WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Oblivious

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◈ Murim in my Hometown ◈

Chapter 1: Leaving Home

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I was exactly eleven years old.

I still remember it vaguely.

That damned day when, after losing my parents to a flood, I was forced to turn my back on the hometown where I had been born and raised, led away by a distant relative.

I didn't want to leave.

It was a desperately poor village, but I had a modest future there with Soso, the older sister who lived nearby.

I planned to propose to her once I grew up. Even now, I sometimes lose myself in pointless fantasies.

What if that distant relative had died on the long road, killed by bandits, a tiger, or a venomous snake, and set off down the long road to the afterlife instead?

Then the bandits would have made some money, and the tiger would have filled its belly. I would have grown up like a weed in my hometown and married into Soso's family as the live-in husband of their only daughter.

We would have had sons and daughters and lived a fairly happy life together, but this dogshit world had never been on my side, then or now.

Among all the bandits and wild beasts swarming through the mountain valleys, not one of them attacked that bastard.

Maybe they saw he was obviously broke and had nothing worth eating, so they couldn't be bothered.

After that, I ground my teeth in regret thousands upon thousands of times. I should have taken a kitchen knife, crept up behind him, and slit that damned bastard's throat.

It would have been too horrible for an eleven-year-old to do, but if I had known he would sell me to a gambling den, I probably would have grabbed the knife without hesitation.

That bastard, whom I had never seen before and who claimed to be something like an eighth-degree nephew of my father's cousin-uncle, was a gambling addict.

He was human trash, addicted to the thrill of gripping gambling tiles and sweating over them. Losing his entire fortune wasn't enough for him. He had even sold his wife and daughter.

He had come to borrow money, found me orphaned, and without the slightest hesitation ruined my life for a few coins.

Naturally, I refused to go. It was useless. Back then, I couldn't defeat a grown man.

Even after talking to him, I doubted he was really my relative, but he wore a sword at his waist, so even Soso's family couldn't stop him.

After a tearful farewell, I was dragged along for a month, sleeping rough, until we reached a shabby gambling den.

It was like a waiting room for hell, a place where life's losers and idle scoundrels stopped briefly before meeting the King of Hell.

I was sold there. That bastard who called himself my distant relative took one tael of silver for my price right in front of me, then joined a gambling table.

A gambling den was no place for a child to be sold into.

At first glance, it might have seemed better than an assassin organization like the Assassins’ League or the Demonic Cult of Tianshan. But because it offered absolutely no chance to become strong, it might have been even worse.

While kidnapped orphans became assassins in the Assassins’ League and demonic practitioners in the Demonic Cult, I did odd jobs at the gambling den.

Sometimes I was used to cheat, drugging alcohol or sneaking a look at a mark's tiles and signaling them with prearranged movements.

If I failed to do my work properly, I was beaten until my vision turned yellow.

One day, unable to endure it any longer, I secretly ran away. The gambling den's dormitory guards were surprisingly lax.

I ran out of the city without looking back.

While I was trapped in the gambling den, I was an arrow drawn taut toward my hometown. I thought that once I was free, I would fly back there like an arrow.

I did run, but I didn't get far.

My hometown was far, far away. I didn't know the roads, and I had no money.

Begging wasn't easy, either. Everywhere I went, beggars already controlled the territory. I couldn't even try begging once before being bullied over turf and forced to run.

As the price of freedom, I starved for three days. Then, deciding that even if I died, I would at least eat my fill first, I returned to the gambling den.

For some reason, the owner didn't beat me.

He looked down at my wretched state for a long moment, then took me to the kitchen and gave me a bowl of white rice and stir-fried vegetables with tofu.

He watched me shovel it down greedily without saying a word. He knew without needing to say it. With one bowl of white rice, he had put an invisible leash around my neck.

After that, the owner never laid a hand on me.

He didn't need to.

Instead, the fake relative who had sold me beat me.

He would visit from time to time, hold out his hand, and demand a broker's fee for finding me a job. He had forcibly abducted and sold me, yet he acted as though he were my benefactor.

He took every last coin I painstakingly saved, collecting one or two coins at a time from customers thrilled after sweeping the table.

He would spend it on alcohol, return with a flushed face, and beat me senseless for being ungrateful.

After enduring that a few times, something finally happened. At last, I did what I should have done before leaving my hometown.

When I came to my senses, that bastard was a corpse sprawled in a filthy alley.

I was holding a kitchen knife dripping with blood, panting harshly like a wildcat.

