Chapter 1: Prologue

The Eight Iron Rules of a Small Fry

1. A small fry must be sly.
Because if you wear your emotions on your sleeve despite having no skill, you lose even the slimmest chance of survival.

2. A small fry must be quick-witted.
Because you must be able to judge exactly when it is time to run.

3. A small fry must never lose their temper.
If someone without a lick of skill gets angry, they are bound to see blood. The more you endure, the less you look like a small fry.

4. A small fry must never draw their sword recklessly.
The more easily you draw your sword, the more obvious your lack of skill becomes.

5. A small fry must never start a quarrel.
Even if a small fry witnesses a fight, they must never intervene. To do so is to dig one’s own grave.

6. A small fry must stay away from beauties.
Because it is an eternal truth that a master always lingers near a beauty.

7. A small fry must never associate with those even weaker than themselves.
Because only by associating with those better than you can you mask your own incompetence.

8. A small fry must know their place.
Occasionally, one might even delude themselves about their own strength. That is essentially begging for death.

I realized early on that by following these Eight Iron Rules of a Small Fry, one could successfully pose as a master.

* * *

– I Am a Small Fry (1)

With civil wars breaking out nearly every year, the common folk of the continent were forced to endure a grueling existence. It was a precarious life, a constant cycle of uncertainty where one never knew when they might be swept away by the tides of conflict and killed.

The aftermath of the civil wars that had plagued the continent for years was severe. At the heart of that devastation were orphans like me.

From a young age, my home was burned down in the fires of war. During our flight as refugees, my mother and younger sister succumbed to a plague, leaving me to fend for myself in this vast world. My father, who had left to find medicine when my mother fell ill, never returned.

Now, even his face has faded from my memory. Though I had a father, his fate was unknown, so I was no different from an orphan. I had vague memories of relatives I’d seen as a child, but since I knew neither their names nor where they lived, they might as well not have existed.

I was tossed into this harsh world with nothing but the three characters of my name and two copper coins. I wasn’t even ten years old at the time.

For over fifteen years since then, I have had to survive on my own.

There are only a few paths available for a person with neither home nor sanctuary to survive. If you are young, those options can be counted on one hand. Even the lowliest job, like a tavern server, wouldn’t hire you without a verified identity. In the end, the only things a powerless, penniless child could do were beg or steal.

However, only those who truly lack a head on their shoulders end up living that kind of bottom-of-the-barrel life forever. Once you know a bit about how the world works, you realize there are surprisingly many ways to make a living. People end up in that state because they only think and feel based on what’s right in front of them. It might not be “noble,” but there are ways to live while maintaining at least a shred of pride.

One of those ways is to pose as a martial artist.

Ah, I don’t mean I’m putting on a play. If you immerse yourself in the Murim, you’ll find that many places are constantly recruiting warriors. The Murim is a place where people live by the blade, and since every province is filled with established and newly formed sects, conflict is never-ending. They were constantly at war over territory.

Usually, the famous Nine Sects recruit new warriors over the course of a month, and the great clans do the same. Even smaller gangs recruit warriors every year. By lingering around such places, one can avoid begging for a year, act like a martial artist, and live without starving.

Of course, to last until the recruitment period without being called out, you need at least some level of martial skill. But as you know, it’s obvious that those considered “masters” in the Murim wouldn’t apply for a warrior position in a third-rate gang. As long as you aren’t swinging the Three Talents Sword Technique like a complete amateur, you can live in this Murim without being ignored.

The Murim isn’t just made up of masters; it’s filled with “small fries” who support those masters, scattered like pebbles along the Yangtze River.

Today, I went to Ten Thousand Dragons Fortress, which recruits warriors every year. I received my number and walked up to the scribe. I picked up the brush from the desk where the ink and paper were prepared and wrote my name on the application without hesitation.

When I elegantly wrote my name, Eo Ja-seo, the scribe looked up at my face.

