Episode 9: What Should We Call Our Alliance?
I showed Geum Cheol-yong the sickle hanging at my waist.
“Got a little blood on it over at Maehwa-ru.”
“Oh dear. How many did you kill?”
“None.”
Geum Cheol-yong tilted his head.
“That’s a relief. …Did you even learn martial arts?”
“Obviously. That’s why the noodles turned out the way they did.”
“Convincing answer, actually.”
He sighed.
“Your grandfather spent his whole life quietly boiling goose-head soup. Strange that his grandson turned out like this.”
“If the Jo brothers have been harassing you, I’ll mediate.”
“Their behavior has been getting worse by the day.”
“If they refuse to see sense, I’ll protect you here in the armory.”
“No need to make this bigger than it is. As long as I, Geum Cheol-yong, am in Dragon-Head Armory, those gigolos can’t touch you.”
So Uncle Geum had this side to him?
In my previous life, he’d been one of the first to get wiped out— but he was a man who tried to keep his word.
I smiled at his unexpected goodwill.
“I appreciate the offer.”
“Think nothing of it.”
For once, I answered him seriously.
“I’m planning to form a sect here in Ilyang.”
“Not just a sect—a sect with affiliate factions under it.”
“The first force I build will be made from the brothel crowd. I’m calling that one Gengsaengmun, the Gate of Renewal.”
“Uncle Geum, you should form a proper sect as well, instead of just being an armory.”
“Make one, and ally with me.”
“Of course, I’ll be the leader of the alliance.”
“We already are an armory force. Why would we need a sect?”
“Gather all the nearby smithies under you and create Cheoryongmun, the Iron Dragon Sect.”
“If you just stay as you are, the moment the Jo brothers set up their gang, your tribute payments are going to skyrocket.”
“I’m going to build a coalition in Ilyang that stops outside black sects from bleeding this place dry.”
“And this… coalition sect is what, exactly?”
“The brothel workers get folded into Gengsaengmun.”
“The various smithies form Cheoryongmun.”
“Builders can make Chukmun, the Builders’ Gate.”
“Everyone else gets grouped by trade.”
“Then I tie them all together into one alliance.”
“Not to go around oppressing people.”
Geum Cheol-yong listened with a surprisingly serious face.
“No tributes. No rigid hierarchy.”
“Yes, it’ll be chaos on the inside. I don’t care.”
“All I want is one thing— for people to keep the money they sweat and bleed for, instead of having it stolen by someone sitting on their ass.”
“We’ll spread slowly, cell by cell, across the jianghu.”
“If our alliance even slightly reduces how much flunkies bully busboys, small merchants, and the powerless—”
“Then I’d say I hit my mark.”
“An alliance for bottom-feeders to protect their daily bread.”
He mulled it over for a long while, then finally asked,
“The plan is sloppy and ridiculously grand at the same time.”
“What’s the alliance called?”
I met his eyes.
“Haomun.”
He folded his arms and stared at me.
“Haomun, huh…”
Haomun — Gate of the Low and Filthy
下 (ha): the low parts, the bottom.
汚 (o): dirty, filthy, stained.
Put together, it means the ones at the bottom. The stained. The “filth.” The people nobody cares about.
And then you slap 門 (mun), “gate/sect,” on the end— and suddenly “filth” becomes a faction.
That little twist was the fun of it.
Geum Cheol-yong stayed quiet long enough that the whole armory went silent with him.
Eventually, he spoke.
“A busboy forming a sect. That’s something I never thought I’d see.”
“Are you sure you can even survive against the Jo brothers?”
“You’ll see.”
He turned to his deputy.
“Give him all the weapons. Free of charge.”
Gwak Yong-gae gaped.
“Huh? Not even a rental fee?”
Geum Cheol-yong scowled and glared at him.
“How dare you say that to the sect master?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“S-sorry!”
Geum Cheol-yong’s brand of theatrics was… unique.
He turned back to me, face grave again.
“We’ll continue this conversation after you survive.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“If you need help, say so in advance.”
“These over-decorated weapons will be enough.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Slightly leaning toward insult.”
“…”
We stared each other down for a moment. Then I bundled up the weapons, slung them over my shoulder, and left Dragon-Head Armory.
After the Busboy Left
Once the man who’d just gotten free weapons disappeared down the street, the armory workers started whispering.
