WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: BerageeBomb
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◈ I Obtained the Martial God’s Book ◈
Chapter 10: Ferry
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When the sun rose, I headed northwest again.
I walked with nothing but cold valley water in my empty stomach.
More than once, I dozed standing up, then woke with a start.
Behind my drooping eyelids, that golden stroke flickered.
This was no place to sleep.
I turned over Son Jae-bok's final shout.
There was no telling when or how rumors would spread.
They would pass from hunters' mouths to inns, then from inns to the main roads.
If I wanted to live like a ghost, I had to stay one step ahead of the rumors.
After walking for half a day, the mountains lowered and the land opened before me.
The wind already carried the scent of winter.
Beyond the yellowed, dry fields, a long ribbon of water lay stretched out.
A river.
Under the midday sun, the river gleamed like bronze.
People moved along the dirt road on its banks like a trail of ants, while a single old ferry crawled across the water like a water strider.
To reach Black Fang Mountain, I had to cross that river.
The map in my head coldly informed me that it was too wide to swim across.
I needed a ferry landing.
People gathered at ferry landings.
To survive, I had to disappear among people again.
* * *
I did not head straight down to the river.
I went about one majang farther upstream and found an empty bend in the water.
First, I had to fix my appearance.
Walking into the ferry landing looking like this would be like writing defeated Demonic Cult soldier across my forehead.
I had a blood-soaked black Demonic Cult uniform, bandages, and a soot-blackened face.
I took off my upper robe and stepped into the ice-cold river.
Clenching my teeth, I washed the filth from my body first.
The dried blood unraveled like red threads and drifted downstream.
I washed my robe too.
Since the cloth had been dyed black, the bloodstains did not stand out much.
The problem was the holes cut by blades, pierced by arrows, and torn by teeth.
I had no needle or thread, so I folded the torn parts inward.
I was crouched by the shore, washing my face, when I saw my reflection clearly in the water.
My hand stopped mid-splash.
I had completely forgotten this body's real face.
The default character faces in Records of the Martial God were all absurdly handsome.
It was the sort of face that could grab any sect and claim to be the sect leader's son without anyone doubting it.
I had only added a scar over one eyebrow to that neat face.
It had looked good on the other side of a screen.
But a face this refined would not do among refugees.
If I pretended to be displaced with this face, I would look like the young master of an exterminated martial clan hiding his identity as he fled.
I scooped up a handful of mud from the riverbank and rubbed it over my freshly washed face.
It was ridiculous to dirty myself again the moment I had scrubbed clean.
Still, there was no other choice.
I washed the cloth around my arm and tied it back on.
The skin around the bite marks was red and swollen, radiating heat.
If it festered here, I would be in serious trouble.
A pharmacy was a luxury I could not even dream of.
Cold water and sunlight were all I had.
Next came the sword at my waist.
It was the sword with the black hilt, the one Son Jae-bok had shouted that he would remember.
My face and name had been hidden by the dark.
The sword's appearance was likely the only mark he had left.
I picked up an old coarse mat abandoned by the water and wrapped the sword all the way to the end of its hilt.
Then I tied it tightly at both ends with some scattered rope.
It looked like the bundle farmers carried when they wrapped up sickles or hoes.
With it on my back, I looked exactly like a wandering day laborer carrying tools.
Finally, I searched my clothes.
I found a flint-and-steel set, a neatly folded red sash, and a string of cash coins Yeom Gu had thrown me as wages.
The two silver taels Jang Pal had given me had all gone toward the sword, waterskin, and oil at the supply depot.
That gaunt old man had probably turned to ash in the flames that night.
Only the cash coins he had given me remained, clinking in my clothes.
That was my entire fortune.
It was enough for a ferry fare, a set of old clothes, and a bowl of soup with rice.
I wrung the water from my wet black robe, put it back on, and left the riverbank.
* * *
The entrance to the ferry landing was as crowded as a marketplace.
Stalls lined both sides of the road, and the smell of soup with rice filled the air.
Porters passed by, merchants called for customers, and cattle drivers pushed through the crowd.
There were many displaced people too.
Women carrying filthy bundles and ragged children sat in groups, waiting for the ferry.
The war was in its fourth year.
There was never a day without refugees on the roads.
I slipped in at the rear of one such group.
For someone in rags, the safest place was among other people in rags.
My first stop was a stall selling old clothes.
