CH 13
Meanwhile, Mao, who had bolted off like a wild horse earlier, finally came to a stop near Chwiseonru (a renowned pavilion and drinking establishment). Even then, his rage remained uncontained, his face flushed as he screamed curses at the world.
“Aaaargh!”
That son of a bitch. Showing up out of nowhere to spout that sanctimonious drivel. And what was that about a “minor sect leader”?
“Who the hell does a lowly 7th-rank noble think he is, talking to me like that? And you think I’m trash worse than an animal?”
He hadn’t said it aloud, but his glare spoke volumes.
“What’re you staring at?!”
Ugh! Even now, he’s just a brute shouting at some passing girl.
“Damn it!”
Seeing the crying child, Mao swallowed a pang of guilt and kicked a harmless pebble in frustration.
The day had been nothing but humiliation.
First, being lectured by some 7th-rank upstart who materialized out of thin air, then having his full-strength punch blocked by a single petite hand. But the worst part—
That bastard’s words actually got to me… Fuck.
Why wouldn’t he have dreamed of a life where others respected him? Why wouldn’t he have imagined rising to lead a sect?
He’d fantasized about it all.
But the stigma branded on him at birth had crushed those hopes.
As a child, desperate for his father’s—no, his family’s—approval, he’d mimicked martial arts techniques he’d glimpsed over their shoulders.
What he’d earned that day wasn’t praise, but brutal punishment.
“Know your place, or suffer the consequences.”
Mao exhaled sharply, scrubbing the memory of his brother from his mind. Leaning against Hongyegyo Bridge’s railing, he muttered to the sunlit river:
“I’m fine as I am. No more hunger, no more beatings. Isn’t that enough?”
He forced a self-mocking laugh and turned away. Chwiseonru. Alcohol. That’ll fix this.
Just as he took a step—
“Well, look who it is.”
A slimy, familiar voice halted him. When Mao looked up, his eyes wavered like a lost child’s.
The group of late-stage martial artists from the cherry-blossom bridge stood ahead, their leader smirking like a predator.
Oily pale skin, a sleazy grin, draped in opulent white robes—Ma Jingoo.
“If it isn’t the Seventh Prince!”
“Ma Jingoo…”
A distant Ma family cousin and Mao’s lifelong tormentor.
“I was just coming to see you! What luck!”
See me? Mao barked a hollow laugh. What could this weasel want?
“Everyone, pay respects! This is our Ma family’s pride—Seventh Prince Mao!”
“We’ve heard so much,” the group chorused with identical smirks. Their noble air marked them as Elder Council scions—side-branch heirs like Jingoo himself.
“Heard you took on a new aide today. I nearly went to the palace to congratulate you!”
That’s why? Mao shrugged. “It… happened.”
“Heh. Already kicked them out?”
Three creases deepened on Mao’s brow. Jingoo’s smirk widened.
“Told you all, didn’t I? Our prince can’t stand aides for even a day! Hah! I win the bet!”
“Shame—I thought they’d last a week!”
“Why bother? If the family finds out, he’s dead. That’s why he’s stayed alone all these years. An aide? Impossible!”
“Nothing scarier than family,” another sneered.
The group’s laughter boiled Mao’s blood, his fists clenching—but Jingoo, ever the cunning fox, cut in first.
“Now, now—just jokes! You seem tense. Let’s drink at Chwiseonru! My treat!”
“Piss off.”
“Or… should I fetch Brother Yishin?”
Mao froze.
Ma Yishin. The Ma family’s legitimate heir. Mao’s half-brother.
His name alone triggered visceral dread—a conditioned reflex from years of torment. Some fears never fade.
Jingoo’s hand gripped Mao’s trembling shoulder. “Let’s go, prince,” he hissed. “Don’t humiliate yourself.”
“You bastard—”
“What? Want me to treat you like old times?”
Mao’s murderous glare faltered. He looked away—not from fear, but disgust.
Just Yishin’s parrot.
“Fine. But you pay.”
What’s one more stain on this shitty life?
Jingoo grinned. “The prince honors us! Drink till dawn!”
As cheers erupted, Mao glanced toward Chilsogung Palace… and followed.
—Wolha Village, Black Dragon Faction.
“Goddamn Anti-Espionage Unit! Nearly got me killed!”
