Episode 29. The Man Who Beats with Words
Shao Junpyeong put the meal money on the table, stood up, and said,
“Hey, busboy. It’s cramped in here. Let’s go outside. And you, owner.”
“Yes?”
“The noodles were surprisingly good. I’ll be back.”
The head of the Shop Branch stayed hidden in the kitchen as he answered,
“Oh my, come anytime.”
Shao Junpyeong sauntered out of Chunyang Noodle House first. Only then did Jang Deuksu cautiously poke his head out and ask me,
“Jaha, what are you going to do? You sure you’re okay? His eyes looked murderous.”
“Why’d you joke with a customer whose eyes look murderous?”
“I was nervous and my tongue slipped.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said his sword looked weird so it must be from Nanman.”
“It is from Nanman.”
“Son of a—”
Nanman meant “southern barbarians.” If he really was from the south, what Deuksu said was insulting enough to get him killed on the spot.
Unconsciously, Jang Deuksu tightened both hands around the pot lid.
I told him,
“Yeah, just in case, hold onto that tight.”
He nodded repeatedly.
“Got it. Don’t die.”
“That’s not happening. Ah, grab me a kitchen knife before I go.”
“What for?”
“I forgot to bring a weapon. Better than nothing.”
Deuksu quickly pulled out a large kitchen knife and handed it to me.
“Here.”
I took the big knife and said,
“See you in a bit.”
“Can I at least watch?”
I pointed at the pot lid.
“Don’t come out. Hold that tight and watch from there.”
“Okay.”
Facing Three Hundred Cycles Shao Junpyeong in my hometown in my early twenties gave me a strange sense of déjà vu.
Later, he would become fairly well-known in the Black Path. But even then, his notoriety never reached mine.
A thought crossed my mind.
At least around Ilyang, among all these half-baked sects and countryside “experts,” none of them can kill me.
It felt like I’d only start taking things seriously once the truly famous names of the world began appearing.
This wasn’t about internal energy or techniques.
It was about whether you’d swum in the big river called “the world” or not.
The Black Cat Gang’s current leader had, at best, brawled with his fellow disciples. An amateur, by my standards. And this Three Hundred Cycles guy, known only for being hard to kill, was still just his subordinate.
In short, an underqualified opponent.
Still, it was kind of poetic:
Three Hundred Cycles Shao Junpyeong and I were standing there, each thinking the other was some greenhorn.
I asked him,
“So, Junpyeong—why’d you come alone without any subordinates? Get thrown away like a hunting dog after the hunt?”
For the first time, the relaxed look on his face twisted.
“Need a crowd to deal with a mere busboy? And quit acting friendly and calling me by my name. It’s embarrassing.”
“What, you embarrassed to fight me?”
“Shut up.”
“But I figured showing up in a pack was the Black Path specialty. Judging by that dumb look on your face, guess I was right—you did get tossed aside.”
“Can’t see why a country bumpkin busboy is so arrogant.”
“Can’t see why a third-rate Black Path lackey is so full of himself.”
Shao drew his weapon—the Night-Coming Saber.
That was the blade I recognized.
The Night-Coming Saber was a deformed, narrow-bladed saber with an exaggerated curve. Some story or other lay behind it, but what mattered was that it was forged in the southern lands of Nanman.
Later, thanks to this stubborn bastard’s refusal to die, it would be counted among the notable blades of the Black Path.
More than once, I’m sure that saber saved his life.
Seeing me holding a kitchen knife, he asked,
“And what’s with that?”
I lifted it to my nose and sniffed.
“Still smells like garlic. Once it gets into your wounds, you’re going to learn a new kind of pain. Warm and stingy.”
Shao couldn’t help laughing on the inside. The Night-Coming Saber could slice normal weapons like tofu.
He was looking mighty confident, so I warned him,
“Remember this, you third-rate Black Path punk: touch a busboy, end up on the wrong side of a garlic-scented kitchen knife.”
Shao shut his mouth and, face blank, calmly closed the distance.
The Night-Coming Saber was sharp and sturdy. A kitchen knife was at an obvious disadvantage.
Clash blades with him a couple of times and the edge of the knife would be ruined. I could reinforce it with internal energy, but that would be wasteful.
So I didn’t offer the knife up recklessly. Instead, I just watched his movements, maintaining distance, moving on footwork alone.
The saber never touched my body.
No matter how many feints he threw in, how many false thrusts, how many “final” blows, I dodged easily.
Whatever my current internal energy, my eye for combat and my experience were no different from when they called me the Mad Demon.
There was a huge gap in live-combat experience between me and Shao.
Still, he was definitely worth watching.
Young, full of fighting spirit—kind of like me in my early days.
But if you’re smart, the fact that your opponent isn’t attacking at all, only dodging, should tell you something.
After pouring out a barrage of one-sided attacks, Shao’s expression slowly hardened, as if his spine was turning cold.
The wild killing intent and bravado receded, replaced by cool reason.
