Black-Clad Men
Until the three of them left Namgajang, no one had realized that the Lord of Namgajang was dead.
But it was only a matter of time before the body would be discovered, so they hurried out of the village.
"That was simpler than I expected."
"It'd be nice if things stayed simple, without any trouble."
They walked a little faster than usual, heading toward Luoyang.
As they traveled, Tang Mujin felt a tightening in his chest.
It wasn't that there was something wrong with his body. It was the sight of the Namgajang Lord's death still fresh in his eyes—and the unease that someone might pursue them over it.
In the months he had traveled with Goiyi, Tang Mujin had seen more than a few people die by the sword. He was no longer so soft that a death would weigh on his mind for days on end.
And yet, neither had he grown so numb that death felt ordinary. He wasn't sure he ever could.
Still, the gloom didn't last long.
Hong Geol-gae, sensing the heavy mood, rattled off joke after joke without pause, making it impossible to remain somber even if they tried.
Within a couple of hours, the stiff atmosphere lifted, and by the time they sat down for dinner, their mood was no different from usual.
The trouble came afterward.
Tang Mujin was about to spar with Hong Geol-gae when Goiyi, who had been lying down with his chin propped in one hand, sat up.
"As I thought, we've got company."
"What company?"
"Who else could it be?"
Without another word, Goiyi slipped behind a tree, leaving Tang Mujin and Hong Geol-gae standing awkwardly in the open.
Moments later, the "guests" he mentioned appeared.
From head to toe, they were shrouded in pitch-black cloth, with only holes cut for their eyes—the Black-Clad Men.
Tang Mujin tensed immediately. He had never encountered them before, but he had never heard of them appearing with good intentions either.
Indeed, each one carried a weapon, hands already on the hilts as if ready to draw at any moment.
They muttered among themselves.
"What the hell, wasn't it supposed to be three?"
"Yeah, the footprints were three."
"Let's see… only two brats here. Where's the old man?"
"You think you won't age too? Show some respect and call him Elder, you rude bastards."
Goiyi burst from the side, sword flashing. With a single strike, one man's head flew into the air.
The remaining three Black-Clad Men leapt back in alarm.
They stared at Goiyi. Then one of them recognized him.
"Shit—it's Lee Chung! Which bastard called him just some old man?"
"Who's Lee Chung?"
"Goiyi Lee Chung!"
"Damn it!"
At the mention of that infamous title, the three instantly abandoned the fight and turned to flee.
The name "Lee Chung" might have been plain, but the epithet "Goiyi" was far more widely feared.
Splitting in three directions, they bolted with astonishing speed.
The one who had recognized Goiyi ran the fastest and got the farthest.
Goiyi strode after him, speaking to Tang Mujin and Hong Geol-gae.
"I'll take the one in the middle. You two deal with the others."
"Can we win?"
"You'd better. Fail, and our journey will become a hell of a lot more troublesome. You won't even get proper sleep."
With that, Goiyi charged toward the center, while Tang Mujin and Hong Geol-gae each pursued their targets—Tang Mujin to the left, Hong Geol-gae to the right.
Tang Mujin's heart pounded, his head swirled with doubts. Could he possibly catch someone fleeing that fast? Would he get lost in the forest at night? And even if he caught up—could he actually win?
The fleeing Black-Clad Man ran so swiftly it felt less like a human and more like a four-legged beast.
And yet, strangely enough, Tang Mujin noticed the gap between them slowly closing.
Am I really this fast?
His training in the Jaunbo footwork must have paid off.
He recalled the early days of practice—staggering like a crippled patient, barely covering a few li in a whole day before collapsing in sweat. But now, his body moved fluidly on its own, springing into the technique the moment he thought of pursuit.
Sensing the pursuit closing in, the Black-Clad Man glanced back.
Their eyes met. In his gaze flickered a flash of relief.
He slowed, caught his breath, and even through the mask Tang Mujin could see the man grinning.
"What gave you the courage to follow? We only ran because of Goiyi—not because of you."
Taking two deliberate steps forward, the Black-Clad Man suddenly blurred, closing the distance like lightning, blade flashing free in a single motion. Iaido.
Tang Mujin half-drew his Danhon Sword and parried the strike. His stance was rough, but his defense was remarkably steady.
"Your reflexes are quick!"
The black blade slashed again and again. Forced onto the defensive, Tang Mujin blocked desperately.
His guard was stable, but mounting an attack was another matter.
Not because he hesitated or pitied his foe. The problem was the swordplay itself—the Black-Clad Man's techniques showed glaring openings, suspiciously easy to exploit.
Too easy. They looked like bait.
