Episode 75. King of the Martial Gamble (Part 2)
The arena where the Fighting Gamble was held was sunken—fighters below, bettors above. Those who risked their lives fought in the pit; those who risked their money watched from safety.
I didn’t know when arenas had been built like this, but the intent was obvious.
First, the pit made it hard for fighters to escape. If one ran, he’d be easy prey for gamblers’ fury—stones, knives, even bottles would rain down. “I bet my money on you; how dare you flee?” That’s what it meant. Cockfights, dogfights, or manfights—it was all the same.
Second, being above allowed spectators to easily spot foul play. Poison was forbidden here. Fighting Gamble was about raw strength, not toxins. If poison won, it wasn’t considered victory—it was cheating.
Third, the layout itself symbolized power. The gamblers stood above the fighters—those with money always looking down on those spilling blood below.
And fourth, those above could manipulate the matches however they pleased. Fighting Gamble wasn’t just about brute force. It was also a game of politics, played by the wealthy and powerful who bet on it.
That’s all I knew. The undefeated Dong Bang-yeon ruled as King of Martial Gambling not only through his skill but because of the secret network of rich bettors who supported him behind the scenes.
Hard to explain—but once you fight here, you understand. Those who discover the corruption without being part of it usually end up dead.
And that’s why this was another Fighting Gamble—because, in the end, it was always man versus man.
I placed my heavy bundle—over ten thousand taels—on the table of the head bookmaker. Below, a fight was already underway.
Throwing down my fortune didn’t mean Dong Bang-yeon would appear right away. I still had to face the local bookmakers, prove I could draw a crowd, and let them judge whether I was worth the spectacle. A preliminary match was necessary before the main event.
My duel with Dong Bang-yeon would be mine alone—but the betting frenzy around it would belong to the house.
By now, the same faces from the tavern—bettors and drunks alike—had filled the stands. Among them was the tavern boy, Ilbo, who eagerly reported my tavern brawl to the officials.
When the brawlers below finally finished, a voice, amplified with inner energy, echoed through the arena.
“News just in—someone’s here to challenge the undefeated Dong Bang-yeon!”
The tone was casual, almost friendly, but the man behind it wasn’t. Pyeong Gunsa—literally “Ordinary Strategist.” A name that pretended to be humble but reeked of arrogance. He was the master of ceremonies here—slick, manipulative, and very full of himself.
After hearing from Ilbo, Pyeong Gunsa pointed directly at me. “That challenger would be you, right?”
The entire crowd turned their gaze my way. Matches involving Dong Bang-yeon meant big money. Every gambler’s eyes gleamed with greed.
“I’m the challenger,” I said simply.
Pyeong Gunsa smirked. “Another clueless drifter come to lose his fortune. Let’s give the fool a round of applause!”
Silence. Not a clap.
He tried again. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a hidden master. Maybe today’s the day Dong Bang-yeon’s undefeated record ends!”
Boos and laughter erupted from the crowd.
“Stop talking and start the match, Pyeong Gunsa!” someone shouted.
Pyeong Gunsa raised a fan and continued, speaking as if to me. “If you want Dong Bang-yeon to show himself, you’ll have to prove yourself first. Nothing tests skill like a duel. Let’s start light—one thousand taels. Winner takes all.”
Simple enough. Win and I’d gain a thousand. Lose, and I’d lose the same.
I nodded. “Arrange it.”
He sighed, scratching his head. “These youngsters today—so few words. Fine! You heard him! Challenger’s throwing down one thousand taels! Bare hands or weapons, anything goes! Anyone brave enough to face him? Of course there is!”
Three figures leapt down from the stands. Pyeong Gunsa waved his fan. “Who said three-on-one? Sort it out among yourselves—only one stays.”
After a brief stare-off, the strongest remained while the other two backed away, clicking their tongues.
“Our contender,” Pyeong Gunsa announced grandly, “is none other than Bang Gaek—‘The Shield Guest.’ You all know him, but maybe our wandering fool doesn’t.”
He looked at me. “Never heard of him, right?”
Of course I had. I’d fought Bang Gaek before—and lost money to him.
Pyeong Gunsa’s introductions weren’t just for drama. Every word stirred the gamblers, heating up the betting floor. Every syllable meant money.
“A shield in the martial world—ridiculous, right? But once you see him fight, you’ll stop laughing. He once lost to Dong Bang-yeon himself and has been training ever since, biding his time for revenge! White for Bang Gaek, black for the challenger!”
Attendants rushed through the stands, collecting bets. Silver clinked into baskets, ledgers were filled. It didn’t matter that no one knew me—money poured in anyway.
