Ban Yonggweol
Ban Yonggweol lost his parents at a young age and lived on the streets until he was taken in by the master of Seongrim Gate, a small sect in the Holy City. Thanks to this, he learned martial arts from childhood and managed to step into the threshold of the second-rate class at a fairly young age.
However, Ban Yonggweol's twisted personality was not born from his unfortunate childhood. No—he simply felt a subtle pleasure and pride every time he crushed someone beneath him.
Like most small sects, Seongrim Gate was neither righteous nor demonic. Not because its master had some lofty philosophy of neutrality, but simply because no one cared what a minor sect leader's stance might be.
Tang Mujin quietly vaulted over the wall of Seongrim Gate and slipped inside.
He had walked past Seongrim Gate hundreds, even thousands of times, but this was the first time he'd set foot inside its walls.
Where could Ban Yonggweol be?
Focusing his mind, Tang Mujin slowly moved through the grounds, probing for signs of life.
There weren't many. At most, three or four.
As expected. In a small sect like Seongrim Gate, disciples usually lived at home nearby rather than staying inside the sect.
Suddenly, a small question stirred in Tang Mujin's mind.
Why am I even looking for Ban Yonggweol? When we met earlier, I thought we agreed to speak again later.
But the thought soon drowned beneath a strange conviction.
Ban Yonggweol was hiding something. Yes—without a doubt. Something that had to be uncovered here and now.
Tang Mujin moved with determination, searching the smaller buildings at the edge rather than the central hall.
His guess was right. He immediately sensed the familiar presence. Ban Yonggweol.
He carefully slid open the door and saw Ban Yonggweol lying down.
But the man was not yet fully asleep. Stirring and turning over, Ban Yonggweol's eyes shot open in alarm when he noticed the figure in the room. He inhaled sharply.
"You—who are—!"
"Be quiet."
Tang Mujin's left hand clamped over his mouth while his right finger pressed against a vital acupoint. Ban Yonggweol's lips moved soundlessly.
He thrashed in panic. A true master might have sealed blood or meridian points more perfectly, but immobilizing a struggling opponent wasn't easy.
Tang Mujin struck him across the cheek twice, hard, then pulled his sword halfway from its scabbard. Moonlight caught the blade, casting a bluish gleam.
"You don't want a hole in your body, do you? Better stay still."
Ban Yonggweol trembled violently.
Tang Mujin bound his hands and feet with thick rope, then glanced around the room. In the corner lay a black mask.
A chill swept through him. He recalled the old man's corpse, a dagger buried in his forehead.
With grim certainty, Tang Mujin shoved the black mask into Ban Yonggweol's robes.
Vile bastard. Did you really think I wouldn't know you were involved in the murders while pretending otherwise?
Hoisting the man onto his shoulder, Tang Mujin stepped out. Ban Yonggweol was heavy, his broad frame pressing down on Tang Mujin's shoulder and waist.
Yet instead of strain, he felt exhilarated—like a hunter flaunting the prey he'd just caught.
But just as he moved to vault the wall again, a middle-aged man with thin whiskers stepped into his path. The sect master of Seongrim Gate.
"Stop right there. Who are you? And who's that on your shoulder?"
Tang Mujin, ever respectful toward elders, set Ban Yonggweol down gently and cupped his fist in salute.
"It has been a while, Sect Master. I am Tang Mujin. This man is Ban Yonggweol."
The sect master faltered, not expecting such polite candor in this suspicious situation.
The calmness in Tang Mujin's voice clashed against his strange actions, filling the master with an uncanny sense of wrongness.
"Tang Mujin… the physician's son? What is the meaning of this? Where are you taking Ban Yonggweol?"
"There are things I must ask him."
"What could be so urgent that you would bind him in the dead of night and sneak him away?"
"I cannot tell you in detail. But it is related to this."
Tang Mujin pulled out the black mask from Ban Yonggweol's robes.
The sect master's heart sank. He had long known that Ban Yonggweol ran with a bad crowd, but since the boy was like a son to him, he had never truly disciplined him.
"I know he's been getting into trouble. I will punish him severely—just turn a blind eye this once."
"If that were all, I wouldn't have come this far. Ban Yonggweol's crimes go far beyond petty mischief. I will make him pay for the countless lives he has taken."
The sect master stiffened. Ban Yonggweol… a murderer? Not of one or two, but countless lives?
Ban Yonggweol writhed desperately on the ground, eyes locked on his master. His gagged mouth made no sound, but the sect master had known him long enough to read the panic in his eyes—he seemed genuinely pleading his innocence.
