He's Crossing The Line

Yeo-seol looked up from her play with Eun-bi at the Guest Pavilion and asked.

“Sister Eun-bi. You want to go back to the Namgung Clan, don’t you?”

“Yes. When all is said and done, everything of mine is there. My family too. Does my young lady Yeo-seol want me to stay here with her?”

“No. People are supposed to be with their families. That’s what happiness is. Once the sixtieth-birthday feast is over, Sister Eun-bi should go with the three escort men.”

The little girl was thinking of her and saying so out loud, and Eun-bi found it so endearing that something welled up in her chest. When Scholar Cheon first brought the girl in, she had run wild and known nothing at all, a kitten in the plainest sense, clawing at whatever came near. Now, before anyone had quite noticed, she had turned into a girl who thought of other people, and the distance between then and now struck Eun-bi all over again.

“Sister, I’m going into the room. There are too many people.”

Lately the unorthodox-sect people had begun moving in even on the side where their own rooms were, and it put Yeo-seol on edge. She had never lived anywhere with so many people in it. Her Brother had warned her about them too, but she was still not used to so many eyes on her.

“The Scholar said the house we are to live in is being cleaned. Once the cleaning is done we shall move into that house, so bear with the discomfort a little longer.”

Once Yeo-seol had gone inside, Eun-bi headed for the kitchen to fetch the snacks the girl liked. A warrior had moved in across from their rooms the day before, and he called out to her.

“Hey. Come here.”

Certain that he could not possibly mean her, Eun-bi did not so much as turn around.

It was then.

— Whik!

— Pock!

A dagger stood buried in the pillar beside Eun-bi. It had gone in inches from her face; a hair’s breadth off and it would have lodged in her head. Before she knew it she had turned her head toward where it had come from, her face fierce.

“What is this!”

“Oho! So even the housemaids of the Hyeoncheon Sect are this high and mighty. Won’t answer when she’s called, and glares at a guest. The school of the Unorthodox Supreme indeed.”

“I am not a housemaid of the Hyeoncheon Sect.”

“Not a chance. You’re a housemaid attached to the Guest Pavilion.”

“I came only to wait a short while on someone who has come from elsewhere.”

“Trying to take me in with a lie, are you. One look tells me you’re a body-servant waiting on people at the Guest Pavilion. You. Come to my room later.”

Eun-bi was too dumbfounded and too angry to answer, and she turned back toward the room.

“Who told you to go?”

There was a leering drawl in it, pure provocation. One more word with him and a curse would come out of her, she was sure of it, so she went on toward the room in silence.

— Whirip!

This time something wound around her ankle. A whip had coiled about it and drawn tight.

“I’ll tell you something. I’m not overly fond of a woman who won’t do as I say.”

Just then the door opened and Yeo-seol came out.

“Let go of that.”

The man looked her up and down with weasel eyes.

“And what’s this brat, talking to me any way she pleases?”

“And what about you, talking any way you please?”

“Well, would you look at that! You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“How would I know an ugly weasel like you! Let go of that and clear off, quick!”

Angry now, Yeo-seol reeled off every curse she knew.

“And who’s the brat?”

“I’m a guest here. The landlord of this place invited my Brother, and I’m his little sister.”

“The landlord?”

“That’s right. The one they call the Unorthodox Supreme.”

“Ahaha, now even the brats are out to deceive me. And what does this brother of yours do? What school is he from?”

“He doesn’t have one. My Brother is a scholar.”

“What? A scholar? Woohahahaha!”

All at once the man clutched his belly and laughed.

“The Unorthodox Supreme invited some scrap of a scholar?”

He squeezed out a tear or two and then smiled a rank smile.

“Hah, this… You’re ignorant to a degree that I hardly know where to begin your education.”

Killing intent welled up in the man’s eyes. Yeo-seol asked.

“Who are you?”

“And why do you ask that?”

“So I can tell my Brother later and have him take you to task.”

“Oh, is that so? Then I’d better tell you. I’ll tell you something, I am Wang Sim, the Rakshasa Ghost Whip¹, Young Faction Leader of the Iron-Blood Faction, the strongest of Jiangxi’s unorthodox schools after the Hyeoncheon Sect itself. Heard of me? I’m famous enough that you ought to have.”

“Now I know who you are, so clear off.”

“The nerve of this brat! I meant to let it pass because you’re small, but you’ve no manners at all! Today I’ll mend a little wench’s manners for her.”

