Resentment
Tang Mujin climbed onto the roof of the lumberyard building behind Zhaoyue Pavilion.
Lying flat on the roof, holding his breath and scanning the surroundings, he recalled the dying Baek Choo-seo.
That desperate figure, enduring excruciating pain, yet wishing only for death to come faster.
Bloodshot eyes, jaw trembling from agony. Exactly the sight Tang Mujin had longed to see.
Over the past several days, on the road from Huizhou to Jewon, nothing but revenge had filled Tang Mujin's mind.
How could he kill more painfully? How could he make sure his revenge was certain? Those were his only thoughts.
He had three medical texts from the world's top physicians in his possession, yet apart from the subscription book on demonic medicine, he hadn't even opened the other two.
And he killed Baek Choo-seo.
It was exhilarating—yet unsettling. But paradoxically, he had not a shred of regret. If he stood before Baek Choo-seo again, he could kill him ten times over without hesitation.
At that thought, Tang Mujin suddenly came to his senses.
"How did I become like this?"
Resentment, revenge… Such words would have been unthinkable just a year ago.
Less than a year had passed, yet he had become a completely different person.
When had it begun?
When he decided to follow the monstrosity?
When he blocked it from entering the medicinal warehouse?
When he forged needles at Seok Jiseung's smithy?
Or perhaps, when he ate the mushroom he found at Jonggok?
"No, this isn't the time for such thoughts."
Hoo… Tang Mujin exhaled deeply and lowered his body.
It was already late enough that few people came and went through the pavilion.
Most of those few went into Zhaoyue Pavilion itself, with only a handful slipping into the warehouse.
The rumor that the Salmak branch operated out of that warehouse didn't seem false—none of the people entering looked like ordinary laborers.
Still, Tang Mujin didn't rise immediately to storm into the warehouse.
Avenging himself on Baek Choo-seo and on Salmak were similar, yet completely different matters.
Baek Choo-seo had no backing, and Tang Mujin knew roughly how strong he was.
But Salmak was a massive organization that needed no patron. Even when he'd been ignorant of the martial world, Tang Mujin had heard of this assassins' guild—so its reputation was not one to take lightly.
What's more, he had no idea how strong this "branch master" was, or how many assassins were stationed at the Jewon branch.
Reason said that to target Salmak for revenge was sheer folly.
Yet his fingers tightened of their own accord. He wanted to burst inside right now and demand atonement. After all, weren't they complicit in the monster's death?
A voice inside seemed to reproach him: "Because of your foolishness, the old master died. Shouldn't you at least avenge him?"
And another point weighed on him: if he hesitated here, he might lose his only chance. Once day broke and Baek Choo-seo's death became known, Salmak would certainly react somehow.
"Even if I leave the higher-ups for later, that branch master must die tonight."
Tang Mujin calmed himself again, then sank back into the shadows, watching the warehouse.
An hour passed. In that time, four people went in and out.
One looked like a client, two seemed second-rate fighters, and one was hard to place—perhaps first-rate, perhaps second.
"Hmm."
In any organization, the underlings' strength reflects their leaders'. By gauging the small fry, you can estimate the master.
After long consideration, Tang Mujin concluded the branch master could not have reached the pinnacle.
If he were a peak master, he wouldn't be running a branch in a middling city like Jewon, nor would he employ such clumsy subordinates.
Tang Mujin descended from the lumberyard roof, pressed an ear against the warehouse wall, and focused. He felt faint traces of presence within, but heard no conversation.
He carefully slipped inside.
The door creaked faintly, and the stale odor of an enclosed space washed over him.
On the inside of the door, there was a bolt that could be fastened from within. No ordinary warehouse would have such a thing.
He crept further in, scanning the area.
It was wider than it looked, sloping slightly downward—half buried like a cellar or dugout.
Rounding a small corner, Tang Mujin locked eyes with a man in black. Perhaps due to the stuffy air, he wore no mask.
Tang Mujin almost drew his sword immediately, but stopped when he saw the man's expression bore not a trace of hostility.
The man in black asked:
"Here to place a commission?"
