Gu Chil was watching.
Seo-joon could feel it without turning his head.
The market was too crowded for silence, but there were different kinds of noise. Honest noise came from people buying and selling. Dangerous noise came from men who stood still and listened too much.
Gu Chil was one of those men.
He stood near the rice stall with his thick arms crossed, pretending to look bored. But his eyes kept following Seo-joon.
Mak-bong walked beside him, nervous enough that his steps became uneven.
"Don't look back," Seo-joon said quietly.
"I'm not."
"You looked back three times."
Mak-bong swallowed. "He's still watching."
"I know."
"Then why are we walking slowly?"
"Because running tells him we're hiding something."
Mak-bong's mouth shut.
Seo-joon kept his pace steady. His body still felt weak, but his mind was moving fast.
Problem one: Gu Chil had noticed him.
Problem two: Old Lady Wol was now selling his roots.
Problem three: if Gu Chil followed him to the cave, everything was over.
He had no guards. No house. No friends. No legal identity. His only asset was wrapped in a dirty mat on his back.
In modern terms, he had no company, no warehouse, no protection, and no supply chain security.
Just one product and a secret.
That was fragile.
Too fragile.
Seo-joon turned down a narrow alley between two leaning houses. The smell of waste and old smoke filled the air. A woman was washing rags in a wooden basin. Two children sat nearby, fighting over a cracked bowl.
Mak-bong whispered, "This isn't the way back."
"I know."
"Where are we going?"
"To disappear."
They turned again.
Then again.
Seo-joon stopped beside a broken wall and finally glanced back.
A man passed the alley entrance.
Not Gu Chil.
One of his men.
Tall. Thin. Sharp nose. The same man who had laughed at the roots earlier.
Seo-joon's expression darkened.
"They're not stupid."
Mak-bong's face paled. "We should run."
"No."
Seo-joon removed the bundle from his back and shoved it into Mak-bong's arms.
Mak-bong nearly dropped it.
"Careful," Seo-joon hissed.
"What is this?"
"Your debt getting heavier."
"What?"
"Listen carefully. Take this bundle. Walk through that side path. Don't run. Don't stop. Go to the broken shrine behind the old well. Hide it under the floorboards."
Mak-bong stared at him. "Why me?"
"Because they're following me."
"And what if I leave with it?"
Seo-joon stepped closer.
His voice became calm.
Too calm.
"Then I'll find you. And when I do, you'll wish Gu Chil caught you first."
Mak-bong froze.
For a second, Seo-joon saw real fear in the boy's eyes.
A small part of him hated that.
Another part approved.
Fear was faster than trust.
Trust needed time.
Seo-joon did not have time.
Mak-bong hugged the bundle to his chest and nodded.
"Broken shrine. Old well."
"Good."
"What about you?"
Seo-joon looked toward the alley entrance.
"I'll sell him a lie."
Before Mak-bong could answer, Seo-joon pushed him toward the side path and stepped back into the open alley.
The thin man noticed him immediately.
Seo-joon pretended not to see him.
He walked toward a crowded water area where women filled jars and servants argued over whose turn it was. The thin man followed from a distance.
Good.
Seo-joon bent beside a public water trough and splashed water onto his face. His reflection shook in the surface.
Dirty hair.
Hollow cheeks.
Cold eyes.
He looked like a beggar.
But his mind was not poor anymore.
He turned suddenly and walked straight toward the thin man.
The man paused.
Seo-joon bowed his head slightly.
"Hyung-nim."
The thin man narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"I know Gu Chil sent you."
The man's face hardened.
Seo-joon lowered his voice. "Tell him I understand. I won't sell without paying."
The man scoffed. "You think this is about paying?"
Seo-joon acted confused.
"Then what?"
The man stepped close. "Where did you get the roots?"
Seo-joon looked around as if afraid.
Perfect.
Fear made lies easier to believe.
"There's an old woman near the northern ditch," Seo-joon whispered. "She digs them. I carry them. That's all."