Wang Sim raised the whip. Yeo-seol glared at him.

Should I just kill this bastard? Brother would have something to say about it, but I’m too angry to bear it.

Yeo-seol sprang up and pulled out the dagger that had been thrown at Eun-bi.

“Well, would you look at that, you’d dare come at the Rakshasa Ghost Whip? I’ll tell you something, I’m not a man who lets a thing pass because it’s young.”

“Why don’t you put that away.”

The weasel’s eyes snapped round at the voice behind him.

“And what are you? Hold on. By the look of what you’re wearing you’re a scholar. That’s it. You’re that little wench’s brother?”

Cheon Tae-san focused his spirit energy and looked the fellow over. He carried no Seven Stars wheel-energy; he was simply a mad dog with a bad temper. The best course with a dog like this was a sound beating, but the trouble was that this one was a dog with a pedigree.

“What’s a scholar fellow doing here? As if there were anything worth begging off us. Anyway, crawl between my legs and I’ll wipe out the crime of that sister wench of yours being rude to me.”

Cheon Tae-san heard him out and made up his mind.

“Yeo-seol, go to my room and bring the wooden sword.”

“Brother.”

“It’s all right. There’s nothing like a wooden sword for taking a madman in hand.”

Yeo-seol broke into a bright smile and brought the wooden sword from the room.

“Do I get to watch a madman get beaten today?”

“Haah. These two. They don’t know what there is to fear in this world. A wooden sword, he says?”

Wang Sim laughed as though he could hardly believe it, then let the whip loose.

“Count it an honor to die today by the Black-Scale Life-and-Death Whip.”

“Young Faction Leader!”

Just then an underling of the Iron-Blood Faction came running up, calling for him. His fun spoiled, Wang Sim glared at his follower and asked.

“What?”

“What are you doing? It is time for the Young Faction Leader to go out. If you do not go now it will be a loss by forfeit.”

“What? Is it that time already?”

Wang Sim had been idling there without even knowing the hour of his own sparring match.

“You, you scholar bastard! You wait right there! I’ll come back a winner and then I’ll deal with you. Don’t run. Run, and I may chase you to the ends of the earth and kill your family into the bargain.”

Wang Sim carried on outrageously to the very last, and watching him, Cheon Tae-san could bear no more either.

“Hey. Once you’ve beaten your opponent, name me. I’ll take you on.”

“Right! Now that’s a fine idea! Good. I’ll have it done in no time, so wait beside my sparring platform.”

“Go on, and don’t lose. Do well.”

Wang Sim shot back at that.

“I’ll grant you your boldness. Good. Out of regard for that mettle I’ll cut off only the one arm.”

Then he went off at a run for the sparring platform.

“Brother, you can’t let that bastard cur off. If you do, I’ll kill him myself.”

“I’m not letting off a fellow who insults my family. You’re not to come. Wait in the room.”

“Awww. But I want to see it too.”

“I’ll take him properly to task, so don’t you worry.”

“My young lady. I think it would be best to wait until Scholar Cheon comes back a winner.”

Whether she understood Cheon Tae-san’s concern or not, Yeo-seol pushed out her lower lip and nodded.

“But in exchange you have to leave him unable to walk about. He’s the one who took Sister Eun-bi for his own body-servant. I can’t forgive that.”

“Of course. I’m not letting off a fellow who insults my little sister and Eun-bi either.”

Cheon Tae-san moved off toward the sparring platform.

When I came up near the sparring platform, unorthodox-sect people of every description were busy laying bets on the outcomes. Betting went on under the table at the Murim Alliance’s sparring tournaments as well, but the unorthodox sects did it out in the open.

School cheered against school until my ears went numb. The chants were mostly rough stuff: kill him, cut him in two, tear his head off, gouge his eyes out.

Just as well I didn’t bring Yeo-seol along. She’d have learned her cursing here.

I made my way to Wang Sim’s sparring platform.

“Well, look who it is!”

A voice driven straight into my ear. He had used internal force so that I would hear it.

I turned my head and looked up at the upper stand. Mak Ji-mong sat in a chair up there under a shade awning, watching the matches. That was where they seated the highly placed.

“Come to watch?”

“Mm.”

When I went on dropping the formalities as usual, Mak Ji-mong looked dumbfounded for a moment, then spoke.

“Come over here and watch. You can see it well from here.”

“Oh? Thanks.”

