Episode 45. Gamblers Deserve to Lose Their Hands
The men at the front charged forward, those in the middle split to the sides, and the ones at the back shifted their heads left and right, readying their hidden weapons.
I categorized them not as people, but as weapons—tridents, straight swords, long blades, judge’s pens. They weren’t fighting me; they were throwing themselves forward to kill me.
Deflecting one weapon after another, I found myself pushed back.
Spears, harpoons, and long staves sliced through the air. Hidden weapons I dodged clattered into the ground or walls. Step by step, I was forced back toward the main hall’s doors. Kicking them open behind me, I retreated outside.
I took a deep breath, realizing how refreshing the outside air felt. Inside, the hall reeked of greed and old blood—the stench of the aged master and men like Dokgo-saeng made every breath unpleasant.
Gripping my sword, I looked around. The common folk of this strange land were gathering to watch the fight, though they didn’t seem particularly alarmed.
“A fight, huh? Been a while,” their expressions seemed to say.
But when the Heukseonbo officers emerged, each gripping a weapon, the crowd’s eyes finally widened.
In moments, the officers had surrounded me in formation. The Heukseonbo master stepped forward.
“Officers, don’t underestimate him just because he’s alone. Captains, hold back. Anyone who dies or gets injured—we’ll settle it here and now.”
I examined their hands. Most were missing fingers.
Suddenly, I remembered something my grandfather used to mutter.
“Gamblers deserve to lose their hands.”
He never explained why, or who made him say it—just that whenever gambling came up in tavern talk, he’d repeat those words. His voice echoed in my ears now.
When the fight resumed, I fought like a gamecock—calculated and brutal. If I saw an opening, I struck; if I sensed a feint, I ignored it. Honest attacks I blocked; tricky ones, I answered selectively. The officers’ assault grew fiercer by the second.
Poisoned needles suddenly shot toward my face. More hidden weapons followed. Screams echoed—some not mine.
One bystander had a dart pierce his neck. Another fool, splashed with poison powder, screamed and ran aimlessly. I moved constantly, forcing my eyes to capture the battlefield from every angle.
Even as twenty men attacked together, I held my ground. Only when they began to show panic in their eyes did I shift from defense to offense.
And as soon as I did, my mouth opened on its own.
“Gamblers deserve to lose their hands.”
Moving lightly, I caught an oncoming harpoon midshaft with my left hand and swung my blade. The officer’s wrist flew off in a spray of blood.
There was no time to admire the look on his face. I ducked a long staff, dodged a blade, and sent a gust of chi into the eyes of the man thrusting a trident.
As his head jerked back, my sword flashed, severing his wrist and moving on. A judge’s pen drew a zigzag through the air while another came straight for me—the zigzag was a feint, the straight line the real strike.
I leapt, twisting upside down to escape both, then drove my finger into his vital point midair. The man froze stiff, two pens still in hand, becoming my brief shield.
Hooks and barbs rained from all sides. Some even littered the ground like caltrops. I grabbed the frozen man by the collar and turned him forward. The spikes embedded into his back with a rapid series of thuds.
Then a heavy weapon struck my shoulder from behind. I shifted my grip, sliding my sword beneath my arm and thrusting backward. The blade pierced through the neck of the man holding the straight sword.
“Guh!”
I surveyed the field again. The Heukseonbo master stood still like a king on a chessboard, while six or seven of his men lay dead or bleeding. The rest kept their guard up.
When would the king move? Hard to say. Maybe he was waiting to act last, to maintain his throne’s dignity.
Wiping blood from my blade, I noticed one man clutching his bleeding throat. I kicked him in the gut, using his body to block incoming darts, and spun as I released a sharp throw.
The harpoon men charged, blocking my projectile—but the impact sent all three staggering backward. Their energy was flagging; their inner force waning.
Beyond them, Dokgo-saeng watched me briefly, then turned to glance at the Heukseonbo master, who still hadn’t moved.
Even as his officers fell one by one, the old master issued no command.
“So he means to let them die,” I thought.
I cut down the rest methodically. With twenty attacking me at once, I’d had to defend carefully at first—but once half were dead or crippled, the tide shifted fast.
Now I chased them, slashing through weapons and wrists alike. When it was over, every surviving officer was handless. Their screams mingled like a discordant symphony.
The Heukseonbo master finally spoke, watching the carnage.