It was the first killing of my life.

It had been overdue, but it was bound to happen someday.

Looking back, he wasn't even a martial artist.

An irredeemable gambling addict. A pathetic piece of human garbage who ruined his own life and took out his resentment on an innocent child.

That miserable halfwit, who looked as though he would lose a fight to a tough housewife, had terrified the young me as much as a great demon of Tianshan.

After killing him, I thought I understood how great heroes in tales felt after eliminating villains from the Unorthodox Faction.

For days, I anxiously worried that the authorities would arrest me. Fortunately, that never happened.

A corpse turning up murdered in the pleasure district was as natural as fruit growing on a tree.

The officials had no interest in the deaths of worthless people at the bottom of society. They didn't even try to find the culprit. They loaded the corpse onto an ox cart, covered it with a straw mat, and dumped it somewhere far away. That was the end of the case.

Maybe because I had released the resentment weighing on me, things strangely went well after my first killing.

People often praised me for being quick and efficient, and I began receiving more small tips from customers.

Even the gambling den, which had felt like a huge prison, became bearable. My expression, which had always been gloomy, grew rather sly.

My body still had a long way to go before it was fully grown, but my mind felt as though it had matured by leaps and bounds.

I also found a goal in life.

I practiced with gambling tiles whenever I had time, hoping to become a cardsharp, while observing gamblers' expressions and habits.

About a year later, when I could roughly judge the strength of a person's hand just by looking at their face, the owner gave me an opportunity.

“I thought all you had going for you was a face that looked trustworthy, but you've got good eyes too. Good. Practice your hand tricks a little more, and sit at the table starting next year.”

If I became a cardsharp, one-third of the money I won would be mine. Of course, if I lost, I would accumulate a debt equal to the stake.

I was confident. My hand tricks were still lacking, but I was far better at reading tiles than the other cardsharps.

As I worked desperately, I went beyond merely estimating the strength of a hand. I reached the point where I could see exactly what tiles someone held written all over their face.

It might not sound like much, but it helped me greatly even after I became a martial artist.

Whether you fought with gambling tiles or swung a sword, it was all ultimately done by people. If you could judge what someone was thinking from their face, you could always act a beat faster.

Then you were less likely to get stabbed in the back. It also became easier to pull out in the worst situations.

I even cut down on sleep to master gambling techniques. I dreamed of making a name for myself as a gambler, becoming rich, and returning home in glory.

But I never got to sit at a gambling table.

Exactly six months later, the gambling den went under.

They had failed to properly screen their clientele.

In one corner of the gambling den, where the atmosphere grew hotter as the night deepened, a mark who had lost money flew into a rage and shouted.

It was a common occurrence at gambling dens. Soon, the guards would come in and drag the mark out. It should have been a minor disturbance.

Everyone had seen it countless times, so nobody paid attention. If they carelessly looked away, their opponent might cheat, so everyone focused only on the gambling tiles in their own hands.

But this time, it didn't end that way.

“You dare try such a cheap trick against this venerable one? You'd better be ready to meet the King of Hell!”

The middle-aged man gripping the cardsharp's wrist and glaring looked exactly like a mark.

He was slightly fat and of ordinary build. His face was soft and scholarly. The only thing unusual about him was that both hands were grotesquely large for his body.

“Argh!”

When the mark clenched his fist, the cardsharp's wrist was torn clean off as though bitten by a tiger.

Two guards approaching to throw the mark out flew in the opposite direction. Their heads smashed hard into the wall with a loud crash, and they slumped down bleeding.

I couldn't even see what he had done.

Only then did the gamblers holding their tiles leap to their feet in terror.

After crushing the cardsharp's head, the mark turned around. His face looked as though he should be quoting Confucius, yet it was filled with mad, murderous intent.

He looked as though he might tear your limbs apart while sternly accusing you of failing to uphold the Three Fundamental Bonds and Five Constant Virtues today as well.

White steam rose from his unnaturally huge fists.

Something bulged beneath the robe covering his forearms and shoulders. It looked as though his arms and shoulders were gradually growing larger.

They should have stopped a monster like that at the entrance.

The guards stationed before the gambling den were not merely big and fierce-looking. Their eye for people was exceptional too. Yet they had missed him.

The owner had also failed to recognize the danger. He watched the mark with cold eyes, then called for the swordsmen.

The swordsmen, rushing over to finally earn their meals for once, were finished before they could do anything.