The man studied him.
"Name."
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"She doesn't give names. She gives roots."
The man grabbed Seo-joon's collar.
"Don't play with me."
Seo-joon did not resist.
Resistance made men angry.
Submission made men careless.
"I'm not," Seo-joon said quickly. "I swear. She said if I sold them, I could keep a little. That's all."
The man stared into his face.
Seo-joon let himself look scared.
Not too scared.
Just enough.
After a moment, the man shoved him back.
"Take me."
Seo-joon's stomach tightened.
He expected that.
Still, expecting danger did not make it less dangerous.
"If she sees me with you, she'll run."
The man slapped him.
Hard.
Pain flashed across Seo-joon's cheek. His head snapped to the side.
For one second, rage burned hot inside him.
In his old life, he had swallowed insults because he needed the job. Needed the paycheck. Needed permission to survive.
Here, he swallowed this slap for a different reason.
Not because he was weak.
Because revenge needed timing.
Seo-joon slowly looked back.
The man smiled. "Take me."
Seo-joon nodded.
"This way."
He led the man north.
Not to the cave.
Not to the broken shrine.
To a drainage ditch near the edge of the slums where weeds grew thick and the mud smelled rotten.
It was a place desperate people searched for food.
A believable place.
As they walked, Seo-joon noticed things.
A group of women carrying firewood.
A man with a limp selling cracked pottery.
A young woman helping an older woman sit beneath a torn cloth awning.
The young woman caught his attention for half a second.
She looked around twenty. Thin from poverty, but not weak. Her hair was tied simply, her sleeves patched. Her face was pretty in a tired way, but her eyes were sharp.
Protective.
The older woman beside her coughed into a cloth.
Seo-joon looked away.
Not his problem.
Not yet.
The thin man shoved him from behind.
"Walk."
Seo-joon walked.
At the ditch, he crouched near the weeds and began searching through the mud.
The man stood behind him.
"Where is she?"
"She comes and goes."
"You said she was here."
"I said northern ditch."
The man cursed and kicked dirt at him.
Seo-joon kept his head low.
Then he pulled up a small root from the mud.
It was not the same kind, but close enough at a glance.
"See?"
The thin man snatched it and looked it over.
His eyes narrowed.
Seo-joon held his breath.
This was the danger of lies.
A lie did not need to be perfect.
It needed to survive long enough for you to move.
The man threw the root down.
"Gu Chil will hear this."
Seo-joon bowed slightly.
"Of course."
The man left, but Seo-joon did not move.
He waited.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Only after the thin man disappeared fully into the market did Seo-joon exhale.
His cheek throbbed.
His first business day had given him zero profit, one distributor, one enemy's attention, and a bruise.
Not exactly success.
He almost laughed.
"Good," he muttered. "Pain keeps the lesson clear."
He made his way to the broken shrine behind the old well.
Mak-bong was there, sitting on the cracked stone steps with the bundle beside him.
Seo-joon's eyes flicked to the bundle first.
Still there.
Mak-bong saw the red mark on his face.
"You got hit."
Seo-joon picked up the bundle and checked the knot.
"Yes."
"You didn't fight back?"
"No."
"Why?"
Seo-joon looked at him.
"Because I want him dead later, not angry now."
Mak-bong went quiet.
That answer scared him more than yelling would have.
Seo-joon sat behind the shrine, hidden from the road. He unwrapped the pot just enough to see its dark surface.
Safe.
For now.
He pulled out the roots he still had and dropped them in.
Thunk.
Then the familiar sound came.
Clink.
Two became four.
Four became eight.
Eight became sixteen.
He stopped there.
He wanted to make more.
A lot more.
The greed in him whispered that he could flood the slums with food, gather coins by sunset, and sleep with a full stomach.
But greed without control was how people got caught.
He wrapped the pot again.
"Mak-bong."
The boy looked up.
"How many people in the slums can keep their mouth shut if paid with food?"
