Ban Yong-gweol
That night, Ban Yong-gweol's six-man gang gathered at the well, each carrying a mask.
This wasn't the first time they had beaten someone bloody, and since they sometimes dabbled in petty thievery too, having masks ready was nothing new.
"Let's go."
They pulled their masks over their faces and crept into the night.
The Tang family clinic stood close to the Qingcheng Sect's Chengdu branch, which made them a little uneasy—but it was late, and all seemed quiet within the sect's compound.
One thug whispered, "Are we just going to barge into the clinic and drag him out?"
"No. I saw him go out around dinner. We'll wait until he comes back, then smash him in the back of the head to start things off."
Ban Yong-gweol gripped the rough oak club in his hand.
A solid blow to the skull with that, and the fight would be over before it began. No resistance, no chance to fight back—just collapse.
The six men hid in a dark alley, waiting.
There was always that peculiar tension before committing violence, an unease that thrilled them.
Soon enough, Tang Mujin appeared.
The sword hanging awkwardly at his waist made their teeth grind. Not one of them feared his supposed swordsmanship.
When he drew near, Ban Yong-gweol quietly stepped forward—club raised.
***
Mujin was on his way home from a brief session of training.
He had meant to practice sword forms, but never even drew his blade. Instead, he'd spent time working through a simple fist method. Somewhere between the Secret Fist of the White Lotus and the Mighty Ox Routine, he'd noticed a curious similarity.
If he kept training that line for a few days, he felt certain he would gain a new insight.
Turning toward home, mulling over the fruits of training, Mujin suddenly sensed presences behind him.
At first, he thought it might be Namgung Myeong. Lately, Namgung had developed quite the fondness for nightly walks.
But there was more than one presence—and no cheerful voice called out.
Mujin turned his head. Masked figures. The hairs on his neck bristled.
The Assassins' Den.
Even in his quiet hometown days, the dread of them had never left him. Had they finally tracked him down? His heart sank—yet at the same time, a dark exhilaration rose. If this was them, then at last he had the chance to avenge his master Goiyi.
One figure's club whistled down toward his skull.
Not a staff. A cudgel? A rod?
No time to ponder. Mujin drew his blade and slashed in one motion. Sword-draw and strike as one. The club split neatly in two.
"…Huh?"
The masked man froze in shock.
Mujin's eyes glimmered like a beast's, full of killing intent as he advanced.
Die in a single cut, or counterattack—it made no difference. Either way, you would perish by his hand.
But the man did neither. He flailed clumsily, throwing himself to the ground in an ungainly roll—using a shabby movement art called Falling Goose Step.
Unimpressive at the best of times, it left one completely exposed to a follow-up strike. No martial artist worth his salt would rely on it.
Counting on his friends to cover him?
Surely so. But Mujin had no intention of letting the man escape. He rushed in, sword ready to finish him, eyes flicking around for the others.
They should have tried to intercept him—but instead they stood frozen, staring stiffly, shocked into stillness.
An odd sense of wrongness crept into Mujin's mind even as he drove his blade downward at the fallen man.
Yes, they wore black masks—but their clothes were not the crisp black of true assassins.
Even accounting for variation in skill, their movements were far too clumsy.
And most telling of all: none of them carried blades. All six held nothing but crude clubs.
A man could kill with a club, yes—but no assassin in this world would choose such a weapon.
Not the Assassins' Den after all?
Even as that thought flashed, his sword was plunging toward the man's face.
Abruptly, he twisted the trajectory aside.
The strike veered roughly off-course, missing the center of the face and instead grazing the cheekbone before burying itself in the ground. A thin line of blood welled by the ear.
But Mujin's killing aura did not fade. Until certainty came, he would not relax his grip.
He kicked the man's club away, planting his foot firmly on his neck. One twitch, and he would crush the throat.
Glancing around, he found the others still paralyzed, not daring to move.
A foul stench hit his nose. The thug on the ground had wet himself.
Huff—huff—
Mujin's heavy breaths, fueled by bloodlust, vengeance, and expectation, thundered in the gang's ears like storm clouds.
The one pinned beneath him—Ban Yong-gweol—finally understood. His face had nearly been skewered, and his life now hung beneath Mujin's heel.
He had bullied weaker men often enough. But never had he faced a drawn blade in a fight to the death. Never before had he looked true death in the eye.
Terror broke him. He screamed, high and shrill.
"AAAHHH! AAHHH—!"
The noise jolted Mujin into pressing down harder. The scream cut into choking gasps.
Then one of the masked men cried out desperately.
"Wait, wait! Mujin, stop!"
"Who are you?"
"It's me! Hu wucheong!"
The speaker tore off his mask in a panic, revealing a plump, mean-looking face. Mujin recognized him—one of the local thugs, yes, Hu wucheong.
"Why the ambush? Who is this?"
Mujin pressed harder, and the choking gurgle swelled again.
"That's Ban Yong-gweol!"
"Ban Yong-gweol?"
With a flick, Mujin's blade cut away the mask, baring the familiar face. He could already guess the rest of the group's identities.
His voice was icy.
"Why attack me?"
"W-we're sorry…"
Hu wucheong squirmed, unable to answer directly. That alone told Mujin all he needed: the reason was so petty, so shameful, they couldn't even voice it aloud.