Cotton garments caked in dust and grime were piled high on a straw mat.
An old woman with a pipe in her mouth looked me up and down.
“Give me an outer robe to wear over this. And a hat to hide my face.”
“Twenty-five cash for both.”
“They're full of flaws. Make it twenty.”
“Don't be ridiculous. Twenty-three. Any less, and this old woman would be selling at a loss.”
I counted coins from my clothes and handed them over.
The old woman tossed me an ash-gray linen robe and a bamboo hat whose brim had nearly rotted away.
Then she tapped the hem of my black robe with the end of her pipe.
“Take off that unlucky black robe and leave it here. I'll give you two cash for it, special price.”
“Why would you buy something this worn-out?”
“Because I can boil it in a cauldron, get the black dye out, dye it again, and sell it.”
The old woman grinned, exposing her missing teeth.
“They say twenty thousand Demonic Cult bastards wearing black burned to death in some valley called Blue Stone Valley. Everyone's terrified that clothes like those have vicious ghosts clinging to them.”
I had no answer.
That living hell, and the deaths of twenty thousand people, had become gossip that set the price of old clothes here.
“I'll keep wearing this.”
“Tch. You're awfully particular.”
I layered the ash-gray robe over my black one and pulled the rotten bamboo hat low.
The wide brim cut off half my vision.
Half was enough to hide myself.
At the wall beyond the row of stalls, people had gathered like a swarm of bees.
Two notices bearing the red seal of the Martial Alliance had been posted there.
One was a wanted notice for the Blood-Hand Demon Venerable.
Beneath a crazed portrait were lines of red writing.
[Bounty: One thousand nyang of gold.]
[For simply spotting and reporting their hiding place: Ten silver taels.]
The other was a proclamation.
[Anyone who shelters remnants of the Demonic Cult shall be beheaded for the same grave crime as Demonic Cult members.]
[Anyone who reports a remnant shall receive five silver taels as a reward.]
A man dressed like a scholar read the notices aloud.
People clicked their tongues and murmured among themselves.
“My goodness. Five silver taels is worth at least half a calf.”
“The money sounds nice, but where are any surviving Demonic Cult remnants supposed to be hiding in a backwater like this? They all died.”
Keeping my face beneath the brim of my hat, I scanned the proclamation.
Naturally, there was no portrait of a single Demonic Cult grunt.
It was fortunate that I had nothing to fear from being recognized.
Yet my mouth tasted bitter, as though I had chewed sand.
It was a position where even death left behind no portrait and no line bearing one's name.
I had only spent a few days there, yet it still hurt this much.
The original Seo Jin-hyeok had been ground down in that place for half a year.
An old beggar sat beneath the wall, a broken bowl before them.
They did not seem interested in the coins dropped into it.
Instead, they watched the appearance of every passerby from the corner of their eye.
Their gaze lingered a little too long on me beneath my bamboo hat.
I kept my pace unchanged.
If I hurried or slowed because I had noticed the stare, that would only invite suspicion.
They said a beggar's eye for people was sharper than a constable's. The beggar's vigilance in protecting their bowl was like a blade.
At the entrance to the ferry landing, three or four tattooed thugs blocked the refugees' path.
“If you want to pass through here, pay the ferry toll. Two cash per head.”
“B-but this isn't an official tax collected by the authorities, is it?”
“You little bastard. What good are the authorities now? We hold the fists, so we're the authorities on this street. Stop talking and hand it over!”
A woman carrying a bundle fumbled cash coins out of her clothes with a frightened expression.
Her old coins changed hands.
No one stepped forward.
When my turn came, I silently tossed over two cash coins and passed through.
There was nothing to feel wronged over, nothing to make my blood boil.
If two coins let me pass without drawing attention, it was cheap.
If I showed off my sense of justice and started a fistfight, hundreds of suspicious eyes would turn on me.
* * *
The ferry was shabby.
With twenty people aboard, the water reached its gunwales.
The fare was three cash a person.
I crouched in a corner of the bow, hugging my bundle to my chest.
The moment the boat left the shore, everyone began talking as if by agreement.
The cramped ferry became a marketplace of rumors.
“Have you all heard about that terrible Blue Stone Valley? They say the entire vast valley turned to ash in a single night.”
“They say twenty thousand Demonic Cult bastards burned to death in there.”
“Twenty thousand? It was surely more than thirty thousand. The wildfire burned for three days and nights without going out, and the whole sky turned horribly red like blood.”