Mak-bong blinked. "None."
Seo-joon smiled faintly.
"Good answer."
"People talk."
"Then we don't pay them to stay quiet. We give them something else to talk about."
"What?"
"A story."
Mak-bong frowned. "A story?"
Seo-joon looked toward the market.
In modern business, product mattered.
But perception mattered more.
People did not just buy food.
They bought trust.
They bought hope.
They bought rumors.
Seo-joon needed to disconnect himself from the supply. If people believed the roots came from an old ditch, they would search the ditch. If they believed Old Lady Wol found them, they would pressure her.
But if they believed the roots were gathered by different poor people across the slums, the source became foggy.
A business with no walls.
A supply chain made of rumors.
"Tell people," Seo-joon said, "that the heavy rains loosened wild roots near several ditches. Poor people are finding them everywhere."
Mak-bong scratched his cheek.
"But they're not."
"They don't need to be. They only need to believe others are finding them."
"That's lying."
"Yes."
Mak-bong stared.
Seo-joon leaned closer.
"Do you want to eat tomorrow?"
Mak-bong looked away.
"…Yes."
"Then learn this. Hungry people don't survive by being honest. They survive by making useful lies."
The boy did not answer.
Seo-joon handed him two roots.
"Payment."
Mak-bong took them slowly.
"Am I your worker now?"
"No."
Seo-joon's eyes sharpened.
"You're my first investment."
Mak-bong clearly did not understand, but he understood the food.
That was enough.
By late afternoon, Seo-joon returned near the market, careful not to stand too close.
Old Lady Wol was still there.
The roots were gone.
All of them.
She sat calmly, as if nothing important had happened.
Seo-joon approached only when the crowd thinned.
She did not look at him.
"Your roots sold."
"How much?"
"Twelve roots. Three mun total."
"Half is mine."
Old Lady Wol finally looked at him.
"Gu Chil's men came asking questions."
"I know."
"You bring danger."
"I bring goods."
"Goods bring danger."
Seo-joon held out his hand.
Old Lady Wol stared at him for a long moment, then placed one coin in his palm.
One mun.
Seo-joon's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Half of three is not one."
Old Lady Wol's expression did not change.
"Market fee."
Seo-joon almost smiled.
There it was.
His first distributor was already shaving profit.
In modern words, leakage.
In Joseon words, everyone stole if they could.
Mak-bong looked ready to say something, but Seo-joon raised one finger.
He looked at Old Lady Wol.
"If you steal too much from me, I stop supplying you."
"If you threaten an old woman, people hate you."
"If you cheat your supplier, your stall becomes empty."
Her eyes sharpened.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
Then Old Lady Wol laughed softly.
"You are young, but not soft."
"No."
"Good. Soft men die here."
She slipped another half coin piece from beneath her sleeve and placed it in his hand.
"Two mun. I kept one."
"For fee?"
"For risk."
Seo-joon accepted it.
It was not fair.
But it was real.
Risk had a price.
Today, he learned that too.
He turned to leave, but Old Lady Wol spoke again.
"Bring more tomorrow."
Seo-joon paused.
"How many?"
"As many as you dare."
Seo-joon looked at the two small coins in his palm.
His first real profit.
Tiny.
Dirty.
Earned through hunger, pain, lies, and theft.
His cheek still hurt.
His stomach was still empty.
Gu Chil was watching.
Old Lady Wol was cheating.
Mak-bong was useful but scared.
And the pot could still get him killed.
Seo-joon closed his fist around the coins.
For the first time, he smiled like a man who had found the bottom step of a very tall staircase.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we raise the price."
Mak-bong's eyes widened.
Old Lady Wol looked amused.
Seo-joon turned away.
Behind him, the market continued screaming.
Ahead of him, Joseon waited.
Cruel.
Hungry.
Full of men who thought they owned everything.
Seo-joon touched the coins in his hand and whispered to himself,
"Not for long."