Chapter 95

Bukgung Mok-min, master of the Drunken Flower Manor’s Jiangsu branch stationed in Taiyuan, had come south to Guangdong to oversee affairs.

He asked Il-hwa, one of the Eight Flower Guards, “What happened to the messages sent to the Zhuge Family and the Hwangbo Family?”

“No reply. It seems they intend to stall and not send an answer.”

Bukgung Mok-min ground his teeth.

“How dare they try to stall me? Do those fools think everything will fizzle out if they buy time?”

Il-hwa shifted uneasily. “They’re ignoring us, right? They must think that if they pretend not to know, you’ll simply forget.”

“…It seems that way.”

Il-hwa reluctantly agreed.

Bukgung Mok-min was cunning, but when slighted he often lost his reason.

“Ha. Look at these fools.”

He rubbed the armrest of his chair slowly. “Why do so many these days refuse honor wine and prefer cheap liquor? Yoon is like that too. Why are those tied to Flying Swallow Manor so unbearable? Il-hwa, what kind of man am I?”

“Master, you are a man who never forgets favors or grievances.”

“Right. I may forgive kindness, but I never forget a grudge. And yet they dare slight me?”

The last letter Bukgung Mok-min received from the Jegal and Hwangbo Families contained no long explanations. It stated Shandong’s intention plainly: [The Shandong murim world, including the Zhuge and Hwangbo Families, will not follow Drunken Flower Manor’s will. Shandong will establish its own martial order.]

The words sounded polite enough, but their meaning was clear. They had been swayed by Bukgung Yoon’s flattery.

Bukgung Mok-min was dumbfounded and enraged. It was obvious which side held the superior power: Flying Swallow Manor or Drunken Flower Manor. And yet they abandoned him to ride Yoon’s coattails.

He wondered how Bukgung Yoon had managed to woo them.

“Il-hwa.”

“Yes, Young Master.”

“Gather the wanderers of Guangdong. Preferably the rough and notorious ones.”

Il-hwa guessed his intent.

“You plan to send them to Shandong?”

“Yes. I’ll strip off the Drunken Flower Manor label, hand them money, and let them cause trouble. Once a few retainers of those proud families start dying, their attitudes will change.”

Bukgung Mok-min knew many ways to harass martial families that refused his orders. Families were built on blood; the main house could not police every peripheral branch. Kill a few of those, and the rest would get the message: ‘Ah, we’ve angered someone we shouldn’t have crossed.’

Drunken Flower Manor, hegemon of Guangdong, had more thugs than anywhere else. Around Guangdong, especially near Taeho, wanderers and killers lurked who would do anything for coin. Once paid, they left no loose ends—even if suspicion fell back onto Drunken Flower Manor, proof would be impossible to produce.

“Heh heh heh. We’ll show those Shandong bumpkins how things are done in Guangdong. Dare to defy me? Fools.”

He chuckled darkly as he planned his strike. Causing trouble for those who disrespected him meant a few innocent deaths, but Bukgung Mok-min felt no qualms. Power, to him, meant doing as one pleased—acting on whims and committing atrocities without fear of punishment. That was the Bukgung’s power. It would be the same this time.

Everything seemed perfect—until a figure literally fell from the sky.

A mysterious old monk dropped into the middle of Drunken Flower Manor’s Guangdong branch. The gate guards and the Eight Flower Guards at the entrance couldn’t react to the sudden visitor.

He addressed Bukgung Mok-min plainly, “Are you the master of Drunken Flower Manor?”

Bukgung Mok-min did not welcome night guests—least of all one bare-chested and covered in wounds. Il-hwa’s pupils widened. In a low voice she whispered, “He’s the Victorious Fighting Monk of Shaolin.”

“…That mad dog of Shaolin?”

“I’m sure. I’ve seen those kinds of wounds before. He delights in seeking warriors stronger than himself and breaking them with his bare hands.”

“A terrifyingly mad fellow.”

Why was that terrifying man here?

“I am the master of Drunken Flower Manor, so why has the Victorious Fighting Monk of Shaolin come to this humble place?”

“Let me ask you one thing.”

“…?”

The next moment Bukgung Mok-min saw a fist hover an inch from his face. In less than the blink of an eye—the Victorious Fighting Monk, who had stood five chang away, had struck. At the tip of his fist, the swords of four women—from Il-hwa to Sa-hwa—met. It took four of the Eight Flower Guards to barely halt that single strike.

Between the trembling blades and the fist, Bukgung Mok-min and Jong Haeng’s gazes locked. Finally, the Flower Guards’ swords pushed back Jong Haeng’s blow.

Bukgung Mok-min said coldly, “Well then, you’re not here to pay your respects, are you?”

It wasn’t the first attempt on his life—not that it would be the last. That someone of the Victorious Fighting Monk’s stature targeted him was surprising, but not impossible. Shaolin stood under the Great Prince’s influence, and his elder brother was a man whose thoughts could not be read.

