TSBIRBV Ch 60

Chapter 60 A Cornered Rat (5)

Bang!

An inkstone—once said to have been used by a master calligrapher—skimmed past Tang Seoak’s earlobe and smashed against the wall, splattering black ink in all directions. Tang Seoak dropped flat, head bowed to the floor.

“My lord, please—your forgiveness…!”

Standing before him was a man thin as a scholar’s brush, none other than the Sichuan Tang Clan’s master, Tang Mungil, the Ten-Thousand-Blade Poison Vulture.

For all his slight frame, which might have made him seem unthreatening, Tang Mungil was counted among the most ruthless lords in the clan’s history.

He had shattered in two—without hesitation—the prized inkstone he had painstakingly acquired to ingratiate himself with refined officials.

It was less an act of true rage than a deliberate demonstration of his fury for Tang Seoak to behold.

“Only recently did I judge that guarding Chengdu was too burdensome for you,” the clan head said, voice like a cold scalpel. “Even so, I chose to grant you another chance.”

Tang Seoak clenched his teeth. That “chance” had been bought by raiding Tang Eonbo’s coffers, yet Tang Mungil spoke as if he had graciously bestowed it. The phrasing galled him—almost as much as the hunger that stirred at the sight of power that could treat the clan’s retainers like so much property.

“And look at the result you bring!” Tang Mungil’s voice cut sharper. “You claimed you’d cooperate with Namgung to drive pirates from the Yangtze and expand our domain. Now look how precarious a position the clan occupies because of you!”

Not long ago, an unofficial convocation of the Five Great Houses had occurred—minus one. Sichuan Tang had not been invited.

Namgung had called the meeting.

Already aware of Tang Seoak’s machinations, Tang Mungil judged the cause to be the recent tumult on the river.

“I’ve no wish to hear more. Begone.”

Without a summons, there might never be an audience again.

“My lord! I still have uses—my value is not exhausted—my lord!”

Tang Seoak crawled forward, clutching at the clan head’s feet.

“The Jiaolong King still hates me. If her enemy shows himself, she will move. Please—use me!”

“For that same reason, you took clan warriors and drowned them in cold water,” Tang Mungil said, eyes narrowing to slits. “And your aftermath was a shambles.”

“How do you propose to gather up a reputation dashed in the mud? I’ve no interest in impossibilities. Perhaps I should settle for venting my ire.”

He reached, seized Tang Seoak by the hair, and yanked his head up.

“Listen well. To a collateral rat—whose martial attainments are meager, whose so-called stratagems serve only his greed and drag the clan into the mire—there will be no more chances.”

— — —

Of late, Yegyeol’s spirits floated above the clouds.

Back in Qinghai, he had received a wealth of gentle words from Senior Brother—and even had his hair thoroughly ruffled. Haryang had lamented that Yegyeol seemed thinner than before, clasped his wrist with concern, and called for more of his favorite dishes to be brought.

At this rate, with days passing like this, he felt he could sleep forever holding his guide’s hand—and never even notice the habit setting in.

As expected—staying near Senior Brother purifies all sinister thoughts.

It was one of those baseless Kunlun superstitions of old. Haryang was such a good man that, when dealing with him, one’s half-formed malice evaporated of its own accord.

“Where was I?” Yegyeol asked the man seated opposite.

“You said you met Namgung’s young lord,” the Black Ghost replied evenly.

“Right. The way this batch of contraband came about wasn’t planned,” Yegyeol said. “We were running a caravan when the Jiaolong Stockade struck—but Namgung Un was extraordinary.”

“In the end, everyone aboard the merchant ship was taken hostage,” the Black Ghost said.

“I found his effort more striking than the failure,” Yegyeol said.

Because lingering near Haryang made him want to settle into comfort, he had decided he needed to slip free of that warmth, now and then, to keep moving.

Being apart from a guide felt like bleeding from the eyes, but what else could be done? For a bright tomorrow and a hopeful future, one must sometimes cut cleanly.

There was a problem: Yegyeol could not move openly at the moment. He was “held hostage” by the Jiaolong Stockade, and Qinghai’s branch was “negotiating ransom.” He could not simply depart with a caravan.

So he had hatched a trick: he would go to the Sichuan branch of Black Spot, where he’d deposited the contraband.

Perhaps knowing they would soon meet again, Senior Brother had not stopped him, but instead had waved him off, wishing him safe travel.

Thus, Yegyeol had reached Sichuan with Hongyeo, slipped into Black Spot, and was now seated across from the Black Ghost.

Thirty-eight hours and twenty-five minutes since we left the Qinghai manor, maybe?

The “Black Ghost” version of Senior Brother—stained a convenient shade of darkness—made a fine conversation partner. Whether out of professional principle—never mistreat a client—or because his counterpart was Yegyeol, he responded steadily even to small talk born amid transactions.

Repeating the same anecdotes to elicit different responses—so he could prove, to him, that he truly believed them to be two distinct men—was, in its way, delicious fun.

