Wucheong
Wucheong, one of Salmak's first-rate assassins, had found himself in a difficult situation.
Being assigned to the pursuit-kill squad targeting the Monster was, at first, perfect. Even better, he'd been given the role of scout.
The squad's composition was excellent, and success seemed guaranteed. Even if, by some chance, the mission failed, it wouldn't be much of a problem for Wucheong.
By principle, scouts weren't supposed to participate directly in combat; their role was to flee if things went wrong.
All he needed to do was observe from afar, and if the situation turned sour, slip away with his tail between his legs.
Since he wasn't directly tasked with the kill, even if the mission failed, he wouldn't be punished.
No risk, and a fat reward if the mission succeeded. Though he'd rolled around in Salmak for over a decade, never before had he landed such a sweet deal.
The problem came when all five assassins assigned to kill the Monster ended up dead.
'…What do I do?'
Whether the assassins died or not wasn't his concern. The important thing was that the Monster seemed to be dead. The only step left was to retrieve evidence of the assassination and return.
But that was exactly the issue — getting hold of evidence wasn't easy.
The surest proof would be the target's head. But around the Monster's body, slumped against a tree, the ground was blackened — suspicious no matter who looked.
'Poison? Or wait, is he even really dead?'
The Monster sat motionless.
He looked dead, but in another sense, he could have simply been asleep.
Wucheong started to approach, but then changed his mind and kept his distance, watching carefully.
This was, after all, the man who had killed several peak masters with bizarre methods. For someone like Wucheong, who had only just barely entered first-rate status, charging forward would be the same as handing over his head.
So he waited. A whole day passed, yet the Monster remained motionless.
Still, Wucheong didn't let his guard down. Unlike the other assassins, he knew the value of his own life.
Instead of rashly approaching, he drew a dagger and threw it at the Monster. The blade lodged itself squarely in his head.
'Good. Dead for sure.'
Wucheong crept toward the body.
But when he closed within five jang, he sensed a strange aura in the air. The black haze staining the Monster's face — poison, just as he suspected.
Panicking, he quickly retreated, sat in the cold wind, and circulated his energy to purge the toxins.
'If I hadn't expected poison, I'd be dead already.'
He hesitated.
He needed the Monster's head to prove mission success, but the poison prevented him from cutting it off.
'Should I just go back and explain?'
No. That wouldn't work. Salmak wasn't lax enough to accept claims without evidence.
Then there was only one option: wait until the poison thinned out, and when it was bearable, dart in, cut the head, and run.
The weather was cold, but he figured he could endure for a few days.
Wucheong stripped the fur coats from his fallen comrades and bundled himself up, then huddled near enough to keep watch on the Monster's body.
***
Tang Mujin, meanwhile, tracked the Monster's movements.
At first it seemed impossible, but to his surprise, he managed to follow the trail.
Qinghae Province had few people, and outsiders were rare. That, ironically, made the Monster more memorable.
"That man? Came through when winter started. Paid for a room, then slipped away within an hour toward the west. Never came back — thought he'd return to demand another free night, but he vanished."
"Yeah, I saw some lunatic swim downriver in the dead of winter. He must have collapsed afterward. Bet he suffered."
From piecing together accounts, Tang Mujin realized the Monster had wandered about Qinghae, pulling all kinds of eccentric stunts.
He had expected danger, since this was said to be tied to the Demonic Sect, but from the witnesses' tone, the man seemed almost to be enjoying himself.
'…Am I chasing a ghost for nothing?'
It didn't feel as perilous as he had imagined. He even considered just heading back to Chengdu.
'Maybe I'll idle there for half a year, then drop by the headquarters, fetch the books, and return.'
'No, better to stay in Huizhou, collect all three medical texts, then head back. What a triumphant return that would be — everyone would be in awe.'
With such thoughts, his pace slowed, his heart lighter.
Until a child told him something he couldn't ignore.
"That man? I saw him, but don't know where he went. But men in black clothes were also looking for him. Are they your friends?"
"Men in black clothes?"
"Yeah. Only their eyes showing. Five of them."
Tang Mujin's gut clenched. Assassins with butterfly tattoos — the same ones he had seen on the road to Luoyang. He had almost forgotten, but now it seemed they'd caught up.
'The old man wouldn't fall to the likes of them… right?'
Still, he couldn't be sure. Tang Mujin quickened his steps, chasing the Monster's trail.
***
As he entered more desolate lands, witnesses grew scarce.
So he relied on sensing poison lingering in the air.
As if expecting pursuit, the Monster had left faint traces of poison wherever he went. Not enough to harm more than small animals, but just enough that Tang Mujin could detect it.
He trudged on through the deep snow, until his foot caught on something.
Startled, he leapt back, thinking he had disturbed a hibernating beast.
But no — whatever it was, it didn't move. And it was large.
Brushing away snow, he found a corpse. A man in black.
And the poison was familiar — the Monster's.
'The old man killed him.'
Carefully scanning the area, he soon found three more bodies, drenched in poison, and another slain cleanly by a blade to the throat.
'As expected. The old man needs no worry.'
Relieved, Tang Mujin followed the poison's trail further.
Soon he spotted a large boulder, beside which a man sat dozing, bundled in furs.
'There he is.'
Tang Mujin crept up and smacked the man's back.
The man jumped up in fright. To Tang Mujin's shock — it wasn't the Monster.
"What the hell? Who are you?"
The man cursed. Tang Mujin awkwardly apologized.
"Ah, sorry. Thought you were someone I knew."
"Sorry my ass. You think that fixes it?"
Shrrng. The man drew his blade.
Tang Mujin flinched but instinctively drew his sword in return. He couldn't just die for nothing.
