Tabudai, having parted ways with the two, entered the dojo with a stern expression, leading the pair along.
The building was a modern reinterpretation of Mongolia’s traditional tent, the ger, but despite the design, it was constructed of materials like concrete and steel — stone and metal forming its core.
The door creaked as it opened.
This building, designed for use by Mongolian warriors as a dojo, was not only incredibly sturdy but also lined with top-tier soundproofing materials, ensuring that no noise from within escaped outside.
This also meant that if Tabudai decided to “educate” the two, there wouldn’t be any issues.
Once inside, Tabudai unceremoniously dropped the pair onto the floor and firmly locked the door.
He then roughly loosened his tie and started to undress. His jacket was flung far away, and the shirt was unbuttoned one by one with force.
Rip!
Rip!
Having stripped down to his undershirt, Tabudai began to pump his chest with his palms as if preparing his muscles for some form of exertion, flexing them one by one. With that, he drew his energy, which flowed in tune with the rapidly circulating blood.
A twist.
Indeed, blood is the pathway, the flow.
As the blood surged through his body, so too did his energy grow stronger and faster. Tabudai’s already massive muscles began to swell, akin to the pumped-up form of someone who had just completed an intense workout.
Moreover, it wasn’t just muscle growth — a palpable heat began to radiate from his body.
Had it been winter, one might even have been able to visibly see the heat emanating around him.
A twist.
The muscles formed now were almost inhuman.
Tabudai’s body, more beast than man, swelled to titanic proportions. His muscles weren’t just big; they were as prominent and strong as those of a horse, and the muscles in his forearms were as thick as an average person’s waist. The veins that bulged prominently gave the impression they might burst at any moment.
With his pumped-up muscles, Tabudai strode towards the pair lying on the floor, exuding an overwhelming aura of dominance.
Then, standing before them with a deeply furrowed brow, he spoke.
“Both of you, get up.”
Though Tabudai’s tone was polite, it carried a threat, like a veiled warning. The pair, struggling to keep themselves upright, slowly regained their footing with much wobbling.
“Ugh… ”
The Japanese fighter managed to rise first, having received a somewhat lighter blow compared to the Korean inspector.
However, the Korean inspector, still seemingly unable to fully recover, was wobbling and struggling. Tabudai, upon seeing this, let out a dissatisfied expression.
“Truly, what kind of warrior are you?”
With a hand as large as a pot lid, Tabudai forcibly sat the Korean inspector down. Curious as to which organization the man belonged to, Tabudai began inspecting the things he carried — the uniform he wore, the sword he carried.
But for all his searching, nothing of substance was found.
There was no insignia or other distinguishing marks indicating his allegiance.
The uniform looked like something he’d obtained at some nondescript place.
The sword? Not the work of a master craftsman but rather something mass-produced in a factory. It wasn’t even a special-order or bulk-order item but rather a run-of-the-mill, low-cost product.
A low-cost model, at that.
“Hmph.”
Factories weren’t inherently bad. In fact, factory-made items often had better quality than mediocre handmade ones. The materials made through the integration of magical sciences and alchemy gave even factory-produced items an incredible level of quality, allowing warriors to obtain good quality goods at a low price.
Still, the quality of such low-cost items often had its limits. They were aimed more at civilians than warriors. Upon contact with decent weaponry, they’d suffer significant damage, and due to impurities not fully removed, energy couldn’t flow through them smoothly. Attempting to channel energy into one of these swords for resonance would likely result in cracks or even a shattered blade.
Of course, some warriors carried them intentionally for techniques like exploding sword arts — techniques that rely on breaking one’s weapon.
But in those cases, the warrior would always carry a secondary, sturdier weapon.
The Korean’s uniform was too casual.
The weapon was too cheap.
His level of martial arts too low.
And his attitude too reckless.
“A ronin, I see,” Tabudai mumbled to himself.
Ronin.
A wandering warrior, unaffiliated and rootless.
