Ban Yong-gweol
In truth, when attention gathers on one person, it is only natural that others begin to resent him.
After all, the way of the world is such that when someone gains, another often loses.
As the Tang family clinic's reputation grew, other physicians in Chengdu who saw their own patients decrease began to secretly resent it. Swordsmiths in Chengdu, who saw fewer customers since the rise of Tang Mujin's name, were no different.
They all understood, of course, that this was a matter of skill—that the gap in ability translated into customers' choices. But because their livelihoods were at stake, their nerves grew raw nonetheless.
At least the complaints of physicians and craftsmen could be understood.
More difficult to understand were those who harbored greater resentment still.
In one of Chengdu's back alleys, a handful of thugs in their early twenties loitered together.
They were the kind who ran wild enough to be a nuisance, but still too clumsy for the martial artists of the Qingcheng Sect to bother drawing swords against—so they were tolerated, holding their little corner of the city.
Their chatter was the usual—lewd talk, crude jokes, meaningless banter. But one careless mention of Tang Mujin's name among that trivial chatter was the spark of trouble.
"I'm telling you, I just can't stand him."
"Who?"
"You know. Tang Mujin. The doctor."
"Ah."
They all understood without elaboration. They had never bothered saying it aloud, but each of them had already been nursing the same irritation.
Until just last year, Tang Mujin wasn't even worth their notice.
His face was pale, his limbs scrawny, and the only thing he ever did was sit blankly behind the clinic's yard by the medicine pot, holding a fan and fire poker, idling his time away.
If they passed by and happened to make eye contact, he would avert his gaze in embarrassment.
In those days, not just the back-alley thugs, but even women of his age never spared him a second look.
Had he at least stripped to the waist and swung a plow in the fields, he might have drawn some attention. But a weakling fanning himself in the shade was nothing to care about.
Then one day came the rumor: Tang Mujin had left Chengdu, following the eccentric physician-warrior Goiyi.
A useless fellow like him, they thought, would be chased off and come crawling back in no time. But ten days passed, then months, and still he didn't return.
That was the first time Tang Mujin became the subject of gossip.
"Could it be? Did he really become Goiyi's disciple?"
"Impossible. Goiyi is one of the Three Great Physicians under Heaven. Why would someone like him take Mujin as a disciple?"
"They say he's eccentric. Maybe something about Mujin caught his eye."
"Nonsense. More likely he's experimenting on him with some new treatment. If it works, good. If not, just dump the corpse in a ditch."
"Ha! That must be it."
They laughed it off. But when half a year passed and Mujin was still gone, strange things began happening. Unknown blacksmiths from other regions started gathering at Seok family's forge.
Unlike the pale Mujin, Seok Ji-seung, son of the smith, was strong and hot-tempered, someone even the thugs were wary of provoking.
So at first they assumed the visiting smiths were there for Ji-seung's sake.
But no—the smiths had come for Tang Mujin. They spoke in all seriousness, calling him the reincarnation of the "Furnace General," the kind of master smith unseen across the Central Plains.
Ridiculous talk. And yet, the smiths were dead earnest.
They claimed proof—Tang family's acupuncture needles, and a shabby little dagger found lying around Seok's forge. To the thugs, those looked no different from any other needles or daggers, but to the smiths they were enough.
That, too, they might have dismissed as laughable.
But soon after, something far more galling happened—something that dug under the skin of their leader, Ban Yong-gweol.
Around wintertime, a young girl appeared and settled at the Tang family clinic. Her name was Dan Seol-young. Her skin was sun-darkened, but she was strikingly pretty, lively in manner—the kind who immediately caught Ban Yong-gweol's eye.
At first he assumed the old doctor had taken a concubine, but no—turns out she had followed Tang Mujin all the way from distant Henan to Chengdu.
Had it been anyone else, Ban Yong-gweol might have accepted it. But Tang Mujin, of all people? Surely he could snatch her attention away without trouble.
So he lingered near the clinic, trying to catch her interest. But Dan Seol-young only ever met him with cold indifference. Ban Yong-gweol's chest burned with fury.
"What's so great about that bastard?"
Should he just drag her into a dark corner and have his way? Or take his time, wear down her heart over months? He was still brooding when winter passed and spring arrived—just as Tang Mujin returned to Chengdu.
Outwardly he looked the same as ever, but now there was a calm confidence in his bearing.
Blacksmiths crowded him daily, tugging at his sleeves. Martial artists began drifting about, hoping to win a sword from him.
Even girls who had never given him a glance now eyed him with interest.
To Ban Yong-gweol, the sight was alien—leaving him with a pang of isolation and inferiority.
Until now, he had taken pride in the way others shied away from him. But Tang Mujin, moving about surrounded by people, was something greater still.
Worse, the clinic's reputation was steadily rising. Clearly, Mujin had achieved something even as a physician.
By then, the thugs' hearts were boiling with resentment.
The heart is a strange thing. When someone already great accomplishes more, it's not surprising, nor especially enviable. Like when smiths came seeking Seok Ji-seung—it caused no jealousy.
But when someone you thought beneath you rises up, you want to belittle his achievements, drag him down below again.
