CH 11
The next day.
The gates of Chilso Palace swung wide open, revealing an empty courtyard as Mao stepped out, scratching his groin. His hollow, bloodshot eyes betrayed his sleepless night. When he passed through the bamboo forest and reached the riverside, the women pounding laundry with wooden sticks halted their work, scrambling to their feet and bowing. Without hesitation, Mao approached, stripped off his clothes, and plunged into the downstream water.
“Excuse me, but that’s lye water…”
Ignoring the floating grime, he resurfaced with a splash, scooped water with both hands, and drenched himself from head to neck. His shoulders trembled, turning the water murky as it flowed away. The women grimaced, though his annoyingly handsome features created an unsettling contrast amidst the chaos.
After completing his ritual bath, Mao channeled his internal energy, sending droplets flying off his body in all directions.
“Ahhh!”
The women shrieked as they were drenched, their disgusted screams echoing through the woods. Mao callously strode past them.
This was the infamous rogue of Wolha Village.
Today, however, his antics were even more unhinged—a direct result of his sleepless rage over Jang Yi-seo.
That arrogant 7th-rank noble had knocked him out and declared he’d formally assume the role of Mao’s aide tomorrow.
“Think I haven’t dealt with your type before?” Mao snarled, snatching candy from a passing girl and crushing it between his teeth with a loud crunch. “You thought I’d be an easy target because I live alone? But Jang Yi-seo, know this—”
He flashed a cruel smile.
“I don’t understand mercy.”
Waaah! A toddler burst into tears.
Whether he lacked mercy or simply lacked sense, Mao’s resolve was clear: he’d throw Jang Yi-seo a “proper welcome” tomorrow. Hence his visit to the market today.
“Welcome.”
At the market’s edge, two rough-faced men guarding a shadowy alley bowed. Mao nodded and entered, passing lounging men who rose to greet him in unison:
“Welcome.”
“Prince Chil, welcome.”
They belonged to the Black Dragon Faction, an underworld group long entrenched in Wolha Village. Cheonsan, a quasi-nation of tens of thousands of believers, couldn’t oversee every corner of its domain. Loyalists like the Black Dragon Faction operated freely while pledging allegiance—a group founded by Yong-tae, a former 6th-rank noble.
Creak!
Mao entered the building and flopped onto a red-cushioned chair at the central gambling table. Yong-tae, a sharp-eyed man in his late thirties, glanced up.
“Prince Chil. To what do we owe the honor? Care to join? I’m on a hot streak today—”
Crash! Mao swept the gambling tools off the table before Yong-tae could finish. The men jumped, and Yong-tae gaped—I was winning!
“You free?” Mao demanded.
I was until you barged in. Years of tolerating this madman had honed Yong-tae’s instincts. He signaled his men to clear the room.
“What’s the issue?” Yong-tae asked coolly, chin resting on clasped hands.
“There’s a pest needing handling.”
“My specialty. Who?”
“Jang Yi-seo. The fool aiming to be my aide.”
An aide?! Yong-tae paled. Aides were reserved for elite 3rd-rank nobles. He scratched his temple, forcing a laugh.
“Ah, bad timing—my father’s only son just died. We’re in mourning…”
“Mourning matters? You’re the only son!”
Bang! Mao hurled the 200-geun (120 kg) iron table across the room. Yong-tae’s eyes bulged.
“Not important. At all.”
“Right? Then the Black Dragon Faction handles that 7th-rank upstart.”
“Wait—7th-rank? He wants to be your aide?!”
Yong-tae barked a hollow laugh. A 7th-rank noble eyeing a 3rd-rank position? Even he, a 6th-rank, knew his place.
“I’ll obliterate him.”
“He’s coming tomorrow. Be ready.”
“Consider it done.”
Mao smirked. “Oh, and this money on the floor? Finder’s keepers. Right?”
The hell it is. But Yong-tae forced a smile as Mao pocketed the coins and sauntered out.
“That lunatic,” Yong-tae muttered post-departure. “Thinks everything’s his. No wonder vultures swarm him. Now a 7th-rank leech? Unbelievable.” Hypocritical for a 6th-rank, but true.