“You think he’ll survive?”
“He had a plan. I think he might.”
“Who knew that idiot who can’t even make decent noodles had this in him.”
“Maybe that’s why the noodles were so bad— he was pouring all his effort into martial arts instead.”
“True, that wasn’t even food. With business that bad, the inn was bound to go under.”
“So the inn failing was part of the grand plan, huh?”
“Should we have charged at least a little for the weapons? I kind of regret it.”
“We gave him the stuff that doesn’t sell anyway. Too gaudy.”
Geum Cheol-yong smiled, satisfied.
“Good. We cleared out old stock and won the busboy’s goodwill.”
“Not a bad deal at all.”
“Agreed. By the way, you called him ‘sect master,’ didn’t you?”
“He’ll only be sect master if he survives.”
“Right now he’s still just a busboy.”
Laughter rippled through the armory.
“Hahaha!”
“Too loud.”
“…Yes, boss.”
The laughter cut off instantly.
Gwak Yong-gae looked at him curiously.
“So what are you thinking about with that serious face, boss?”
Geum Cheol-yong stroked his chin.
“Iron Dragon Sect.”
He let his imagination run wild and murmured again,
“Iron Dragon Sect Master, Geum Cheol-yong…”
Waiting for the Jo Brothers
Back at Jaha Inn, I laid the new weapons and my bloodstained sickle on the table.
The dagger went into my belt. The sword and whip didn’t need practice—just a feel for the weight and grip.
After I’d familiarized myself with each piece, I retreated to my tiny back room.
The Jo brothers were almost guaranteed to show up. So instead of full circulation, I just sat down, closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing.
After about two hours, a tired voice drifted in from the entrance.
I stepped outside.
The second Jo brother, Jo Yi-gyeol, was sitting on a chair.
Behind him stood masked men in black, each holding a shovel or a burlap sack.
He looked even skinnier and more twitchy than I remembered. In the old days, just making eye contact with him had felt unpleasant.
Now he just looked pathetic.
He must’ve come after hearing Cha Seong-tae’s report, and he’d clearly been drinking.
As I approached, he spoke to his men.
“Start digging a hole. Deep.”
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled a dagger from his robe and stabbed it into the table.
“Sit.”
Stabbing a dagger into the table is a common signal when two parties decide to settle a dispute a certain way.
A life-and-death duel of sorts.
I drew my Cloud Dragon Dagger and plunged it into the tabletop as well, then sat down across from him.
The rules were simple:
- We talk.
- Once someone grabs their dagger,
- the fight begins—no complaints, no lawsuits, no family revenge later.
Jo Yi-gyeol had killed plenty of local rivals like this.
Outside, his men were digging away. Inside, he stared at me and spoke.
“Heukmyobang gave their approval.”
“Did they now?”
“Our own branch sect is coming to Ilyang.”
“People won’t be able to sneer at us as third-rate black-hoodlums who only run brothels and pimp girls.”
“We’ll finally have some standing.”
I kept my face cold but answered politely.
“My congratulations.”
He nodded and continued,
“Exactly. You should congratulate me.”
“And on such a good day, you storm into my brothel and cause a scene—”
“What does that make me look like?”
“You’re lucky the guests from Heukmyobang didn’t hear.”
“You trash who can’t even make decent noodles.”
He gestured toward the men digging outside.
“Know what that hole is?”
“My grave?”
He nodded.
“Smart boy.”
“Before they finish digging, give me three reasons not to kill you.”
“Say you’ll work the gate for the new branch.”
“Say you’ll follow me around and change my shoes.”
“Offer to do things even a dog or a horse could do.”
“Then I’ll reconsider.”
“We grew up in the same town, after all. Killing you on the spot just for making trouble would be a bit heartless, don’t you think?”
My actual thought was: So are you killing me or not, you indecisive bastard.
But he looked so ridiculous I played along.
“It would be heartless.”
Yi-gyeol glanced at the sword and whip lying on the table and snorted.
“Look at you. Pathetic.”
He sighed, then called my name.
“Ja-ha.”
I sighed too.
“You’re going to wear my name out. What is it?”
“What is… it?”
His whole body flared with killing intent. Patience wasn’t his strong suit.
And I already knew exactly what he was going to do.