It is a different matter entirely when someone above you climbs higher, versus when someone from below dares to overtake you.
That was exactly what Ban Yong-gweol felt.
Tang Mujin had always been beneath him—and should remain beneath him forever.
So Ban Yong-gweol broke the silence.
"That bastard Tang Mujin… did he really follow Goiyi?"
"That much is certain. Chief Instructor Jin Song himself said it. He confirmed it was truly Goiyi, Yi Chung ."
"No, that's not what I'm asking. I mean—did he really become Goiyi's disciple?"
"Huh?"
"Think about it. Do you really believe he learned medicine well enough in just a single year to come back already?"
Neither Ban Yong-gweol nor the other thugs knew much about a physician's work.
They knew that physicians had to memorize countless medical texts, but among the six of them gathered here, only two could even read.
Still, everyone understood one thing: in the world of medicine, age was respect, and mastery did not come quickly.
"No… doesn't sound possible."
"And another thing—didn't they say Dan Seol-young came from Henan? Why would she travel so far if it was just to learn medicine?"
Physicians were supposed to stay put in one place, treating whoever came through the door. If Goiyi had really taken Mujin as his disciple, there would have been no need to drag him all the way to distant Henan. He could've taught him right there in Chengdu.
That was Ban Yong-gweol's reasoning, and it wasn't without weight.
"Maybe it wasn't medicine at all. Maybe he taught him the sword instead? They say Goiyi is a martial master."
"The sword? Don't be ridiculous. Why would he waste time teaching a nobody like Mujin? If he wanted a disciple for swordsmanship, he should've taken me—or at least someone like you who's already got the basics down."
"But the guy did come back wearing a sword. Even now, I see him walking around with one at his hip."
"That plain scabbard and grip? That's just for show. Go toss a few silver coins at any roadside smith and they'll hand you a sword that looks just like it."
The thugs around him paused, thinking it over.
The truth was obvious enough: Mujin must have picked up some medicine from Goiyi. Everyone knew the Tang family clinic's reputation had soared since his return.
But it was equally true that the sword at his hip was just empty swagger.
Real swordsmanship could not be learned quickly. First came months of tedious drills, swinging endlessly just to build the basics. Then years of cultivating inner energy, slowly refining qi until you could claim the strength of even a third-rate martial artist.
And even then, it took relentless effort to be recognized as competent enough to work as a guard escort, traveling the Central Plains. With several more years, one might rise to second-rate, perhaps even lead a small caravan. That was considered success.
Unless Mujin had swallowed some miraculous elixir, he was, at best, barely scraping into the level of a third-rate fighter. Capable, perhaps, but hardly someone who should strut about with a sword at his waist.
Ban Yong-gweol, on the other hand, had talent—last year he himself had broken into the second-rate realm.
Then, one of the gang muttered under his breath:
"Maybe we should just beat him down once, knock that nose of his flat."
No one looked shocked.
That was how young, rough men lived. When someone started climbing above his station, you beat him bloody, broke a limb or two, and put him back in his place.
Even the cockiest fool with his chin in the air would lower his gaze after tasting real pain.
These were boys who had been swinging fists and weapons since they were old enough to enter martial halls. Keeping order by violence was nothing new to them.
Still, one of them voiced a concern.
"But what if Goiyi himself comes after us? What if he takes revenge for his disciple?"
"That'll never happen. I'm telling you, he was never a real disciple. He was taken along, tried out, and then thrown away. That's why he came back in only a year."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Like I said before—learning medicine takes five, ten years at least. He came back in one. Means he was cast off. Probably didn't even last half a year before they tossed him aside. Do you think he'd have had time to pick up a girl like Dan Seol-young if he was really training under Goiyi?"
Ban Yong-gweol's reasoning carried a kind of crooked logic, and the others were nearly convinced.
But one of the slightly more clear-sighted thugs raised another worry.
"Leave everything else aside… that smithing of his, that's the real deal. Didn't you hear? Qingcheng's branch master, Hwang Ryeong-ja, already went to him for a sword. Chief Instructor Jin Song is all fired up for his turn next. What if we lay him out and Qingcheng comes looking?"
At the mention of the Qingcheng Sect, a few of them flinched. But others only grew more resentful at hearing Mujin's name tied to such prestige. Ban Yong-gweol was among the latter.
"Why worry? We'll wear masks. Beat him down in the dark. He won't even know who did it. If you're really nervous, then fine—don't break his arms. Just his legs. He won't be able to swing a hammer with broken legs."
"Hmm…"
The others fell into uneasy thought.
Was it really necessary to go as far as breaking his legs, just because they couldn't stand the sight of him?
But if they backed down now, they'd be branded cowards for sure.
The direction was set, though hesitation still lingered.
And Ban Yong-gweol knew exactly how to tip such moments. Firm up the decision, make it sound final—and the rest would fall in line.
"Keep it simple. Do you really want to keep watching Tang Mujin strut around with his head held high?"
"…No. Not really."
"Then tonight. Bring masks, meet at the well. We'll beat him until he's half-dead, and snap one leg for good measure."
One by one, the thugs nodded, half-willing, half-reluctant—swept along by Ban Yong-gweol's will.
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