“…You’ve done well.”
It wasn’t clear whether he meant his men or me. But the look on his face told me—it was for all of us.
He drew his twin sabers and charged, slashing out twin arcs of energy.
I met his attack head-on, matching his wind with mine, deflecting his blades in a burst of sparks. His strikes were heavy, full of vigor. If he treated his officers as slaves, his fighting was that of a beast unleashed.
Clashing blades twenty times, I noticed the edge of Dokgo-saeng’s sword—my borrowed one—begin to chip away. The weapon was old, older even than its user.
His sabers, by contrast, were solid and young—muscles of tempered steel. Then my sword broke.
In that split second, I pushed off the ground, gliding low through the air. The master barked a warning.
“Anyone who hands Ijah a weapon will—”
Before he could finish, I spread my arms wide and unleashed the Absorbing Energy Technique. Two weapons flew into my hands from nearby.
Right hand—a long staff. Left hand—a judge’s pen.
I frowned. “…Well, that’s awkward.”
Should’ve looked first before pulling them. No one in the martial world wielded a staff and a pen together. Clumsy, ugly—ah, damn it.
The master didn’t let me adjust, lunging again. Even with all my experience, I’d never fought with this ridiculous pair, but now wasn’t the time to complain.
He was a man in his sixties, but in the martial world, sixty didn’t mean weakness. While common men at that age suffered from bad knees and failing eyesight, warriors who’d spent their lives in combat had bodies reinforced by decades of inner energy.
Sparks flew as staff met saber. The pen, sharp as a kitchen knife, was blocked at every turn. The Heukseonbo master fought well—like Dokgo-saeng after forty years of training. His dual-saber technique was refined, his footwork fluid. Every motion was measured, every feint precise, every strike fearless.
Madman or not, in battle he was the undisputed king of Heukseonbo.
When I started responding with techniques I hadn’t used before, his composure cracked.
I shut out all stray thoughts and focused solely on the fight. Soon, the only sounds left were his footsteps, the rustle of clothes, the ring of weapons, and our breathing.
I heard the rasp in his breath and suddenly remembered Dokgo-saeng’s smoke earlier—the same smell of Worry-forgetting Herb. The man had lung disease.
I loosened my pace, drawing out a few lazy exchanges. Then, as expected, he spat a wad of phlegm.
“Ptoo!”
Before it hit the ground, I hurled the judge’s pen.
Clang!
As it struck his saber, I leapt, closing the distance, and slammed down the staff infused with inner power.
Realizing the danger, the master crossed his sabers to block the falling blow.
BOOOOM!
The ground quaked. I pulled the pen back to me with the Absorbing Technique, then flicked my wrist, whipping it forward again with added force.
Thunk!
“Guh!”
When I swung the staff again, I saw the pen buried deep in his chest.
I pressed the attack, hammering him with the staff to keep him from pulling it out. He blocked three times before losing both sabers and falling hard onto his backside. Forcing his qi too far had reversed his blood flow; he spat up dark blood.
I approached, looking down at him.
“Can’t get up, Master?”
He nodded weakly and croaked, “…Enough.”
Even dying, he spoke like a man issuing orders.
“I’m not your servant. Watch your tone.”
Yes—criticizing a dying man’s manners. That was me.
He bared bloody teeth in a smile. “If you let my men tend to me, I’ll name you the next master. You’ll gain everything. Heukseonbo will be yours.”
His voice was faint, but I caught the meaning.
“I refuse.”
“Refuse…? Fools, all of them. Without commands, they can’t live. Take them, make use of them.”
The words of a man who’d lived by owning slaves. Thinking he might die any moment, I asked, “Any last words?”
He raised his head barely and rasped to his men, “You fools… you’ve worked hard.”
As his laughter rasped like scraping iron, I swung the staff down on his skull.
Crack!
“Still mouthing off to the end.”
I smashed him again—for all the slaves he’d sold for gold. Again—for every fool who gambled away his home, his debts, his family’s money, his friends’ money, even his neighbor’s old grandmother’s savings.
Again—for the thought that he, at least, had eaten well, slept warm, and lived easy.
Blood and fragments splattered across my face. And since the man was already dead, I figured one more strike wouldn’t worsen my sins. I brought the staff down with all my emotion.
BANG!
My face dripping with blood, I looked around at Heukseonbo.
“……”