We arrived at Baek Eung-ji for a meal.

After eating a few of the meals I’d cooked at the occupied inn, Sword Demon—my oldest brother in spirit—seemed to be developing a sense of existential despair, so I suggested we eat out.

Of course, this wasn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood you’d casually stroll into just for food. But I used it as a substitute for my light footwork training anyway.

In other words, I was training just so I wouldn’t starve to death. It’s the ideal form of martial cultivation: run for your life to eat, and do it every morning and noon. Your muscles firm up, and your soul withers away. Perfect.

Life is suffering, after all.

The more you run, the hungrier you get. The hungrier you get, the better the food tastes. On the way back, you digest faster, so it's all a positive feedback loop. Sword Demon, for his part, seemed to hate the food I made, since he followed me without complaint.

Remember this well—bad food is terrifying. Even a man called the Sword Demon would rather run just to avoid my noodles. That means my cooking is scarier than the entire demonic cult army.

“...What should we eat?”

Sword Demon glanced at me.

“Pick whatever you want. Anything's fine.”

As long as I didn't make it, it was fine by both of us. We wandered down the street in Baek Eung-ji, casually window-shopping.

Our preferences for restaurants were similar.

We avoided crowded places first. But we also didn’t go into places completely empty—nine times out of ten, someone like me would be in the kitchen. The ideal place had a steady but not overwhelming number of customers, or it had to be old.

We settled into a quiet Chinese joint, ordered food, and turned to watch the street.

I leaned my wooden sword and the Bright Sword against the table.

While waiting for food, I propped my legs up on an empty chair across from me.

Without speaking, Sword Demon and I watched the people, the merchants passing by, the ordinary sky, and the plainness of life.

Silence remained until the food arrived.

Once the food hit the table, Sword Demon asked,

“Didn’t we order too much?”

“We can just leave the leftovers. We only eat once a day lately. Might as well stuff ourselves.”

In the middle of eating the assortment of dishes, Sword Demon pointed his chopsticks at the Tangcho Richuk.

“Why do you like this so much?”

I looked at him.

“We didn’t have it at our inn.”

“Mm.”

Sword Demon nodded. I chewed my food and explained the mundane reason I’d come to like Tangcho Richuk.

“It was hard to come by. One day I bought the ingredients myself and made it. Wasn’t as hard as I thought. Plated it up, set a small bottle of Dugang liquor beside it, picked up a piece with chopsticks, took a bite—and thought, ‘This is something you should buy, not make.’ Swore to myself I’d never make it again. I’m pretty good at keeping oaths, you know.”

Sword Demon picked up a piece of Tangcho Richuk.

“It’s that hard to make?”

“Probably just that I suck.”

He chewed and commented,

“It’s too sweet. Don’t think I could eat a lot of it.”

I took the Dugang liquor Jomsoi brought and poured it into my cup.

“You gotta wash down the sweetness.”

He drank, swished it around his mouth, and swallowed.

“In the cult, if someone poisoned the food, everyone involved in the kitchen—including their whole bloodline—was wiped out. There were tasters before and after the food left the kitchen. Did that prevent poisoning?”

I shook my head.

“Probably not.”

“Nope. It didn’t. But those were the rules. If a poisoning happened, the three generations still died. When I became Left Guardian, I had a lot of servants. The youngest one—turns out I never even asked for his name. One day he was gone. I asked around. The ones who usually answered quickly looked nervous.”

I poured him another drink and listened.

“They said he died taste-testing my food.”

“Mm.”

“You covered it up?”

“Something like that. After that, all the servants gathered and kneeled before I could say a word. If I gave the order, they’d all die. If it escalated, the entire kitchen staff could’ve been executed.”

“What did you do?”

He answered flatly.

“I let it go.”

“That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You ever find out who did it? Or was it too late?”

Sword Demon shook his head.