But the man, seeing his stance, eased slightly.
"…On second thought, mistakes happen. I don't feel like fighting. Get lost."
"Ah… yes."
Grumbling inwardly, Tang Mujin sheathed his sword. Annoying though the man's attitude was, he had startled him first. Better to let it go.
Just as he was about to leave, curiosity struck — why was this man camping in the snow?
Scanning the area, he noticed, not far away, a figure sitting beneath a tree, covered in snow.
A dagger was lodged in his head. His body slumped forward, his blackened skin frozen stiff.
Yet his build, his jawline, the streaks of gray at his temples — familiar.
"…What?"
Tang Mujin's mind went blank. He stumbled toward the corpse. The man behind him said something, but he barely heard.
The poison surrounding the body seeped into his every breath.
Tang Mujin inhaled and exhaled the poison naturally as he tilted back the corpse's head.
No—he tried to tilt it back. The body was frozen stiff, and the head would not move.
Instead, Tang Mujin crouched down to check the corpse's face.
The face was all too familiar.
"…Old man?"
Goiyi gave no answer.
Of course, how could someone reply when a dagger was buried in their forehead and their body frozen solid?
Tang Mujin's heart sank like a stone. His breathing grew ragged.
"Hhh—hhk—" His short breaths tore from him as his eyes turned back. His gaze flared wide, the whites bloodshot.
Wucheong, the assassin sitting in the snow, realized something had gone terribly wrong. He immediately sprang to his feet to flee.
But without a moment's hesitation, Tang Mujin pulled daggers from his chest and hurled them at Wucheong.
Three blades pierced through the snowstorm. One missed its mark and clattered to the ground.
The other two sank into Wucheong's back and the rear of his thigh.
The one in the thigh was the decisive blow. Wucheong collapsed into the white snow, blood steaming hot as it spread around him.
Tang Mujin charged like a beast, yanked the dagger from Wucheong's back, and stabbed him twice more.
"Aaaghhh!"
As Wucheong writhed in agony, a dagger slipped from his chest. It was the same kind of dull, black blade that was buried in Goiyi's forehead.
Tang Mujin stomped on both of Wucheong's hands, shattering the bones in his fingers, then grabbed his hair and dragged him across the snow.
He felt things snapping, popping—he couldn't tell if it was fingers breaking or clumps of hair being torn out.
Then he wrenched Wucheong's head up, forcing him to face Goiyi's corpse.
"You bastard… do you even know what you've done? Do you know who you killed?"
Wucheong recognized Goiyi, but he had no idea who Tang Mujin was. Still, it was obvious enough that this man had a close connection to Goiyi.
"I—it wasn't me who killed him!"
Tang Mujin crushed down on the hilt of the dagger stuck in Wucheong's back.
On any other day, the mild Tang Mujin would never have imagined himself doing such a thing. But now, he felt no hesitation at all.
The blade twisted and tore within Wucheong's body, wringing a shriek from his throat.
"Your dagger's stuck in his forehead, and you say you didn't kill him? Does he look alive to you right now? Should I stick a dagger in your forehead and see if you can live through it?"
Fear welled up in Wucheong's eyes. Gasping, he pleaded.
"No—it's true! I didn't kill him! That dagger was just the finishing blow! He was already dead when it struck!"
At those words, Tang Mujin's fury flared even hotter.
"Finishing blow? Then that means your pack killed him at the very least. You're no different from them."
"No! I swear, I never left a scratch on him while he lived…"
Tang Mujin remembered the black-clad assassins he had seen on the road to Luoyang. One of them had lingered far behind, watching. This must have been that man's role.
But such an excuse could never be grounds for forgiveness. Goiyi was dead. What reason could there be to forgive?
Tang Mujin's head swam, words tumbling out in rage.
"Then you should have stopped them. You should have stopped them from killing him!"
Wucheong screamed back, breath ragged.
"How could I stop them? Orders came from above! The other assassins were far stronger than me!"
"My father told me once—when you're in the wrong, don't make excuses."
Tang Mujin ripped the dagger free from Wucheong's back and rammed it into the man's left palm.
Another scream ripped through the snowy night as Wucheong sobbed, pleading.
"I'm sorry! I couldn't stop it! It's my fault! Please—please forgive me, just once!"
Foam bubbled from his lips.
Whether from the blood loss, the pain, or the poison lingering around Goiyi's corpse, Tang Mujin couldn't tell. But one thing was certain—Wucheong wouldn't live much longer.
Still, Tang Mujin had no intention of letting him simply die on his own.
He released Wucheong's hair, planted his foot on the man's back, and drew his single-soul sword. With a savage swing, he cut through Wucheong's neck.
The head rolled across the snow, leaving a trail of red as it stained the field.
Tang Mujin had seen death before while traveling with Goiyi. Sometimes, he himself had killed. At the time, he had felt guilt—it was unthinkable for a physician, meant to save lives, to be the one to take them.
But this time was different.
He hadn't killed because he had to. Goiyi was already dead, and slaying Wucheong wouldn't bring him back.
Nor had he granted a swift, merciful death. Even if Wucheong would have died on his own, Tang Mujin had felt the overwhelming urge to personally sever his head.
For the first time, he had killed not for survival, but purely from wrath—murder born of fury and hatred.
And he did not regret it. He could not restrain himself.
Tang Mujin hacked at the corpse again and again, mutilating it until finally he let out a beast-like howl.
The sun set. The night deepened.
At last, Tang Mujin's cries subsided.
For a long time, he stood motionless. Then, at last, he hoisted Goiyi's frozen body onto his back.
Through the snowstorm, he retraced his steps, carrying the old man home.