Chapter 186

Chapter 186
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**Chapter 186: Geom-gak Subjugation Assembly**

The Tang Clan gathered a party of roughly ten skilled individuals to march against the Sichuan Wolf Stronghold. Among their number were Yang-hui, Baek Heon-so, and Chui-dal.

“Is this really enough people?” someone murmured. “It feels far too small a force.”

“There is no help for it, Brother Hui,” came the reply. “We received instructions in writing.”

“A letter? From whom?”

Tang Gun’s features settled into a pained expression. “From the Nine Sects. They have bidden us send some ten masters of poisons and esoteric techniques.”

Viewed charitably, the request seemed reasonable enough—the larger alliance would bear the brunt of open combat, while the Tang Clan would stand in reserve and lend specialized aid. In truth, however, it likely stemmed from the Jin Clan Manor growing wary of the Tang Clan drawing too much attention following their recent string of striking successes.

*They remain entirely unaware we have already struck an understanding in secret*, Yang-hui reflected. *Lord Jin has woven a most convincing veil over it all.*

All would naturally assume a close bond after Jin Yeong-gil had received treatment at their hands. That no true alliance existed was entirely due to Jin Yeong-gil himself—he had deliberately made a great show of seeking to engage the services of every one of the Nine Sects and forging broad connections, deftly turning all eyes elsewhere.

“Regardless, there is no need for us to step unduly into the spotlight,” Tang Gun added. “We are already fully occupied with intensive training as matters stand.”

That was the reason only three of the several Baek clansmen staying with the Tang Clan had joined the expedition. The rest had each been given spirit pills, which they had taken immediately, and instructed to focus their efforts on refining and stabilizing their internal energies.

“Brother… do I truly have to go along?” Chui-dal grumbled, and the sound of it stirred a faint, inexplicable irritation in Yang-hui.

*This one grows more slippery by the day*, he thought.

“Where the needle goes, the thread must follow—stop your whining,” he said aloud.

“Ugh, but I wanted a spirit pill too!” Chui-dal protested. “Can’t you spare just one for your own younger brother without looking so grudging?”

“You ungrateful little whelp—who do you think you’re raising your voice to?”

“Everyone else got one! Why not me? Why am I the only one left out?”

Yang-hui was weighing whether to flick him smartly on the forehead when the younger man’s demeanor shifted entirely.

“Brother, I am absolutely thrilled!” Chui-dal declared, eyes blazing. “I shall win renown alongside you on this righteous campaign, and carry the Baek Clan’s name to every corner of the realm!”

Baek Heon-so stepped forward then and voiced his own grand ambitions, and at once Chui-dal fell silent. He cast Baek Heon-so a look of cold, bitter resentment, while Baek Heon-so met it with a broad grin, his own gaze bright with open rivalry.

“Hmph. A heartwarming sight, to be sure,” Yang-hui observed. “Healthy competition between kin is always a fine thing.”

Just how genuine that friendliness was remained open to question, but he let it pass. They exchanged light conversation as they traveled, and before long reached their designated meeting place: a broad, open clearing at the foot of the mountains, where the path ahead wound sharply upward into rugged, perilous terrain.

“You have arrived,” someone said. “This marks the threshold of the Geom-gak Mountains.”

Dozens of martial artists had already assembled there. He saw nuns in simple robes with freshly shaven heads and wide bamboo hats; Taoists clad in sunset-orange stitched with patterns of pale cloud-blue; others in black garments woven with threads of shimmering light—the Emei Sect, the Qingcheng Sect, and the Dian Cang Sect, in turn.

*And close to twenty masterless warriors besides*, he noted.

It was only to be expected—expeditions of this scale always drew ronin, camp followers who traveled apart from the formal ranks. Every force needed hands to perform the menial, unglamorous labor.

“The Tang Clan has come,” the announcement rang out.

“You are late,” came the rebuke.

“My apologies,” Tang Gun said, bowing, though they had arrived well before the appointed hour. “I am Tang Gun, acting head of the Tang Clan.”

Formal introductions followed.

“I am Gyu-hwa, of Emei.”

“Seong-pung, first-generation disciple of Qingcheng.”

