Playtime of Madmen
Even in the darkness, the figure in black drawing a dagger was clearly visible.
But tracking the flying daggers with the naked eye was far harder than imagined—especially since it wasn't just one.
Ting—
Tang Mujin swung his sword and deflected the incoming dagger. The dagger's speed wasn't particularly fast, and luck was on his side, yet even so, he only managed to knock away two of the three.
His upper arm burned. One dagger had grazed past.
Immediately afterward, a numbing sensation spread across his arm, and then the pain quickly faded.
He didn't know what kind of poison it was, but there was no doubt the dagger was coated with one—one that spread with frightening speed.
Unlike Tang Mujin, who had been grazed, the monstrous figure casually deflected all three daggers and even glanced at him with a crooked grin.
Mujin felt relieved his companion wasn't hurt, yet that smug expression was irritating.
The strength seeped out of his numbed left arm.
And yet, Mujin felt oddly satisfied. Acquiring poisons was far more troublesome than gathering medicinal herbs, and now poison had conveniently come rolling to him for free.
He stirred his inner energy, drawing the venom into isolation. The feeling returned to his left arm at once.
The black-clad men threw their daggers again.
This time, five of the six blades flew toward the monstrous figure. They must have thought Mujin was already incapacitated.
His companion skillfully parried the daggers, but let one slice his calf, even staggering slightly with an exaggerated "Oops" expression—as if the words were written across his forehead. It was a performance too shameless to believe.
"Cowardly bastards…!"
He cried out while limping, but still the black figures did not rush in.
Instead, they kept their distance, hurling daggers relentlessly.
Both Mujin and his companion accumulated small wounds. The only difference was that Mujin was hit because he couldn't avoid them, while the other deliberately took them.
Only when the assassins had exhausted their daggers did they draw their swords and advance. They looked less like martial artists and more like hunters closing in on prey.
The moment they came close, Mujin and his companion sprang forward in unison, unleashing the first stance of the Heart-Soul Sword.
Coincidentally, both chose the same technique—Jem (尖).
The supremely simple thrust pierced straight into two assassins' hearts. Mujin's execution of Jem was in no way inferior to his companion's.
"!"
Two fell in an instant. Still, the black-clad men uttered not a word, though their movements grew rigid.
"Surprised the poison didn't work, aren't you?"
Mujin shouted triumphantly and unleashed the next form—Sparrow Wasp. A light feint, followed by a sharp strike, pierced through an assassin's throat.
Grrrk. The man collapsed, gurgling blood.
Mujin turned his head. His companion had, of course, already claimed a second victim.
When the six were reduced to two, Dan Seol-yeong cried out from the tree above.
"East! There's someone just watching, not joining the fight!"
Despite the blood-soaked battle raging beneath her, Seol-yeong calmly fulfilled her role—keeping watch over their surroundings instead of fighting.
"Excellent!" the companion shouted back.
He abandoned the two remaining assassins and dashed toward the eastern direction.
Mujin thought he'd have to face the two alone, but to his surprise, both lunged not at him, but at his companion. Their intent was clear—he was their true target.
Mujin hastily snatched a fallen dagger and hurled it.
Empowered by the principles of Yu Do Gong (Art of Deliberate Escape), the dagger struck one assassin's back. Another followed—both collapsed after twitching briefly.
Mujin felt an odd sense of futility.
All his years of training in the Heart-Soul Sword, yet a half-trained side skill of throwing daggers had dealt with them more efficiently. Of course, it was only possible because the enemies' eyes were fixed elsewhere.
While Mujin collected the scattered poisoned daggers, his companion dragged back the corpse of the hidden easterner he had slain.
Seven bodies now lay about. The stench of blood filled the air.
"Wouldn't it have been better to keep one alive?" Mujin asked.
"They bit down on poison before we could grab them. Too late to draw it out."
Not one of the seven had spoken a word, even in death. It was chilling.
"Shall we return to Jewon?" Mujin suggested.
"No."
"Then where?"
To Mujin, the mastermind behind the attack was obvious: Baek Choo-seo or Baek Hyanga.
But his companion wasn't certain. He knew he had far too many enemies to narrow it down so easily.
Instead of answering, he stripped one of the corpses, revealing a tattoo of a butterfly etched on the nape.
His brow furrowed deeply. But in the darkness, with his head lowered, Mujin and Seol-yeong couldn't see his expression.
After long thought, he shook his head.
"Better to head for Luoyang. These kinds won't dare rampage in the city."
"But once we leave Luoyang, trouble could start again?"
"I'll handle that. You and Seol-yeong just wait in Luoyang."
"Will you be fine alone, elder?"
"For a brat like you it's impossible, but for me—it's more than enough."
"…The way you talk, really."
His voice brimmed with confidence.
And in Mujin's experience, when this man spoke with such confidence, things never went wrong.
Like a child trusting his parent implicitly, Mujin had, over the past months, come to place unshakable faith in him.
