Episode 78. Only the Mad Are My Enemies
Outside the Narak Tavern, the Gambling King’s lackeys had already surrounded the place. Among them were familiar faces—old acquaintances turned dogs of the same master. Behind me, Dong Bang-yeon’s killing intent pricked the back of my neck like a thorn.
I stood still, daring them to strike first, my eyes sweeping over the faces I once knew. So you were his man too. And you. Hah. What a waste of recognition.
Someone among the crowd asked Dong Bang-yeon, “Do we kill him?”
He strode past me without slowing. “In the arena. Call everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“Every single one!” he barked.
He glanced back at me. “What are you waiting for? Move.”
So I walked beside him toward the arena. Some left to gather reinforcements, while others tightened the ring around me as we moved. Along the way, drunkards from the taverns, bystanders, and hidden subordinates joined in until the street swelled into a living river of bodies.
When their numbers grew, Dong Bang-yeon chuckled. “Too late for regret now.”
I walked alongside him until I spotted an old candy vendor. Pushing through a few heads with casual strikes, I flipped a silver coin from my pouch. “One rock sugar stick.”
The startled vendor handed one over. I gave him the silver and said, “Keep the change.”
“Ah—yes, sir.”
I put the candy in my mouth and followed Dong Bang-yeon, the sugary sweetness melting on my tongue. “Damn, been a while since I had this.”
Slurp, lick, click, pop. My noises filled the tense air. Dong Bang-yeon sighed and muttered, “Idiot.”
I ignored him. Soon, the arena loomed ahead—crowds already gathering. Gamblers and onlookers alike buzzed with curiosity. Pyeong Gunsa appeared from nowhere, hurrying to Dong Bang-yeon’s side.
“What’s going on? The match was for tomorrow!”
“Shut up,” Dong Bang-yeon growled.
I took the candy from my mouth and added, “Yeah, shut up, Ordinary Strategist.”
Dong Bang-yeon barked an order. “The Narak Society—kill him in the arena.”
“Why?” I called back. “You planning to make some grand entrance at the end? Pathetic fool. Seems like every dog and cow calls themselves a ‘king’ these days. Is that the trend now?”
As I passed a man glaring at me, I slapped him across the face. “Move, bastard.”
He flipped backward, landed on his neck, and passed out cold. One down, without even trying.
Inside the arena, the thugs spread out in a semicircle while I stepped calmly into the center, loosening my limbs. I called it Jianghu Calisthenics—a fine warm-up for murder.
The crowd thickened—gamblers, fighters, and thrill-seekers, drawn like moths to flame. Lanterns ignited one by one, encircling the pit until it shone like daylight.
I preferred darkness—it gave me the advantage. But light had its uses too. You could see better who to hit. I smiled. “Optimism is a virtue.”
From the stands, a gambler called out, “Pyeong Gunsa, what’s going on? Explain!”
Pyeong Gunsa waved him off. “Just watch. This fight isn’t about money.”
“Then what is it about?”
I clapped my hands, loud enough to silence the noise. “Listen up. Some of you know, most of you don’t—but the true ruler of this place is the Gambling King!”
“Shut your mouth!” Dong Bang-yeon roared.
I spoke louder. “The Gambling King is the innkeeper of the Narak Tavern! And I’ll be fighting him and all of Narak’s men. If I die, keep serving your master like the sheep you are. If I win—everything he owns is mine.”
Dong Bang-yeon’s face flushed crimson. I pointed at him. “That one’s his lapdog. Tell me, how can a ‘king’ serve another man? If this were real strength, you’d have died long ago. Guess luck’s all that’s keeping you breathing.”
I pointed toward the Gambling King’s men—over a hundred of them. “I’ll give you one chance. Anyone afraid of dying, get up in the stands. No one? Fine.”
I scratched my nose. “Suit yourselves.”
I didn’t plan to kill them all—unless they were zealots. The truly dangerous ones were always the same: the devout, the proud, or the insane.
Only the mad are my enemies.
As the mob swarmed like moths to flame, I drew the Black Cat Blade and began to move—slow, deliberate, like plum blossoms swirling in wind. The Plum Blossom Sword was never meant for bloodshed, but for beauty. I realized then that it didn’t belong here.
Another epiphany—never use an elegant art to kill swine.