“We have met before,” said the third. “I am Neung-o, first-generation disciple of Dian Cang.”

Yang-hui studied them. Gyu-hwa—the nun who would in time be celebrated as the Emei Divine Maiden. Seong-pung, who would likewise carve his name into history. *It is strange*, he mused, *that Neung-o, who stands out most strikingly of the three, is one whose name I have never heard. But then, the course of life is full of unforeseen turns, in every age and place.*

All told, the company numbered some seventy souls—more than sufficient strength to reduce the Sichuan Wolf Stronghold.

“You have made your appearance at last.”

Jin Dal-bong, the Young Manor Lord, stood among them, his presence unremarked by most. The large contingent of ronin now made perfect sense; they included his own personal retinue.

Deliberations on the coming operation began at once.

“By our estimates, the Sichuan Wolf Stronghold holds upward of fifty members,” one speaker laid out. “And they are far more disciplined and capable than common bandits.”

They were counted among the most formidable of the Green Forest’s Seventy-Two Strongholds, and known widely as the supreme stronghold of all Sichuan. Even with three of the Nine Sects alongside the Tang Clan, this would be no easy conquest. The reason was plain.

“Sichuan has been a refuge for those fleeing justice since antiquity,” another put in. “And Geom-gak in particular has long served as a haven for desperate men. It stands to reason that at least ten notorious criminals have sought shelter there and joined their ranks.”

“Word of our approach will have reached them by now,” a third cautioned. “If they scatter and go to ground rather than meet us openly, this campaign will drag on indefinitely. Speed and decisive action are our only hope.”

Yang-hui listened for a time, then quietly withdrew from the huddle. *It is clear the members of the Nine Sects intend to settle everything among themselves*, he reasoned. *I have no voice here in any case; were I to speak, none would heed me. Better to await their decision and then judge whether to acquiesce or object.*

“Good day to you all,” he said, stepping up to a group of ronin with an easy smile. “I look forward to fighting alongside you in the days ahead.”

One of the warriors blinked, clearly unprepared for such an affable advance. “Ah—greetings to you as well, young master.”

“What might I call you?”

“Yeong-hong. Men know me as Twin Hand Swords—though it is but an empty title.”

That explained the paired blades at his waist; he was a dual-wielding specialist.

“Then I shall call you Brother Yeong,” Yang-hui said warmly. “And you may call me whatever you please.”

“Is that truly acceptable?”

“Certainly! Are we not all brothers beneath the same heaven?”

“Very well then… Brother Baek.” The man hesitated, seemingly reluctant to address him as anything less than an equal.

It was the custom, in any case, for travelers far from home to treat one another as kin. “Come,” Yang-hui called to the others. “Let us pass the time while the council deliberates. Gather round—you too, Little Rang, Chui-dal.”

The ronin were wary at first, but soon they were laughing freely.

“Ha ha ha—you are quite the character, Brother Baek!”

“I hear that often enough!”

“And confidence to spare!”

“A man who shrinks back in every situation is worth nothing at all!”

“Tell me, Brother Baek—that hawk perched on your shoulder… is he fully tamed? At a glance, one might take him for a spirit beast—a truly magnificent creature.”

Yang-hui stroked the bird’s head gently as he answered. “His name is Won-woo. We met entirely by chance.”

Won-woo spread his wings and gave a cry of unbridled pride—*Kkeeaaah!*

“Ouch! You rascal, must you shriek directly in my ear?” Yang-hui yelped. “You’ll deafen me!”

“Ha ha! What a powerful voice that bird has!”

“Boiled and served with spices… those legs would make a fine meal… ah, forgive me, Brother Baek. I spoke out of turn.”

Yang-hui waved the apology aside without the slightest trace of offense. “Think nothing of it! If men cannot jest without taking umbrage, they are small-minded creatures indeed!”

“Ha ha ha! Magnanimous as well as bold!”

Chui-dal and Baek Heon-so watched from a short distance, wide-eyed with admiration. Yang-hui had known the hardship of the streets in days gone by, and carried a streak of lighthearted informality; yet he had been raised by Baek Mu-ryang to bear himself as heir to a noble house—a scion worthy of the most respected clan. To see him mingling as an equal with rough masterless men was an extraordinary sight.

