Murim School Record - Chapter 29

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 29: Simultaneous Departure (2)

Introducing Yi Mobaek was a way of showing respect to the Pyodu.
The four men stirred awkwardly and bowed their heads in perfunctory greeting.
“We’re honored to make your acquaintance. Bo Haeman, at your service.”
“Na Sulmun.”
“Hyeong Dochan, if you please.”
“Jong Bae.”
Yi Mobaek studied the four of them carefully.
A metallic stench hung in the air—sharp and persistent.
It meant these were people who’d been active in the Gangho for a long time. The reek of blood.
“You don’t strike me as men who’ve spent their lives doing good deeds. Do you have a sect affiliation?”
All four stiffened at Yi Mobaek’s question.
They were startled by the way he seemed to peer directly into their pasts.
“I’ve eaten at the table of Dangpa for a while. Though I wouldn’t claim to be a true disciple,” the swordsman Bo Haeman said.
He was the one wearing a blade.
“Heh! Should I even mention it? Mudang.”
Yi Mobaek was taken aback at the mention of Mudang.
“Don’t look at me that way. I served under seniors at Mudang Yangsim Won for ten years before I got fed up and bolted.”
Na Sulmun let out a bitter laugh through clenched teeth.
“Cheonsan Sect.”
Hyeong Dochan spoke.
The sect’s orthodox nature was ambiguous.
Moreover, they rarely ventured into the Gangho.
They existed, but their disciples didn’t frequent the martial world much, and Yi Mobaek recalled they were listed as heterodox by the Murim League.
“Until two years ago, I served Chu Unja as my master.”
Jong Bae spoke last.
Chu Unja was one of the Gangho Chilhan.
The precise term was Gangho Chilhan Ryang.
A Hanryang was a man who spent money freely and lived well.
Though originally a disciple of the Mudang Sect and later excommunicated, he’d become one of the sword masters who roamed heaven and earth alone. Behind his name, Chu Unja, there was always one epithet that followed.
Saekho Doyin.
He was unparalleled under heaven in seducing women and reading their hearts.
He’d broken countless women’s hearts, yet none pointed fingers at him—because the women themselves had surrendered willingly.
“Heh! I couldn’t help myself when I saw the lady bathing…”
Jong Bae trailed off there.
“L-lady? Don’t you mean the master’s wife?” Suk Jiyun’s expression shifted to shock.
“H-how could anyone be so utterly bestial…”
“If you don’t know the full story, shut your mouth,” Jong Bae snapped, glaring at Suk Jiyun before continuing his explanation.
Chu Unja didn’t have a proper wife.
Jong Bae had simply lost his mind for an instant at the sight of a bathing woman’s beauty and thrown caution to the wind.
Naturally, the next step was to run.
He’d fled his master right then and there, drifted through the Gangho, and eventually entered the employ of Jeoksan Hyunguk as a Pyosa.
“Your master isn’t chasing you, is he? That would be inconvenient.”
“Don’t worry about that. To my master, women are like dust on the ground. There’s a saying—the Three-Night Fullness of Absolute Beauty.”
“Three-Night Fullness?”
“It means that even the most gorgeous woman is enough after three nights with her.”
Yi Mobaek smiled faintly and turned to leave. “Well then, this is quite the connection. Let’s make good use of it.”
Suk Jiyun hurried after him into the hallway. “Master Pyodu, are you really taking in people of such poor character?”
Yi Mobaek stopped walking.
“You?”
“Not a single one of them is a good person.”
“They were sent here after passing the Hyunguk’s screening. If their conduct becomes problematic, that’s one thing—but otherwise, even a Pyodu can’t refuse them, can he?”

“Ugh, that’s a foul taste in my mouth.”
“Once you get to know them, they might seem different.”
“My father always said people never truly change.”
He’d expected perhaps one or two of them to be younger than himself.
But all four were considerably older.
While the Gangho didn’t follow strict age hierarchy, a gap of nearly ten years was undeniably awkward.
Suk Jiyun stood motionless for a moment, then clenched his teeth.

‘Age is no measure of skill.’