“His name was Jang Yi-su?”
“Yi-seo!” a voice corrected.
Yong-tae whirled to see a cowering subordinate. “You! Eavesdropping? Get out and rally the men!”
As the subordinate fled, Yong-tae clicked his tongue. “Kids these days.”
Tomorrow, Chilso Palace would erupt in chaos—just as the subordinate, now outside, removed his hand from his face, reverting to an ordinary appearance.
A master of disguise.
Jang Yi-seo, Amgak’s top agent.
Fooling him was impossible—but the game was on.
The next day.
Chilso Palace was bustling from the morning. It was supposed to feel desolate, living up to its nickname “remote island,” but today, the grounds inside and outside the walls were crowded with people.
They were all men with menacing faces, dressed head to toe in crisp black uniforms—the Black Dragon Faction, led by Yongtae.
“Boss, all the guys are stationed at the entrance.”
“Yeah, good work.”
Behind Yongtae, who was surveying the palace, a man with a thin mustache, broad forehead, and elongated mouth nodded. Deputy Leader Megi.
Yongtae waved him off without turning around, distracted. He’d known the Seventh Prince for years but had never set foot in Chilso Palace until now.
His assessment after a brief inspection was blunt:
“A ruin. Yeah, straight-up ruins.”
Overgrown weeds, cobwebs spanning years, and half-collapsed storeroom doors hung loose. Broken roof tiles and water stains dotted the place. All the money they’d extorted now felt like pennies.
“Even a ghost wandering the Nine Heavens would refuse to haunt this dump. Look how the bamboo creaks. Let’s finish this quick before we get cursed—ah!”
Yongtae shrieked as he spun around. A man with sunken eyes and a faint smile stood right behind him.
“S-Seventh Prince…!”
The owner of this dilapidated palace: Mao.
“A little warning next time?” Yongtae licked his dry lips, heart pounding.
Mao glanced around and asked,
“Where is he now?”
“Who?”
“Jang Isu.”
How should I know? This bamboo maze blocks everything.
“Dunno. Maybe he’s coming… or not.”
Yongtae shrugged, though privately, he doubted Jang Isu would show. If he did, he’d likely flee after one glance. Compared to Horyong Hall—where even the stableboy was a 7th-grade ghost—this place was a joke. At best, second-rate.
With dozens of sharp-eyed thugs guarding the entrance, walking in fearlessly would be suicide.
“If he comes today, it’ll be the worst day of his life.”
“Sure?”
“Positive. My boys don’t lose fights.”
At Yongtae’s confidence, Mao smirked and turned. Fifty Black Dragon members loitered nearby—not elite warriors, but decent swordsmen. More than enough to crush one 7th-grade ghost.
“Hurry up, Jang Isu.”
Mao waited, heart racing.
Rustle—
The bamboo groaned eerily through the silent air.
He’s here!
Mao jolted, recognizing the signal. From the gate, Megi’s shout confirmed it:
“Boss! Someone’s here!”
Mao and Yongtae exchanged nods. Time to greet their guest.
As promised, Jang Isu arrived.
A small pack on his back, ready for bloodshed.
“So you’re the brat disrespecting the Seventh Prince?”
The entrance alone was a hurdle: dozens of swordsmen blocking the path.
Jang Isu scratched his forehead, addressing the broad-faced man in front of him.
“Seems so. Who’re you? Wide forehead for wide vision?”
“Megi. Black Dragon Faction’s deputy.”
“Right. Clear name. But ‘Megi’ in the Black Dragon? Should’ve joined the Catfish Gang.”
“The hell you yapping about?!”
Megi’s face flushed. He swung a meaty fist—typical third-rate thug.
Jang Isu ducked, pivoted, and aimed a punch at his temple.
Thud!
Megi blocked it with his forearm.
“You blocked that?”
Jang Isu blinked. No internal energy used, but still—
Crack!
His forehead slammed into Megi’s nose.
“Gah!”
Megi crumpled, blood gushing.
“Y-You coward… attacking blind spots…!”
Since when do thugs complain about fairness?
#Assistant Jang Isu (2)
