Episode 12. You Heard Someone Died Because They Didn’t Clean?
The Twelve Divine Generals each held different levels of martial power, but all of them stood on the same tier as the Black Hare Sect’s master.
Jo Ilseom couldn’t even lift his head.
Why would one of the Twelve come all the way here…?
Hearing the name Baek-yu alone was enough to make him treat me like the sect leader himself. Especially since Baek-yu was the worst possible person for him to face. Recently, Jo Ilseom had been flattering one of the Twelve, the Black Hare (Heukmyo), and Baek-yu was notorious for disliking him. The problem was that Jo Ilseom’s rank was too low—he’d never even seen Baek-yu in person.
His mind churned as he forced out words.
“…Did you come with an order, sir?”
“I did.”
“Then please, speak.”
“Kill yourself.”
Jo Ilseom clenched his jaw and said nothing. No one in their right mind would accept such an order, even from one of the Twelve.
“You can’t just say that so suddenly—”
“Relax. I’m joking.”
“…”
I smiled faintly. “The Twelve? That’s a lie. I’m from Ilyang-hyeon. Tell me, why are you so gullible, Lord Jo?”
His expression hardened in an instant. “…You’re from Ilyang-hyeon?”
Anger welled up as his tension faded. I met his gaze calmly.
“Seems like you don’t remember. Come closer. Take a good look—it’s me.”
Jo approached slowly, sword in hand, studying my face. His expression went from disbelief… to recognition… to fury.
He drew his blade. “You… that busboy from Jahakwan?”
I smiled. “Good eye. Did you ever stop by for a bowl of bad noodles? How was the kaedoo-guksu, Lord Jo?”
A dark thought flashed across his face. “Where’s my brother?”
“Your brother? What about him?”
“He went out to kill you. What happened?”
“He came,” I said flatly.
“Then—”
“He didn’t come for noodles. Just started digging his own grave for some reason. If you’re curious, ask him yourself—down in the afterlife.”
Jo lunged. His thrust was fast, precise—an experienced killer’s strike. But I drew my sword and parried.
Clang! Sparks burst between the blades. In that clash, we both learned everything—muscle, energy, speed, power.
Jo Ilseom was a swordsman in his late thirties, two decades of experience behind him. Self-taught through real fights, his swordsmanship was crude but deadly. The technique itself was flawed, limited—but the killing intent was real.
By the wider martial world’s standard, though, his blade was third-rate.
Meanwhile, I had reached only the first stage of Golden Nine Small Circulation Art (Geumgu Soyo-gong), known as Wooden Rooster. Even so, my pure inner energy ran far deeper than his. My power came from the Celestial Jade itself—its roots were on a different level entirely.
“Killing yourself would’ve been cleaner,” I muttered.
Then I counterattacked.
Our swords clashed again and again, the sound echoing through the grand hall. Jo’s expression darkened as his instincts screamed at him to run. But before he could, I hurled my sword like a stone.
Whsshh!
He barely deflected it. In that moment, I uncoiled the chain whip from my waist and lashed it around his hilt.
Channeling energy into my arm, I yanked. Jo was dragged forward like a pig toward slaughter.
He dropped his sword and spun away, bursting toward the door in light-footed flight. But my whip was faster. It snapped around his waist, and with a twist of my body, I shortened the distance in an instant.
He spun to strike—two palms flashing like twin hammers.
I answered with the Wooden Rooster Finger Technique (Mokgye Ji). The outcome depended on whose energy was stronger: either my finger would shatter, or his inner force would rupture.
Crack! His skin tore open, and Jo stumbled back, vomiting black blood.
“You—how did you—”
“Learn martial arts?” I smirked.
I flooded the whip with inner power again and lashed him. Jo flailed in panic but couldn’t block it. Each strike carved fresh red lines into his body.
“Ja-ha! Wait—Ja-ha, you bastard!”
I looped the whip around his neck and pulled, slamming my Wooden Rooster Palm straight into his forehead.