Finally, Pyeong Gunsa called out, “Country boy! Come down! Leave your money here—we’ll keep it safe.”
He wasn’t lying. I handed the bundle to an attendant, who deftly counted out the thousand taels. Then I stepped down into the pit.
“Such composure,” Pyeong Gunsa sneered. “If anyone wants to bet on the calm one, last call! Empty those pockets!”
These addicts never needed much convincing. Coins and notes kept flying.
I walked to the center. It had been a long time since I’d seen Bang Gaek. Mid-thirties, solid build, a massive iron shield strapped to his back like a turtle shell, a curved saber at his waist.
I almost laughed aloud. Was this a dream or déjà vu?
He didn’t speak, just watched me, steady as always. I had no grudge—he’d beaten me once, that was all. No need for taunts.
Pyeong Gunsa checked the stands. “Ready? Count to ten!”
The noise faded. Silence filled the pit.
He stepped between us, fanning himself. “One thousand taels! Fight well, die unlucky if you must! Winner drinks tonight, loser feeds the worms! Let’s begin the Martial Gamble!”
He slashed the air with his fan. “Start!”
Bang Gaek drew his shield and saber. In the orthodox world, shields were sneered at as tools of cowards—but not here. In Fighting Gamble, shields were survival. He was a war-born fighter, not some back-alley martial artist. Against him, most would crumble.
But against me now? He didn’t stand a chance.
I drew the Black Cat Blade. “Go easy, turtle man.”
He frowned, then charged, slashing. I parried and kicked his shield.
Thud! He stumbled backward, surprised I’d pushed him without even using internal energy. He grinned. I grinned back.
“Funny guy,” I said.
“Heh.”
He came again, faster. This time, I channeled Wood Qi into my blade and kicked again—this time, with full force.
Kwaang!
He skidded across the ground, shield scraping a long line of dust. Before he could rise, I leapt into the air and crashed down in a flying kick.
Kwooooom!
The blow sent him rolling again, his forehead splitting open against the inside of his shield. Blood streamed down his face.
I kicked his saber away and stomped on the shield like a drunken brawler.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Crack! Thud!
Some kicks carried raw strength; others, internal force. It was a chaotic mix—ugly, undignified, completely unworthy of a “hidden master.”
That was the point.
Bang Gaek curled up beneath his shield, taking the beating like a real turtle.
I laughed and muttered, “You really are a turtle.”
Wham!
Another stomp, this time with burning inner power. He cried out, “I yield!”
I sheathed my blade and turned to Pyeong Gunsa. “My money.”
He stared silently. “……”
“One thousand taels.”
He walked up, pointing his fan at me. “What the hell was that? You call that a show? Nobody pays to see you kick a turtle!”
I met his gaze and said quietly, “Pyeong Gunsa, shut your idiot mouth. Unless you want both cheeks slapped off, just announce the result.”
His eyes twitched. When I raised my right hand, he flinched and shouted, “The challenger wins! Bang Gaek loses!”
The declaration echoed through the pit. A few gamblers—those who’d bet on me—roared in triumph. Among them, Ilbo pumped his fists, screaming like a lunatic.
I could already see his future. That idiot might make a fine gambler someday.
Pyeong Gunsa twirled his fan and said, “I know you’re itching to fight Dong Bang-yeon, but we need time to set the stage. Take the night off. Feast, rest, and enjoy the hospitality. Tomorrow, you’ll have your fight.”
I nodded. “Fine.”
“And kid,” he added, “fix that damned tone of yours, will you?”
I pointed at him. “If you want me to fix my tone, two thousand taels. Discounted, since you look older than me.”
He turned sharply, spat on the ground, and barked at an attendant, “Escort the challenger to the Phoenix Guest Chamber!”
“Yes, sir.”
As Pyeong Gunsa vanished behind his fluttering fan, Bang Gaek called out behind me.
“Hey, young man.”
I turned. “What?”
He said quietly, “Watch out for Pyeong Gunsa. Why be so harsh with him?”
I looked around, then grinned. “What, is he going to try a honey trap? Or some kind of scheme?”
Bang Gaek’s eyes widened. “You… been here before?”
“You ever seen me before?”
“No, but—”
He tilted his head. I took a silver ingot from my pouch and tossed it to him.
He caught it, baffled—probably his first time getting a “tip” after losing a match.
I pointed at him and smirked. “Go eat some soup, turtle man. Don’t swing that shield around if you can’t fight.”
That was what he’d once told me—back when I was the loser.
Chuckling, I pocketed my thousand taels and headed toward the Phoenix Guest Chamber.
Part of me was curious—would there really be a “honey trap” waiting this time?