He was likely surprised. Looking at the other applications, they were all in the same handwriting—the scribe must have written them all. Among those who throw themselves into the Murim, it’s rare to find someone who is literate. They say the prestigious Orthodox sects teach writing to enhance spiritual cultivation, but ordinary warriors have no time to look at books if they want to learn even one more practical technique.

Me? How do I know how to write?

The only things I can write are the three characters of my name and my martial arts. After “drawing” them hundreds of times, I learned to balance the strokes, and now my handwriting looks impressive to others. It was all a means to survive. I learned it by coaxing a drunken scholar at a tavern. At one point, I tried to study the Thousand Character Classic, but since it didn’t make me any money, I stopped after about five hundred characters. Studying is a hobby for those with money and a peaceful mind.

I smiled at the scribe and filled in the next box.

Ten Severing Soul Sword.

The scribe’s expression turned to one of shock upon seeing the name of my proud sword technique. Seeing that, I grew inadvertently boastful and scribbled down the title I had only practiced a few times recently. I went ahead and wrote a title in a space that could have been left blank. Since I hadn’t practiced it enough, the characters looked a bit crooked and didn’t quite satisfy me, but I felt relieved when I heard the scribe speak.

If the scribe could read it, that was enough.

“Silent Star Throwing Sword!”

Yes, that is my title. Though it wasn’t given to me by fellow warriors of the Jianghu, but was rather self-proclaimed. The scribe glanced at me several times before speaking.

“Blue Room No. 19!”

An attendant who had been waiting came up to me.

“This way, please.”

I followed the attendant with a leisurely gait. I knew the scribe was still watching me with a questioning gaze. Such a grand sword technique and title were things usually reserved for the renowned masters of the Murim.

But so what?

The probability of a small fry like me meeting a true Murim master in my lifetime was about the same as marrying one of the Three Flowers of Murim. Since I spend my life bumping into other low-lifes anyway, having a plausible-sounding title wasn’t a big deal.

It was half-resentment and half-mockery toward the prestigious Orthodox sects. This was why the titles of small fries often sounded more impressive than those of famous masters.

At a glance, the Blue Rooms were better than the White Rooms but inferior to the Red Rooms. The scribe had assigned my room with a keen eye. Because my title was unheard of, he was suspicious, but seeing my literacy and my plausible sword technique and title, he probably thought I might be the descendant of a hidden hermit. Thus, he assigned me to a Blue Room.

In fact, that was exactly what I was aiming for.

The Red Rooms were for ronin or wandering warriors who already had a name for themselves; if I bumped into them and my true skill was exposed, it would be a disaster. I still get chills thinking about what happened three years ago with the Wudang Sect.

And the White Rooms were where the truly clueless stayed. If you live this life long enough, you realize that the quality of your meals changes based on these grades. That’s why there’s no need to act like a total weakling, nor is there a need to act like a master more than necessary.

Living somewhere in the middle, just appropriately average, was the most comfortable. After all, isn’t the beauty of life found in the middle ground?

“What’s your name?”

What an impolite fellow.

As soon as I entered my assigned room, two men who were already there looked at me and asked bluntly. However, I didn’t let any unpleasantness show on my face and answered.

“Eo Ja-seo.”

They stared at me for a moment before revealing their own names.

“I’m Shim Geol, and this fellow is So Gu-chi.”

They looked older than me, so I couldn’t speak casually and simply nodded. One of the wisdoms I’ve gained through this life is that if you talk too much, your true skill is revealed. If you’re ignorant or lack skill, silence is truly golden. They would interpret it however they liked, which was perfect for me.

Seeing my slightly worn blue martial robes and my aged-looking iron sword, they seemed to think that despite my youth, I had a fair amount of experience in the Jianghu. In truth, only those who don’t know any better carry flashy swords and put on airs. The saying that “empty vessels make the most noise” was no different in the Murim.

Having realized this early on, I remained humble and refrained from frivolous behavior. Such a demeanor, while not exactly the aura of a master, prevented me from reeking of a small fry. If an empty vessel makes too much noise, even another small fry can see right through them.