When it came to escort work, he had seniority.
Merely guarding a cart didn’t make one a skilled Pyosa.
The leading Pyosa had to read the road ahead, study the terrain and atmosphere, anticipate danger with a clear head, and know exactly how to slip away when facing enemies.

‘Underestimate someone for their youth, and you’ll end up dead.’

Suk Jiyun clenched his fists.

‘Once you start backing down, you don’t stop.’
He resolved that if they relied on age and pushed too far, he would not yield an inch.
Even if it meant dying alongside them.

The rain began to fall.
The faces of the waiting Pyodu darkened at the sudden downpour.
Yi Mobaek sat among the thirteen Pyodu.
The cart to be loaded with cargo was already waiting in front of the warehouse.
Naturally, they’d covered it with a waterproof canvas canopy early in the evening.
What they knew was only that the cargo was a large Gwejjak.
A Gwejjak was furniture that held things.
It could store grain, or sometimes fine cloth and household treasures.
“This is maddening.”
Jong Doyong, one of the waiting Pyodu, muttered as if suffocating from frustration.
The escort Pyosa were standing by at their respective stations.
Flash!
Crack!
Thunder and lightning began to strike.
The rain grew heavier.
Yi Mobaek gazed at the brutal weather and murmured to himself.

‘This is rather fine weather for stirring up trouble.’

As the hour of the Rat drew near, his nerves tightened more and more.
Like a man awaiting an important contest, his body had begun to stiffen with tension.
It wasn’t just Yi Mobaek—all the sitting Pyodu felt the same.
Especially for those as experienced as they were, this cargo didn’t seem to be merely expensive and precious goods.
Boom!
Creak!
The door burst open with a sound like thunder, and everyone jumped, turning their heads.
Jeok Gunwu, the Hyeoljeung Danju, entered and stood a reed rain cape in the doorway.
Splash-splash!
Jeok Gunwu approached without a word and spoke to the Pyodu watching him.
He withdrew a pouch made of rough cloth from his breast and handed one to each of the Pyodu.
The Pyodu accepted the pouches Jeok Gunwu offered without a word.
“I trust you will examine them outside the main gate.”
“Is it not acceptable to examine them here?”
Jong Doyong asked.
Jeok Gunwu replied in a cold tone.
“Jong Pyodu.”
“Yes, Danju!”
“Would I ask you to look outside if there were nothing wrong with what you see here?”
His voice was low, but cold.
Dong-dong-dong!
The sound of a drum announcing the hour of the Rat echoed from a distance.
“I trust the goods will reach their destination safely. Depart.”
The Pyodu each wrapped a rain cape they’d prepared around their shoulders and donned either a traditional horsehair hat or a bamboo hat on their heads.
Yi Mobaek wore a rain cape and a horsehair hat, and a faint smile crossed his face.
He’d tried on the rain cape and hat earlier that afternoon, and Suk Jiyun had praised him extravagantly, saying he looked quite impressive.

‘When I wear a horsehair hat, I look like a farmer, but you, sir Pyodu, you have the bearing of a supreme master of the Gangho.’

Jeok Gunwu glanced at Yi Mobaek, who was laughing to himself.
“You seem to be in high spirits.”
Everyone else stood silent, looking uneasy and ill at ease, yet Yi Mobaek alone was smiling—there was a faint edge of mockery in Jeok Gunwu’s tone.
“One laugh, one life; one anger, swift death—isn’t that so?”
“What?”
He looked as though questioning what that meant.
“I know of it, though I’m not particularly close to the monk who used to say it. He would often speak those words—that one laugh means one life lived, and one fit of rage means death comes all the sooner.”
Jeok Gunwu paused, staring at him.
He had never heard such words before.
Yet if they came from the lips of a monk who had taken the vows, they were worth heeding.
He looked at Yi Mobaek, thinking that those who had renounced the world differed from ordinary men in some fundamental way.
But something felt off.
Like a blow to the back of the head.
“I wish you fortune, all of you.”
“You take care of yourself too.”
“Until we meet again.”
And so the Pyodu walked out into the rain.
Yi Mobaek walked out as well.
Jeok Gunwu, following behind, called out loudly.
“Who spoke those words? That monk who said them?”
“Usan.”
“Usan.”
There was no reason Jeok Gunwu would know the Shaolin Temple’s kitchen supervisor.
Jeok Gunwu stood still for a moment, watching, then walked into the darkness.
A quiet laugh escaped.
Yi Mobaek smiled.
He didn’t know why Usan’s nagging had come to mind in that moment.
Everyone in the kitchen, including himself, would frown whenever they saw Usan.
The kitchen workers frowned every time they saw him without fail, and one day Usan had gathered them all and said something to them.

