The Dead Drive Out the Living
Dozens of needles sliced through the air at tremendous speed, yet the black-clad man did not stop running. He only let out a faint groan and began to limp, as though something had gone wrong.
But that was enough. Tang Mujin quickened his pace and caught up before the man could clear the alley.
The black-clad assassin was so terrified he didn't even dare look back. But he could feel the presence right behind him.
"Sp–spare me!"
Tang Mujin did not hesitate. He thrust his sword. This whole situation had arisen because he failed to kill when he should have—there was no sparing him now.
Steel tore flesh, pierced the heart, and the man collapsed, spitting blood.
Tang Mujin bore no personal hatred toward him. In truth, they had exchanged a few words—one might even call it a slight acquaintance.
But simply because he was Salmak, Tang Mujin felt no guilt in killing him. Perhaps that was just human nature.
He glanced up at the sky.
From the stars' positions, the hour of Chuk (1–3 a.m.) was nearly over. The streets were nearly empty, and it seemed no one had noticed his struggle with the assassin.
He started to leave the corpse where it lay, but instead hoisted it over his shoulder and carried it toward a deserted area. His shoulder quickly grew wet.
Barely a dozen needles remained stuck in the body. Considering that dozens had been fired, more than half had missed. Distance made accuracy impossible.
Worse still, the needles were too thin. Even when they struck the back, arms, or thighs, they weren't lethal.
But one had lodged in a vital place—the back of the knee. That single needle had crippled his running.
The Heavenly King Needle Case itself lacked killing power, yet Tang Mujin saw potential.
It was far smaller than a bow or sling, and its workings were hard to guess at a glance.
It fired many projectiles at once, and at high speed.
The needles' lightness meant their force was weak—but that could be remedied.
What if they were not plain needles, but tipped with poison? Or sharp shards of steel, or blades?
At close range, dozens of poisoned needles would be impossible to block for anyone short of a master of the highest caliber.
Had he understood its power beforehand, Tang Mujin would never have thrown daggers at the branch master. He could have simply coated the Heavenly King Needle Case's needles with poison, fired as soon as they met, and ended it all in an instant.
When I see Dan Seol-yeong again, I'll have her make me another. Working beside her, I might even find ways to improve it.
Tang Mujin laid the body down at the foot of a mountain slope and straightened his back.
Sweat had run down his spine without him noticing, and now that it dried, the cloth clung cold against his skin. It was a chilling reminder of how reckless his actions had been.
Even dealing with just a few men at a single branch of Salmak had nearly cost him his life.
Yet giving up never crossed his mind. Instead, he saw new possibilities.
I stormed in recklessly, and still managed to achieve my aim. If I hone my skills and prepare thoroughly, might I not even topple Salmak's leadership itself?
His heart pounded wildly. If he could bring down the infamous Salmak, surely the old master would rest content.
The goal was set.
Now, all that remained was to return home and train until he was ready.
Tang Mujin cast one last glance behind him, then left Jewon.
***
Spring's Beginning
The Salmak leader, Black Butterfly (Heukjeop), was having a most vexing day—thanks to two carrier pigeons arriving in succession.
The first had come from Hainan.
When missions dragged on, Salmak assassins regularly sent reports: to the branch master if the job came through a branch, or to the headquarters if it originated there.
The monster-hunting mission had been commanded by headquarters, so the reports should have come directly to Heukjeop. The cycle was usually every fifteen days to a month.
For the first couple of months, the reports arrived on schedule, and Heukjeop paid little mind. But then the letters abruptly stopped.
When a month and a half had passed since the last message, he realized something had gone wrong with the monster-hunting squad.
He dispatched a team to Qinghai to investigate. The first pigeon carried their findings:
[Six members of the monster-hunting squad—all confirmed dead.]
Heukjeop clutched his head. Salmak had just lost five peak-level assassins and one first-class assassin in a single stroke.
Even across all of Salmak, there were only ten at the pinnacle. Comparable to the number boasted by major sects.
And now, half had perished chasing one mission. The loss was beyond words.
I thought even one casualty would be a heavy toll…
Five against one—how could they all be slain?
Granted, the target was a monster whose actions defied reason. He had considered it possible that one assassin might die or be crippled.
But even then, the gain outweighed the loss, given the enormous stakes and the prestige to be earned.
For assassins, reputation was built on the caliber of the prey.
At worst, two might die, he had thought. Costly, but bearable.
But all of them? Impossible.
Pressing his temples, Heukjeop unrolled the second pigeon's note.
This one was longer, but no better. In some ways, worse.
[Henan Province, Jewon Branch. Branch master, vice-branch master, and one second-rate assassin—killed. Perpetrator unidentified.]
Salmak's infamy was great, but once in a while a branch did suffer retribution.
If a family or friend had been slain by a Salmak assassin, vengeance would naturally follow.
But the problem was which branch: Henan's Jewon Branch.
Heukjeop read on.
[Faces of branch master and vice-branch master blackened—suspected poisoning.]
[On the same night, Jewon Baek clan's patriarch, Baek Choo-seo, slain by unknown assailant. Recovery of unpaid balance now unlikely.]
The monster-hunting squad wiped out.
The Jewon branch master—who had taken the assassination request—dead by poison.
The client, Baek Choo-seo—also dead.
Heukjeop wasn't a fool. He could see the meaning plainly.
The assassination had failed, and even a mutual kill had failed. The monster had returned alive, and was now slaughtering all tied to the attempt.
…Could it be that the monster has broken through to super-pinnacle?
At death's edge, martial artists sometimes transcended. It was not impossible the creature had reached a higher realm mid-battle.
Even if not, what difference? If one man could butcher five peak experts alone, was he not super-pinnacle already?