“Getting older and becoming your elder brother’s fighting dog, have you? If you compare my life to Shaolin’s reputation, you’re the one who’d lose in that trade.”

Jong Haeng scoffed at Bukgung Mok-min’s taunt. “What an insolent brat. If I had truly aimed for your neck, you would’ve died just now.”

Bukgung Mok-min’s face twisted. Why were so many people displeasing him these days?

Jong Haeng continued, “Do you know why I dislike anyone bearing the Bukgung name? Their children are rude from one to ten. They sit on golden chairs and order people about as if they’re special. From the Family Lord to the humblest scion, the Bukgung bloodline is the same—arrogant enough to meddle with Shaolin’s disciples.”

Bukgung Mok-min furrowed his brow. Had the monk gone senile?

“No need for words or answers!” Jong Haeng shouted, not listening. “Master, don’t try to make excuses or evade. At your age now, young master, sometimes a sharp reprimand from an elder is necessary.”

Thud.

Jong Haeng stepped forward, and an unusual aura spread around him. The Eight Flower Guards drew their swords tighter.

“This old man’s reprimand will sting a little.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Yeon Mujin dusted his palms. At his feet the garden owners lay bound and unconscious. He hadn’t needed elaborate torture—Jong Haeng had already tormented them that evening. Some had wet themselves and fainted; Yeon Mujin had mixed those who had lost control evenly among the others so everyone’s lower garments would be wet and it would be hard to tell who had done it first.

“If they’ve done wicked deeds together, shouldn’t they suffer the shame together as well?” he muttered. This, he thought, was a man’s consideration.

“That should do it here.”

The monk he had sent to Taiyuan would take care of the rest. His impersonation of Gwan Hwon’s voice had worked perfectly; by that ruse he had sent the most troublesome Victorious Fighting Monk straight to Drunken Flower Manor. In effect, his original plan to sow chaos there had been accomplished by the monk.

“We should have secured enough evidence.”

Frog and Nagil were probably still running around; if they searched these gathered garden owners thoroughly something would turn up. Even if nothing appeared, Yeon Mujin could make it appear—manufacturing evidence was one of his specialties.

“Is it roughly wrapped up?”

Yeon Mujin crossed his arms and shook his head wryly. “No.”

There was still one left.

From the reverberation of Jong Haeng’s steps, the Master of Net’s Garden was in shambles: buildings half-collapsed, the garden in disorder, warriors and servants fled. Only one trembling courtesan sat slumped in a corner, desperately avoiding Yeon Mujin’s gaze.

Having finished his other tasks, Yeon Mujin slowly approached her. The woman curled tighter, trying not to meet his eyes.

“Hello?”

“Ugh! Ugh…”

She covered her face with her hair and trembled, as if a single wrong word would cost her life.

“The other garden owners are all unconscious. Their retainers have fled. It’s just you and me here.”

“P-please spare my life, Sir warrior…”

Yeon Mujin—suddenly addressed by the odd title “Sir warrior”—sat down beside the courtesan. Between them lay a bundle wrapped in purple cloth.

He looked over the fallen garden owners and murmured, “Isn’t it funny?”

The courtesan blinked, confused.

“I went to each of these men and asked them one by one. One had been a high official in Beijing, another ran big business in Junking, another was the child of a notable family… They were all born holding a few more spoons than others. But isn’t it laughable that those with nothing to envy gather and do petty things? That someone’s flower is pricier than ours, that a house master lost a fortune gambling, that the neighbor’s daughter married a rich man… They drag others down, slander, and humiliate. They hide their filthy behinds in expensive clothes and do it all for a few more coins.”

He laughed softly. “What does it matter whether one has a hundred or a thousand bars of gold? Yet the man with a thousand bars looks down on the man with a hundred. The man with a hundred, unable to bear the scorn, scrambles for more. Can’t you buy happiness with a hundred bars? In Suzhou streets there are plenty who could be content with not a hundred, but ten silver coins.”

The courtesan rolled her eyes, trying to follow his meaning. It sounded like a madman’s rant.

“People have strange tastes. Do you find this entertaining? It’s like beasts opening wide to snatch one more coin. I can’t stand to look. Well, that’s why you’ve stayed stuck on this Suzhou floor all these years, like a stain from a badly lit fire.”

“I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying…”

“Stop the disgusting act, you mimic old woman. I knew from the start it was you who did this.”

Yeon Mujin pulled the purple bundle between them. Inside were various bottles of liquor—famed spirits he’d tracked down when he first came to Suzhou.

Their gazes met.

“Then and now, you can’t stop at liquor. How much did you get this time? With these drinks and that money, how long did you plan to hide away and ruin your life, you old thing?”

The woman swatted at his hand and clutched her carefully made silk mask. When Yeon Mujin saw the heavily wrinkled face beneath the torn silk, he smiled.

“Found you. The counter-use mare of Suzhou.”