Jungnang-hyeon
A large crowd gathered in the marketplace.
A woman selling snacks from her stall, a man precariously balancing water buckets, children playing with their friends, and countless other passersby—all turned their eyes in the same direction.
A long procession was passing through the heart of the village street.
—Creak! Creak!
The sound of wooden wheels rolling came from the thick-barred prisoner wagons.
Inside the barred cages, visible between the guards of the government soldiers, were prisoners with their hands and feet bound.
"Look at that."
"Ugh. They're completely covered in blood."
Their faces, worn and battered, showed signs of severe hardship.
Their white prison garments were stained red.
Because of this, the atmosphere among the onlookers was filled with dread and discomfort.
As the procession continued on for some time—
Someone picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it through the wooden bars.
"Filthy scum!"
—Thud!
"Ugh!"
The bound prisoner couldn't dodge and was struck directly by the stone.
Seeing the prisoner grimace in pain, more people began picking up whatever they could find and throwing it into the cage.
—Whack! Whack! Whack!
The prisoners inside the barred wagon were helplessly pelted.
"You bastards!"
"Rot in hell, scumbags!"
"Take this and die, you trash!"
None of the guards escorting the prisoners stepped in to stop it.
They simply watched, some even snickering at the scene.
In fact, this was the entire purpose of the public prisoner transport—to make their crimes known to all.
"Hmm."
From the second-floor window of an inn, a middle-aged man looked down at the procession.
He calmly sipped tea, seated with composed posture. Opposite him sat a government official in uniform, who asked curiously:
"What is it?"
These were criminals.
And the man in front of him was not the type to feel sympathy so easily for prisoners.
The middle-aged man's eyes, however, were fixed on one particular wagon.
Inside, a prisoner sat alone, unlike the others.
His chest and abdomen were soaked in blood.
"He's young."
The prisoner sat upright, hair disheveled and covering half his face, but it was clear from his frame—he was a boy.
No older than sixteen or seventeen at most.
...About the same age as the young master.
Looking at that young prisoner brought thoughts of the boy he served.
The man shook his head.
What did age matter when it came to committing crimes?
The official watching him spoke seriously.
"It's hard to say anything for sure until the execution, but despite appearances, that boy committed the most serious crime among them."
The middle-aged man looked puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"That kid you called young—he's the most vicious criminal among those being transported."
"The most vicious?"
He couldn't hide his confusion.
How could that young boy be the most brutal?
"...Did he harm someone?"
In officialdom, the gravest crime was treason—rebellion against the state.
But those charged with treason had their crimes publicly announced, so this wasn't the case.
That left only one other unforgivable offense.
Murder.
"Yes."
The official's reply made the middle-aged man let out a faint sigh.
For ordinary civilians, murder was an unthinkable felony. But for martial artists like him, killing and being killed was almost routine.
The official clicked his tongue.
"Tsk tsk. Of course, you martial artists wouldn't be fazed by such things."
"Killing is nothing unusual in our world."
"Perhaps so. But if you knew who that boy really was..."
—Whack!
Before he could finish, a rock flew through the bars and struck the boy's head directly.
The crowd stirred.
Blood ran down the boy's face.
But unlike the other prisoners, he neither flinched nor groaned in pain.
"That kid's a real tough one."
"Doesn't he even feel pain? His head got hit like that and yet…"
Even the middle-aged man watching found something unusual in the scene.
That boy…
Someone trained in inner energy or martial arts could endure a certain degree of pain.
But this boy was just an ordinary civilian.
Yet even after taking a direct hit to the head—hard enough to crack his skull—not a single groan escaped his lips.
He didn't even flinch. That kind of fortitude was truly intense.
—Swish.
As blood flowed down and soaked his hair, the boy tilted his head back, as if the mess was bothering him.
In doing so, the face that had been hidden behind tangled hair was revealed.
Gasps of astonishment escaped the mouths of nearby onlookers.
The official beside the window was no exception.