Speaking of which, the reason I’ve been able to make a living with the sword technique I practiced for only three months is that I carved such proverbs and maxims into my heart and never acted rashly.

“What’s your sect?”

The man named So Gu-chi looked to be in his early thirties. His short stature and sturdy build suggested he possessed considerable strength. The man next to him, Shim Geol, looked like a typical good-natured fellow. He seemed younger than So Gu-chi, but from a few words, I could tell Shim Geol was the elder “brother” figure.

“How could a wanderer like me belong to a proper sect? I have simply practiced my family’s secret sword technique.”

When I replied while maintaining a calm expression, Shim Geol’s eyes sparkled.

“I see. We are from Chang’an, Shaanxi.”

“Oh!”

I let out a deliberate exclamation of admiration and gave them a subtle look. To make a living posing as a martial artist, there is something you must study: you need to know which sects or clans influence a person based solely on their place of origin.

Of course, even if the person doesn’t belong to that specific sect, mentioning it subtly demonstrates that you possess knowledge of the Jianghu. In the world of small fries, that alone earns you a certain level of respect. If you ignorantly badmouthed another sect, you’d likely end up in a sword fight. I’ve seen more than a few people die that way.

“Then do you gentlemen have a connection to the Zhongnan Sect? I understand that the Zhongnan Sect has been flourishing lately, producing many secular disciples…”

As I let my voice trail off, they naturally picked up the conversation. Another point to remember is to mention someone famous from that sect to show that your knowledge isn’t just hearsay.

“Calling us secular disciples is too much praise. But it’s true, our Zhongnan Sect is so powerful these days that there’s been some friction with the Mount Hua Sect.”

“I see. I once met Taoist U Hyeon-jinin of the Zhongnan Sect. Who was it again… it’s been a few years, so my memory is a bit fuzzy. There was a famous demon in Shaanxi back then…”

So Gu-chi replied.

“It was the Skeleton Demon.”

“Ah, right. That’s it. The masters of the Mount Hua Sect were falling like autumn leaves before the Skeleton Demon. Even for a member of the Evil Path, his skill was truly formidable. I know well because I joined the effort to capture him back then, not knowing any better. After the Mount Hua masters were all defeated, U Hyeon-jinin appeared, swung his sword once, and the Skeleton Demon vanished without a trace.”

Praise should be strong and brief. If it goes on too long, it becomes flattery, so you have to stop at a point where the listener feels good. Excessive praise is flattery, and flattery is the province of the weak; it shouldn’t be used recklessly.

“Is that so? You joined the effort back then, Brother Eo?”

I smiled inwardly when I saw Shim Geol casually address me as “Brother Eo.” It’s the way of the world: if you talk someone up, they’ll talk you up in return. Besides, while the story of the Skeleton Demon and U Hyeon-jinin was exaggerated, it was something I had actually seen with my own eyes.

When such major events occur, small fries like us swarm like bees. We hope to catch even a glimpse of the masters. If you’re lucky enough to witness a fight, you can get free drinks for a year just by telling the story. It’s not like small fries join the hunt for such a demonic master out of a sense of justice or chivalry.

“Is Sichuan that far from Shaanxi? We might as well be brothers.”

This was the finishing blow. Once the conversation has progressed this far, it’s fine to be this bold.

“Indeed! It’s been a long time since I’ve met someone so like-minded. Instead of just sitting here, let’s have a drink. I’ll go buy some.”

At those words, I showed a good-natured smile. I encouraged his goodwill with a silent smile that said, Between men, it has to be alcohol.

To me, humility was a luxury for those with full bellies. I’ve lived believing there’s no better life than one where you can eat without spending your own money.

“It’s not right for small fries like us to debate the sword; let’s have a ‘drink-debate’ about who the real masters are instead.”

I chimed in gallantly. At that, So Gu-chi also relaxed his guarded expression and let a slight smile hang on his lips.

Getting close to people wasn’t difficult. You just had to refrain from insulting or hating them.