And yet, Tang Mujin seemed… wrong. This was not the mild, gentle young physician he knew. His words appeared rational, but beneath them something warped, something unhinged, was showing.
"If I let you leave with him now," the sect master said grimly, "he will not return alive, will he?"
He spread his stance, lowering his center of gravity.
The stance of Seongrim Fist—the art that had made him a first-rate master.
Tang Mujin looked troubled.
"I do not wish to fight you, Sect Master."
"Then leave him. I will punish him myself tomorrow in front of you."
"That is not possible. You will try to spare him."
The words carried chilling certainty, as though Ban Yonggweol's death was the only natural outcome.
The sect master hardened his resolve. Ban Yonggweol was flawed and wayward, but he was like a son. He would not abandon him to death.
Tang Mujin set his sword aside and mirrored the sect master's stance. Unlike his icy demeanor toward Ban Yonggweol, toward the master his movements held no killing intent.
Strange…
The sect master felt the young man's aura. He couldn't gauge its exact level, but he knew this would not be an easy fight.
On the ground, Ban Yonggweol squirmed, praying his master would prevail.
"Haap!"
The sect master charged first, his fist aimed between Tang Mujin's shoulder and chest, targeting a vital point to subdue rather than kill.
But Tang Mujin's hand gently swept the blow aside. His right palm countered toward the sect master's abdomen—toward critical points, yet with an open hand rather than a fist. Clearly, he too sought no death.
The sect master parried, only to face a seamless follow-up. Each time he blocked, Tang Mujin's flow shifted into the next move.
This isn't an exchange… it's one-sided.
Tang Mujin attacked endlessly, while he was forced to defend, straining just to keep up.
It reminded him of the chained fists of Shaolin he had once glimpsed in his youth—unyielding strikes flowing without end.
But worse still was the inner force. Each clash sent a wave of Tang Mujin's qi into his body, rattling his mind and guts. The disparity in internal energy was crushing.
How…?
It didn't last long. A palm strike sank into his stomach, sending him staggering back, retching violently.
"Ughhh!"
His eyes met Ban Yonggweol's—eyes brimming with despair.
When he finally stopped vomiting, Tang Mujin approached, his expression softened once more into that of a gentle young healer.
"My apologies. Rest well for a night. By midday tomorrow, you will awaken."
He covered the sect master's mouth and raised his other palm before his face.
A faint aura seeped out—poison, or perhaps medicine. The sect master's body grew heavy, his mind clouded. His limbs slackened, and he collapsed unconscious.
Tang Mujin carefully carried the unconscious Lord of Seongrimmun to what looked like his bedchamber and laid him down. He even adjusted the pillow so that when the man woke, his neck and shoulders wouldn't ache.
Stepping back outside, Mujin hoisted Ban Yong-gweol onto his back and was about to leap over Seongrimmun's wall—only to realize he had nowhere to take him.
He couldn't drag him to a physician. He couldn't very well march him into someone else's home. And waking neighbors in the middle of the night would be nothing but a nuisance.
Mujin's eyes fell on the small outbuilding from which he had dragged Ban Yong-gweol earlier. With the Lord of Seongrimmun already subdued, there was no real need to carry Yong-gweol beyond the sect's grounds.
So Mujin shoved him back into the little room and shut the door.
Looking down at Ban Yong-gweol sprawled across the floor, Mujin felt a rising urge—fierce, unbidden—to simply end it all and kill him then and there.
But with it came a violent rejection.
Can I really take a life so lightly? Yes, he's certainly an assassin from the Assassins' Den, but I've no hard proof in hand.
It was less rational judgment than Mujin's gentle nature, a disposition honed by over twenty years spent as a physician.
After some thought, Mujin reached a conclusion that was twisted, for him.
I'll force a confession that he belongs to the Den… and then I'll kill him.
He released Yong-gweol's sealed acupoints, drew his sword, and thrust it into the center of the floorboards with a resonant thunk. A silent warning: make a sound, and you die.
Then he crouched in front of him.
"Now. Speak."
"W-what do you want me to say!"
Ban Yong-gweol's once-proud voice trembled pitifully.
But Mujin thought the tremor false, a cheap performance meant to deceive.
"There's a reason you attacked me."
"…It was stupid. I was stupid. I'm sorry!"
"You know that's not the answer I came for. Explain it properly."
Mujin questioned him calmly, without so much as a slap.