Not bad. He’s got some awareness.
I read his psychological shifts and subtle change in air as easily as breathing. After flailing alone for a while, he finally stopped his attacks.
“What the hell are you? How do you know where I’m going every time?”
“I’m a busboy.”
“Shut up, you busboy bastard! That’s not what I’m asking. Are you one of the Twelve Divine Generals, same rank as the Gang Leader?”
“You ask, then tell me to shut up? Your brain’s broken. Just accept that you’re trash and move on.”
“I’m trash?”
“You’ve learned the kind of garbage swordsmanship taught to slaves of the Black Path.”
“Slaves of the Black Path?”
In my previous life I’d always thought this: everyone under the Twelve Generals of the Great Rakshasa were slaves, one way or another.
“Honestly, even ‘slave’ is generous. You guys aren’t proper Black Path warriors. You’re the Great Rakshasa’s puppets, his game pieces, his fighting cocks, his toys, his cleanup crew, his financial-and-women supply corps. And you, specifically, are a slave taking orders from higher-ranked slaves—a bottom-feeding loser, a walking trash heap of the Black Path. While you breathe, you’re a pet rabbit. Once you’re useless, you get butchered like a dog. You probably think you’re tough, but you can’t even beat a busboy.”
The stream of abuse hit Shao like a storm. Bloodshot veins rose in his eyes, and for a moment his legs weakened, as if his internal energy had leaked out.
“…”
“What? You thought you were some dashing Black Path hero?”
I pummeled him with words before I ever touched him with a fist.
“Don’t feel too wronged. That perverted old bastard, the Great Rakshasa, is going to die by my hand someday too.”
From the kitchen, Jang Deuksu couldn’t hold back a whisper.
“That’s some world-class trash talk…”
Shao’s ears were sharp. He flicked a glare toward the kitchen.
Deuksu jolted, yanking the pot lid up like a shield, but thankfully, Shao didn’t attack him.
His mind was too busy spinning with the words slave, puppet, game piece, fighting cock, toy.
It was the first time in his life he’d been verbally rocked so hard his brain went blank.
Breathing heavily from sheer anger, Shao stared at me.
“Keep talking.”
Oh? This bastard?
I was confident I could make an enlightened monk cough blood with my words alone if I tried. This guy asked for it.
I grinned.
“So, the Twelve Divine Generals at the top play rank matches, and whoever comes out on top gets to learn more of the Great Rakshasa’s techniques. And then what? What are you going to do with it? You all scramble for crumbs of martial arts like dogs under his table. The Great Rakshasa is just one of many Black Path experts. You think he’s the number one under heaven? Not a chance. And with that narrow personality, you think he’s handing out his true ultimate arts? You’re just his hired thugs and toys. And you—like I said—are a slave’s slave. A rare breed of pathetic.”
“That all you’ve got? If you’re so great, then you won’t dodge anymore, right? Let’s finish this properly.”
Having caught his breath, Shao announced his renewed assault. I replied,
“Junpyeong, a man who stands straight doesn’t live like a slave. Looks like you’ll need a beating to straighten you out.”
I raised the big rectangular kitchen knife Deuksu had given me and poured Flame Fowl energy into it.
The knife ignited in red flame.
Whoosh!
The small blade glowed red, then a deeper crimson aura bloomed around it, rising like wavering heat haze in the shape of a long sword.
All that time practicing Flame Fowl was finally bearing visible fruit—through a kitchen knife, of all things.
Just as he was about to attack, Shao froze, eyes wide, staring at the burning blade.
The crimson aura stretching from that short knife clearly formed the outline of a longsword. The moment he saw it, he realized he couldn’t win.
But his pride wouldn’t let him back down.
I told him,
“Do I still look like an idiot to you? Either get on your knees and surrender right there, or get your ass kicked until you forget your own name, slave rabbit.”
I wrapped not only sword energy around the knife, but also the secret technique of Flame Fowl—Flame Fragrance.
The formal name was Flame Fragrance, but I just called it the taste of fire. It’s that subtle smoky flavor that clings to fried rice and stir-fry.
To someone ignorant of martial arts, I probably looked ridiculous, holding a kitchen knife aloft like that.
But I could guarantee this: it didn’t look ridiculous to Shao.
Being told to kneel made the veins on his forehead bulge.
In what world would a Black Path warrior kneel to some ex-busboy?
Better to die fighting, he decided. He focused all his strength, pouring every last shred of internal energy into the Night-Coming Saber and swung.
A murky, unrefined aura coiled around the blade, then surged toward me in a raging wave.
It was a fairly fierce saber wind.
Not bad for a bug.
The momentum was there, at least.
I hurled the kitchen knife, wrapped in Flame Fragrance, straight into the oncoming saber wind. The ordinary knife tore right through it, letting out a vicious sound as it flew.
The ringing of that “blade”—if you could call it that—almost sounded like the roar of every busboy in my past life rolled into one.