*That is just his way*, Chui-dal thought fondly. *He has never stood on ceremony with anyone—truly the very soul of generosity.*

*That is my brother*, Baek Heon-so reflected. *He carries himself as easily with common folk as with the great—what a model to emulate!*

“Brother Hui,” Tang Gun’s voice cut through the cheerful clamor. “Step over here a moment, if you would.”

“What is it, Brother Tang?” Yang-hui asked, drawing near.

“Discussions have stalled. Your perspective might help move things forward—hence why I sent for you.” It seemed they had finally granted him leave to speak.

Yang-hui glanced over the assembled strategists. “How far have proceedings gotten?”

“The general plan is settled—rapid encirclement followed by swift destruction,” came the answer. “It is the details that have us deadlocked.”

Seong-pung of Qingcheng wore a faint but unmistakable look of displeasure. *Annoyed that I was fraternizing with the rank and file*, Yang-hui guessed. *Typical—Qingcheng has always set great store by dignity and reserve.*

“Encirclement and destruction,” Yang-hui said. “It sounds entirely sound. Why not proceed?”

“Young hero,” Gyu-hwa put in gently, speaking as one explaining something obvious, “the Geom-gak range stretches more than two hundred and fifty li from end to end. We have a general idea of where the stronghold lies from reports, but reaching it will be grueling enough—surrounding it is another matter entirely.”

Seong-pung was far more abrupt. “We have not even surveyed the terrain. How can one speak of encirclement? I would urge you to reflect before offering opinions, young hero.”

He had been openly reproved. Yang-hui met Tang Gun’s gaze, and a silent understanding passed between them.

“Sir Seong-pung,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Look upon this.” He unrolled a long sheet of paper.

“What is this?”

“A map.”

Seong-pung took it and stared. His eyes went wide. It showed not merely the location of the Sichuan Wolf Stronghold, but every trail, every ravine, every feature of the surrounding countryside—even the placement of every sentry post and the exact hours of each watch. A complete and detailed picture of their enemy’s position.

“How… how did you come by this?”

Won-woo lifted his head and gave a cry—*Kki-haha!*—that sounded suspiciously like triumph.

Yang-hui tapped the bird’s beak lightly. “Down with you,” he said, and Won-woo fluttered to the earth as though his strings had been cut. “My apologies—he is still learning discipline.”

“Quite so,” Seong-pung said, recovering himself. “But where was this chart prepared?”

“Through reconnaissance,” Yang-hui said smoothly. “We made arrangements well in advance.” It was technically true, though the scout in question had wings. He had no intention of revealing Won-woo’s unique value to anyone outside their own circle.

“You knew of this assembly beforehand?”

“Not precisely,” Yang-hui said, “but when one travels alongside such distinguished representatives of the Nine Sects, one does what one can to be useful. Our clan is small and little known; preparation is the only way we might contribute.”

None of the group found this implausible. It was only natural for those from lesser houses to strive all the harder to prove themselves before such renowned allies.

“Your clan possesses remarkable skill in intelligence gathering,” Neung-o observed, meeting his gaze.

“Hardly that—we simply took pains,” Yang-hui demurred. He studied the man. Neung-o appeared remarkably young to hold first-generation standing, perhaps ten years younger than was customary. Such cases were rare, but they occurred—and always for the same reason: transcendent talent, recognized and promoted ahead of its time.

*I shall put it to the test*, Yang-hui decided.

“If I might offer one further suggestion?”

“Speak, young hero.”

“Since we are to fight as one, might we not hold a brief practice match first? To grow accustomed to one another’s movements and timing?” It was a sensible proposal; coordination was everything in battle. He added, “I have long heard that the martial arts of Emei, Qingcheng, and Dian Cang stand without equal. I have always longed to see them firsthand. Dian Cang in particular is far removed here in Yunnan; one rarely has the chance. Is it not said that your Four-Day Sword Technique is legendary?”

He had meant it as genuine compliment, but Neung-o’s reaction was altogether strange. *What ailed him?* Yang-hui wondered. *The man is usually so unflappable… it feels as though he has caught the scent of a rat in the grain store.*