An Investment Is Needed (1)
The fight was over.
The bandits abandoned their comrades' corpses and fled up the mountain. As soon as they retreated, the head escort—the overall commander of the caravan—declared the pursuit halted.
"Clean up quickly. We leave this area within half a gak. Load the wounded onto the wagons first.
If any cargo has lost its value, discard it.
Porters and escorts alike—get on the loads. Withdrawal takes priority!"
A wise decision.
We had barely won, but this was fundamentally the bandits' territory. The moment reinforcements came down from whatever mountain stronghold they had, our current strength wouldn't be enough to hold them off.
If we dawdled—or worse, got carried away and gave chase—we could be counterattacked and wiped out on the spot.
Thank goodness the head escort wasn't some greenhorn.
Otherwise, I'd have run for my life without looking back.
As I hurriedly shouldered a pack frame loaded with cargo, I noticed another one abandoned nearby. It had a distinctive shape. I didn't remember the owner's name, but I remembered his surname—Han. He'd bragged that it was a special frame used only in his hometown, supposedly making even the heaviest loads easier to carry.
Looking around, I spotted his face.
But the rest of him was nowhere to be seen.
What a rotten sight.
That's the risk of being a porter.
A quick headcount confirmed that five porters, including Han, were dead.
Four escorts had fallen as well.
For a party that had set out with roughly thirty men, the losses were severe. It had been an unexpected ambush.
Caravan escorts usually aren't this spectacular. Most of the time, bandits come down and say, "We're here to collect," and the response is, "Yes, of course!"—followed by paying the toll and moving on.
But this time, for some reason, they attacked in force before tolls were even discussed. That wasn't normal.
Of course, not all bandits are the "collect tolls and behave" type.
There are regular, professional bandits. And then there are the Somali-style freelancers—farmers who get hungry and suddenly think, "Hey! I want to be a bandit!"
These drifters lack roots and live for a single big score. They attack first and think later. Absolute scum who muddy the waters of the industry.
But this wasn't one of those cases either.
The mountain we'd just been robbed on—Mugang Mountain—was home to the Mugang Mountain Stronghold, a place with its own history and tradition of established, professional bandits.
Drifters don't dare run wild in territory like that. Stir up trouble in someone else's turf and you'll get "educated"—demoted from bandit to bandit-slave in no time.
I couldn't even guess how things had gone this way. Maybe their business policy had changed.
At least I'm alive.
Looking at the escorts, they all wore expressions like men who had stared death in the face. Many had been wounded or killed. They didn't look thrilled about carrying loads after such a brutal fight, but when even the head escort picked up a frame himself, no one complained.
Everyone hurried, pushing carts and shouldering burdens as we began descending the mountain with all our strength.
In suffocating silence and lingering fear, we struggled downhill for two sijin—four full hours. Fortunately, our haste paid off, and we narrowly escaped any pursuit.
"Whew…"
"We barely survived."
"That was one hell of a fight."
Once we felt relatively safe, everyone collapsed onto the ground with deep sighs of relief. Even the head escort didn't stop them.
That was how forced the march had been.
Darkness had already fallen thick around us.
"It would be best to camp nearby. You two—find a suitable resting spot."
The head escort pointed at me and another escort.
Isn't that an escort's job?
But his voice was so stern I didn't even think to protest.
It wasn't the kind of atmosphere where I could pull my usual workplace-avoidance trick of, "Me? Why me?"
Ah well. It's not that hard.
The escort assigned to go with me was named Sima Yul. I'd worried it might be awkward, but thankfully he had an outgoing, sociable personality.
As we searched for a campsite, we chatted at length.
"I saw you fighting earlier. Quite impressive for a porter."
"Well, in a world like this, you need at least one physical skill to survive, don't you?"
"For 'just a skill,' that was high-level. You don't look Han. Where are you from?"
"Goryeo. Came by ship. More or less."
Technically, it had probably been over a hundred years since Joseon was founded even in this world—but these people still wouldn't recognize the name unless you called it Goryeo, so I'd given up and just said Goryeo.
Goryeo or Joseon—it didn't matter. I was Korean either way.
I understood the confusion, though.
Even in the modern world, Ceylon officially changed its name to Sri Lanka in 1972, but people kept saying Ceylon. Some even thought they were different countries.
Distant nations don't attract much attention.
And to them, Goryeo was about as interesting as Sri Lanka is to us.
"So those martial arts you used earlier—learned back home?"
"Of course. I learned saber techniques here, but my hand-to-hand skills were from home."
In a mid-4th-century Goguryeo tomb mural depicting subak, there's an image of someone using a knee strike. Fortunately, he showed no suspicion and simply nodded.
"They say Goryeo people are good fighters. Seems true enough."
"You flatter me."
We laughed amicably and continued searching. After about ten minutes, I spotted a good location.
"Over there. That terrain looks promising, doesn't it?"
It was a kind of basin.
Hills behind it for easy lookout, a narrow entrance that could be blocked with wagons, and flat ground ideal for setting up camp.
In short, perfect.
"Oh? Indeed. Very good. You've got field knowledge as well?"
"I served in the military for a few years back home. Picked up a little."
"In the army? Hmm."
He looked at me with faint pity.