During the days of Japan’s imperial expansion, these wanderers — fallen samurais without lords — traveled across the continent, causing numerous problems. Over time they organized into groups, establishing strict hierarchal systems, committing widespread organized crime and deteriorating public order. Known as “Daichilangin” (Continent Ronin), their reputation was notorious, and even after their suppression following the World Wars, the term “ronin” still carried a negative connotation.
Unaffiliated warriors.
Those who walked the thin line between illegal and legal.
Not professional mercenaries but freelancers, living hand to mouth, accepting random requests as they pleased.
People who, if things went wrong, could do anything.
And they often lived up to their bad reputation.
Since they lacked significant connections or backgrounds, their martial skills were often acquired through endless battles and killings. However, these techniques, honed on battlefields filled with weaker opponents, were no match for the truly powerful.
Many of them, too lazy to train seriously, relied on superficial means to make a living: joining violent organizations, tricking innocent young people into becoming disciples, or turning to internet broadcasting instead of improving their martial arts.
The Korean, Tabudai judged, was one such lackadaisical ronin — more interested in the title of warrior than the actual practice of martial arts.
As a way of calming the Korean inspector’s internally disrupted condition, Tabudai pressed his finger into the man’s chest, channeling a small amount of energy.
“Choke!”
Tabudai’s finger dug deep into the Korean’s torso, and the man responded with a series of violent coughs. With each cough, the trembling in his body began to decrease until it eventually subsided completely.
Once the Korean inspector was stable enough, Tabudai stared intensely into his eyes and asked,
“What kind of person are you?”
It was a question that made little immediate sense.
As expected, the Korean inspector could only blink in confusion.
However, Tabudai’s ensuing remarks froze the Korean’s face with sudden tension.
“What kind of person are you, to make such a ruckus in Chungju?”
“Wh… what are you talking about, sir?”
Tabudai maintained his expressionless face and continued talking.
“Recently, I’ve heard an awful lot about incidents… especially these days.”
“…”
“More strangely, almost all of these disputes seem to be between Korean and Japanese warriors. And upon closer inspection, it seems one side always picks a fight with the other.”
“…”
“Isn’t that interesting? The Japanese provocateurs seem to be linked to national affiliations, while the Koreans? They’re either freelancers like you or ronins without any clear organization.”
“…”
“Truly mysterious, isn’t it? After uprooting the criminal organizations from their roots and actively enforcing the law to prevent any resurgence, how do all these freelancers suddenly appear in Korea? This isn’t like China with its secret societies or Japan with its yakuza. How exactly did all these unaffiliated ronins pop up out of nowhere? Strange, isn’t it?”
“…”
“Even stranger, they all seem to be doing exactly the same thing. Doesn’t it strike you as odd?”
“…”
“Even if there is friction between Korea and Japan, isn’t this all too unnatural…?”
Having said that much, Tabudai fixed a penetrating stare on the Korean inspector, silently pressing him to confess.
But the ronin stubbornly held his lips shut.
More than that, his previous submissive demeanor was gone. Now, he exuded an odd aura of defiance.
Tabudai’s gaze turned from puzzled to resolute. He slowly raised his fist — if nothing else, force might be needed to uncover what was truly happening in Chungju.
Slowly, his hand the size of a pot lid inched toward the ronin’s pressure point.
Peep!
Peep!
Just as Tabudai was about to touch the pressure point, a loud sound reverberated throughout the dojo — somewhere between the shrill blast of a whistle and a car horn.
Peep!
Peep!
“The doorbell… at this hour?”
Tabudai frowned at the sound, which seemed out of place.
“Could it be the police from earlier?”
He hesitated, considering the possibility, before slowly opening the door.
Creak.
The door groaned as it opened, revealing one solitary figure.
This man was neither in uniform nor did he seem like an officer. He looked gaunt, unshaven, his greasy unkempt hair and tattered clothing emitting a foul odor. The dark shadows under his eyes gave him the appearance of a skull. A body-worn camera was affixed to his chest, and in his hands, he held a notebook and pen.
With a sly smile, the man spoke.
“Hello, might I conduct a short interview?”