“Kill him!” Dong Bang-yeon shouted.
The mob surged. I sheathed my blade and raised my empty hands. Red Hand, Empty Fist.
My left hand glowed crimson with searing internal energy—Red Hand. My right curled lightly into an empty fist—Empty Fist. Together, Jeoksu Gonggwon.
My family had been poor, but I’d always believed—“A man can rise with bare hands.”
I breathed deeply, calm as still water, and began the Rooster’s Fury technique—simple yet profound: beat them senseless with style.
I dodged blades and spears, struck shoulders and eyes, stomped on feet, shattered knees.
Crack! “Gah!”
When attacks came too close, I blasted them back with bursts of force, leaping from one man’s shoulder to the next, kicking a face midair before landing again. Chaos bloomed.
I kept moving—ducking, spinning, sweeping, striking. The crowd had no coordination, no courage. They rolled and screamed, acting hurt just to stay out of my way.
“Agh—!” “Kuh!”
One man clutched his stomach and knelt, pretending to faint. I nudged his head with my palm; he rolled over dramatically, eyes white, truly out cold. I sighed. “Pathetic.”
They were fighting half-heartedly because I wasn’t killing anyone yet. They could feel it—that I was letting them live. Gradually, they caught on, collapsing one by one like actors in a cheap play.
Even Dong Bang-yeon had enough. “Get out of my sight!” he thundered.
Behind him stood the higher-ranked fighters—men who had made names for themselves in countless matches. They looked uneasy now, realizing it was their turn.
I knew most of them—their styles, their habits, even which ones deserved to die.
When I suddenly drew the Black Cat Blade and charged, several turned to flee. I chose one—Akmyeon-gwi, the Demon-Faced Ghost, a rapist and murderer from my past life—and pursued.
The crowd parted instinctively. I chased him through the chaos, his screams echoing. “Why aren’t you helping me?!” he cried to his comrades, but even they looked disgusted.
I sprang upward, stepping on shoulders to gain height, and brought my blade down across his back. He turned, swinging his jagged saber, but I deflected it and struck his shoulder point, then cleanly sliced through his neck.
Thud. His body hit the ground behind me. I glanced around the arena. “There were more I meant to kill. Hey, you—move. Out of the way, bastard.”
The mob recoiled like fish avoiding a shark. I charged again, and their screams filled the arena.
They didn’t understand why I chose certain men. That made it worse. Fear of the unknown kills faster than steel.
I spotted another target—Ilso-ja, the Laughing Snake, infamous for killing fellow gamblers over scraps. I pointed at him. “Hey, you. The one with the tiny eyes. Come here.”
His small eyes widened as he turned and ran toward the stands. I scooped a fallen throwing blade from the ground, leapt high, and hurled it with blazing force. The blade glowed red and pierced his back, pinning him to the wall.
Crack! His body slumped lifelessly a moment later.
Dong Bang-yeon, realizing his men were useless, drew twin swords and dove from above. I swung the Black Cat ten times in rapid succession—sparks burst like fireworks as our blades clashed.
Then Pyeong Gunsa’s folding fan struck from the side, forcing me back. As I retreated, two more attackers lunged in, their weapons flashing. I stomped the ground hard, propelling myself straight up.
They gathered below—Dong Bang-yeon, Pyeong Gunsa, and two ambushers—waiting for my descent like hunters around a snare.
I clicked my tongue. “You think I’m that easy?”
In midair, I gripped the Black Cat Blade with both hands and spun violently, drawing a whirlwind of flame and steel. The fiery slashes scattered like a rain of blossoms across the arena—Mancheon Hwa-u, “Rain of a Thousand Flowers.”
The ambushers died instantly, their bodies perforated by crimson light. Dong Bang-yeon and Pyeong Gunsa barely deflected the storm of blades, their arms trembling under the strain.
This was a move I’d created in a moment of madness—wild, uncontrolled, nameless. A burst of insanity followed by silence.
I landed on one knee, left hand braced on the ground, the Black Cat extended horizontally at eye level. Slowly, I lifted my head.
Standing, I sheathed my sword—then unsheathed it again in the same breath. A single stroke.
Shk!
Pyeong Gunsa’s head flew upward in a crimson arc, spinning into the night.