“What is it, you bastard? Spit it out.”
His dagger ripped free of the table and lunged for my throat.
Before the tip could touch my Adam’s apple—
clang.
The flat of my Cloud Dragon Dagger knocked his blade aside.
I slowly pushed his dagger back and met his eyes.
“Wow. Almost got stabbed.”
Surprise finally showed on his face.
“…!”
I calmly stuck my dagger back into the table.
“Do you have a reason I shouldn’t kill you?”
“Just one’s enough.”
“If I kill you, I’ll have to kill your brothers too.”
“You three are a package deal.”
“Kill one, kill all. Spare one, spare all.”
“‘Dog or horse’ work? Please.”
“You’re not even worth that.”
“You’re just a brothel gigolo playing tough.”
Yi-gyeol jabbed his own dagger back into the tabletop and folded his arms.
“So you stumbled on some fortuitous encounter, huh.”
“Congratulations.”
Outside, his men called in at the worst possible time.
“Boss, the pit’s almost done!”
“Deeper.”
“Yes, sir.”
He clearly didn’t want them to see him getting shown up.
I wrapped my fingers around my dagger and spoke.
“Shoulder.”
By the time he grabbed his own blade, my Cloud Dragon Dagger had already stabbed into his shoulder and come back out.
Thud.
Blood splashed across the table.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He stared at his bleeding shoulder, realization dawning— the speed gap was enormous.
As his face went pale, I said,
“Why are you so slow?”
“How’s it feel, living like some aristocrat of Ilyang, and then getting stabbed by the local busboy?”
“Our noble gigolo lord, who digs a grave first whenever there’s a dispute.”
Men in this town don’t back down over something like this.
Gritting his teeth, Yi-gyeol yanked his knife out and went for my shoulder.
I already knew his style.
The shoulder was a feint. The real killing move would follow.
I grabbed his wrist with my left hand and thrust my dagger into the palm of his free hand as it came in.
Thunk.
He yanked his hand back with a contorted face. This time, the blood soaking the table came in sheets.
Once again, both daggers stabbed into the tabletop.
Thock, thock.
He was the weaker one now, so it was his turn to shut up.
I spoke.
“Putting aside my personal grudge for a moment—”
“Is there any reason to keep you alive in Ilyang?”
“You trafficked people.”
“You killed plenty of people I knew when I was younger.”
“And now a ‘branch sect’?”
“What a joke.”
“Heukmyobang didn’t authorize that so you could uphold justice.”
“They gave you permission so you could squeeze tribute money for them.”
“That’s—”
“Shut your mouth.”
“You’ll start collecting ‘protection fees’ from merchants.”
“Some merchants will have a spine and resist.”
“Then your boys and the local youth from the smithies and shops will start killing each other in the streets.”
“Once enough blood’s been spilled, then Heukmyobang will step in to ‘restore order.’”
“After a single good massacre, Ilyang will never dare raise its voice again.”
“From then on, everyone pays tribute.”
Heukmyobang needed a pretext.
Other black sects had their eyes on Ilyang too.
Too many people wanted a bite of this place— so it had been treated as a sort of unofficial “no-fight zone” for a while.
The Jo brothers were the ones who’d twisted that fact for their own benefit.
Locals bled. Heukmyobang and the Jo brothers pocketed the money.
That was the future I remembered.
“There are plenty of hot-blooded young men in Ilyang,”
Yi-gyeol argued weakly.
“Once we form the branch sect and grow, my brothers and I can attack Heukmyobang ourselves.”
“With that pathetic level of skill?”
“And what about the merchants who get ruined before then? Who takes responsibility for them?”
“You know why Heukmyobang is especially dangerous?”
“Because of who their sect leader is.”
“Think you can handle that?”
“…How do you know about that?”
“Sometimes, news gets to a busboy faster than to the orthodox alliance.”
Bleeding from shoulder and palm, Yi-gyeol still tried.
“All the more reason to work together.”
“I don’t know how you got this strong, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Ja-ha, you can’t handle Heukmyobang alone.”
He extended his bloody hand.
I flicked my chin toward the men digging outside.
“What’s that again?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“…Just for intimidation.”
I nodded.
“It’s fine.”
“It’ll be your grave.”
I smiled at him.
He didn’t smile back.