Episode 25. Therefore, I Exist
Hyeok Ryeon-hong introduced me to the man sitting alone by the campfire.
“Master, I’ve brought Ruju Lee Jaha.”
Interesting. They called him Master here, not “Pavilion Lord.” A small detail, but it said a lot about him — this was a man with ambitions far greater than his rank.
Of course, that very ambition would someday get him torn limb from limb.
The man, Pan Sa-ung — Golden Phoenix Pavilion Lord of the Black Cat Hall — wore a cloak of animal hide and was oiling his bow. He looked up and said,
“So it’s you? The brat who took over three brothels? You look younger and ruder than I imagined. Come closer.”
I kept my tone short, hiding my true disposition.
“Yes, that’s me.”
As I slowly approached, I took in the lodge. The air was heavy — the kind of place that had seen too many deaths. It felt like the unquiet souls were watching us from the dark.
Pan Sa-ung looked like the kind of man who could hunt a boar — or rather, a boar that hunted other boars. I couldn’t help but smirk at the resemblance.
“Close the gate,” he ordered.
With a metallic clang, the iron gate shut behind me.
I grabbed a chair nearby and set it down across from him, sitting naturally before the fire. Pan Sa-ung scowled.
“Did I tell you to sit, you madman?”
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “You did.”
He gave a short laugh and turned to his men.
“Right, a madman. Then a mad dog is the answer. Bring the hungry one.”
A moment later, one of his men appeared with a large black dog. It was fierce-looking but strangely obedient, sitting quietly on its haunches.
The handler tapped its head with a knife to make it face me.
Pan Sa-ung said,
“That’s the posture you should take.”
“Oh, really?” I said mildly.
I looked at the dog, the handler, and finally at Pan Sa-ung, who treated even his handler like a dog. Others watched from a distance, curious how I’d respond.
When I didn’t move, Pan Sa-ung gave the order.
“Bite.”
The handler echoed, “Bite!”
With a deep growl, the black dog lunged.
Just before it reached me, I flicked my fingers. The tip of my finger struck the dog’s nose precisely.
With a yelp, it tumbled backward, scraping along the ground before collapsing and thrashing in pain — the force of my finger strike infused with internal energy.
Silence fell. Everyone stared at the writhing dog.
Then I turned to Pan Sa-ung and said quietly,
“So. How do you plan to act so that I let you live? Think carefully before you answer.”
I placed my hands on the ground, panting mockingly like a dog.
“Should I go ‘woof, woof’ like this to spare you?”
“…”
“Or maybe you should hand over all the money you’ve hidden in this lodge? Or swear to become my spy inside the Black Cat Hall? I wonder which of those is the right answer. You leeching parasite of the underworld.”
As I spoke, the servants began to gather — cooks, guards, attendants — forming a loose circle around me.
Pan Sa-ung waved them off with a smirk.
“He’s an amusing lunatic. Go on with your work. I want to hear more.”
“Yes, Master,” they murmured and dispersed.
I chuckled low.
Fate really did have a sense of irony. The man destined to die torn apart seemed unable to avoid that fate, no matter the path.
Still, I wondered — was there anything worth taking from him before he died? His money? His men? Maybe a few trained dogs?
He broke my thoughts with a question.
“You look young. How old are you?”
“You didn’t call me here to ask that. I’m younger than you, obviously.”
He laughed loudly. “Hahaha!”
I rose from my seat.
“I dabble in face reading, you see. And your face tells me you’ll embezzle money behind your master’s back, get caught, and die torn apart. A pig with too much greed always dies that way. Still, if you pay a good fortune-telling fee, I might save you.”
Pan Sa-ung stood, chuckling, and shook his head.
“Even if I wanted to let you live, it’s too late for that.”
I scanned the room once, then said,
“Will you die alone, or drag your lackeys with you? If you’re their leader, at least die thinking of your men—”
He interrupted, “I’m not that kind of—”
Before he could finish, I drove my left foot into his chest. He barely had time to cross his arms in defense before the impact launched him backward in an arc.
Solid. But not enough.
He drew his sword, cursing. I grabbed a flaming log from the fire — no need to unsheathe my own blade yet. Feeding it my inner fire energy, I watched the flames surge.
Whoosh!
His eyes widened in alarm.
I said nothing, swinging the burning log as we clashed.
Low-level underworld fighters don’t win with refined technique — they win with brute experience. The lower they are, the cruder their swordsmanship. Neither the Black Cat Hall nor its Pavilion Lords came close to the swordsmen of the great clans I’d fought before.
My thoughts on the two paths:
White path warriors have brilliant techniques, but lack real battle experience. They train in closed sects, duel among themselves, and rarely face true death. Even the gifted ones often fail to adapt their art to real combat.
The black path, on the other hand, learns crude martial arts but has endless experience. They fight to survive — and that makes them dangerous. A mediocre sword becomes deadly in skilled hands hardened by blood. When those same men later obtain true martial knowledge, their growth is explosive.
Demon, righteous, underworld — the paths differ, but at the summit, all meet the same truth.
I had once climbed toward that summit. Pan Sa-ung had not. He was neither this nor that — third-rate, through and through.
He parried a dozen strikes by relying purely on instinct and experience. Then I feinted left, brought the flaming log down diagonally — he raised his sword to block. That’s when I withdrew my energy from the log, letting the blade sink deep into the wood.
Thunk!
His eyes widened — and my sword flashed free, slashing across in the same motion.
He barely avoided a fatal hit — but that was fine.
From my blade burst a thin, crescent-shaped wave of sword energy, like a fragment of the moon tearing through the air.
He leaned back, dodging by inches — but the blade light kissed his face.
“Gah!”
A gash opened across his cheek. Before he could recover, I pressed the attack — my strikes relentless, flooding him with shock and pain.
He’d never imagined an inn boy could wield sword qi. That assumption cost him everything.
When his body staggered and his defense broke, I slashed across his torso again and again. Each cut sprayed long arcs of blood, but the boar refused to fall.
Fine by me.
Behind me, I heard the handler’s steps closing fast. I pivoted, swung my sword horizontally—
Thwack!
The man’s head flew clean off.
Turning back, I kicked Pan Sa-ung square in the chest, driving him into the ground. His shoulder collapsed with a crack.
I stomped — again, and again — head, chest, lower body, each strike driving him deeper into the earth.
The ground sank in a wide circle, forming a pit beneath my feet. Around me, the others froze, watching in silent horror.
Then I channeled inner strength through my heel and slammed the earth.
BOOOOOOM!
Pan Sa-ung no longer needed a grave. I wanted his men to remember how their master died — and why.
He’d earned it. Loan shark, killer, traitor. He’d betrayed even his own lord. Such men only understand fear — so I made his death unforgettable.
The onlookers stood pale and trembling. No one dared move.
“Anyone else want to die with Pan Sa-ung?” I asked.
One of them stammered, “H-how will you deal with the Hall Master after this?”
“The Black Cat Hall Master?”
“Y-yes.”
I looked at him.
“Why do you care? You’ll all be dead long before that matters. You third-rate bottom-feeders… Life and death are separated by a breath. Kneel before I count to three — or I’ll send the stiffest knees down to join your master. One. Two. Three.”
The first man dropped instantly. The rest, realizing the game was over, followed in a ripple of terrified submission.
Perfect. I liked this kind of silence — this frozen stillness where life and death balanced on my word.
This was why I’d trained through pain. Why I’d endured hunger, cold, and solitude. Why I’d sat cross-legged for days, denying every comfort.
Every moment of suffering had led to this kind of peace — the quiet after violence, when everything was under my control.
Therefore, I exist.
…Or maybe not.