What Happened at the Inn

The porter pulled his hat lower and covered his face more thoroughly.

"You must be mistaking me for someone else."

Impossible.

Even if a trained escort could have blocked Tang Mujin's hand, there was no way a porter or odd-job worker could.

So that's how you want to play it.

Tang Mujin glanced around to check if anyone was watching, then reached out again, this time more persistently.

The porter, likewise, blocked him more openly, even slipping into grappling techniques at the end.

Had the porter not stopped himself in time, Tang Mujin's wrist might have been twisted.

"..."

A short silence passed.

Tang Mujin was already convinced of the man's identity. And since they would be traveling together for a while, there was no point in him denying it to the end.

The porter sighed and lowered the hand that covered his face. As expected, it was Namgung Myeong.

Truth be told, Tang Mujin's feelings toward Namgung Myeong were not good.

Though Namgung Myeong had apologized, and though the Namgung clan had compensated him and settled the matter, it had all started because of Namgung Myeong's theft.

Still, seeing a familiar face after such a long time, Mujin felt more glad than resentful. Like how even an old friend you used to bicker with feels welcome when met years later.

"Namgung Myeong, young master. What's going on here?"

"Shh."

Namgung Myeong lowered his voice and glanced around.

"Just call me Myeong the porter."

Just as Mujin traveled under a false name, it seemed Namgung Myeong too was concealing his identity.

Indeed, had people known his true name, no one would have treated him coldly. They would've clung to him, desperate to forge ties.

"Then we're in the same boat. Call me Mister Jin."

The two exchanged a faint nod, a strange sense of kinship passing between them.

Just then, the caravan began moving. The mules and packhorses snorted, the squeak of wheels echoed, and the wagons rolled forward.

Mujin thought about hopping into a cart, but then decided otherwise, limping awkwardly along beside Namgung Myeong.

"So, Myeong the porter... you're not here for another martial tour, are you?"

Namgung Myeong gave a bitter smile.

"No. After Brother Jin left last time, my father told me to go out and learn about the world. To become a man, and an adult, before a warrior."

Mujin nodded unconsciously.

Indeed, Namgung Myeong's martial skills had no issue. Compared to other promising young martial artists, his ability was more than respectable.

His problem lay elsewhere.

He was clumsy at dealing with people, ignorant of the world, and so simple-minded that he never thought about consequences. He never had to, given how he had lived.

He was only twenty-three or so, not very old, but even for his age he often seemed immature.

The clearest example had been last year's sword theft incident.

The heir of a great clan stealing another's sword and running away—what kind of nonsense was that?

The matter had been patched up somehow, but surely even Namgung Jincheon had felt a sense of crisis.

"But why a porter? If you wanted to join a caravan, your skills would've easily gotten you a position as an escort, even a leader."

Namgung Myeong's expression darkened.

"My father said if I relied on force or on my family name, I'd learn nothing. He forbade me from using the family name, and from ever touching a sword. Said if I did, he'd tear out my tongue or cut off my arm."

Harsh words for a father to say.

But Mujin could believe it of Namgung Jincheon. More than that, he could believe he would actually do it. After all, the man had once nearly severed Namgung Myeong's wrist in front of Mujin and Goiyi.

Mujin looked him over.

Myeong was not carrying the sword Mujin had gifted him. And unlike before, his once-proud nose was bent. Likely broken by his father's hand.

"Well, it hasn't been meaningless. You've... changed somehow, Myeong."

"You as well, Brother Jin. You carry a sharper air now."

From earlier, Myeong had been calling him "Brother Jin."

Though younger, Mujin found the title awkward.

"Myeong, speak comfortably. You're older than I."

"Birthdates don't matter. You saved my wrist. Calling you brother is only right."

There was no sarcasm in his voice, no mockery in his face. Mujin reluctantly nodded.

"Very well. As you like."

"Let's share a meal when we can."

"Gladly. Then for now, I'll take my leave."

Mujin strolled off and perched on a wagon, while Myeong trudged after the caravan with his heavy pack.

***

The Inn

Promises of "a meal sometime" usually fade away. But their dinner plan became reality the very next evening.

Both men had endured hardships of late. Worse, neither had had anyone to confide in.

So, with a suitable companion at hand, there was no reason to delay.

When the caravan reached a village, Myeong gave Mujin a knowing look.

It was as clear as spoken words: Let's drink, after unloading.

The porters spent half an hour unloading, sorting, and stacking goods.

At last, freed, Namgung Myeong approached Mujin.

"Come along. Tonight's on me."

The inn he led Mujin to was small and shabby.

It wasn't Myeong's first time there. Without waiting for the server, he ordered food straightaway.

"One jug of takju, one bowl of porridge, two plates of dumplings, and plenty of fried cakes."

The server nodded and left. Mujin asked curiously,

"I know the rest, but what are fried cakes?"

"Instead of wrapping filling in dough like dumplings, you fry little chunks of dough with lard. Cheap, quick to make, and greasy—perfect with alcohol. Anyone who's been here orders them."

