Prince Yangsang
He knew the situation was ridiculous. But since Namgung Myeong was so deadly serious, Tang Mujin was pressured into clutching the mask.
"Put it on."
Mujin nodded and pulled the mask over his face. It felt a little stifling against his skin, but nothing more. Namgung, tense, asked:
"Nothing? No strange feeling?"
"Not really."
"Wait a moment."
Namgung stepped outside and returned with a polished brass bowl. Not a common item—why one was in the inn, Mujin didn't know. Nor did he know why Namgung brought it.
Namgung wiped the bottom with his sleeve and held it before Mujin's face. Reflected there was the figure of a masked man. A makeshift mirror.
The reflection was small, confined to the brass surface, utterly harmless.
No killing intent, no rage. Just a faint sense of emptiness.
Namgung spread his arms shoulder-width apart, ready to use restraining techniques at any moment.
"How is it?"
"Still fine. Feels like I'll stay fine."
"Don't just sit there. Move. Raise your hand or something."
Mujin raised a hand. The masked man in the reflection raised his hand too.
It suddenly struck him how silly this was.
"Doesn't feel different."
"Don't stop. Keep moving."
He slowly shook his head side to side, pushed it forward and leaned it back, pulled faces, waved his hands.
The masked reflection copied him exactly—naturally.
And yet, he felt strangely at ease.
Once again, Mujin realized the root of his inner demon.
Whenever he saw the man in black, guilt surged over him anew.
If only he hadn't hesitated and killed Baek Choo-seo.
If only he had been a better disciple.
If only he had followed his master quickly—his master might still be alive.
Hooo…
Mujin let out a long sigh, three times heavier than the breath he drew in. Yet somehow, his mind cleared.
When he removed the mask with a contented expression, Namgung was flustered.
"You're taking it off already?"
"I think I feel a little better now."
"No. Heart-sickness doesn't vanish in an instant. It's not about realizing something in your head—it's about slowly erasing the fear and anxiety carved into your body. The key isn't insight, but familiarity."
"Really?"
"Of course. The more familiar you become, the less resistance you'll feel, and the cleaner your recovery will be. Tonight, keep the mask on."
Namgung's intentions were obvious. Mujin gave a wry smile.
Not out of scorn, but out of simple amusement.
Here was a friend staging this eccentric act, all to cure his heart-sickness, his inner demon.
What harm in humoring him for once? One night hardly mattered.
"So what—you want us to climb Jo family's wall together? Be thieves side by side?"
"Let's call it 'gentlemanly bandits' instead."
Namgung didn't deny it. Mujin chuckled.
"When are we going?"
"Anytime. Want to go now?"
"Sure. Let's."
The two donned their night-clothes and slipped out of the inn.
Late at night, in the small village, no one walked the streets. Merchants had long closed shop, farmers were fast asleep.
Yet Namgung kept warning Mujin.
"Shhh. Kill your presence. Move stealthily."
"There's no one around."
"I told you—getting used to it matters. You have to believe you're truly one of the men in black. Move like the blackest of assassins, as if someone might be watching from the shadows."
"Ah, yes, yes."
So the two fools chose the rooftops instead of the road—because that was the most assassin-like thing to do.
They moved as if they were spies of the Black Path infiltrating the Martial Alliance, or heroes sneaking in to steal the Demon Lord's treasured weapon.
Their steps grew quiet, their presence faint—surprisingly so, even to themselves.
Even without arduous training, sometimes enlightenment came unexpectedly.
Mujin asked Namgung,
"I've wondered—why do you like thieving so much?"
It didn't seem to be out of need for money.
Namgung owned little, and the things he stole around Chengdu weren't valuable—more like trophies or souvenirs.
A magistrate's hat string, the red tassel on a mid-tier sect master's sword hilt, a wealthy lady's leather shoes.
Often, he even returned them after a day or two—harder than stealing in the first place.
Thanks to such antics, rumors spread recently in Chengdu that a Divine Thief (Shintu, 神偸) had appeared.
Thus, before earning a grand title as heir of the Namgung family, he'd earned a shadowy alias. Only Mujin and Namgung knew the truth behind it.
"I guess you could call it… liberation."
"Liberation?"
"Yes. Back when I lived in the Namgung household, such things were unthinkable. Now I feel like I'm walking a path no one forced upon me—my choice, my way."
"What if you get caught, and word reaches the Namgung clan? Wouldn't that be the end of you?"
"That just makes it more thrilling, more fun. And honestly, I think I have a knack for it."
Was it liberation, or indulgence in rebellion?
Mujin didn't argue. Namgung was well aware of the risks—no need to repeat warnings.
"Have you always had this hobby?"
"No. The first time was when I slipped in to steal your sword. My head pounded, my chest thumped—but that tension didn't feel bad."
Namgung grinned.
Mujin felt a faint sense of responsibility. It wasn't his fault, yet he couldn't help but think that perhaps his own presence had nudged Namgung's life slightly off course.
If they hadn't met on the Yangtze, how would Namgung be living now?
The two leapt from rooftop to rooftop, traversing the entire village. A detour, delaying their approach to their true target.
At last, they crossed the Jo family's wall, melting into the darkness.
