In the Morning, One Rises and Eats
While the government quarter had been thrown into chaos, the market district was already bustling at dawn.
Where broad avenues met narrow lanes, people gathered and lived their lives.
Unlike the officials in court robes who exchanged uneasy glances in the government streets,
in the market the upheaval in the imperial palace was little more than interesting gossip.
If it did not touch the daily lives of commoners, who died hardly mattered.
As long as turmoil in the palace did not shake their livelihood, it was someone else's affair.
"The Emperor's dead, they say…"
"Hope someone sharper takes the throne this time."
"Sharp? No need for sharp. He needs virtue. And not some coward either."
It was idle talk, yet no one could have described the late Emperor more precisely.
Speaker and listener alike nodded coolly in agreement.
Even without having stood before him, they seemed to understand the truth of the man better than those who once bowed and scraped at court.
"But how did he die?"
"Assassination. They say the Chancellor's dead too. Three arrows pierced him right in the middle of Vermilion Bird Avenue."
"What wicked thing did he do… That's what happens when you swagger instead of ruling properly… And what were the Imperial Guards doing?"
"They bully commoners and strut about, but against a swordsman they're just soldiers in uniform. Idiots."
"Is that good for us?"
"Has nothing to do with us. If that side's noisy, they'll meddle less with us, won't they?"
"So chaos means opportunity for us, eh? Think you'll grab a line this time?"
"They won't be mustering more troops to send south, not with things in such disarray."
"Then who'll do the work?"
"Plenty of fools eager to take it. Doesn't matter which one does it. This one or that one, they're all the same. They strut like they're something grand, but they're just migratory birds."
So-un headed into the lively morning market toward a place where people stood in line.
In the mornings, crowds gathered wherever they could buy something easy to carry away—
a stall warming soybean soup, or a dumpling shop.
Morning meant waking and eating.
He felt hollow.
He needed food.
He had traveled all through the previous night.
He had skipped dinner and eaten nothing for breakfast.
Seeing the crowded street, he turned into a side alley.
In a quieter corner, he slowly examined himself.
He wanted to erase the scent of an assassin from his body.
Before reading the currents among people, he had to erase himself first.
He wished to bury himself among the crowd as nothing more than an ordinary citizen.
He lifted his garments to check for blood.
He lowered his nose to test for any lingering smell.
He brushed dust from his shoulders and sleeves.
When the Black Blade's inner hall collapsed, he had struck until the end.
In finishing them off, he had descended and swung again and again, and dust had clung thickly to him.
He had been tangled in the rubble that had covered ceiling and roof.
No matter how he brushed it away, it did not fall cleanly.
The grime left stubborn stains.
He could not remove it entirely.
He shook out his pockets and found little money.
As he counted what remained, five or six men staggered in from the back of the alley, reeking of liquor.
One glance told him they were "big brothers" of the streets.
They came straddling wide, posturing as though respect followed their gait.
Perhaps they expected fear.
Having nothing else, they carried themselves that way.
Loitering in a market alley at dawn was a nuisance.
Even rogues had their own code—they should not disturb the livelihood of common folk.
Yet the lower the rank, the thinner such distinctions became.
With no honest means to survive, they prowled, harassing others until some petty matter sent them behind bars.
"What's that bastard doing this early?"
Though he knew they meant him, So-un pretended not to hear and kept dusting his clothes.
He twisted and turned, spinning as though to inspect his back.
He feared a stain of blood might remain, though he knew such traces did not vanish so easily.
The explosion of the Black Blade's hall had left dust that clung stubbornly.
It was his failure not to have handled the matter more cleanly.
A scrawny fellow shaking out clothes in a back alley was reason enough for provocation.
"Why're you shaking dust in front of someone's house at dawn? You're making a mess."
So-un smiled brightly and made an apologetic face.
He stopped brushing, though a dark stain lingered on his sleeve.
It stood out.
"Oh… is this your house, sir?"
"Hey, you little punk—want to die?"
A burly man raised his fist high.
"Leave him. He's a kid."
"Boss, we've got no breakfast."
"That bastard's right here."
"Didn't you say he's a kid?"
"I said don't hit him. Didn't say we can't get cooperation."
The word "cooperation" carried a certain tone.
The men smiled.
The fat one stepped forward while three drifted behind So-un, blocking his retreat with practiced ease.
"Hand over some breakfast money."
"Me? I… uh…"
So-un feigned fear.
Surrounded front and back, an ordinary boy would tremble.
He had to act like people did.
He could not appear perfect like an assassin.
"If you pay, we won't hit you."
"Really?"
"Of course. You got some, right?"
"Spent most of my travel money coming here. Hardly anything left."
"Hardly means something. Right?"
They pressed him relentlessly about his coins.
So-un shuffled backward while rummaging in his pocket.
Though he could not truly escape, instinct drew him to create distance.
His voice, however, remained natural.
"I haven't eaten in days. Didn't eat last night. Didn't eat this morning. I can't give it all."
"Who said all? Just enough for a hangover. Hey—this kid's got a sword."
Only then did they notice the blade at So-un's side.
The awkwardly slung sword made their expressions stiffen.
It was neither worn nor ornate, yet it carried presence out of place.
Young masters of powerful martial clans were supported from birth.
They consumed rare elixirs and trained their bodies and meridians from childhood.
Even if they looked simple, their inner strength far surpassed peers.
When they traveled the martial world, they wore only a single sword at their waist.
Their clothes were fine, their purses heavy.
One misjudged them at one's peril.
Even a strong street fighter could not easily prevail against them.
Looking closely, So-un resembled such a clan scion.
His face was delicate.
Though dusty, the garments Mirang had given him were of fabric no commoner could afford.
The flowing embroidered vine patterns on his sleeves spoke of expense.
Good clothes and a sword invited suspicion.
Yet his small frame and slightly foolish air softened their guard.
At the word "sword," all five men's eyes shifted to his waist.
Yet his appearance did not match that of a seasoned swordsman.
He looked dusty and harmless, like a pale scholar.
Only the blade itself was impeccably maintained.
The scabbard was unmarred.
He could pass for a martial clan's young master.
Something about him suggested he was not as simple as he seemed.
The unease did not fully fade.
Seeing their gaze fixed on his side, So-un spoke lightly.
"I only carry it for show. If it bothers you, I'll put it away."
With a soft hiss he drew the sword.
He wiped the blade once.
He rubbed away a smear of blood with the edge of his sleeve.
He sheathed it and tied it into the bundle on his back.
The men's eyes sharpened.
They saw the blood.
It was fresh.
In the stagnant morning air, the scent of iron drifted faintly.
The alley grew heavy.
While they stiffened, So-un calmly produced a small pouch.
He poured a few copper coins into his palm.
There were not many.
He nudged them one by one with his index finger, counting slowly.
The coins clicked softly.
His hand was small, almost childlike.
White, short, plump, solid.
It did not resemble the hand that had loosed arrows moments before.
"This one's yours, sir… this one's mine…"
"This one's yours, and this one's mine…"
"By the way, how much is a dumpling?"