“Didn’t try. If I dug deeper, it wouldn’t be the servants who died—it’d be the entire kitchen staff.”

“So they had their reasons for staying silent.”

He paused from eating and stared at the food.

“...One day, while eating, I remembered that servant. It felt strange not even knowing his name. Strange that he died instead of me. Thought I’d help his family if he had one—but he didn’t. No ties at all. Just ate poison and died meaninglessly. I can guess, though. Probably a relative or disciple of one of the guys I fought for the Left Guardian seat. But there were too many suspects. No matter how far back I traced it, I couldn’t find the start or an answer.”

I watched his expression.

He said,

“Trying to find the root of it just led me back to the people I killed. I realized even when I kill for survival, it comes back around. All the people I and the Cult Leader killed—most were from factions competing for his seat. So the constant assassinations were inevitable.”

“An endless cycle.”

“Everyone thought the whole cult feared the Cult Leader and me. But people aren’t like that. Once someone resolves to throw away their life, the Cult Leader is just another man. In the Demonic Cult, there are plenty of people willing to die. When he first rose to power, the Cult Leader faced assassination attempts constantly. Some assassins were so strong they challenged him head-on, died without revealing their identities, and no one ever figured out who they were.”

“What went through your mind watching that?”

“That even if you become number one, you don’t get to steer your life however you want. You’re stuck between life and death, killing your way forward. Until you die.”

I nodded and kept eating. It didn’t go down as easily as before, but I still shoved it in. Half the food remained. Jomsoi came to clear the plates, and I kicked my legs back up on the chair.

While staring at an old man selling sweets, I asked,

“Is the cult rich?”

“Very.”

“Why?”

“Anyone joining from outside has to give up half their wealth.”

“Half? Why would anyone do that?”

“There are clans that need to. The old headquarters controls certain trade routes with the West. If a merchant house joins and uses those routes, the profits dwarf the initial loss.”

“So there are merchant families that got rich off it?”

“A few. They even formed ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) alliances.”

“Like who?”

“Most notably, the Myeongcheon Prestige House and the Secret Record Merchant Group.”

“Do they really need the Demonic Cult for that?”

Sword Demon nodded.

“There’s a lot involved. Many in the West are persecuted for their religion. They migrate to the Central Plains, become slaves. Even forbidden goods come in without issue. If problems arise, the old headquarters solves it by force.”

“Maybe the First Young Master’s maternal family is one of those? If the Cult Leader partnered with them first, they’d be rich.”

“Could be.”

“Martial maniacs leading money-obsessed merchants, and merchants learning martial arts—that’s another kind of mighty demonic force. Taking down the cult completely would be close to impossible.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the richer merchants are, the more careful and intelligent they get. If the Demonic Path declines, they’ll play merchant. If it thrives, they’ll act like cultists. They’ll do anything for profit. Even commerce has its own demonic path.”

I looked into the old vendor’s eyes and asked,

“Brother, want a sweet?”

“I don’t eat sweets.”

“Not like you eat them every day.”

I went over, bought some candy, dumped it on the table, picked a sticky round one off a stick, and put it in my mouth. Sword Demon rummaged and picked the smallest one.

I said, watching the vendor,

“Sweet.”

Then looked at Sword Demon.

“Wondering if even this candy’s poisoned?”

He was still staring at the old man, who gave an awkward nod. Sword Demon returned the nod.

“No poison, huh. Of course.”

I called Jomsoi over and pointed at the sweets. He picked one and said,

“Thank you.”

A moment later, he sat nearby, apparently free from duties, and watched the street with us.

Sword Demon, chewing candy, spoke.

“These days.”

“Yeah?”

“I think about death less often. Makes me wonder if I’m stronger or weaker than before.”

I grinned.

“That’s not depression, it’s just crap.”

He chuckled too.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

He placed his legs on an empty chair too. Two carefree men without a worry in the world—that was us.

“When death crosses my mind, I think about your noodles. That’s real hell.”