…Even to premodern people, conscription is something worthy of sympathy.
But without what I'd learned in the military, I would've died the moment I fell into this world.
This Murim world—no, this premodern world itself—wasn't kind to lone individuals.
There's a reason people in the old days clustered tightly into villages.
A village is the smallest organization that protects and sustains you. To survive as an outsider, alone, without such a group—even with extra lives to spare—would be near impossible.
I'd nearly starved more than once. Whenever I scraped together a few coins through begging, other beggars would show up with clubs to take it from me.
"Just beggars?" you might think.
Not at all.
Never underestimate beggars.
They see more blood than most martial artists.
When your life's already at rock bottom, what is there to fear? They're men without middle ground.
Sure, if they harm ordinary civilians, the authorities come swinging clubs and beat them senseless. But among themselves? That's different.
Even if one kills another, the constables shrug it off as "beggars' business" and don't bother chasing it.
They live almost like wild animals.
You could call them juvenile-delinquent beggars.
So for about the first year after I fell into Murim, I slept in the mountains almost every night. Better that than getting stabbed in town.
If not for the experience I'd had in the army—following a supply sergeant into the hills to dig up roots and gather medicinal herbs—I'd have died long ago.
Even on the way back, Sima Yul kept chatting nonstop. Then suddenly he said:
"With your skills, have you considered becoming an escort? Seems a waste to rot as a porter."
"Well… being a foreigner and all. There are issues of identity, background…"
"True, they're strict about such things with barbarians."
Barbarians? Really?
Fucking racist.
"Still, you fought well, and you protected the cargo responsibly. I'm sure the head escort noticed.
Our Baekun Escort Agency holds no prejudice against barbarians. We look only at ability."
Calling someone a barbarian is prejudice, you know.
Still… that offer was tempting.
A job offer.
The first one I'd received since falling into Murim.
It wasn't that Baekun Escort Agency was particularly impressive.
In society, when someone says, "We look only at ability," it often translates to, "We're small fry."
Have you ever seen a large corporation look only at ability? They examine where you're from, what your parents do, your character—everything. And even then, troublemakers slip through.
But small companies can't afford that luxury. If they did, they'd never hire anyone. So they focus on the most important thing: "ability."
In that sense, Baekun Escort Agency was clearly a small-to-mid-sized operation. Not operating across the entire Central Plains, just active in Hubei, Sichuan, and Anhui provinces.
Still, for someone like me—barely surviving on day labor—it was a huge opportunity.
In modern terms, I was no better than an undocumented foreign laborer.
Day work as a porter was one thing.
But being formally hired as an escort?
That was the stuff of dreams.
"Would someone like me really be able to become an escort at a place like Baekun Escort Agency…?"
"Of course. I'll casually bring it up with the branch manager. Come visit later."
Sima Yul laughed heartily and slapped my back—
Loud enough that the smacking sound echoed into the distance.
Thankfully, there was no pursuit from the bandits, and a week later we arrived at our destination, Maeyang County.
A bit of cargo had been lost, but nothing serious. I received the promised two nyang of silver and bowed deeply.
"Thank you!"
"Next!"
Two nyang of silver. That was serious money.
One nyang could buy two seok of rice, so with two nyang, you could—metaphorically speaking—purchase about 0.013 of a Sim Cheong. That's how much it was worth.
Yeah. Maybe I'll eat something nourishing. Slaughter a chicken… Yeah. And maybe have a cup of cloudy rice wine for the first time in a while… Heh heh heh.
Then a thought suddenly crossed my mind.
The escort position at Baekun Escort Agency that Sima Yul had suggested.
"Hmmm…"
Suddenly, I found myself hesitating.
It had already been three years since I fell into Murim.
I'd worked as a porter in many places by now. I knew fairly well what being an escort entailed.
Surprisingly, the job required less martial skill than experience, knowledge, stamina, character, and leadership. An escort's role is to transport goods—not to fight.
But that didn't mean martial skill wasn't necessary.
Just look at this last job.
Martial skill mattered. When wealth is involved, fights are inevitable. You can't exclude martial ability from the equation.
If I were to become an escort…
With only a few rough tricks I'd picked up piecemeal, how long could I survive in the harsh escort world?
If I were lucky, maybe I'd last ten-odd years.
But by then, I'd be in my forties—past my physical prime.
Too old to keep earning a living with my body alone.
If I had properly trained in martial arts, perhaps internal energy could slow aging and buy me a few more years.
But without that… at best, I'd be a third-rate fighter. Without extraordinary luck, retirement would be unavoidable.
And the money I'd save by then? Probably not much.
A retired escort with little savings and mediocre martial skill has a predictable future.
If you're lucky, you stay on at the agency doing odd jobs, or maybe work security at a gambling den or tavern.
Most return to their hometowns—or fade into the night of the world.
That's how it usually ends for men who earn with nothing but their bodies.
…Let's think this through.
Spending this silver on immediate living expenses wouldn't be a bad choice.
But that wasn't what I needed right now.
I needed an investment.
An investment in myself.
I forcibly swallowed the image of a perfectly stewed, rich-broth hen rising to the surface of my mind.
This wasn't the time to eat the chicken.
It was time to hatch the egg.