Of course—no one would think Tang Mujin had come alone to assault the Salmak Jewon branch. Grasping the situation, Tang Mujin nodded.
"Yes. I heard one could meet Salmak's assassins behind Zhaoyue Pavilion."
"Who sent you?"
Tang Mujin had no real options. Of the people he knew, only one had ties to Salmak.
"Patriarch Baek. From the Jewon Baek clan…"
The man smirked.
"That fellow… When he first came, he pretended to be so dignified. Now he's even sending clients. So you're close with him?"
"Yes, he helped me greatly. Anyway, he said I should find the branch master. Would you be him, sir?"
"No. The branch master is inside."
Apparently pleased at being mistaken for the master, the man opened a side door with a satisfied grin. Beyond it lay a small room.
Inside, two men were playing cards.
Judging by their movements and the subtle aura they gave off, one was certainly first-rate, while the other hovered between first- and second-rate. The stronger was likely the branch master.
Feigning nervousness, Tang Mujin entered. The black-clad guide announced:
"Branch Master. He says he came on Patriarch Baek's introduction."
"Is that so?"
The branch master was a one-eyed man, his empty socket glaring.
He donned the eyepatch from the table—apparently his idea of courtesy.
The black-clad man stepped out, leaving only the three of them.
Tang Mujin glanced around.
"Too cramped to swing a sword."
With his right hand hidden behind his back, he began releasing his poison slowly. Formless and invisible, it seeped from the floor upward.
The branch master spoke first:
"So, what commission brings you here?"
"Well… there's someone I want taught a lesson."
The branch master burst into incredulous laughter.
"Taught a lesson? What, you want us to spank him?"
"Not quite so lightly. At least beaten with a stick…"
To finish this fight quickly, Tang Mujin needed time for the poison to spread. He stalled with vague words.
"Childish nonsense. This is Salmak. Our trade is assassination."
Tang Mujin feigned alarm.
"Must it be to the death?"
"There are other options, but killing is cleanest. Leaving someone half-alive is troublesome for us—and for you. Surely you don't think it'll cost less just to rough someone up?"
"…Doesn't it?"
As he replied, Tang Mujin subtly shifted his leg, spreading the poison wider across the floor. Of course, neither the branch master nor his underling noticed.
"Think about it. Which is easier: slit the throat and slip away, or go through the hassle of kidnapping, beating him within an inch of his life, then releasing him? Which takes more effort?"
"Uh… killing seems simpler."
"Exactly. And the fees differ. A kill starts at one nyang of gold. Beating someone? One and a half. Which do you choose?"
Tang Mujin hesitated, feigning indecision.
"Then… the killing option…"
The branch master burst into hearty laughter.
"To save half a nyang of gold, the poor bastard's life is forfeit. Excellent. So, who is it you're so eager to have killed?"
"Why, of course… it's you."
The dazed look on Tang Mujin's face vanished in an instant, and from both sleeves four daggers flashed forth at once.
The branch master twisted reflexively to avoid them, but the man who had been playing cards with him took a dagger to the left shoulder.
The wounded man hurriedly dove beneath the table, both to shield himself from any more flying blades and to buy a moment to wrench the dagger free.
But it quickly became clear that this was a fatal mistake.
He realized too late that a thin layer of paralytic poison hung in the air below knee height. His body stiffened completely, and he collapsed to the ground.
Crash! Tang Mujin kicked the table aside in one swift motion and brought his fist down on the man's head. Instant death.
The branch master now gripped the two daggers Tang Mujin had thrown, holding them in reverse and glaring.
"Poison, eh? A rare sort of guest, indeed."
"You sent assassins to deal with someone who used poison. Naturally, a poison-wielding client would come knocking in return."
"They say nothing good comes of tangling with the monster. It seems they were right."
Tang Mujin gave no answer. The longer he dragged this out, the greater the chance more assassins would appear. He had to finish this quickly and escape.
The branch master had no leisure either—he couldn't know how soon this cramped space would be choked with poison. To preserve his life, he had to kill Tang Mujin and get out.