That made him laugh for real.

I laughed with him, sucking on candy. Jomsoi chimed in,

“...Your cooking must be awful, huh?”

I looked at him.

“Shut it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You even tasted it?”

“No.”

“Where can we get good dumplings around here?”

He pointed to an alley across the street.

“Head inside. There’s a dumpling shop. If you give me a little errand fee, I’ll go buy some. No customers anyway.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

I pulled out my coin pouch.

“Then get enough for yourself, the owner, and the cook. Pack ours to go. Don’t run so hard the filling bursts.”

“Got it.”

He left for the dumpling shop. Sword Demon picked another candy and muttered,

“These are weirdly addictive.”

“You’ll rot your teeth. Stop.”

He picked a round one and popped it in. A little later, Jomsoi came back carrying two cloth bundles of dumplings.

“Why the hell is there so much?”

I shouted as he ran over.

“You little punk, are you the dumpling shop owner’s son?”

“No, I just bought more because you gave me a lot.”

“It’s still too much.”

He dropped one bundle on our table, delivered the other to the kitchen, and came back.

“Thanks for the food.”

“Sure.”

Just then, an old lady came scurrying out of the alley, muttering angrily.

“Dong-seop! Your change... your change! Come get your change!”

Jomsoi yelled across the street.

“Come on, Granny! Just keep it!”

The granny yelled back.

“The change’s worth more than the dumplings, you little brat! Take it!”

She handed him the change, then looked at me.

“You sent him for dumplings?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

“Why’d you give so much money?”

“Ma’am.”

“Yes?”

“Ever heard of throwing money around like a maniac?”

“I have.”

“I’m that maniac.”

She clapped and laughed heartily. A bold old woman. I told Dong-seop,

“Give it back.”

He returned the change to her. She grabbed it and raised her hand.

“Jackpot.”

“Let’s go.”

Dong-seop helped her back to the shop. They were arguing again.

“I told you to keep it, why’d you come all this way? You’ll hurt your back and spend more on medicine.”

I said while sucking my candy.

“Where the hell did that money come from anyway? If it came from the Black Cat Pavilion, maybe it’s what the Great Rakshasa gathered. Could also be treasure from the Namak Green Forest Gang. No idea.”

Suddenly, Sword Demon and I stared into the alley. Dong-seop was shoved out by a kick to the butt. Two guys appeared and smacked him on the head.

“When you see someone, greet them, punk.”

Some overdressed local punks. Sword Demon and I locked eyes. I called out.

“Hey... hey!”

I raised my voice, and they looked at me. Their faces tensed. Then a few more emerged from the alley—six total—and walked toward us.

“What?”

“What?”

As they swaggered up, they saw the wooden sword and Bright Sword. The mood shifted immediately. Some recognized Sword Demon and couldn’t even speak.

I looked around at them.

“You beat him up? You wanna die?”

They scratched their cheeks or avoided my eyes. I studied their clothes, age, cocky expressions, and said,

“I remember all your faces.”

“...”

“I’m Mongrang’s guy. You’re screwed.”

One guy stared at me in surprise.

“Huh?”

“I said I’m Mongrang’s guy.”

They all suddenly straightened up.

“Ah, sorry! Didn’t know, big bro.”

“Sorry!”

“Apologies, big bro!”

Turns out Mongrang’s name carried more fear than Sword Demon’s presence. He wandered this neighborhood day and night, beating men and chasing women—no wonder his infamy rivaled the top ten masters in the Central Plains.

I pointed to Dong-seop.

“Dong-seop is someone Mongrang cherishes. Apologize. Unless you want to meet the bedwetter.”

The pathetic punks apologized to him, and I said,

“Now get lost.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the losers scurried off, I exchanged a glance with Sword Demon. He looked just as dumbfounded.

“Your disciple’s reputation is something else.”

“Tell me about it.”

We burst out laughing together.