Episode 73. The Gambling Apocalypse of Lee Jaha
For one hundred and eight days, I sat cross-legged all around Black Cat Hall. My back stiffened, my knees often locked, and my unwashed body began to smell faintly like that of a beggar.
But it was necessary.
Inside the inner court, Ho Yeoncheong was training Cha Sungtae. Outside, the subordinates of Black Cat Hall practiced their arts. I cultivated my energy on the roof, in the bath, against the wall, under the plum tree, in the inner and outer courtyards, and even in my room. Place didn’t matter.
Sometimes Dok Go-saeng, the Four Envoys, Commander Byeok, Geumhae, or Hong Shin would drop by—but I barely responded, like a man in deep seclusion. My answer was always the same:
“Do as you wish.”
I didn’t interfere in matters my subordinates could handle themselves. The reason I’d chosen exactly one hundred and eight days of closed-door training was because my Golden Turtle Wandering Art—specifically the “Flame Realm” stage—was at an awkward bottleneck. With a little more focus, I could break through to the “Fighting Rooster” stage. It was now or never.
My subordinates understood that I was facing a critical juncture in my cultivation, so they managed things themselves as best they could.
One hundred and eight days—a strange stretch of time. Long yet fleeting.
Some days, I simply sat under the plum tree, watching petals fall from dawn till dusk. When I couldn’t endure the hunger or thirst, I’d rise to drink or eat a mouthful before returning to meditation. My body grew thinner by the day.
When I needed rest, I sometimes went to the inner court to observe Cha Sungtae’s training. His constant whining suited him, but I didn’t interfere.
By the thirtieth or fortieth day, word of Daenachal, Master Su, and the Old Dragon General’s deaths had spread among the local dark sects. Commander Byeok reported that the Black Cat Lord’s rule had reached all of the Nanhwa and Ihwa regions.
“Shouldn’t we correct the rumors?” he asked. “Say you’re not the Black Cat Lord but the Hao Clan Lord?”
For the first time in weeks, I answered him. “No need.”
“Understood.”
For now, I’d keep wearing the mask of the dark world. The Hao Clan’s headquarters in Ilyang County wasn’t finished yet. And controlling two small territories was nothing—neither enough to shake the Central Plains nor the balance of the underworld. We were still at the edge of the map.
None of the foes I’d faced in my past life had even appeared yet, nor had any master given me trouble since my return. In the grand scheme, slaying Daenachal and Master Su had bought me precious time for training. My men, led by So Gunpyeong, trained furiously. Cha Sungtae as well—pushing himself like a man possessed.
But truthfully, I was the one training hardest of all. It was what a true leader should do—so I threw my entire being into my cultivation.
When you burn away every trivial thought through focus, days blur together. Sometimes I opened my eyes to dawn, other times to midnight. The moon, the sun, the wind, the rain, reports from subordinates, even hunger—all became distant noise. When I trained, I forgot everything else. That was who I was.
At some point, I stopped counting the days. The internal energy I had re-forged from the Celestial Prison was now complete. I had fully mastered the Flame Realm and reached the “Fighting Rooster” stage—circulating my energy through a full great cycle with ease.
Only then did I start listening to my subordinates again. My meals increased from twice every two days to three times a day. With the cycles refined, I joined the outer-court disciples in physical training, following So Gunpyeong’s shouted commands, matching the postures, and sweating alongside the grunts without complaint.
At first, everyone looked stunned to see their master training among them. But soon, they got used to it. After a while, even I couldn’t tell whether I was the Black Cat Lord or just another low-ranking thug.
In the first half of the training, my body was gaunt. By the second half—after entering the Fighting Rooster stage—my limbs filled out with muscle again, returning me to my prime condition.
One day, while calmly meditating beneath the plum tree, I heard Cha Sungtae’s voice.
“Lord, today marks the one hundred and eighth day.”
I opened my eyes. “Already?”
“Yes, sir.”
He now held a sword, his frame thicker with muscle and hairier than before. His stance and gaze told me all I needed to know, but a compliment was still due.
“Feel stronger?”
He grinned. “Can’t even compare to before.”
I almost told him to train another hundred and eight days—but restrained myself. Even I knew not to overuse the whip.
I turned to Ho Yeoncheong. “Is he really stronger?”
“Yes, Lord,” he said. “He’s a true swordsman now. Though the time was short, he’s learned all the basics and forms of the Splitting Light Swift Sword, along with its principles. I’ve also taught him internal cultivation. His dantian has formed, and he’s begun drawing energy from it. His foundation is solid.”
I stroked my chin. “You’ve done well. How was teaching him?”
After a pause, Ho Yeoncheong surprised me. “If you allow it, I’d like to keep teaching him.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yes.”