Crack! His neck snapped like a dry branch, and his huge frame collapsed to the floor.
The building trembled with a heavy thud.
I felt nothing. Just another corpse.
I retrieved his black dragon sword and turned toward the door. The corridor outside was packed with armed men, but none dared step forward.
They’d heard the rumor already—that Jo Ilseom had clashed with a high-ranking emissary from the Black Hare Sect. No one wanted to pick the wrong side. Fear for one’s own life always outweighed loyalty.
I read them easily. When my eyes swept across them, all looked away.
“The sect leader has changed his mind,” I announced. “The plan to establish a new branch in Ilyang-hyeon is canceled. Jo Ilseom was made an example. Anyone who tries again will end up the same way. Now move. Unless you want to die.”
The crowd pressed against the walls to make way. Some crept toward the door to check the body.
“From now on,” I continued as I walked past, “all reports from the tea houses go to Cha Seong-tae of Maehwa-ru.”
“Understood,” came the murmured replies.
“Keep the funeral small,” I said. “The man made a fortune exploiting the poor. He’s got plenty of coins for the afterlife.”
Then a voice spoke, clear and deliberate: “Aren’t you the busboy from Jahakwan?”
Silence. Then murmurs spread.
I stopped. Dozens of men raised their heads, looking at my back.
“Busboy from Jahakwan? Really?”
“Definitely him. Just changed clothes.”
I turned slowly so they could all see my face. Then I grinned.
“That’s right. So what? Does calling me a busboy make you brave now? Step up if you want to die.”
Not a soul moved.
“Anyone eager to lick Jo Ilseom’s feet in the afterlife, come forward. I’ll help you on your way. No? Then keep your tails tucked, you mongrels.”
Still, no one moved. Of course not. Men with the guts for revenge wouldn’t be working in a brothel.
“Why’d you kill the master?” someone asked weakly.
“Why?” I said. “Ask Jo Ilseom. If you’re curious, come find me anytime.”
I turned and walked out. No one dared follow.
When I returned to Jahakwan, Cha Seong-tae looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“What—what about Jo Ilseom?”
“Ascended,” I said.
“Bullshit!”
Drunk and panicked, Cha bolted toward Ihwa-ru. I ate cold food and downed my seventh cup of liquor before he returned, gasping.
“It’s true! Jo Ilseom’s dead! Dead!”
“You drunk?” I asked.
“I ran! The booze hit me again!”
He slumped into a chair. “No one else died? How’d you kill just him?”
I pointed at him. “Manage the three tea houses properly.”
“Some won’t listen, but I’ll handle it,” he said.
Two other managers were still around, but Cha always thought he was the strongest. With Maehwa-ru and Ihwa-ru’s heads gone, only the youngest remained—the one trafficking girls for Si-hwa-ru.
“What now?” Cha asked.
“Kill the trafficker.”
“I’ll find him for you.”
I didn’t bother explaining that I planned to train. Whether I stayed in Jahakwan or retreated to a quiet mountain didn’t matter yet. What I needed most was not sword practice, but a way to draw on the inner power waiting in my dantian.
For now, I’d watch Ilyang-hyeon quietly and decide later.
Looking at the mess on the table, I said, “Clean it up before you go.”
Cha opened his mouth, then closed it—he knew I’d hit him if he refused. Then he brightened. “I’ll send the best cleaners in Ilyang-hyeon. Top three, easily. They’ll scrub the walls, dust everything, fix the kitchen—no wonder business failed in this filth. I’ll send them right away.”
“You ever hear of someone dying because they didn’t clean?” I asked.
“There’s such a story?”
“Old Ilyang-hyeon ghost tale,” I said.
“Can’t say I’ve heard it. Anyway, I’ll clean this table. Maybe you should just stay at Maehwa-ru—more comfortable, more guards—”
I didn’t reply. I went into the back room and sat cross-legged.
Cha sighed, looking for a rag.
Damn it. He’s making me clean now?
He had no choice. He started wiping.