A merchant with a pack on his back looked around before lowering his voice.
“They say that incredible fire attack was a plan devised by a brilliant strategist from the Zhuge Clan. Apparently, that person casually waved their fan once, and twenty thousand arrogant Demonic Cult bastards turned to ash like rats.”
“They say this miserable war will finally end soon, thanks to that remarkable person.”
“End, my ass. That monster, the Blood-Hand Demon Venerable, the Demonic Cult's leader, got away alive as if to spite them.”
At that name, the boat fell silent for a moment.
“They say the Martial Alliance's finest masters rose up like a swarm of bees and pursued them. The aftershocks split two mountain peaks clean in half.”
“They even lost one arm and became one-armed. Causing such havoc without an arm. Honestly...”
“Hmph. Do you think that bastard was the only one to escape? They say the demonic warriors who could use a sword had already fled into the western mountains before the fire caught. The only ones burned to death were the grunts dragged there.”
“Is the Blood-Hand Demon Venerable really what matters? The true terror is the Demonic Cult's leader. The real disaster begins when the Heavenly Demon shows themself in the martial world.”
A cattle driver who had been sitting quietly abruptly joined in.
“But they say the Heavenly Demon hasn't shown their face in the world for ten years. Apparently, they're locked away in some isolated room for martial arts training.”
An old merchant with deep wrinkles spat into the murky river.
“What does it matter whether the Alliance wins or the Demonic Cult wins? Both are the same bandits, bleeding the people dry in the name of requisitioning provisions. We sweat blood planting crops in spring, only for the lords to scrape it all away in autumn.”
“Watch your tongue! What if some sharp-eared Martial Alliance warrior hears you?”
“Hmph. And what if they do? The government troops have already emptied my storehouse, and I'm about to starve to death. What is there left for me to fear about my own life?”
In one corner of the boat, a refugee child began whining from hunger.
A haggard woman looked around nervously and covered the child's mouth.
The ferryman finally spoke up.
“Because of all that trouble, regular Martial Alliance warriors are posted at every ferry crossing these days. They say they're rooting out and arresting scattered Demonic Cult remnants. There will probably be one or two standing watch at the ferry landing on the other side too.”
“If people like us yield nothing but dust when shaken down have no crime to hide, then that's that. What is there to fear?”
“Ah, you're a naive one. Do ordinary people decide whether we're guilty or not? If those lords holding spears and swords decide to call us traitors, then we're criminals. That's the trouble.”
Bitter laughter rose from several places.
I lowered the brim of my hat another half inch.
Then the woman beside me saw the bloodied cloth around my arm and asked, “Oh dear. Young man, how did you hurt your arm so badly?”
“A dog bit me.”
“Oh, dear. Tsk, tsk. They say the wild dogs wandering the deep mountains are vicious these days. In this cursed war, dogs that lost their owners and were abandoned have gone mad. They roam in packs and attack people.”
“...I'll be careful.”
I did not tell her it had not been a wild dog, but a hunting dog from the pursuit party.
Clicking her tongue, the woman rummaged through her bundle and handed me a fist-sized boiled potato.
“Have this, at least. Young man, your face is the color of dirt. Dirt.”
“...Thank you.”
The potato still held a faint warmth.
That warmth seeped painfully deep into my empty stomach.
The boat passed the middle of the river.
Two people in white martial robes stood at the ferry landing on the far side.
Just as the ferryman had said, they were Martial Alliance warriors.
They stood crookedly with their spears planted on the ground, examining the people who disembarked.
But their gazes were indifferent.
The boat reached shore, and people poured out carrying their bundles and loads.
One warrior lifted the bundle of a refugee man in front with the tip of their spear.
“You haven't hidden anything suspicious, have you? Open it now.”
The terrified man untied it. Inside were only an old blanket cover and two dented brass bowls.
The warrior waved a hand as if disgusted.
“Tch. Beggar bastard. Go. Get out of here.”
After that, the inspection was so careless it could barely be called one.
I got off the boat close behind a refugee family carrying a child.
I limped as I did.
There was no need to pretend.
The shin cut the night before truly ached.
A warrior's gaze passed over my bamboo hat.
A bundle wrapped in coarse matting, worn linen clothes, and a haggard face caked in mud.
The warrior's eyes immediately moved to the next person's bundle.
That was enough.
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