"Huh…"
Even with his face smeared in blood, his striking features couldn't be hidden.
He had sharp, handsome features and a mysteriously captivating look.
What was more surprising was how his expression gave off a strangely gentle impression.
"How could someone with that face do such things…?"
The official muttered in confusion.
The middle-aged man, however, was staring at the boy intensely, clearly shaken.
"What's the matter with you?"
The official asked, seeing his reaction.
The man flinched and shook his head.
"…It's nothing."
"Nothing?"
He pretended to brush it off, but just moments ago, his face had looked as if he'd been struck by something far more shocking than a rock.
As the official was about to press further, the man stood up from his seat.
Then he spoke.
"Thanks for the tea. I just remembered something urgent—I'll be going now."
"Hey, I haven't seen you in ages…"
"I'm really busy. Next time, I'll treat you to a big night at Wolhyangru."
"Wolhyangru? Ahem…"
At the mention of the most luxurious brothel in town, the official's lips curled in an involuntary twitch.
What man wouldn't be pleased at the offer of such a treat?
Late at night, around the Hour of the Ox (approx. 1–3 a.m.)
In the basement of the Jungnanghyeon government office, inside the Geumok (prison building)
Most of the prisoners were asleep, and even the guards dozing off against the walls, heads nodding.
But one prisoner remained awake.
It was the boy with the tangled hair.
Sitting alone in his cell, he stared blankly at the wall with vacant eyes.
...
It had been four days since he miraculously survived the incident he thought had killed him.
A lot had happened in that short time.
Though it was fortunate he was alive, he awoke only to find himself imprisoned.
And now, the date for his public execution had been set.
The punishment: Quartering by chariot.
Each limb would be tied to a separate chariot, and he would be torn apart.
A fitting punishment…
After all, he'd brutally killed enough people to earn the nickname "Gyeomsalgwi"—the Ghost of Ruthless Killing.
No matter how it played out, execution was unavoidable.
Yet there was no regret or panic in the boy's eyes.
Instead, his mind was preoccupied with something else entirely.
[What? Martial arts? Hey kid, did you run into some kind of martial artist or something?]
That's what one of the other prisoners being transported with him had asked.
That offhanded question had helped him resolve a question he'd been holding onto for a while.
Martial artists…
He remembered hearing about them when visiting town with his grandfather.
They said those people could run as fast as horses and train their inner energy—qi—to exceed the limits of human strength.
What he'd only heard through rumors… turned out to be true.
That man had sent him to the brink of death in the blink of an eye.
...Even if I met him again, it would end the same.
No matter how many times he played it over in his head, he couldn't think of a way to kill that man.
Ambush him? Set a trap?
Would it even work?
That man wasn't human. He was a monster wearing a man's face.
Are martial artists all that strong?
If that were the case, then avenging his grandfather might become an impossible goal.
After all, no matter how much he struggled, he could never kill a being like that.
Lost in thought for a long time, the boy suddenly had a realization.
"Martial arts."
The only difference between that man and himself was one thing.
The man had mastered martial arts. He hadn't.
That difference alone had determined everything.
Then maybe the answer was simpler than he thought.
"I need martial arts."
If the conditions were equal, the outcome could be different.
For the first time, it felt like he had found a path forward.
But there was a problem.
No—two problems.
The first was that he had to get out of here.
If he stayed as he was, he would be executed by quartering, torn limb from limb by horses.
The second problem was: How could he learn martial arts?
"Who would teach me?"
He had to find someone who could teach him martial arts, but the idea of how to find such a person felt like reaching for clouds.
Even if he somehow escaped this place, he was still a criminal.
If he broke out of prison, he'd surely be a wanted fugitive.
And then… who would willingly teach martial arts to a condemned criminal?
"...Obstacle after obstacle."
His thoughts grew tangled again.
He suddenly realized how right his grandfather had been.
Even if it was for revenge, revealing the true self he'd kept hidden was foolish.
"I dug my own grave."
Even if he understood that now—it was too late.
The outcome had already been set in motion.