His old, defiant expression was gone. Teaching Sungtae must’ve changed him. The man before me was calmer, steadier—almost… fulfilled.
“And you, Sungtae?”
“I’d like to keep learning.”
“Stand together,” I said.
They obeyed. Ho Yeoncheong was easily ten years older, a proper master-disciple pairing. I studied them both and nodded.
“We kept our oath together. From here on, do as you see fit.”
“Thank you,” they both said quietly.
“Sungtae,” I asked, “how does it feel, stepping into the martial world?”
“Not bad.”
“If you’d stayed in the pleasure quarters wasting your life on drink, you’d have been safe. But now, because you’ve learned martial arts, staying alive will be harder.”
That’s the truth of Jianghu.
He smiled faintly. “It’s fine. I don’t regret it. I didn’t know getting stronger could feel like this. It’s… good.”
I’d expected that answer. Most martial artists are the same—they rarely regret their path unless a blade’s in their heart. The intoxicating taste of power is too much to abandon.
“You’ve worked hard too, Ho Yeoncheong.”
“Yes, Lord.”
I no longer felt anything toward him—if he left one day, so be it. If he returned occasionally, so be it. Let things flow as they will.
The day was bright and breezy. I bathed, changed clothes, and packed the gold and silver ingots the Muak Lord had once gifted me.
As I passed the inner court, Sungtae asked, “Where are you going?”
“To gamble a bit. Maybe stop by the Ihwa region.”
Behind me, I heard him whisper to Ho Yeoncheong.
“What’s a ‘martial gamble’?”
“It’s fighting for money, obviously.”
“Why would he suddenly—”
“Beats me.”
I’d been meaning to visit a Martial Gambling Arena again. In my past life, it was the reason my face became so rough. You get hit enough, your face changes shape.
There are two types of martial gambling matches—armed and unarmed. I learned much from both. Mainly, that defeat teaches more than victory. I learned how to endure beatings, how to read opponents from their stance, eyes, and aura.
Those who sink to the bottom of life often end up in these arenas. Even losers earn enough to survive.
I was younger now than I’d been back then, but most of the regulars would still be around—rotting in the same pit.
The arenas were chaos incarnate. Hidden experts from the dark world sometimes fought for pocket money—or fought each other, turning the matches into massacres.
The most famous arena nearby was in Siryun County. The entire district’s economy revolved around it—inns, taverns, gambling dens, brothels—all thriving off the gamblers and fighters.
Walking through it again, every memory resurfaced. I knew everyone here; none of them knew me now. The irony made me laugh.
Same damned place. Still a cesspit.
I went to my old tavern and ordered a drink. As the liquor burned down my throat, it felt like washing off layers of old grime from my heart.
The tavern was full of fighters bound for the arena. The atmosphere was rough, violent. My gentler face must have made me look like a scholar here.
As I chewed on dried meat, a large brute swaggered over, grabbed my drink without asking, and gulped it down. I chuckled, and so did he—then he plopped down across from me.
“First time here? Buy me a drink, and I’ll explain how things work,” he said.
I drained the last of my liquor, grabbed the bottle, and smashed it over his head.
Thud!
He bent forward in shock. I seized his hair and slammed his face against the table again and again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
When I finally lifted his head, his nose was broken and several teeth gone. I shoved him aside and looked for the tavern boy. The sound had drawn every eye in the room.
“Another bottle of Dukang wine,” I said calmly.
“Y-yes, sir,” the boy stammered.
I turned back to the bloodied brute. “Get lost.”
He scrambled to his feet and ran off, pushing people aside. Men like that always came back—with company.
Laughter rippled through the room. The tavern boy rushed back, wiped the table, and set down fresh snacks and a new bottle.
“That one’s a brothel boss,” he whispered. “He’ll be back with his men. Are you sure you’re fine with that?”
“How many does he bring?”
“Usually about ten.”
“That all?”
“Yes.”
I snapped my fingers. “Think it’ll draw a crowd?”
He blinked. “Have you been here before? I don’t recognize you.”
“A long time ago.”
“Got it.”
He darted off, grabbed a large basket, and shook the bell hanging from the ceiling.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
All eyes turned to him as he shouted, “Anyone for a tavern duel? The newcomer here versus the Black Gyeong brothel boss! His men number about ten! No entry fee—just bet on the winner! The house will add five hundred taels to the pot for the winning side!”
The basket went around. Coins clinked into both sides, left and right. The gamblers stared at me with hungry eyes.
Someone asked loudly, “Where’re you from, stranger?”
I smirked. “Pay if you want answers.”
Then, out of habit, I added, “…you bastards.”