Mujin glanced around. Indeed, several patrons had plates of fried cakes alongside their drinks. It looked more like a humble tavern than an inn.

Myeong turned his pouch upside down. No silver, only copper coins clattered onto the table. With deadly seriousness, he began counting them.

"Nine nyang for takju, five for fried cakes, four each for dumplings..."

He was carefully calculating how much they could eat without exceeding his budget.

Finally, he reached a conclusion.

"We can afford another jug of takju, or one more plate of dumplings and cakes. If it's not enough, order more freely."

The clear restriction, paired with "freely," made Mujin chuckle.

"Don't worry. I've money too. We won't fail to pay the bill."

"No. Tonight's my treat. Leave your pouch at the lodgings."

His stubborn determination was plain: tonight, he would be the host.

For Mujin, the scene was strangely refreshing.

He was used to cheap inns and frugal spending. But for the heir of the mighty Namgung clan to be sitting here, counting copper coins, was something else.

Perhaps Namgung Jincheon's harsh training had truly changed him.

Before long, the food arrived. The fried cakes' savory aroma seized Mujin's nose.

They drank and ate, dumplings and cakes their side dishes. The takju was neither expensive nor strong, but plentiful. Soon a warm buzz filled them.

Stories flowed.

"Shaolin, huh... quite the experience. I've yet to go."

"It's worth at least one visit."

"And Elder Yi Chung stayed behind in his hometown?"

"Yes, that's right."

But while Namgung Myeong laid bare all his tales, Mujin kept quiet about Goiyi's death and matters of the death-realm. Such topics were unfit for a cheerful drinking table.

So the night went on, laughter and talk between them—

Until a man entered the inn.

Not a stranger. One of the escorts who'd joined the caravan. He looked to be a leader among the porters.

He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Myeong's back, then strode straight to their table.

Mujin thought he'd come for a bit of small talk.

Instead, the man did something utterly unexpected.

Without warning, he smacked Namgung Myeong hard across the back of the head.

The man barked,

"You little brat. The youngest sneaks off without finishing cleanup and hides himself in the inn?"

Tang Mujin tensed slightly. It was clear bloodshed could break out any moment.

Namgung Myeong was a first-rate martial artist. More than that, he had already reached the peak of that stage.

Even without a sword in his hand, even after a few cups of liquor, he was in another league entirely compared to some third-rate escort. With just a couple of simple moves, he could have the man's throat in his grasp.

And indeed, Myeong's eyes seemed to blaze with cold fury—

—but in the next moment, that fire cooled.

He looked at the escort with the same blank, clueless expression of a country bumpkin.

"Escort Meng, sir. I already finished all the cleanup. I checked that the loads were secured, too."

"You brat. You think once the loads are tied down, your job's done? You're supposed to check that your senior porters and the escorts all get their rest. And yet you, before me, hole up in the inn first? Does that make any sense?"

It was utter nonsense. Even Mujin, who wasn't directly involved, felt irritation rising.

He opened his mouth to speak—but Namgung Myeong gave a small shake of his head, stopping him.

Then, lowering himself almost to the point of groveling, he replied,

"I was inexperienced and didn't know. My apologies."

"You brat."

At last satisfied, the escort smirked and went to take a seat in a corner of the inn.

There were always people like that. Given even a scrap of authority, they pressed others down beneath them, believing their own stature rose only when others were trampled.

Mujin looked at Myeong with a face full of frustration, but Myeong only gave a soundless laugh.

"I've learned to endure things like this. Even among the clan's lower-ranking warriors, this kind of hazing is common enough."

"…It can't have been easy."

Myeong gave a crooked smile.

"It's strange for me to say this in front of Brother Jin, but… these past months, I've had my share of hardships. After going through all kinds of things, I've learned to let minor matters slide. Compared to some of the places I've been, porter work isn't the worst lot in life."

That was how he put it. But to Tang Mujin, it did not seem a good change.

The direction of the change itself wasn't wrong—but the degree was excessive.

His father had sent him into the world to learn how common folk lived, to gain perspective. Instead, he'd sunk so low that he had become indistinguishable from the bottom of society.

With disapproval in his voice, Mujin said,

"I don't know. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I doubt your father intended you to go this far."

"It's fine. I haven't forgotten my father's other teaching—that a man must always know how to repay what is owed."

Myeong glanced around, then slyly pulled a pouch from under the table. It was heavy, and when he loosened the string, a respectable pile of coins and a few silver ingots spilled into view.

Over his shoulder, Mujin caught sight of the escort's stricken face. In that brief instant when he'd been struck on the back of the head, Myeong had lifted the man's purse.

As the escort was promptly chased out of the inn by the boy attendant, Myeong gave a sly, vicious grin.

"Lost every last coin the moment he was paid—he'll be suffering until this caravan run ends. Let's drink well tonight in gratitude to Escort Meng."

With a cheerful air, he called the server over and ordered two bottles of bamboo chrysanthemum wine, each worth two silver ingots.

Tang Mujin thought to himself:

This isn't knowing how to repay debts. He's simply discovered a talent for thievery.