“You seem fond of righteous knights,” the Black Ghost observed.

“Senior Brother was such a man,” Yegyeol said, smiling.

Praise for the “righteous knight” was praise for Haryang. He hoped Haryang would recognize that, even before others, Yegyeol spoke sincerely of his Senior Brother.

“By the way,” the Black Ghost said, “I hear a wealthy man of Hebei is seeking lightning-struck jujube wood. He’s very discreet—likely meant as a bribe.”

“You’re aware of our guild’s newest product,” Yegyeol answered with a bright smile.

“In my trade, information is everything,” the Black Ghost said.

“We’re regulating volume,” Yegyeol said. “But for you, I’ll release whatever you need.”

One corner of the Black Ghost’s mouth lifted. It was a smile that would have terrified anyone else—but Yegyeol only sought to glimpse, behind it, Je Haryang’s hidden warmth.

“I’ll pay handsomely,” the Black Ghost said.

“Think nothing of it,” Yegyeol replied. “I’ve received your help often; I only return the favor.”

It was no lie. Sensing a need to track shop-floor rumors and quiet fads, Yegyeol had marked the Black Ghost as his informant. Not only was the information reliable—the fact that Haryang remained conversant with such shadowed matters was another confirmation he prized.

Perhaps that’s enough for today.

“Well then, I should be headed back,” Yegyeol said, stretching. The cover demanded that the “Jiaolong hostage” depart for the river with ransom in hand.

“Until next time,” the Black Ghost said. He tapped a hidden catch; the door opened, and Hongyeo entered. With only the briefest glance toward the Black Ghost, Hongyeo escorted Yegyeol out.

Alone, Haryang did not remove the mask nor release the bone-shrinking art. The sensation of being stuffed into garments a size too small pressed at him from all sides—but patience had been one of the first strengths he’d ever learned.

A wind seemed to stir behind him, and a scholar-like figure, Jinyoung, appeared.

“The last of them,” Jinyoung said, setting bamboo slips on the desk with a click of his tongue. “Some days I think Red Thunder will fall ill just from courier duty.”

“You underestimate Hongyeo’s horsemanship,” Haryang replied. “He can turn a mere courser into a heavenly steed.”

“As you say, my lord,” Jinyoung conceded with a sigh. Then, after a breath’s hesitation: “I fear you are… too taken with Young Master Mun these days.”

“Ah? I thought I’d been quite blatant,” Haryang said. “If you only now notice, it seems I have not been blatant enough.”

His smooth, gloved fingers drummed lightly on the desk.

“Given his recent conduct, I suppose I can see why,” Jinyoung admitted.

Not only had he “robbed” his own caravan the very first time, he had struck up a working relationship with one of the largest black markets and begun irregular dealings. Even the latest tumult on the river would not have erupted so soon without his intervention.

“It is astonishing how alive he is,” Haryang said softly. “Is it not?”

Jinyoung nodded despite himself, even if he would not have chosen the word “alive.”

“Yes. Considering how we first found him, it is, at times, breathtaking.”

Qinghai Trading had not leapt to a new tier overnight—but they had begun handling new lines, stirring a fresh breeze. The lightning-struck jujube wood, wrought through the spirit-beast, yielded significant profit—and more, it served to weave relationships the guild needed.

“Is Samrang managing volume?” Haryang asked.

“To preserve value, Young Master Mun himself regulates distribution,” Jinyoung replied. “Samrang merely helps the rumor spread at the right tempo.”

“I wonder if your opinion—that Qinghai Trading would be too heavy a burden for Gyeol—has changed,” Haryang said.

“I misjudged the man,” Jinyoung admitted. “I thought a person like Young Master Mun, who burns bright like flame, might do anything well but grow bored quickly. That he would fuss so carefully over a guild thrust upon him, tend it, and plan for its future—I did not expect it.”

For all that he had not known Yegyeol long, the assessment was close. Only—Jinyoung had not accounted for the critical variable: just as Haryang was Yegyeol’s variable, Yegyeol was Haryang’s. He still doubted the man’s identity and objective.

“It is time we returned to the main seat,” Jinyoung said.

Haryang had been alternating too often between himself and the Black Ghost. Each time Jinyoung heard that voice, formed by the mask, anxiety pricked: humans were creatures easily shaped by their environment.

The lord had risen long ago above the past—but to press himself, again and again, into an old mold—surely some part of him would feel it.

“You have been away too long, my lord,” Jinyoung said carefully.

“The trail of betrayal that leads into the heartlands is firmly in hand,” Haryang said. “Let them run a while. I mean to give them room to thrash.”

He smoothed a relaxed line at his lip.

“A cornered rat,” he said, “is such fun to hunt.”

— — —

Footnotes:

• Tang Mungil (만검독수 당문길) — Clan head of Sichuan Tang; ruthless, politic, and deeply status-conscious among the Five Great Houses.