‘Have you ever heard of one laugh, one life; one anger, swift death?’

They had all tilted their heads blankly.
What would menial workers know or have learned?
Yi Mobaek had inwardly scoffed, thinking Usan was showing off.

‘One laugh means you live once, and one fit of anger means death comes quickly.’

He had thought such a law didn’t exist in the world, yet somehow it had weighed on his mind since that day.
So he’d tried hard to smile whenever he saw Usan, though it never quite worked out as he’d hoped.
Clop-clop-clop!
The sound of hoofbeats rang out.
The messengers, led by Suk Jiyun, came riding up on horseback.
All of them had rain capes on and horsehair hats pressed down over their heads.
Whoosh!
Yi Mobaek leaped onto the saddle of the horse Suk Jiyun was riding.
The group passed five or six temple halls and crested a small rise.
Beyond it lay a wide open space where wagons were gathered, some of them already moving out.
Jeok Gunwu stood watching the departing wagons, while Yi Mobaek approached their own carriage.
The carriage was drawn by two horses.
Thump!
Suk Jiyun, who had been sitting beside Yi Mobaek, climbed down from the horse and took his place on the driver’s bench.
The remaining four men positioned themselves on either side of the carriage, with Yi Mobaek at the front.
“Convoy master.”
Just as they were about to depart, Jeok Gunwu called out.
“Yes, Proprietor!”
Yi Mobaek turned to look at Jeok Gunwu.
Rain dripped steadily from beneath the brim of the bamboo hat Jeok Gunwu wore pulled low.
“When you return, we’ll have a drink together.”
“Thank you.”
Yi Mobaek smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgment.
“Move out!”
Yi Mobaek led the way forward, and the carriage began to move.
Suk Jiyun pulled hard on the reins.
The two horses stepped into motion.
Yet watching their light pace, the cargo didn’t feel heavy at all.
He had no idea what the cargo was.
Beyond the fact that it was a Gwejjak, there was no other information.
It could have been an empty chest.
If it had been an artifact from the ancient imperial household, it would surely cost hundreds or thousands of silver taels—there was no doubt it held considerable value.
Long ago, the Oho Hyunguk had escorted a white urn, unmarked with any symbol, roughly two feet in height.
What the convoy masters guessed was that several such urns had been loaded onto multiple escort carriages and transported simultaneously.
It seemed unremarkable, but it signified something of great value—and was likely intended to scatter the attention of potential attackers.
Seven escort carriages were attacked at the same time, and all seven urns were stolen.
The Oho Hyunguk was thrown into chaos.

It had been an urn called the Wonwol Gongggeuk Cheonnyeong Ho.

A piece of pottery that the potter Hwan had created and presented to Liu Bei, who led the Battle of Red Cliffs to victory.
The value of a vessel bearing a name that meant “govern the realm from earth to heaven” was beyond reckoning.

‘In any case, it was something that could not be exchanged for anything else in the world.’

The cargo owner and the Oho Hyunguk.
If the Oho Hyunguk had paid full compensation for the loss, it would have had to close its doors.
Even the Murim League became involved, and though a compromise was eventually reached, the Oho Hyunguk suffered severe financial hardship as compensation for the damages at that time.
“Then you’re saying that if something were to go wrong with the Gwejjak in this carriage, its value would be enough to threaten the very existence of the Jeoksan Hyunguk?”
Bo Haeman, who had been riding on the left side of the carriage, asked.
He wore a heavy-looking sword at his left hip, claiming he had learned the blade rather than poison from the Dangpa.
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
Yi Mobaek spoke softly.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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