After all, this was a man who could defeat even top masters with ease.
"How long will it take?"
"Who knows. Once I'm done, I'll return. In the meantime, stay in Luoyang and broaden your horizons. You and Seol-yeong will be welcomed as guests anywhere."
"Guests?"
"Yes."
Luoyang in Henan, along with Chang'an in Shaanxi, was one of the greatest cities of the Central Plains.
It teemed with people, healers and patients, blacksmiths—and martial artists most of all. Nearly every sect of renown had a foothold in Luoyang. Even the Martial Alliance had settled there.
Medicine, metallurgy, martial arts—Luoyang was unmatched for training in them all.
"Almost any household or sect will take you in. You could go to Huashan's Luoyang branch, or stay with the Sima clan. Or even lodge at an inn and hone your talents. But don't go to Wudang's branch or Emei's branch."
"Why not those two?"
"Wudang doesn't take women, and Emei's Luoyang branch is old and crawling with bugs."
The reason was so practical that Mujin and Seol-yeong nodded.
No one likes waking up to centipedes.
Then, his companion pulled out a book from his robe and handed it to Mujin—an herbal manual written at Shaolin while they had repaired the wooden dummies.
"Of course, I don't mean for you to idle. Memorize this book before I return."
"Piece of cake." Mujin spoke with confidence, and the elder smiled in satisfaction.
"One more thing—when I finish, I may not return right away. I might have personal matters to attend to."
"What kind of matters?"
"Personal ones. If I'm gone too long, leave Luoyang and go to Huizhou in Gansu. There you'll find a peculiarly large walnut tree. Beneath it, I'll hide two more manuals. Learn those, and with all three you can claim to be the greatest healer in the Central Plains."
At the words "greatest healer," Mujin's chest swelled with excitement. What a beautiful promise. And knowing this man, it wasn't just empty talk.
And yet… something about it struck him as strange.
The way he handed over the book, the way he spoke of distant futures—wasn't it almost like a farewell?
Though there was no one nearby who might overhear, Tang Mujin unconsciously lowered his voice and asked,
"Elder… there isn't something you can't tell me, is there?"
The old monster gave him a look that said are you serious? and retorted,
"Do you take me for your nanny? From Sichuan all the way here, there are more than a few things I've put off handling."
"All right, all right. Just finish quickly and come back."
"Anyone listening would think I was leaving this very moment. I'll rest a bit before going."
"Sure. Do as you please."
"When you wake up and I'm gone, don't bawl like a child."
"They say Tiaowei Chengqi Decoction is good for patients who talk nonsense."
The group dragged the seven corpses aside and lay down.
The faint odor of blood lingered on the ground, but before long it faded, replaced by the stronger scent of grass.
The three lay beneath the stars, exchanging idle chatter.
Trivial talk. The cooking at the inn they'd stayed in a few days before. Things they wanted to do when they returned to Sichuan. The silly habits of an old lady from their hometown.
Dan Seol-yeong's weary voice was the first to fade. Mujin's followed soon after.
And then the monster, too, fell silent.
Only much later, amid the noisy chorus of insects, did he stir and sit up.
The butterfly tattoo he had seen earlier rose again in his mind. The mark of Salmak.
Salmak was on a different level than the petty riffraff like the Black Wolf Sect they'd clashed with before.
Their notoriety was such that even rash young martial artists steered clear of them.
They were large, cunning, systematic. Always posting watchers who stayed out of the fray.
For some reason, they had sent only small fry this time, but they had no shortage of skilled assassins.
Will Salmak come again?
He wasn't sure. They had tested him before and then gone quiet for a time. But there was no guarantee it would be the same this time.
That uncertainty gnawed at him.
It was precisely to spare his successor from the web of grudges entangling his own life that he had never formally taken Tang Mujin as disciple.
To allow Mujin to inherit enmity with Salmak—that would be absurd.
Mujin had to live on, and fulfill the dream the monster could not.
At least it seems Salmak isn't targeting those two. That's a relief.
He touched the ground where he had lain. A faint warmth remained—along with the subtle seeping of poison qi, leaking from him unconsciously.
Proof his body was near its limit.
From his youth, he had recklessly cultivated his poison arts without proper medicine to temper them. That was the price.
At best, three years of life remained.
Not long.
But long enough—more than enough—to finish what had to be done.
He rose quietly, gazing at Mujin and Seol-yeong for a long time, memory stirring.
The young healer he'd met in some backwater Sichuan village.
The old beggar and young beggar he'd encountered in Jueul.
Rainy Chongqing, the fool who'd stolen Mujin's sword, the wooden dummies of Shaolin.
Man Liksung's anxious voice asking if he had done something rash.
The monster smiled.
Yes. Old friend. The time has come to do what I put off.
The past months had been enjoyable.
Not since his wife and daughter died of illness thirty years ago had he felt such joy.
But as sorrow and hardship have their end, so too must joy.
And so, quietly, he departed.
The end of autumn.
The playtime of a madman was over.