Part 9 - Hollow Hunger
In all his forty-five years, he had never once seen a single person eat that much food.
He was certain his father—who had handed this inn down to him—had never witnessed such a sight either, nor his grandfather, who had first opened the place.
It was as if there was an agwi—a hungry ghost—living in the man's belly. That skinny young man, all by himself, had already devoured more food than an entire group of hired carters would eat… and he was still eating.
The innkeeper's first words to the trembling waiter were:
"The money? You took it up front, right?"
He smacked the backs of the two waiters' heads as they stared at him with panicked eyes.
Then, in a low voice so no one else would hear, he hissed.
"You bastards…! You picked today of all days to try and ruin this inn, didn't you…!"
The junior waiter clutched the back of his head, whining, and answered in an equally low voice.
"No, sir, Innkeeper…! I—I'm telling you, he was weird from the moment he came in…!"
"You crazy little shit…! Then all the more reason you should've taken payment first, isn't it?!"
The innkeeper raised his hand again, but the senior waiter hurriedly cut in.
"Sir, that's not what he means. It's not just that he's 'weird'—that man is… uncanny, sir!"
"Uncanny…?"
The innkeeper's thick cheeks twitched.
"Is he a martial artist?"
If he was, then caution—constant, relentless caution—was the only right answer.
Martial artists and inns.
For some reason…
Whenever those two things came together, it was like pouring oil onto a fire.
Even the Luoyang Innkeepers' Association called it the "inn effect", and warned its members to be on guard at all times.
Wasn't that exactly why his father was missing an arm?
"No, sir. It's not like that…!"
The innkeeper scowled.
"Then what—some brat from a high official's household?"
The sons of high officials were easy to spot from their clothes and manners, but if something went wrong, the disaster was even worse.
Hadn't his grandfather gotten into a quarrel with one of those brats, only to be beaten with a cudgel at the government office and die later from the festering injuries?
"N-no. I don't think it's that either."
The junior waiter—who had memorized the faces of every notorious aristocratic troublemaker in Luoyang—shook his head.
"Then what the hell is it…?!"
The innkeeper snapped in a low, near-convulsive shout.
"I'm telling you, he's an agwi…! Didn't I say so…?! The agwi that live in hell, sir!"
"You little shits—scared out of your minds and talking nonsense…"
Both waiters waved their hands frantically.
"Sir, you say that because you haven't seen it…!"
By now, the innkeeper couldn't just keep scolding them.
Smacking his lips, he climbed the remaining steps in long strides.
"I'll go see for myself."
"Sir, please be careful…!"
"Sir…!"
They were worried, but not one of them tried to stop him.
'Come to think of it… it is strange.'
They'd tried to keep their voices down, but there was no way that man—sitting with only his small back showing—hadn't heard their conversation.
Yet the one in the shabby The Scholar's garb, as if unaware the innkeeper was approaching at all, just kept his head down and shoveled food into himself.
Had the creaking of the wooden floor always been this grating?
For some reason, the innkeeper wiped cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve and tugged at his collar as if it were tightening around his neck.
"A-hem. Ahem!"
He stopped five or six steps behind the man and tried a polite cough, but the other didn't react in the slightest.
"Sir…! You need to get closer…!"
"Be careful…!"
'Those rotten bastards—acting like it's none of their business.'
He didn't want to take another step, not even a single one, but he forced himself onward with thirty-five years of grit and stubborn experience.
One step, then another—each felt like an eternity—until at last he was standing directly behind The Scholar.
And even then, The Scholar still didn't so much as glance at him.
The innkeeper swallowed hard.
"E-excuse me…"
He stole a sideways look—and his eyes widened.
The Scholar wasn't even using chopsticks. He was grabbing food with both hands and cramming it into his mouth, stuffing it in, over and over.
The innkeeper stood there speechless for a moment, then wiped his sweat-slick palm against his trousers.
At some point, his whole body had become drenched in cold sweat.
But what did it mean to do business in the very heart of a giant city like Luoyang?
This was a man who had kept the inn running even after seeing what had happened to his grandfather and father.
"E-excuse me, Young Master…"
Why did his voice sound like a mosquito's whine?
He tried to clear his throat.
And then—
"…This isn't it. This isn't enough. This isn't it. This isn't it. This isn't enough…"
A chill raced down the innkeeper's spine.
The inn was filled with the sound of that man devouring food, and wasn't he watching him shove it into his mouth without pause?
Then who—
Who was making that endless whisper?
"…It's not enough. This isn't it…"
And if he listened closely, that whisper sounded fundamentally unlike a human voice…
At that moment, The Scholar's hands stopped dead.
"…!!"
Slowly, The Scholar's head began to turn toward the innkeeper.
The innkeeper's pupils had long since unfocused, and his legs trembled as if he might collapse any second.
He wanted to scream, but his body had already slipped beyond his control.
Caught between moving and freezing, he simply stood there as The Scholar finally looked at him.
Then The Scholar opened his mouth.
"I've eaten enough. How much is it?"
"W-w-what…?"
