17. Jin
“The time has come.”
The chamber buzzes with anticipation. Every ranking member in the Baekho Pa watches from the audience, arranged in rows around the circular room, staring down at the sparring mat in the center.
The red-hot iron claw rests on the coals, hissing and spitting sparks.
Seung-min kneels on the mat in front of me, hands clenched at his thighs, chin lifted with defiant pride. No remorse is to be found in his narrowed eyes.
I grip the handle of the iron claw, lifting it from the brazier. The heat radiates up my forearm, prickling the nerve endings in my skin. It smells like burning metal. Soon, the chamber will reek of burning flesh.
“By order of the Baekho Pa, I declare Baek-ho-ui Chim. Kang Seung-min has defied his station. He will be punished under the witness of his brothers.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Everyone is aware of the code. They know the ritual.
I lower the claw, aiming for the exposed plane of his chest?—
“I OBJECT!” booms Seung-min. “I call for Gyeol-sa!”
The chamber breaks out into a frenzy, dozens of voices clashing at once. Members lean forward, eyes wide with disbelief. Others confer with each other about the twist of events. Some audibly gasp or jeer.
It’s not often that Baek-ho-ui Chim gets called.
It’s even less often that Gyeol-sa is called.
Translated to fight to the death, it means Seung-min is refusing his punishment.
He is countering it with a call to keep his station by fighting his superior to the death. As Ho-gwi, I can easily refuse him.
But if Seung-min wants to battle to the death, then so be it.
My grip on the branding iron loosens, letting it fall back into the coals.
“I accept,” I answer, slowly stripping off my shirt and casting it aside. “Now get up and fight me.”
Seung-min scrambles to his feet with a hunger on his face that I recognize. I’ve always noticed it in him. He’s young and eager to rise up like I was at his age, though for different reasons. If Seung-min wants the glory of fighting me to the death, then that’s what I’ll give him.
The mat beneath our feet is stained with decades-old blood. Tonight, it will take more.
Seung-min circles me, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. He moves like a man with something to prove. I move like a man who has nothing left to lose.
It’s how I always approach a fight—calculated and measured, but ready to be as vicious as I have to be.
He lunges first.
I’m anticipating him, my torso sliding swiftly to the left. Then I deliver a direct blow to his ankle, kicking his balance out from under him. He crashes to the mat, landing flat on his back.
Several members in the audience laugh at the humiliation.
A few seconds in, and I’ve already made him look a fool.
Seung-min pushes himself back up, barring gritted teeth at me like a rabid dog. He’s even more emotional now, more enraged.
He launches himself at me in a quick combination of hits. His fists fly and his leg sweeps through the air. I counter him as he advances toward me, sliding back to block each of his blows. They’re the first of many.
He’s in full attack mode, throwing out strikes and kicks with little precision, hoping just one will stick. He finally gets lucky.
His fist cracks across my cheek. My head whips to the side, the sharp pain immediate. My vision turns fuzzy for a brief second before I push through and manage to dodge his next hit. I duck as he sweeps his leg in a circular arc through the air. His body opens up for a blow.
Using this to my advantage, I drive my fist to the center of his chest. Right in the solar plexus. Seung-min stumbles back, the air knocked out of his lungs.
I’m on the offense now. I deal him another blow, leg snapping out for a side kick that takes him off his feet. He’s sent crashing down to the mat a second time to more jeers from the audience in the chamber.
But it’s going to take more than a few hits to defeat Seung-min.
He’s back up before I can slam my foot into him on the ground.
He leaps up to his feet, executing another strike.
I block his first and second attempts before his third lands.
A painful left hook to the same cheek he’d struck earlier.
The tender flesh throbs, sure to swell soon.
I roll with the hit, letting the pain bloom, never losing sight of his next move.
We’re fighting so hard, throwing so many strikes, that everything’s a blur.
He folds over in order to duck a roundhouse kick from me. Then follows up with a hook kick to my dominant leg.
This time, I’m the one sent slamming into the mat.
Seung-min is on me at once. He leaps on me, straddling my chest, throwing down his fists at my face. Blow after blow lands even as I attempt to block and overturn our position. His fists rain down, blood bursting from my nose and mouth. My cheek is swelling as predicted.
I manage to hold my arm up to catch one of his fists, then use my body weight to throw him off me. We tumble across the mat like a couple of wrestlers locked into a grappling match. We go from being on top, to me, then back to him.