Still, he was somewhat relieved that the man didn't seem to know he was alive.
Or perhaps… even if he did know, maybe he left him be because he was already sentenced to die.
It was then, in the midst of these restless thoughts—
—Shhhhhh…
A faint sound reached his ears.
The boy turned his body toward it.
Sensing something odd, he held his breath and focused on the noises around him.
"What is that?"
As curiosity crept in, something caught his eye.
A thin haze—like mist or smoke—was slowly seeping in from the bottom right corner of the prison.
His eyes narrowed.
"Is there a fire?"
He wondered if the prison building might be on fire.
But that suspicion was quickly laid to rest.
There was no shouting or chaos. It was too quiet for a fire.
And then—
—Thud! Thud!
Sounds of something collapsing echoed nearby.
Judging by the direction, it came from where the guards had been stationed.
"This is…"
The creeping haze continued to drift into the boy's cell.
A faint aroma tickled his nose, triggering memories of certain herbs in his mind.
"Sambekcho… Danggui, Gilchogeun, Eonyeongcho…"
He had spent nearly ten years gathering and cultivating herbs with his grandfather.
So sensitive to scents it was almost frightening, the boy immediately recognized the herbs mixed in with the faint smoke drifting like a haze.
"…Sleep incense."
Gilchogeun and Eonyeongcho were herbs known to induce sleep.
With this kind of blend, anyone who inhaled the smoke wouldn't wake for at least two shichen (roughly four hours).
But the boy was different.
"The blend is crude."
If it had been his grandfather's mixture, it might have been different—but the boy had built up a tolerance to all sorts of herbs since he was young. This level of sleep incense wouldn't be enough to knock him out.
"Hmm."
The boy concluded that something was happening.
Sleep incense, in the middle of the night, within the government office prison? Something was definitely going down.
Leaning against the wall, he focused on the surrounding sounds.
—Rustle, rustle.
There was the sound of someone moving stealthily, barely noticeable to an average person—but the boy picked it up.
"Who is it?"
Someone had released the sleep incense and come inside.
Whoever it was clearly had a purpose.
The quiet footsteps moved through different parts of the prison.
"What are they trying to do?"
He couldn't guess who had come or why they were here.
Then the footsteps started approaching his cell.
The boy lowered his head, pretending to be asleep.
—Rustle, rustle.
The footsteps stopped right in front of his cell.
"…No way?"
—Click.
The sound of the lock being opened.
"…It was me?"
It was now clear: the boy was the target.
That realization set off a storm of thoughts in his head.
Could it be that that man had discovered he was still alive and had come to finish him off?
But then again—why bother with someone already sentenced to die?
"Doesn't matter."
Whatever the reason, someone had come for him.
The boy focused on keeping his breathing slow and even—so as not to give away that the sleep incense hadn't affected him.
—Rustle, rustle.
There it was again—someone slipping quietly into the cell.
He could feel the presence right in front of him, even with his eyes closed.
—Tap.
The intruder lightly nudged the boy's body with a foot, as if to check if he was truly asleep.
The boy stayed limp and unresponsive.
Satisfied, the intruder reached out and lifted the hair covering the boy's face.
The stranger's even breathing hitched for a moment.
'…'
There was an emotional disturbance.
The boy, trained by his grandfather to read human emotions, could easily sense it from changes in facial expression, breathing, and body language.
"This is my chance."
Such a break in focus was a golden opportunity.
In one swift motion, the boy raised the wooden stocks binding his hands and swung them up hard.
—Wham!
"Guh!"
The unprepared intruder took a blow to the chin and stumbled back.
The boy didn't miss his chance—he tried to bring the stocks crashing down on the intruder's head.
But just at that moment, the stranger kicked the boy in the stomach.
—Thud!
As the boy staggered backward, the stranger's fingers struck rapidly at his chest.
—Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Suddenly, the boy's body froze up, completely immobile.
Confused by what was happening, he heard the intruder mutter in disbelief:
"How… how were you not asleep?"