If he lunged for one, he imagined he'd meet the man's grinning face in a deadly counter.
"Ha ha!"
The Black-Clad Man, oblivious to Tang Mujin's caution, slashed all the more gleefully.
But victory never comes from blocking alone.
Tang Mujin steeled his resolve. If the openings were feints, he would retreat quickly. With that in mind, he launched a form of the Jashim Sword Technique.
He brushed aside a strike with fluid grace and thrust forward.
"Ugh!"
The Black-Clad Man flinched in alarm, throwing himself aside to avoid the blade. A feeble, almost laughable reaction. He staggered, then shouted with renewed bravado:
"So, the brat can swing a sword after all!"
Tang Mujin could tell now—those openings weren't feints.
He began to counter with thrusts of his own between blocks of the man's wild slashes.
As the exchange repeated itself, Tang Mujin—once on the defensive—found himself launching an offensive instead. The feeling was surreal.
"Am I really fighting this well?"
If anyone was more shaken, it was the Black-Clad Man. Barely fending off Tang Mujin's strikes, he suddenly leapt backward in haste.
Is he trying to run?
But this time Tang Mujin was wrong.
Retreating, the Black-Clad Man pulled throwing knives from somewhere and hurled them.
Three in total. One missed, one Tang Mujin parried with his blade, but one grazed his side. The darkness of the night had delayed his reaction to the movement.
The man's eyes curved like crescents as he grinned with satisfaction.
"You've clearly had some sword training, but this is the end. Feeling that sting in your side?"
As he said, Tang Mujin felt something strange there. The knives had been poisoned.
Keeping his distance, the man continued.
"It's poison drawn from the salamander Yongwon . Before half an hour passes, your whole body will go numb. You'll lie there, eyes wide, helplessly watching my blade pierce your neck. It won't even hurt."
He mocked Tang Mujin. Whenever it seemed Tang Mujin's steps faltered, he would dash in and slash, forcing him to move, stirring impatience, quickening the blood. The faster the blood, the quicker the poison spreads.
Tang Mujin steadied his mind, breathing slow, and blocked the attacks calmly.
At the same time, he turned his focus inward, observing the poison. Sure enough, he could sense it spreading from his side.
But compared to the poison of the Seven Treasures Sect, this is nothing.
Carefully, he guided his inner energy to draw the venom into his dantian. Having already endured a far more potent toxin, this one flowed easily into his Poison Core .
So naturally, in fact, that Tang Mujin wasn't sure—was he guiding it himself, was the Poison Core pulling it in, or was the salamander poison simply seeking it out?
As the fight dragged on, doubt crept onto the Black-Clad Man's once-confident face.
"Why are you still standing? Did you swallow an antidote pill?"
"Why don't you come check for yourself?"
Tang Mujin knew he couldn't let the man slip away again.
He slowed his pace, then suddenly exploded forward, charging in with a form of the Jashim Sword Technique.
"What the—!"
The man flinched, trying to leap away, but too late. Tang Mujin's blade drove through his abdomen.
Not a Heart-Piercing (Jashim) thrust, but a Belly-Piercing (Jabok) strike.
The Black-Clad Man staggered, then collapsed to the ground, blood gushing from his stomach and mouth.
"By a brat like this…?"
A belly wound was no mere injury—piercing the center of the abdomen, full of vital organs, meant that even with a doctor at hand, survival was unlikely.
The man stared up at Tang Mujin, eyes wide with disbelief.
His face twisted in agony, flushed red, veins bulging at his brow. His breath came in ragged gasps, short and harsh like a consumptive patient.
He fumbled at his waist, grasping the sheath of the throwing knives.
Lifting it, he tapped the sheath lightly against his wound—trying to draw on the lingering salamander poison to numb the pain.
But there wasn't enough poison left on the sheath for that.
Panting heavily, he clutched at his bleeding belly.
Tang Mujin watched a moment, then approached. The man shut his eyes and spoke.
"I know it's shameless… but grant me mercy. Make it quick. I hate pain."
Tang Mujin had no intention of sparing him, but there was no need to prolong his suffering.
He crouched beside him, pressed a palm to the wound. At once, the salamander poison was drawn from his core and seeped into the man's body.
"I said… kill me quickly…"
Confused, the man gasped—then slowly realized his pain was ebbing away.
He raised his head faintly to look at his abdomen.
Blood still spilled, his limbs were limp, his breath shallow.
But there was no pain.
At last he understood what Tang Mujin had done by laying his hand on the wound.
"So you're not just some brat… Thank you."
He closed his eyes and quietly accepted death.
Tang Mujin checked his pulse, confirmed the life was gone, and turned away.