I did not decline. I went up the steps in long strides and crossed to him. The escort warriors around him loosed their aura and watched me. I paid them no mind and sat down in an empty chair.

“Anyway, that scholar fellow has nerve, whatever else he lacks. Like a mayfly — too short-lived to know what’s coming for it.”

I could feel it: the Flying Dantian in Mak Ji-mong’s belly was absorbing the fellow’s internal force nicely, and the more it absorbed, the higher his regard for me climbed.

It showed in his eyes. At first they had been full of killing intent, and he had not counted me among the living. Now the loathing was gone from them.

The Flying Dantian does seem to be raising his regard for me. Shall I put it to the test?

I took up the wine bottle in front of Mak Ji-mong and poured into my own cup.

— Shring!

At the sound of a sword being drawn, Mak Ji-mong caught the hand of the escort beside him.

“Enough! The man wants a drink. Why get so touchy about it?”

With a faintly flustered look the escort put the sword away.

“There’s no telling how long you’ll go on carrying yourself like that in front of me, but you’d best enjoy it to the full while you can.”

— Trickle.

I poured, drank a cup, and answered.

“Good wine. Shall I pour you one?”

Mak Ji-mong stared at me a moment, gave a snort of a laugh, and held out his cup. The escorts had never seen anything like it, and their bewilderment showed plainly.

“But you never even watch the matches. What did you come for?”

Mak Ji-mong had nothing to do and had planted himself here to watch the fighting. A great master would find the fights of lesser men dull, but his own level did not reach even the first-rate, so the matches seemed entertaining enough to him.

“I came to beat a fellow I don’t care for.”

“Eh? Really?”

Mak Ji-mong looked about him and asked.

“Is there another scholar here?”

A scholar beating a martial artist was unimaginable, so he took it that the one due for a beating must be some other scholar, and he kept craning his neck about in search of one.

“Whoaa!”

Just then a splendid movement unfolded on the sparring platform with a sound of splitting air. Wang Sim had wound his black whip about a giant of a man’s body and thrown him into the air.

— Whump!

The giant’s clothes were torn to shreds and blood ran from him.

Mak Ji-mong asked the escort beside him.

“Who do you think will win?”

“It is already decided. The Iron-Blood Faction’s Young Faction Leader has won.”

“Eh? That pig hasn’t gone down yet.”

“As he wound the whip about the body he poured internal force in and threw his opponent’s internal qi into disorder. That is why he cannot move.”

“Bleagh!”

The giant vomited a whole bowlful of blood and went down.

“Whoaa!”

“The Iron-Blood Faction’s Young Faction Leader is the best after all!”

“Long live Great Hero Wang!”

Mak Ji-mong asked.

“Is the Iron-Blood Faction’s Young Faction Leader a first-rate master?”

“Yes. He is a master past the first-rate.”

He was not at the first-rate level of attainment himself, and he was touchy on the subject of first-rate masters. I answered.

“No wonder this Young Faction Leader fellow was making light of the Unorthodox Supreme’s heir. So there was a reason for it.”

“What? What did that bastard say?”

“He seemed to take it rather lightly, the Hyeoncheon Sect.”

“I’ll have that bastard, I swear!”

“Hold still. I’ll settle this myself — the master of letters to the Unorthodox Supreme’s heir will settle it, so the student is to sit tight.”

“Mm?”

Mak Ji-mong was still looking at me and wondering what nonsense this was when Wang Sim pointed me out from the sparring platform and shouted.

“The match ended too quickly and left the thing flat, so I shall have one more bout outside the card. There is a man who has dared to challenge me, Wang Sim the Rakshasa Ghost Whip. A mere scholar, no less. You! Get up on the sparring platform!”

At Wang Sim’s words I tossed back the rest of my wine and rose. When I stood there with the wooden sword in hand, Mak Ji-mong stared at me blankly.

“You mean to fight with a wooden sword?”

“Are you worried about me?”

Mak Ji-mong gave a start at the question, then raised his voice as though to ask what I was talking about.

“What nonsense is this! Go and kill or be killed, as you please. Whichever of the two it turns out to be, I’ll enjoy the spectacle.”

I walked slowly up onto the sparring platform, and the spectators watching from the stands laughed at the sight.

“Wahahahaha!”

Most martial artists went up onto the platform with a fine swagger, flying up on a lightness skill. I was the first man to walk up, which made me the butt of the joke.