached house.
“Who has come?”
“An inspector.”
“Don’t tell me he’s here to inspect the Underworld Information Clan.”
Geuk-hwan shook his head, his face impassive.
“That’s impossible. Our clan is not affiliated with the Murim Alliance.”
What meaning did affiliation have? In the martial world, if you had power, you imposed your will. I heard the Murim Alliance was so large that it had over ten inspectors.
I didn't know their rank within the Alliance, but even the Underworld Information Clan couldn't treat them lightly.
“He requested our clan's cooperation. Since there are no sects affiliated with the Murim Alliance in the Western Village, he came to us.”
“Is there a reason you called me?”
“He wants to meet the house guests of our clan. Great Hero Won and the others were unavailable due to other matters, so I sent word to you, Great Hero Jeong.”
“Will I be able to find out about Jeok Chu-yeong?”
“You can ask him yourself.”
“Very well. Let’s go.”
The entrance to the inner room where the inspector was staying was guarded by two escorts dressed in the clothes of Murim Alliance members.
“Sir, someone from the Underworld Information Clan has arrived.”
“Let them in.”
As I entered the inner room, a tall, middle-aged man stood by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the sky. Even from behind, he looked like a real inspector. I had seen some mid-level executives of the Murim Alliance in Henan before.
They all wore the official uniform of the Alliance, made of dark blue silk with intricate gold embroidery. The inspector's attire was identical. He wore a hero's cap adorned with jade, and the sword at his waist was also ornate.
Although he was of an ambiguous mid-level rank, it was clear he had spent a fortune from head to toe to exude the authority of a high-ranking official. Even after Geuk-hwan and I entered, the inspector did not take his eyes off the sky.
He didn't seem to be deaf; it appeared he had a nasty habit of making people wait by dawdling over nothing. In such situations, speaking up would only be counterproductive. As I stood there quietly with Geuk-hwan, an unexplainable sense of unease caught my attention.
About a handspan below the back of the inspector's head. A vertically stitched mark in the very center of the upper part of his uniform caught my eye. Thinking I had seen wrong, I narrowed my eyes and focused intently.
It was definite. It was clearly a mark stitched with a needle and thread. It was about the length of three finger joints.
A wound just like that would be made if a sword went in and out. The threads at the cut were slightly frayed. It looked like it had been torn and stitched up not long ago.
Which meant he had fought recently… An inspector is also a martial artist, so his clothes could be torn by a blade, or he could be injured. The problem was that the location was a vital point.
A stab there, no matter how shallow, would sever the spine. It was impossible to survive. Did I see it wrong?
Perhaps a sword had just grazed him. Or maybe he dropped a dagger on his clothes after taking them off... I shook my head to dispel the suspicion, and then it suddenly occurred to me.
The martial robes of the dead martial artists I had seen at the cloth shop a few days ago.
“Ahem.”
The middle-aged man cleared his throat, unclasped his hands, and turned around. He had a stern and dignified face with a handsomely grown beard. The unidentified man wearing the clothes of a Murim Alliance inspector stared at me and asked.
“By any chance, are there opium dealers in the Western Village?”