The Black Sword
If one crossed Wolong Bridge over the rear moat of the imperial palace, there lay a district densely packed with old siheyuan compounds.
Being at the back of the palace, security was severe and human traffic sparse, and long walls stretched unbroken through the quarter.
Nine large siheyuan had been joined into one complex, and within it rose the Pak family's tall wooden tower, thrusting toward the sky.
That was the location of the Black Sword.
It stood close enough to the palace to enter at will, and, if necessary, to carry out the most extreme measures.
Nine square courtyards were connected, corridors cut through, and the structure rebuilt, creating more than seventy rooms.
The central building was raised so that the rear of the imperial palace could be seen from above.
Step beyond the wall, cross a quiet avenue and then the moat, and one would immediately reach the palace's rear garden.
Very few knew that this was the headquarters of the Black Sword.
Hardly anyone came or went, and even when someone did, they moved discreetly, so that from outside it appeared like an abandoned estate uninhabited by the living.
The Black Sword had originally begun as the Emperor's personal guard.
Separate from the regular Embroidered Guard, it was formed to train warriors who would protect the Emperor at the closest range.
Though created to prevent the frequent assassinations and rebellions that plagued the court, it had gradually expanded until it rivaled and even surpassed the Embroidered Guard in size.
They systematized palace martial arts and forged a new form distinct from the jianghu traditions.
Efficiency was pursued to the extreme; forms and flourishes were stripped away, leaving only the shortest path to kill.
Their attacks defied convention, struck from unforeseen angles, and were difficult to counter.
They hurled themselves forward with disregard for their own lives, making victory against them no easy matter.
This was not a contest of exchanged blows but an art forged for a single strike, for one fatal instant.
A warrior who must stop an assassination within the span of an assassin's breath could only possess a peculiar art.
It was strange, raw, sinister, and indifferent to the attacker's safety.
Inside the tall two-story building at the center of the compound, three men sat together.
When the Great General's whereabouts vanished, the Black Sword grew restless.
Men were dispatched to Henan, where his ancestral home lay, and every official road leading there was searched.
Yet he had not arrived in Henan, nor was there any trace of him upon the road.
"He slipped."
An old man in white scholar's robes sat smiling with a kindly face.
His large desk was unnecessarily broad, as if meant to display authority.
All ongoing documents were piled upon it; more than a dozen rolled scrolls lay scattered.
Half-used sheets and crumpled papers spread across the surface.
No other furniture stood in the room, and the atmosphere was spare.
He seemed a man who delighted in possessing nothing.
Before him sat two men in black martial attire, each with a slender, narrow blade at his broad waist, a mismatch that drew the eye.
"He slipped. I told you to strike him down early, but after missing him several times, he hid somewhere. I thought he was merely a loud general barking orders, but that was wrong. He has skill in martial arts, commands loyalty, and knows how to evade pursuit. Heh."
He tossed a tightly written report from a strip of parchment toward them.
It rolled across the floor.
"You mean he's in hiding?"
"Read it. Use your eyes. Over a hundred men searching. It's not that they can't find him. He's simply not there. We search elsewhere."
"Elsewhere—where do you mean?"
"In the mountains. Or floating upon the river."
One of the men in black spoke cautiously.
"Must it be done this way, Old Master? He resigned and left. His Majesty dislikes him, and he holds no power now."
"Embers must be extinguished. They become calamity later. Deploy all forces. Leave not a single one alive. He has what we do not."
"And that is?"
"Blind loyalty. Superb martial skill. The trust of the people. As a commander he commands broad support. Stand beside him and we become villains. Do you believe such a man is needed in this state? If needed, let it be a greedy dog who knows how to bow, flatter, and retreat. He is too upright. Even His Majesty finds him burdensome."
"Will there not be trouble later? We were exposed during the attack."
"The dead do not speak. If I deny it, what then? His Majesty likely wishes it so."
"There was no imperial sanction?"
"Sanction? We are hounds of power, yet no man's hound. We helped seat the Son of Heaven."
The Old Master gazed toward the ridgepole of Geonryeong Hall and sipped his tea.
"Find him. Kill him. Search the mountains. Inspect every vessel upon the river."
"Yes, Old Master."
"Give the order at once. Fail and I will truly kill you. Stake your lives on it."
The two men's faces blanched.
Elsewhere, in a small pavilion-like space tucked into a corner of the Imperial Medical Bureau, the Chancellor sat.
The late Princess Sohye had once longed for common life and had this modest garden built—pond, thatched hut, and yard—bringing earth and water into the stone heart of the palace.
Amid stone and flagstones and towering halls, this place bore a single name: Peace.
The Chancellor favored it of late.
Perhaps it was a habit acquired after reaching the summit of power—seeking relief from the suffocating grandeur of the main halls in this quiet, simple refuge.
"You wished to see me?"
The Old Master strode before him without hesitation.
He showed no deference.
"I was merely curious what you were doing."
"What does an old, ailing man do? Brew medicine, nap, mutter complaints. Nothing worth curiosity."
"Let us not evade the matter. I cast my vote to spare him. It seems you do not."
"What talk is this? Whom have I killed? Your softness displeases me. If one resolves a matter, resolve it completely. Better he not exist."
"He causes no harm."
"Potential harm suffices. One does not leave danger for tomorrow."
Their words fell like stones.
Two men who had raised the current Emperor—one master of the light, one lord of the shadows.
"Then I formally request that his life be spared. He shall not be used for factional ends. Only to defend against the barbarians. Leave him alive."
"You would take this to the Emperor?"
"When the three of us cannot agree, the decision stands with the two who concur. That was our pact."
The Old Master frowned.
"You will persuade His Majesty?"
"Yes. That is how our power was forged. The Emperor at the peak, you in shadow, I in light."
"Is it worth such trouble?"
"It was not before. It is now. Gatelip was defeated, but the steppe breeds successors. Another will rise, greater than he. We need someone capable of stopping that future."
"Speculation. If such a man rises, we assassinate him. Even Gatelip lives because I allow it."
They spoke not of war, but of assassination.
The assassin's certainty always borders on arrogance.
The Chancellor felt unease.
What if a great upheaval swept the continent?
What if even the throne fell to a nomad?
Then both their powers would crumble like paper.
"I fear sincerely that a barbarian may sit the throne. A ruler beyond our influence. He must live."
"Excessive fear… I take my leave."
The Old Master did not consent.
With a faint, dry laugh, hands clasped behind his back, he departed the garden of Peace.