Faction Leader Yongtae collapsed onto the cracked table Mao had thrown earlier. Deputy Maegi gulped.
“No wonder he outsmarted us! Went straight for our blind spot—he’s no amateur.”
Because you’ve got eyes on your ears, idiot.
Yongtae groaned. “If he’s ex-Anti-Espionage, why hide it? That ‘7th-rank noble’ bullshit almost buried me! That Seventh Prince schemed this—he knew I stashed cash here!”
Maegi’s eyes bulged. “Huh?!”
“Did you hide the money here, big brother?”
“No? No, I didn’t. It’s just something I said, brat. Don’t you get jokes?”
“This doesn’t feel like a joke...”
“Anyway, tighten security around the gates for now, and tell the kids not to even piss near Chilso Palace. Got it? If you catch any brat doing it, smash ’em with a rock. Scare them so bad they’ll never dare step near that area again. Understood?”
“Isn’t that going too far...? Yes! Understood!”
Yongtae shot a sharp glare before exhaling deeply.
He too had served as a 6th-grade official in the education bureau.
He knew better than anyone how ruthless and terrifying the anti-espionage unit was. Even if they’d lost their influence, avoiding them entirely was still the wisest move.
“But hyung-nim, about those men we saw at the bridge earlier—”
“Who?”
Maegi faintly furrowed his brows and mumbled.
“I couldn’t recall earlier, but now that I think about it... I recognize one of them.”
“Maegi, must I memorize everyone you know?”
“No—it’s not like that. He’s from Maga. Prince Chil’s domain.”
“Maga? Prince Chil’s household?”
“Yes. Majingu, I think. He was notorious back when I lived in Damyang Village.”
“Wait... Majingu? Where have I... That name’s familiar. Hold on—... Gasp!”
Yongtae’s face flushed as he bolted upright, realization dawning.
“You know him?”
Yongtae nodded like an agitated dog, grinding his teeth.
Majingu—Maisin’s lackey who’d tormented Mao relentlessly.
“You—go alert Prince Chil first. No, I’ll handle it myself. You round up the boys and tail those bastards we spotted.”
“Wait, didn’t you just say not to go near—”
“You little shit! Do you have any idea how Maga’s treated Prince Chil all this time?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Ugh—! Right. You wouldn’t.”
I heard the stories back when I was with the Horong Party. Yongtae clawed at his scalp, face grim.
“Goddammit! They slaughtered them all...”
“What do you mean?”
“Sent assassins to wipe out everyone around Prince Chil—servants, everyone.”
“What?!”
“That’s why he’s been living alone. Fuck this. Just hurry and gather the boys. We need to—”
As Yongtae lunged for the door in agitation—
CRASH!
The door exploded inward, a bloodied subordinate crumpling at their feet.
“You call for this?”
“Of course not.”
Then—
“Care to elaborate?”
A man stood framed in the doorway, his own men strewn behind him like felled weeds.
“Eeek!”
Jang Iseo, Prince Chil’s aide, had arrived.
The sun dipped low, staining the fifth-floor room of Chwiseonru Pavilion in crimson. Empty bottles and half-eaten dishes littered the space as Majingu and his crew, faces flushed, traded boasts.
“Stopped at an inn in Yangyang—bunch of guys in plum-blossom robes there. Hwasan Sect lackeys. They shut right up and glared when I walked in.”
“Oh? What’d you do?”
“What else? I’m Majingu of Maga. You think I’d cower to some self-righteous pups? Marched straight over, slammed Elder Iljang’s gift—” he brandished his dagger “—right on their table. They bolted like rats! Hah!”
“More like shit their pants.”
Mao dug at his ear, muttering over the drivel. Majingu’s smile vanished.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Tasty fruit.”
Mao snatched a slice, chewing pointedly. Majingu’s eyes narrowed.
“Ah, my apologies, Prince Chil. You’ve been starving, eh? Gobbling food like a beggar. Or perhaps peasant noodles grew too dull for your refined palate?”
“Hahaha!”
Funny? You money-grubbing worms. Mao rested his chin on a fist, feigning boredom.
His fists itched to crack skulls, but Majingu was Maisin’s dog. Best to endure the coward’s yapping a while longer.
Unaware or indifferent, Majingu leaned closer, true colors seeping through.