The pale-faced Scholar wiped the sauce around his mouth with his sleeve and asked again.
"Aren't you the innkeeper?"
The innkeeper answered reflexively.
"Y-yes, sir."
The Scholar nodded and rose from his seat.
His clothes were filthy with spilled food and seasoning, but he didn't seem to care in the slightest.
Calmly pulling out a coin pouch, he asked again.
"How much?"
Not long after The Scholar left, the waiters hoisted the innkeeper—who had fainted—onto someone's back and ran through Luoyang's night streets to find a physician.
And the next day, when the innkeeper woke up and tried to sell off his possessions to hold an enormous exorcism ritual, there wasn't a single waiter who tried to stop him.
***
"Strange… It's strange."
Leaving the inn behind, The Scholar—Yeon Sang-hyeon—kept repeating the word.
As a test, he had tried to eat until he reached his limit, but no matter how much he ate, he never once felt full.
And after eating that much, he should have vomited at least once.
But no—he could just keep pushing it in, and everything went down.
It felt as though the food that passed his throat simply vanished somewhere, disappearing entirely.
Deep down, he already knew.
No matter how much of "this kind of thing" he ate, this hunger would never go away.
He shook his head.
Then what, exactly, was he supposed to eat?
At that moment, his nose tilted toward something.
"A smell…"
It was a fragrance he had never encountered before—so rich, so intoxicating.
A scent that smelled delicious.
A scent that stirred his hunger.
'What is that…?'
Questions didn't matter.
His instincts had already seized him.
His steps carried him into a dark back alley of Luoyang.
And soon, his figure was swallowed by the darkness and vanished.
***
Luoyang—an ancient, storied metropolis.
It had passed through many dynasties and been swallowed by the flames of war countless times, yet even now it stood firm, a massive city representing the Central Plains.
With a population said to reach into the millions, it also held within it an entertainment district of staggering scale.
Though it was late at night, dazzling oil lanterns painted the streets in bright, colorful light, making people forget it was even night at all.
But where there is bright light, there is always deeper shadow.
Behind that beautiful pleasure district lay a twisted, filthy order just as vast.
And among those countless hidden orders, one could name the underworld kingpin known as the Gold Leech—the Geumjil.
And now, even in this wet, grimy back alley, the order built by the Geumjil was turning smoothly, like well-oiled gears.
"Strip him down and shake him out. Everything."
"Yes, boss!"
Whether it was misfortune or simply reaping what he had sown, a middle-aged man—who had gambled until he lost everything—tried a feeble resistance.
"This bastard…?!"
"Beat the shit out of him!"
Naturally, what came back was a vicious storm of fists from the brutes.
A little later, the man looked hardly different from a lump of minced meat—except for the fact that he was still breathing.
"Found it, boss!"
One of the brutes held up what he'd discovered inside the man's underwear.
A wooden tag.
A hopae—an identification token.
It contained his address, his family details, everything.
To take that from him meant they were taking everything he was.
His little shop.
His wife.
His children.
"A-ah… please…"
Despair drenched the middle-aged man's mangled face.
In contrast, cruel smiles deepened on the brutes' faces.
Desperate people fell for rigged gambling schemes day after day, never realizing it was a con—and the fools who got swindled were "processed" to grow the organization's wealth.
That was one face of the hidden order upheld by the Geumjil.
"How dare you eat our elder's money and think you can walk the streets of Luoyang like nothing happened?"
Of course, none of the brutes here—including the man they called "boss"—were direct subordinates of the Geumjil.
They weren't even worthy of seeing his face.
They were only part of one of the many groups the Geumjil outsourced to.
But as long as they carried that name on their backs, at least in this back alley, they were kings.
"Please… sirs…"
And then—
"A whistle?"
It was a whistle with an uncanny melody.
At once sorrowful and desperate; at once chilling and hopeless.
If he had to describe it…
It felt like madness clinging to the sound.
"Who the hell is that?!"
The brute who had been laughing with the hopae in hand shouted in a booming voice.
Usually, his comrades loved how that roar intimidated others.
But now, for some reason, his shout sounded weak—fragile—compared to that thin whistle.
The brute flung the hopae away and drew a weapon.
"Which X-shitty bastard is it?! Come out right now if you've got the guts!"
The others also jerked their weapons up and screamed into the darkness.
"You wanna die?!"
"You think this is funny?!"
"You piece of sh—!"
Then the man called "boss" barked in a low voice.
"…All of you, shut up."
At his voice—still barely holding onto composure—the others clamped their mouths shut.
"Shut up and stay still…!"
A flicker of unease crossed his eyes.
His men weren't overreacting.
Even he had almost ended up screaming, unable to bear that whistle for another second.
Whoever it was, to shake a person's very spirit with nothing but a whistle—
That was, in itself, a blaring sign of danger.
He forced himself into the most respectful posture and cupped his fists toward the darkness in a martial salute.
"I don't know which respected elder you are, but… do you have business with us?"
And the instant his words ended—
As if it were a lie, the whistling stopped.