Relief flickered through him—these were not assassins. Yet there was disappointment too.
He sheathed his sword with a frown.
They weren't close, but they'd known each other since childhood. He had no wish to kill them.
"If you don't want to die, don't pull stunts like this again. Someone could get hurt—or killed. If I hadn't twisted my blade just now, Ban Yong-gweol would be dead already."
"Y-yeah… yeah…"
"It's late. We'll talk another time. Go."
He waved them off, irritation plain in the gesture.
Awkwardly, the gang shuffled forward, hauled Ban Yong-gweol off the ground, and slunk away.
***
It was unsettling, but not much of a commotion.
Mujin returned to his room, lay down, and quickly fell asleep.
Without realizing, he drifted into dreams.
In his dream, Tang Mujin was with Goiyi.
Though Goiyi was long dead, Mujin felt no strangeness at all walking beside him.
As always, Goiyi was relaxed and carefree, carrying himself with a roguish air. It was hard to believe he was older than Mujin's father. He acted far too childishly for that. And perhaps because of that, Mujin had always liked him.
The two of them strolled across a grassy field, tossing about idle chatter. Half the talk was jokes and half was mild, playful barbs aimed at each other.
In the midst of this banter, Goiyi grumbled suddenly.
"When I'm teaching you, sometimes I get dissatisfied."
"What are you dissatisfied about this time?"
"You're slow to learn."
"Weren't you the one who praised me for picking things up quickly after just one lesson?"
"You do pick up medicine and martial arts easily enough. But there's something else you're terrible at learning."
"What is it?"
"Shall I show you?"
Mujin nodded.
Goiyi stood up with a meaningful expression and strolled toward a tree in the distance. Then, naturally, he leaned against its trunk and sat down.
At that moment, a black-clad figure appeared—a man Mujin had never seen before—who grabbed his sleeve.
"Come."
"Uh… why?"
"I've got something to show you. Watch closely."
From his robes, the black-clad man drew a dagger, tossing it lightly into the air before catching it as he walked toward Goiyi.
A sense of unease welled up in Mujin. He tried to move to intercept—but his body would not obey.
Instead, Goiyi urged the man on.
"Don't dawdle. Get on with it, boy."
"Yes, sir."
The man dipped his head in acknowledgment, then stabbed Goiyi in several places—his chest, his throat, his side, his belly.
Each thrust was fatal, yet Goiyi merely nodded with a satisfied look, as if pleased by the performance.
"Good technique."
"You flatter me."
"Now, you'd best finish it."
"Yes."
The man retreated until he stood beside Mujin.
Mujin's mind screamed to stop him—but still, his body refused to move.
Like a child skipping a stone across water, the black-clad figure threw the dagger in a flourish.
It flew straight and true, burying itself in the center of Goiyi's forehead. Blood streamed down his face.
The green meadow was gone. Snow spread white and endless all around them.
And Mujin felt once more the unforgettable chill of Mount Cheonghae—the bitter cold he had endured while carrying Goiyi's corpse across that frozen wasteland. The blizzard that gnawed flesh from bone. The blade-winds that scoured his eyes raw.
Even with the dagger in his brow, Goiyi spoke in a stern voice.
"Soft-hearted fool. Are you so certain those masked men had no connection to the Assassins' Den?"
"Hu wucheong and Ban Yong-gweol—I've known them since we were children! Useless street punks, yes, but not killers from the Den!"
The black-clad man laughed uproariously.
"Ha! You really don't learn. Do you think assassins are born as assassins?"
He seized the top of his mask and ripped it away.
Ban Yong-gweol's face stared back at Mujin.
Mujin could make no sense of it.
Seeing Mujin's dumbfounded expression, Goiyi chuckled and called out to Ban Yong-gweol.
"Look at that startled face! That boy always made things interesting—never a dull moment."
"He looks quite shaken."
"Of course. But he's no dullard. A few more lessons, and he'll understand."
"How many lessons, do you think?"
"Well… three's too few. Five should be enough."
Before Mujin's eyes, the single tree became five.
And at each tree sat someone leaning against the trunk.
At the first: Goiyi, dagger in his forehead.
At the other four: his father, Dan Seol-yeong, Namgung Myeong, and Hong Geol-gae—all waiting in silence, as though expecting something.
"We'll begin."
Ban Yong-gweol pulled four more daggers from his robes. With the same elegant flair, he hurled them.
Not one missed.
One by one, each blade struck home, burying itself in their foreheads.
The corpses multiplied—one became five.
The snowfield turned red with blood.
Mujin's jaw clattered, teeth striking teeth.
Was it the cold? Fear? Or the mix of terror and fury pounding his chest? His heart thrashed like a mad beast.
Goiyi's voice whispered in his ear.
"Well? Now you've learned."
***
Mujin woke with a violent start.
His clothes were drenched, clammy with sweat.
He knew he had dreamed—but the images twisted and tangled in his mind, leaving only fragments.
Had it been a nightmare? A vision? Sleep paralysis?
He wasn't even sure he was truly awake.
For a long time, he sat blankly, staring.
Then the memory of the masked thugs outside his house surfaced. And the face revealed beneath the mask—Ban Yong-gweol's.
Mujin staggered to his feet, grasped his sword, and stepped out into the night.
Whether curse or fortune, he knew exactly where Ban Yong-gweol lived.
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