CH 39
#No Intention of Stopping (2)
– Wolha Village, Chilsogung.
Mao sat in the garden, reeking of foul odor, unaware that Sixth Prince Meng Hui was approaching. To be precise, his clothes were caked with dirt as though he'd rolled in a mud pile, and his face ballooned grotesquely. The dark hollows under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night. In short, he was a disaster. His only activity was repeating a name through gritted teeth, each syllable dripping with venom.
“Jang… I-seo… Uhehehehe.”
He had every right to seethe.
The battlefield to the outhouse—the Path of 108 Torments—had left Mao utterly defeated. The price? A traumatic ordeal that carved mental scars, not to mention the humiliation inflicted upon his poor underwear.
Yet he endured.
Yes. What’s soiled is soiled. He’d forgiven it a hundred times, a thousand.
Why else would a madman be called mad? If a drunk could turn beast without pissing himself, he’d be nobility.
“Uhehehehe.”
But Mao’s descent into madness had another catalyst.
His own house.
The very place meant for changing clothes and resting.
“Hehehe. A house should let you rest. Let you sleep. So why won’t it let me in? Huh? You rotten bastards. Ugh…”
Mao flopped onto the ground. The “Chamber of Unrest” had obliterated his last shred of hope. Just when he’d soiled himself at his age, limping inside after being pummeled by stone guardians—
Thud!
—the ceiling split open with a sinister groan, unleashing a massive iron hammer.
Crash!
It struck his chest dead-center, hurling him through the door to skid across the dirt.
He rolled, still reeking.
Pathetic.
“Hehehehe.”
Only a saint wouldn’t snap. Mao was now a deranged lunatic coated in filth.
“Daring to stay out all night on a day like this?! Jang I-seo… Uhehehehe. I’ll slaughter you.”
Mao’s grin turned feral. The moment Jang returned, he’d end this.
As he steeled himself, footsteps finally echoed from the entrance—the ones he’d awaited all night.
“Jang I-seo, you bastard! What time do you call this… Huh?”
But it wasn’t the infuriating face he’d expected.
“Wh-what’s this?”
A boy stood there: silk robes, hair tied with a ribbon, a black spear strapped to his back. Wide, bewildered eyes locked onto Mao.
“Meng family’s brat?!”
“I’m your elder brother!”
Legally, perhaps. In reality? A pesky runt who picked fights.
Owner of the shattered spear Mok Heuk (黙黑), a relic bestowed by the sect leader.
Sixth Prince Meng Hui.
“Why are you here?”
“Your elder brother visits, and this is your greeting? At least crawl out and bow—Ugh! We’ll talk later!”
“What nonsense? Hey, wait!”
Meng Hui clutched his stomach and rushed inside.
Clang!
An iron rod shot from the wall.
Meng Hui’s eyes flared as he jerked his head back, narrowly dodging.
“What?!”
Mao gaped. He hadn’t dodged a single blow earlier!
“You—you set traps to kill me?!”
“Bullshit! How would I know you’d come?”
“Then why—Oof!”
Another rod whipped out. Meng Hui twisted clumsily, but thud!—it slammed into his side.
Gurgle.
His face contorted. The pain in his ribs paled next to his churning stomach…
‘No! Can’t let this lunatic see! Death before shame! Hold it!’
Sweat cascaded down his temples.
Meng Hui, youngest of the Meng clan and Sixth Prince.
Fifteen years old.
His life’s greatest crisis had arrived.
‘Move!’
Who cared why traps lined the entrance? Survival came first.
“Hiyah!”
He lunged forward, evading rods with desperate agility.
Whoosh!
But then—
“Ugh!”
A vile stench punched his nostrils, nearly dropping him.
Poison?! This madman’s trying to kill me! Meng Hui shot Mao a murderous glare before whipping his head away.
His nose burned, but interrogations could wait. His rear end twitched ominously.
“How’d you only get hit once? I took hundreds!”
A miracle, given the cramped space. And—
“Shut up! Your stench worsens when you yap! Out-house. Now. Or—”
Swish! Meng Hui pressed his spear to Mao’s throat.