Perhaps because of that composure, Yong-gweol's terror only deepened. Anger and reason weren't clashing—they coexisted in Mujin, each in its place. Admirable, perhaps, but chillingly inhuman.
And so Ban Yong-gweol poured out his heart—honestly, rapidly, without order.
"I just… I just couldn't stand it. I know people treat me like dog shit. They don't avoid me out of fear—they avoid me because I disgust them. But you're different. People come to you for help. I envied that. And I hated it, hated that you seemed like you were rising above me. I know it's pathetic. Please, forgive me…"
Shame forgotten, he spewed out his insecurities and resentment.
But it wasn't the confession Mujin sought. Tilting his head slightly, Mujin pressed again.
"That's not it. Someone told you to kill me, didn't they? Someone ordered you to kill Tang Mujin and everyone around him. Who gave that order?"
"No one! No one ordered me! I did it because I'm an idiot! A damned idiot!"
"Hmph. Assassins like you always keep your mouths shut—until a blade is already at your throat."
"What are you talking about? I don't know anything!"
"I'll help you remember."
Mujin grinned faintly.
And Yong-gweol saw, within his eyes, a storm of fury, hatred, and madness burning quiet but bright.
The blue gleam of the sword at his feet was terrifying enough, but that gaze was worse. Unbearably worse. He lowered his head instinctively, unable to meet it.
He's not sane. He's gone. Completely mad…
Then Mujin's hand gently stroked the back of Yong-gweol's head.
"Yong-gweol. Far to the south, in Hanam, there's a village called Jewon. The Jewon Baek family lives there."
"Y-yeah. The Jewon Baek clan… right."
The words came out of nowhere. Yong-gweol parroted them back reflexively, hoping it might placate Mujin.
"The head of the family was Baek Choo-seo. A pathetic, narrow-minded man—yet stubborn, in his way. Still, it took less than half an hour to strip everything he knew from him, and barely a watch to make him beg for death."
Yong-gweol couldn't even think to nod along anymore. His jaw chattered, teeth clacking uncontrollably, his mind gone white with dread.
"Listen. I won't lie and say I'll spare you. But if you don't tell me the truth… you'll never even be allowed to die."
Yong-gweol panted in terror. Mujin was about to do something.
What answer could possibly save him?
Before he could even think of one, pain lanced through his chest—though Mujin hadn't even moved a finger.
Not an illusion. Within moments the agony spread, searing through his entire body, as though dozens of tiny blades were buried within him, shaking him apart.
"Aaaargh!"
And with that scream, Ban Yong-gweol understood. If Mujin meant to spare him, he would never have inflicted this torment. This was beyond human endurance.
For the first time in his life, Yong-gweol made the wisest decision.
Hands and feet bound, he writhed with all his strength, flinging himself toward the sword embedded in the floor, desperate to cut his own throat on the blade.
But Mujin was faster. He snatched up the sword and sheathed it.
"Kill me!"
"It's only just begun. Stop whining. And besides—you can't die. If you decide you want to confess, give me a signal."
Mujin's hand reached toward him, clearly to seal his points again.
Yong-gweol twisted violently, trying to escape his touch.
"Who! Who do you want me to name? Please!"
"No. I don't need a false confession."
Even as the torture wracked his body, Yong-gweol's mind raced desperately. What did Mujin want to hear? The clues were too few.
So he began shouting names at random, through sobs and shrieks.
"Hu wucheong! Du Jachung! Im Ryeong-gwang! The Lord of Seongrimmun! The warriors of Cheongseong Sect! The nuns of Emei Sect! Aaargh, aaagh! Wonpyeong! Dan Seol-yeong! Tang Jeseon! Unyang! You bastard, just kill me! Aaaagh!"
"Don't spit out names at random. Think carefully. Speak honestly."
Think carefully and speak honestly? How is that even possible like this?
But Mujin didn't notice how deranged his own words had become. He simply sealed Yong-gweol's points again. The man would have time to be "honest."
How much time passed, Mujin couldn't tell. Yong-gweol fainted and revived again and again.
Until finally—
A voice rang out from outside.
"Vile intruder who attacked Seongrimmun, come forth at once and give your name!"
The voice was low, yet sharp enough to pierce straight through.
Mujin rose, opened the door, and stepped into the courtyard.
Three men awaited him there. Huang Ryeongja, branch master of Cheongseong Sect's Seongdo division. Jin Song, chief instructor of Seongdo branch. And the one who had clearly summoned them: the Lord of Seongrimmun himself.
Four pairs of startled eyes met and tangled.
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