My arms lock around his torso as I attempt to trap him in a submission hold. He thrusts his head back and slams his skull into mine. We rush to our feet again, half crouched as we circle each other like predators in the wild. We’re both leaking blood, both bruised.
Seung-min acts first. He dives at me. I swerve to the right, hiking my bent leg up to knee him in the stomach. Then crack my elbow down on his back.
The audience is louder than ever, screaming and applauding every time one of us lands a hit.
As Seung-min stumbles then recovers, he rushes at me again. He goes for my eyes like the desperate, emotion-driven motherfucker he is. He sinks his fingers in them, trying to gouge them out, then knees me in the gut like I had him.
I pry his hands away as fiery, burning pain explodes in my eyes and my vision waters. The first real pulse of rage courses through me.
Seung-min would be pitiful enough to gouge at my eyes. He wants to win so badly, he’s willing to do anything. Discipline pushed aside for once, I retaliate with a series of combo maneuvers.
My agility is on full display.
He can’t keep up. I’m like a machine, hurling strikes and kicks at him one after another, forcing him stumbling back as he tries, and eventually fails, to block them. I leap into the air, spinning fast, my leg out in a cut kick.
“ARGH!” Seung-min groans as he’s sent flying onto his back.
I land in my natural fighting stance, heaving air, dripping blood, ready to end this.
He springs to his feet, feeling the same. Except he whips out a switchblade from the waistband of his pants.
The crowd roars.
I catch the glint of steel in time. He charges at me, slashing the blade. I twist, but not fast enough; a shallow cut stings open across my side. I’ve experienced much worse. He lunges a second time, not so lucky as I narrowly escape his reach.
Closing the distance between us, I take the offensive again. His blade, and other cheap tricks, won’t stop me from coming out on top.
A brutal series of kicks follows. All swift. All accurate. All delivered in crushing fashion.
His thigh, his ribs, his head.
My leg whips out in a blur as I move from one part of him to the other, knocking the blade from his grip. He’s staggering on his feet, his eyes vacant as he struggles to stay up. I hammer a fist to his jaw, the uppercut enough to drop him to the mat.
“Get up!” I command, circling him. “Get up!”
He tries, then flops back down.
The crowd is a loud cacophony of jeers, cheers, gasps, murmurs.
We’re their entertainment for the night.
Seung-min wobbles to his feet after his third attempt, blood dribbling down his chin. His right eye is swollen shut. His left eyelid looks half tempted to do the same.
“GET UP!” I roar at him as he drops yet again. “This is what you wanted, right, Seung-min? Fight me to the death like a man!”
He’s winded, his movements sloppy as he finally manages to stay on his feet. We circle again, though it’s already over. He lunges at me, his fist sailing for my head. I duck under him, grab his waist, and suplex him hard onto the mat. The thud is deafening and barbaric.
I push myself up, standing over him, watching as he lays helplessly on the mat. He’s coughing up blood, ripe for the final blow.
I climb on top of him. I meant it when I said there would be no mercy. If the roles were reversed, he would have no mercy for me. He would happily run his blade through me and end me.
My fist draws back for the final crushing blow to his skull?—
“ENOUGH!”
The voice rises above the loud, jeering fray of the audience.
It belongs to Jae-hyun. He stands from his throne-like front row seat, peering down at the two of us like some emperor.
“Back away, Jin-tae,” he commands. “I decide who lives and dies. This is over.”
A heavy, poignant silence crashes down on the chamber. No one dares object to his order.
Not even me.
My fist shakes as I husk deep breaths into my lungs, and stare down at the battered Seung-min.
Then I rise, stepping back. Adrenaline beats through me, pounding in my ears. I refuse to dignify Jae-hyun with an answer, sparing him no look or address at all.
I simply turn and walk out of the chamber, blood dripping from my fists.
The drive from the Claw Lounge to my apartment in Gijang-gun passes by in a haze. My bloody grip is tight on the steering wheel as I speed through the streets. Soon the hustle and bustle that’s the heart of Busan fades for the dark and quiet of a small village like Gijang-gun.
I’m fresh off the duel with Seung-min, bruises decorating my face and torso. The left side of my face is swollen. The shirt I’d ripped off is still on the mat where I’d beaten Seung-min into submission.