“—you die today.”
Since when did latrines warrant such drama? Mao gaped before sputtering, “You invade my home at dawn spouting crap? Over there! The outhouse!”
As the spear tip grazed his neck, Mao jabbed a finger. Meng Hui sheathed his weapon and soared across the courtyard using qinggong.
Whoosh!
His robes fluttered as he landed gracefully.
Rounding the corner with desperate hope, he muttered:
“Almost… Almost there.”
Hope and relief filled his mind. But what awaited him was…
Thud!
“What is this…!”
Instead of a toilet, he was met with the wide-eyed 108 Heavenly Kings.
Would they simply relieve themselves, or would they fight first and then do so?
The nightmare of Zhuge Guilong—a recurring torment in his life—awaited. The path of 108 afflictions stretched before him.
“Father… Huff.”
It was the moment tears welled up in Menghui’s eyes.
Meanwhile, at that moment.
Jang I-seo, who had stayed out overnight, left Wolha Village and entered a secluded nearby forest.
He hadn’t come to enjoy the breeze but to deliver a message.
Normally, one would send messages through the village’s Gusabang—a pigeon courier house—or dispatch a messenger. But today’s message couldn’t use such ordinary means.
This isn’t for those Ma Cult bastards.
Correct. It was a missive for his true organization: the Murim Alliance’s covert branch, Amgak.
Jang I-seo halted before a massive tree with a white ribbon tied to its branch.
Truthfully, he didn’t fully understand how his messages reached Amgak.
He only knew two types of entities could freely leave Tian Shan: those with the Cult Leader’s permission… and the blackwood tree before him.
A legless tree leaving? Yet it was true.
Tian Shan’s blackwood was so valuable in the Western Regions that the Ma Cult felled mature trees and shipped them along the Silk Road.
Jang I-seo’s task was to carve coded braille into trees marked with white ribbons for logging.
Scritch, scratch.
With his waist dagger, he etched marks discreetly.
What if someone saw?
No matter. The cipher had 67 interpretations. To the Ma Cult, it read “idiot, fool.” To Amgak, “safe return, the Cult Leader is foolish.”
Even if caught, they’d assume he was venting stress.
He didn’t know how the tree would reach Amgak, nor did they demand reports.
Yet he risked it for one reason: pride in belonging to the Murim Alliance, not the Ma Cult.
“This was just a side task. The real work is here.”
After carving, Jang I-seo wandered the forest again.
His steps seemed aimless, but his searching gaze hinted purpose.
They stopped at a tree heavy with yellow fruit.
Caw! Caw!
Above, crows nested in an apricot tree.
Jang I-seo retrieved cinnamon-scented parchment, leaped nimbly onto a slender branch, and tied the parchment to it.
“The feast is ready… Now we wait for guests.”
A cruel smile curled his lips.
You won’t stop here. But neither will I.
The assassins of Tian Shan—Slaughter (屠) and Kill (殺)—the Slaughter Squad.
He’d foreseen their visit.
Sa Do-cheol. Two failures mean you’ll come yourself this time.
Jang I-seo wouldn’t waste this chance.
The Squad was merely the first wave. Countless attacks would follow his bid to become Deputy Cult Leader.
He’d make an example: interfere with Chilso Palace—no, with his mission—and suffer.
His eyes sharpened, daring them to come.
When Jang I-seo returned to Wolha Village, the sun hung low.
Exhausted, he carried two roasted chickens for Mao, who’d surely complain about being abandoned.
Was this excessive?
Mao, with her month-left lifespan, had been left alone. Behind her prickly exterior, she must be terrified.
He resolved to console her.
Trudging aimlessly, he reached Chilso Palace.
“I’m ba—”
His greeting died as he dropped the chickens in shock.
“It’s fine… Life’s like this. But what’s that smell? It’s delicious.”
“Waaaaah!”
A child smeared with filth wailed. A disheveled figure patted its back.
Chaos reigned.