With a few casual punches, the heads of all three sword-wielders burst like watermelons at once. Red blood and white brains brutally stained the floor, walls, and ceiling.

The mark's fists grew redder and hotter with every blow.

Only then did someone shout with a face gone pale.

“E-Explosive Heat Fist? The Explosive Heat Fist Demon?”

“Even in a damned gutter like this, there's someone with properly working eyes. I'll grant you the honor of dying last!”

Mok Saryong, the Explosive Heat Fist Demon.

I learned later that he wasn't merely some middling expert of the Unorthodox Faction, but a demonic fiend of the Demonic Cult.

A gambling addict who loved gambling so much that he spent more days in the Central Plains than in Tianshan.

A murderer who always ranked near the top among the martial world's public enemies with bounties offered by the Martial Alliance.

The dearly missed target whom ambitious rising talents of prestigious orthodox sects wanted to meet even more desperately than Heewol of Cheongwol Pavilion.

The bounty on his head alone was a staggering five hundred taels of silver.

Mok Saryong, a walking lump of silver, stood with his back to the only exit and slaughtered the swordsmen and gamblers.

One head shattered with every punch. Arms and legs flew off too.

Those hit in the torso suffered worse. His fist pierced through their backs, tore out through their chests, and ripped out their hearts.

The extreme yang heat released from his fists heated the vast room in the middle of winter. The smell of burning flesh stung my nose everywhere his fists passed. The stench of blood filled the air.

It was the first time in my life that I had seen anything so terrifying and overwhelming.

It was as though hell had opened.

It was as though an executioner from hell had risen up to punish sinful gamblers. The heat of the Explosive Heat Fist set the nearby furnishings on fire. The room burned hot like hell itself.

Even now, I don't understand how a human being could do that, even with demonic arts. Perhaps he was something wearing human skin.

I froze completely while carrying liquor bottles.

Hot blood splashed across my face as I stood half-dazed, bewitched by terror and awe. I flailed my arms in shock, then realized that I would be next.

A mad murderer like that wouldn't spare me just because I was a child.

Only then did I finally come to my senses.

I hid behind a gambling table and watched for an opening, then darted into the kitchen. I climbed onto the cold stove and squeezed through a small window to escape outside.

Gamblers who followed after me scrambled to cling to the window.

I ran desperately toward the mountain, then turned around, trembling at the horrible sound of heads breaking and desperate screams.

Nobody was outside the window.

Even I, not yet fully grown, had barely managed to squeeze through it. It was impossible for adults to pass through.

I climbed the hill behind the gambling den, covered myself in fallen leaves, and hid behind a rock.

Perhaps he had killed enough. The screams from the gambling den died down quickly. Then the door shattered with a dull boom.

Someone stepped outside, treading on the broken door, which lay burning on the ground.

It was a pitch-black moonless night. Still, the fierce light pouring out from inside made his face visible even from far away.

The Explosive Heat Fist Demon, who had turned the gambling den into a fiery hell, had grown far larger than before. He now had a body worthy of those enormous fists.

I had no idea what it was made of, but his black robe had merely swollen greatly. It neither tore nor caught fire.

Mok Saryong looked up toward the hill behind the gambling den, where I was hiding.

His face was smeared with blood. His eyes gleamed like those of a beast. A chill ran down my spine so strongly that my breath seemed to stop. It felt as though he would rush over at once and crush my head.

Desperately suppressing my instinct to run, I curled up in the fallen leaves.

Mok Saryong turned his gaze toward the alley. Onlookers who had been cautiously peeking out flinched and hid themselves.

Patrolling constables blew sharp whistles. The sound of hurried footsteps grew louder.

Mok Saryong kicked off the ground and leaped onto the roof of the shops across the street. It was an agile movement that did not suit his massive body. I couldn't believe it even as I watched.

Jumping between rooftops, Mok Saryong vanished in an instant.

The gambling den burned fiercely through the night alongside dozens of corpses.

I didn't know whether the owner was inside. Since he didn't appear the next day, he had probably died.

More than two years of hardship since I had been practically kidnapped and sold there by that fake relative.

The local loafers and halfwits, their eyes bloodshot as they sweated over gambling tiles all night. Hopeless marks. Trivial guards and swordsmen with no tomorrow.

The only job where I could eat twice a day and save even a few coins.

The future I had ambitiously prepared for as a gambling cardsharp, handling gambling tiles until my hands cramped.

All of it became ashes overnight.

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