Chongqing
The Dengxianlou master answered casually.
"It's nothing complicated. In Chongqing, the Beggar's Sect is dominated by the Clean-Clothes Faction."
The Clean-Clothes Faction… Hong Geolgae searched his memory. He remembered Ma jeonggae once telling him about the two factions: the Clean-Clothes Faction and the Dirty-Clothes Faction.
The Beggar's Sect was split in two.
The Clean-Clothes Faction argued that being a beggar was merely the starting point of the Sect. Wearing clean clothes and acting like an ordinary martial sect was no problem at all.
The Dirty-Clothes Faction insisted that the Sect's identity as "the sect of beggars" must be preserved. To do so, disciples had to wear filthy clothes and live as ordinary beggars who begged for a living.
Ma jeonggae had never said which side was right.
Looking back, perhaps he'd never had a choice to begin with. He wasn't the type of man to be shrewd or calculating.
Instead, he had quietly upheld the traditions of the Dirty-Clothes Faction, and taught Hong Geolgae to live by that way as well.
"…I see. In Chongqing, are there many disciples like you, running taverns and shops?"
"You could say nearly every riverside tavern along the Yangtze is held by Beggar's Sect disciples. There aren't any mid-tier sects strong enough to challenge us here. There are some water bandits, yes, but actual clashes are rare."
The Dengxianlou master's words implied something.
The Beggar's Sect had used overwhelming force to seize control of the massive city of Chongqing.
It sounded absurd, yet also strangely believable. Both thoughts clashed in Hong Geolgae's mind at once.
He shifted the topic.
"The beggars under the bridge said they weren't disciples of the Sect. Why is that?"
"Because they haven't paid the entrance fee."
"Entrance fee? You mean you have to pay to join the Sect?"
"That's right. But it isn't much. Only one silver coin. Anyone can save that much with some effort."
One silver coin. Not a fortune for the wealthy, but to a beggar it was immense.
People might toss a beggar a few coppers, but who would ever give them silver?
To beggars who struggled even to guard the scraps they had, who barely scraped together a meal, gathering a hundred copper coins for a single silver piece was no simple matter—it was nearly impossible.
Hong Geolgae's voice sharpened.
"So every Clean-Clothes disciple must pay money to be accepted?"
"Not everywhere. That's only the policy of Red-Faced Old Beggar."
"Red-Faced Old Beggar?"
"Yes. He's the Deputy Chief who oversees the central region. His words were: 'Being a beggar is no excuse for lacking effort. One silver coin symbolizes restraint, diligence, and ambition. Anyone unwilling to show even that much resolve has no place in the Sect.'"
"…Does that make sense? The Beggar's Sect is supposed to be the sect of beggars."
"And what of it? Just because someone once rolled in the dirt at the bottom, must they roll there forever? Isn't it natural that those who strive should be respected—even in the Sect? Surely you know this, being a Three-Knot disciple yourself."
Hong Geolgae stared blankly at the Dengxianlou master.
There's no reason a beggar cannot strive. True enough. Hadn't he himself endured hardship and pushed through, learning martial arts under Goiyi until he reached this point?
And yet, something felt wrong.
What was this feeling?
The answer was simple: alienation.
The Beggar's Sect he had heard of from Ma jeonggae, the one he had lived by in Jueul Village, was utterly distant from the Beggar's Sect of Chongqing.
Which one was right? Or perhaps the question of right and wrong didn't even apply here.
The Dengxianlou master shrugged.
"I don't blame you for struggling to understand. Outsiders often hear this and get angry."
"Mm."
"But let's leave the philosophy for later. First, you should eat. The cooks aren't busy yet, so I'll have a meal and wine brought up."
"No, that won't be necessary."
Hong Geolgae waved his hand.
He couldn't say whether the Dengxianlou master was right or wrong, but he wasn't ready to adapt to such a way of life. Not yet.
The master didn't insist.
"As you wish. Then, do you have any other questions?"
Finally, Hong Geolgae asked what had been weighing on his heart.
"Have you ever heard the name Ma jeonggae?"
The master scratched his chin thoughtfully but couldn't give a clear answer.
"Ma jeonggae… It sounds familiar, but I can't place it. Was he someone who lived in Chongqing?"
"Yes. A long time ago."
"How long ago?"
"About twenty years, I believe."
"Then it would be better to ask someone older. These days I run this tavern and hear much, but in the past I wasn't very attentive to rumors."
"…I understand."
Hong Geolgae bowed politely in thanks.
There were no particularly old workers in Dengxianlou. Most of the people in the tavern district were young, in the prime of their working years.
So he soon returned to the bridge. The bridge felt far more comfortable than the tavern district anyway.
There, he spotted a beggar who looked a little over fifty.
Not as old as he'd hoped, but perhaps old enough to know of Ma jeonggae.
When Hong Geolgae approached, the middle-aged beggar flinched instinctively.
"Wait, I'm not here to hurt you. I just have a question."
"I'm illiterate. I don't know anything you'd want to ask…"
"It's nothing like that. I just want to ask if you know someone."
"Someone? Who…?"
"Do you know the name Ma jeonggae? A four-knot disciple—Sa-knot ."
The beggar thought for a while, then clapped his hands.