Their thoughts aligned, and the battle erupted immediately.
The branch master charged, slashing savagely with his paired daggers. Against an ordinary opponent, that ferocity would have riddled a body with holes.
But Tang Mujin slid a foot back and let the blades pass, then lowered his stance and drove into the man's guard with his fist.
Here, in this ill-suited place, from this unlikely man's hands, the Shaolin art of the White Lotus Divine Fist unfolded.
The branch master did not recognize it as White Lotus Divine Fist, but he sensed instantly that this was no ordinary boxing style. Desperately twisting, he narrowly avoided the strike.
Damn it!
Boxing arts were more fluid than swordsmanship, easier to expand or connect into chains of techniques. Even the shape of the fist or fingers could transform into a new variation.
Yet despite these advantages, martial artists preferred the sword for two main reasons: boxing covered a narrower space, and unlike the sword, its blows rarely ended a fight with a single decisive strike.
Unless a technique was utterly lethal, one could endure a few punches while swinging a sword to cut down an enemy.
But Tang Mujin's fists were different.
His martial art itself was formidable—but worse, poison flowed subtly from his palms and knuckles. Even the barest scratch from those fists would spread venom through the body.
Tang Mujin lunged again, swinging at the branch master's head.
It was a strange sight: the righteous energy of Shaolin boxing infused with the sinister aura of poison.
The branch master thrust out his dagger to parry on instinct, but Tang Mujin slammed his left fist into his side instead.
It wasn't even a White Lotus technique—just a plain, heavy punch.
But it worked. He felt ribs crack beneath his knuckles, and the branch master gasped for breath. The fight was essentially decided at that moment.
Seizing the opening, Tang Mujin clamped his right hand over the branch master's face. As the man inhaled the poisonous miasma, strength drained from his body.
Tang Mujin hurled him to the floor, forcing him to gulp the paralytic vapor, then struck the pressure point at the back of his head. Instant death.
At that instant, a thought flashed through Tang Mujin's mind.
"Where did that black-clad man outside go?"
He had expected the fellow to rush in at any sign of trouble, yet strangely, he had vanished instead of joining the fray.
"I'll have to hunt him down and kill him."
Tang Mujin hastily pulled on a mask and climbed up the wall of Zhaoyue Pavilion from the warehouse.
From the high vantage point, he spotted a black-clad figure fleeing in panic far off.
Tang Mujin gave chase with all his strength.
Luckily, it was late, and the streets were nearly empty. The man couldn't lose himself in a crowd.
But there were still places to hide.
The fugitive was sprinting toward the city center of Jewon, where the buildings stood dense and tangled. There, dozens or even hundreds of hiding places awaited. Once he slipped in, there'd be no finding him.
Unlike the monster, Tang Mujin could not track a man by sensing his energy alone.
If that black-clad assassin ducked into an alley, then quietly slipped out of Jewon to report Tang Mujin's appearance to his superiors…
The result was obvious: Salmak's trackers would be set on him.
Even the monster had been unable to shake them. If they latched onto Tang Mujin, there would be no escape.
Tang Mujin suddenly grasped just how reckless it had been to storm Salmak's Jewon branch.
"If I catch him, I live. If I don't, I die."
Breath burned his throat as he ran harder.
His movement technique was superior, and the gap between them closed quickly—yet not quickly enough.
They were still ten zhang apart, and with just a turn or two into an alley, the man could vanish.
Tang Mujin reached into his robe. No daggers—he had thrown all four in the warehouse fight.
"Should I have retrieved them? No—if I had, I'd never have seen the back of this man's head."
A few more breaths, and the fugitive would slip away.
Each breath stretched out like an hour. Was there truly no way to catch him?
Then, Tang Mujin's fingers brushed against something—a long, round cylinder. The Heavenly King Needle Case, gifted by Dan Seol-yeong.
No time to hesitate. This was his only hope.
He pulled it free and tugged the leather cord taut until it locked into place.
Then he aimed at the man's back and pressed the raised stud.
Inside the case, the cord snapped, and dozens of needles burst forth.