The Jo estate held three buildings. A small one served as kitchen and storehouse. From the largest, loud snoring rumbled.
The mid-sized building was better maintained, with straight pillars and neatly cut foundation stones. Surely that was where the Jo head stayed.
In that building, only one room's lamp still burned. Mujin and Namgung crept up to the window and peered inside.
A man sat upright, examining a small chest the size of two palms.
Inside glimmered yellow gold pieces and other valuables.
Paper and ink lay before him, and from time to time he scribbled something down—likely tallying the worth of his treasures.
"That—stealing it… no, taking it—that is righteous action. Only if we take all that money will the people of this village be free from Jo family's oppression and the local thugs."
It wasn't exactly wrong, but the greed gleaming in Namgung Myeong's eyes was a little too suspicious.
Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong hushed their steps and slipped inside the building. It seemed there were a few people asleep in the dark rooms.
They whispered so as not to wake them.
"So what now? Are we killing the Jo head?"
He asked because the man's reputation among the villagers was bad. But Namgung immediately shook his head.
"No. Killing or injuring someone and then taking their possessions—that's the way of a bandit or an assassin."
"Then?"
"We slip in, take the goods, and leave without harming anyone. Even a gentleman thief is still a gentleman. A gentleman doesn't harm people carelessly."
"But how? The moment we step inside, Jo is bound to shout."
"Then we wait until he falls asleep."
"And when will that be?"
"No idea."
Namgung shrugged. These things always came down to luck.
But suddenly, Mujin had an idea.
"There's a way to take that chest before Jo falls asleep."
"How?"
"Watch closely."
From his robe, Mujin pulled out a needle. At the same time, a thin trail of transparent venom oozed from his fingertips, coating the needle.
"That poison—dangerous?"
"It won't kill or cripple. Don't worry."
Mujin stood still, focusing his spirit. From the far end of the hall, light spilled out from the right-hand room. The distance was about twelve paces.
He drew in a long breath, then held it.
His hand flicked lightly, releasing the venom-tipped needle.
It shot through the air toward the far wall—then, just before striking, his palm twisted sideways.
As if bewitched, the needle veered midair and slipped into the lit room. Through the thin thread of inner energy he had tethered to it, Mujin felt the needle sink into flesh.
It was his first time using the technique in real combat, and Namgung's first time seeing such a feat.
"Air-Seizing Technique?"
"Yeah."
Long ago, Namgung had taught Mujin a basic version—flinging little wood chips with greater force. But Mujin had trained it his own way, evolving it into something new.
Of course, only with small, light things like needles could it work.
The two held their breath and listened. A low, heavy sound followed. Thump.
"That's it. Let's go."
They slipped into the lit room.
The Jo head lay collapsed sideways, a needle stuck in his arm, drooling in unconsciousness.
In front of him sat the chest brimming with valuables.
Namgung silently expressed his joy with a gesture, then took the chest.
Mujin picked up the brush lying on the table and scrawled a note:
[We will return again.]
That much should keep the Jo family from lashing out recklessly before they left the village.
The two slipped back out through the window.
Mujin felt the weight of what he had just done: the thrill of achievement, the faint guilt of theft. A tangled mix of emotions—but not mere greed.
Rather, it felt like the "liberation" Namgung had spoken of.
They climbed up onto a nearby rooftop.
No moon shone that night, yet Mujin felt it wasn't dark.
A cool breeze swept over the roof, drying the sweat at his nape. Mujin inhaled deeply, as if to capture every wisp of that air.
The thin wind carried away a large piece of the stifling heaviness knotted in his chest.
For some reason, he felt happy. For some reason, joyful.
The two didn't leave right away. Instead they sat on the roof, chatting for a long while, before melting back into the night.
Limping Song woke to the sound of a rooster's crow.
He tried to rise, reaching for the cane at his bedside. Ever since Jo's men had beaten him cripple, it had become habit.
He still remembered vividly the day he'd been struck down and robbed of the jade ring his mother had left him.
He hadn't intended never to sell it. One day, when things became truly desperate, he could have parted with it. But since he hadn't yet fallen to ruin, he had kept it safe.
In a single day, Jo had taken it all away—the ring, and his livelihood.
What living could a farmer manage with a crippled leg?
If only he had just said he wanted the ring outright…
Had Jo only taken the jade, Song would have burned with anger, but not this crushing despair.
A farmer needs only a sound body and tillable soil to survive.
But Jo had beaten him senseless without warning, stolen the ring, and even shattered his ankle.
Song sighed deeply, fumbling around until his hand closed on his cane. He wondered how he would get through today, how he would survive tomorrow.
But as he pulled the cane toward him, he heard something rattle.
Turning his head, he saw a dozen yellow pieces rolling by his side. Gold. The kind of money he had never once touched in his life. Enough that, spent wisely, he need never starve again.
And next to it, a jade ring gleamed in the dim light.
Song stared blankly, then scratched his head and lay back down.
"Must be a dream."
With a flat expression, he closed his eyes to sleep again.
Yet part of him desperately wished this wasn't a dream.
At the same time, another part whispered—it was far too vivid to be a dream.
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