Heukjeop summoned his most trusted subordinate.
"Heukmyo."
"You called."
"Send word to all branches. Watch closely for any physician or martial artist resembling the monster. If spotted, withdraw immediately and alert the nearest branch and headquarters."
"As you command."
"And gather every peak-level assassin left to headquarters. We must prepare for the chance of an assault."
"Yes, sir."
No sane man would ever attack Salmak's headquarters. It was like thrusting bare hands into a hornets' nest.
But this monster could not be judged by common sense. With a madman like that, caution was the only course.
"And the high-level missions?"
"Finish only the ones nearly done. Cancel every long-term or pending assignment. Too dangerous if they cross paths with the monster."
"Yes, sir."
When Heukmyo departed, Heukjeop let out a long sigh.
A weight pressed against his chest.
…We should never have accepted that cursed commission.
He closed his eyes, pondering where the monster might appear next.
No answer came. Only mounting unease.
***
Just as Zhuge Liang's death once drove Sima Yi from the battlefield, so too did the dead monster now hound the living Black Butterfly.
Tang Mujin was traveling south, leaving Jewon behind. His destination was his hometown—Chengdu, in Sichuan Province.
There were, in truth, only two real routes to take.
Either board a boat and sail upstream along the Yangtze River, or pass through Hanzhong and enter Sichuan overland.
Mujin chose the river route. He had never once been through Hanzhong, and to reach Sichuan that way meant endless mountain paths.
But by taking a boat up the Yangtze, he need not fear losing his way, and the journey would be far less taxing. There was no reason for him to hesitate.
Even so, his heart was uneasy.
Though he had left no witnesses after his raid on the Jewon Branch, assassins could spring from the shadows at any time. With his life at stake, he could not afford complacency.
Just as the dead monster had once hounded Black Butterfly, now Salmak—unaware of his very identity—pressed Tang Mujin in turn. Neither side had any way of grasping the true picture.
In the end, Mujin decided to discard part of his name and reappear as a young merchant surnamed Jin.
If he pretended to be a wandering martial artist or skilled physician, Salmak might link him to the monster and pursue him. But as a lowly trader, no suspicion would fall.
As he walked, a nearby merchant spoke up casually.
"Brother Jin. I heard you carved old Man Kim's face yesterday? If you've time, could you carve mine as well?"
"Of course."
"Much obliged. Your load looks heavy—let me put it on my mule."
"Ah, thank you so much."
It was not difficult to mingle with a trading caravan going the same way. A young man with polite manners and a bit of talent could easily be accepted among weary merchants.
The talent Mujin displayed was woodworking. Whittling away at a block of wood with a small knife was common enough that it aroused no suspicion.
While walking he would shave out small carvings, and at night he produced more elaborate pieces, winning goodwill from his companions.
A few merchants even offered him coins in exchange for his work. Mujin did not refuse—after all, boat fare up the Yangtze to Chengdu was anything but cheap.
Yet the caravan's route and Mujin's did not align in the end.
They meant to veer east toward Nanjing and Suzhou, while Mujin needed to continue south to board a riverboat.
At a city called Yicheng, unfamiliar to him, Mujin parted ways with the group. He lingered, waiting for another caravan headed south that he might join.
On the second day, he found one.
This caravan was larger in scale, with some empty space on its wagons—enough that if he joined them, the journey would be easier.
Mujin approached the man who seemed to be the caravan master.
"Elder, I hear you're bound for Huaining. Might I accompany you?"
"Huaining, yes. But how am I to trust you?"
Mujin drew a small silver ingot from his robe and slipped it discreetly into the man's hand.
Compared to the master's wealth it was little, but for a young merchant it was a fine token of sincerity. The man's expression softened.
"Seems you've made some coin, young friend."
"I bought jade rings cheap in Shandong and sold them in Shaanxi. The profit wasn't much, but enough."
Mujin lied smoothly, and the merchant clicked his tongue.
"Jade rings? Lucky you didn't take a loss. If you're plying that route, pearls are better—worth three times as much in Shaanxi, even the poor quality ones. And when going the other way, take bolts of cloth back to Shandong."
"My knowledge is still lacking. I thought I'd make a little off jade rings, but I walked until my feet blistered—and now I've got this limp."
Mujin deliberately hobbled.
It was the kind of mistake any inexperienced trader might make, and the merchant only clucked his tongue before pointing at a wagon.
"Just as well, we've room. Sit there. But in two days we'll need the space for cargo again. After that, you're on your own."
"Thank you, elder."
At first he'd been wary, but now he was rather generous. Mujin grinned and settled onto the wagon, looking around.
There were many people. Beyond the merchants, five guards with swords at their belts, and nearly twenty porters carrying heavy packs.
One man, however, drew Mujin's attention.
Just before their eyes could meet, a porter hefting a great burden shifted back and hid his face.
An assassin? No… How could Salmak have known I'd join this caravan, and planted one beforehand?
Even so, Mujin's heart was unsettled.
He set down his bundle on the wagon and limped toward the porter.
The man shielded his face with a hand, turning his head this way and that. But Mujin's relentless gaze could not be evaded forever. Through the gaps, the outline of his face flickered into view.
Something about that outline was strangely familiar.
…What?
Mujin darted in to brush aside the man's hand.
The motion seemed simple, but hidden within was the subtle essence of both the Secret Hand and the White Lotus Divine Fist—something no ordinary person could resist.
But the porter deflected Mujin's grasp with equal subtlety, a movement steeped in profound martial skill.
His face remained hidden. But precisely because of that, Mujin's suspicion hardened into certainty.
Leaning close, he whispered into the man's ear:
"Namgung Myeong, young hero… what are you doing here?"