"Ma jeonggae! He's ten, maybe fifteen years older than me, right? Face a little too neat for a beggar, always hanging around the hemp fields outside the village. That fellow?"
"Yes! That's him."
By sheer luck, he had found someone who knew Ma jeonggae right away.
The confusion clouding his mind lifted instantly.
Hearing the familiar name, the beggar even smiled, his tone becoming easier.
"I knew him when I was young. But you've been misinformed."
"What do you mean?"
"Brother Ma jeonggae wasn't a four-knot disciple. He was a one-knot."
"…What?"
Hong Geolgae's eyes widened.
"That can't be. I clearly saw four knots."
"No, one knot. Maybe two, if my memory's failing. But never three or more. To rise above three knots, you need martial skill."
Hong Geolgae hesitated.
"But I was told Master Ma jeonggae knew martial arts…"
"No. He never learned. He was too slow-witted to find a teacher. Heartbroken, he spent his days hiding out in the hemp fields, wasting away. That's how he got the nickname Ma jeonggae."
The suspicions Hong Geolgae had long harbored began to take shape.
A four-knot disciple's rank was that of Protector (호법)—one who guarded high-ranking leaders, whether the Chief or the Deputy Chief.
Naturally, such a position required great martial ability.
But when they had faced the Jayang Twins, the martial skill Ma jeonggae had shown was—honestly speaking—pitiful. Even to his disciple's eyes, it had been unimpressive.
The truth was plain. Ma jeonggae and Hong Geolgae were an insignificant master and disciple.
That was why they had been helpless before the Jayang Twins, who weren't renowned masters but, at best, second-rate fighters.
Hong Geolgae's doubts had only sharpened as he learned martial arts from Goiyi.
Unlike Goiyi, Ma jeonggae had never once taught him inner cultivation methods or footwork.
All he ever did was make him swing a cudgel every day and teach him some clumsy, awkward drills.
Hong Geolgae's expression darkened.
"Master…"
The middle-aged beggar, oblivious to his turmoil, chattered on with great excitement.
"Now that I think about it, back when I was young, there were beggars searching for that fellow. Said he'd stolen something valuable and run away."
It was the last thing Hong Geolgae wanted to hear.
Even among beggars, theft was considered a sin. If one stole from the wealthy, it was at least somewhat understandable. But stealing from fellow beggars—who already lived on the brink of starvation—was unforgivable.
This was not the story Hong Geolgae had hoped for.
He had wanted to tell someone who knew his master about his master's brave final moments. He wanted those who remembered his master's youth to cherish a noble memory of him.
In return, he had wanted to hear the master's old stories—things he had never known. He wanted to share in remembering together.
That way, perhaps, the void left by his master could be filled, if only a little.
But while Hong Geolgae said nothing, the tactless beggar babbled on.
"I don't know exactly what Brother Ma jeonggae stole, but Granny Yong, who lives downstream, would know. She knows every rumor, never forgets a thing. Shall we go now?"
"…No. That won't be necessary."
The truth was plain.
Hong Geolgae's hand strayed, out of habit, to his waist. His fingers touched the rope with its three knots.
Suddenly, unbearably, the rope felt shameful. What meaning could three knots hold, tied by a one-knot beggar?
Looking back, Ma jeonggae had never needed much reason to tie those knots.
When Hong Geolgae was too weak from hunger, he tied the first knot, telling him to hold on.
When he barely survived a fever, he tied the second, saying it was a blessing he had lived.
On his fifteenth birthday, he tied the third, declaring him the branch leader of Jueul Village.
It was laughable. That Dengxianlou master had only just received his second knot the year before.
"…Still, Brother Ma jeonggae was a good man! Never told lies, never hit anyone. Even if he was called a thief, he never once stole from me."
The beggar rambled nostalgically, but to Hong Geolgae, it felt as if every beggar under the bridge was mocking him and his master. Slowly, he backed away—from the man, from the bridge, from them all.
Soon, the downpour veiled the beggar's figure until it vanished.
Shaa—
Rain poured as if the heavens themselves had cracked open. Hong Geolgae sank down by the swollen banks of the Yangtze. Tears poured from his eyes without end.
He had thought his days in Chongqing would bring satisfaction.
Because he had become a Three-Knot at such a young age.
Because he had come to his master's hometown.
Because he had entered a place filled with beggars.
But it had all been a delusion.
He was not truly a Three-Knot. He wasn't even acknowledged as a disciple of the Sect—he hadn't even paid the one silver coin entrance fee.
And the master he had cherished as family was nothing more than a thief who had fled his hometown.
Suddenly, something surged violently within his chest. He leapt to his feet.
"Damn it! Daaamn it!"
He screamed curses into the storm. But no matter how loudly he shouted, no matter how drenched he became, nothing eased the ache inside.
He tore the rope from his waist, ripping away the knots. Once so precious, they now meant nothing.
Rumble—
Thunder boomed.
He raised the rope high, about to hurl it away—but in the end, he could not throw it. He lowered his head instead.
Instead, he walked to the riverbank. The Yangtze, swollen and violent, roared as if ready to burst its banks.
Sobbing, he thrust his fist—still clutching the knotted rope—into the water.
Then, slowly, he opened his hand.
The long rope, with its three knots, slipped into the current and was swept away.
Before long, it was gone from sight.
Hong Geolgae wept until the dawn.