Mountain Rose

01. Makings of a Monster

"Who's the king, who's the boss? Everybody knows my name."

Agust D, Daechwita

THWACK!

The sound of the wooden staffs bouncing off each other was satisfying to watch, and everyone seemed to watch the two men in the ring circle each other like predators fighting over a prey.

Only the aged men in their dirty brown hanboks seemed unperturbed as they went around the onlookers of the fight.

"Choose your fighter!" they crowed, holding out a rattan basket as people emptied their pockets for coins to throw in, "Who will emerge victory in tonight's fight, the God of Destruction, or...the Golden Seagull? Place your bets now! Sir, yes you there, with the handsome face, will you place your bets tonight?"

The rattan basket was thrust in the face of an onlooker, a young man seated calmly in the front row, his gaze formerly observing the fight before his view was obstructed by the intrusive basket.

He regarded the thing held out in front of him, then at the man, then back at the basket. "Sorry, no."

"Aigoo, young man, surely you can spare a few gold coins," egged the old man, staring at the satchel hanging loosely from the latter's arm, "You look like you have a few up your sleeve, hmm?"

The young man's face was devoid of emotion; he simply looked back at the fight. "I said no," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly.

So that was where the smell was coming from, he thought, I'm surprised I didn't get a whiff of it on the journey here.

He felt the old man – probably a beggar using the guise of taking bets to make a run with the money – pull his sleeve. "Aigoo, young man, it won't be much trouble for you to check in your little pouch right there, hmm?"

He's really trying his luck, isn't he?

He tugged his hand out of the man's grasp. "Leave me alone."

Just then there was a commotion as spectators cheered for the winner.

"God of Destruction wins!"

Right at that moment when he was momentarily distracted, in a sudden swoop, the old man's hand shot out, grabbing the satchel and snatching it out of his arm before making a break through the crowd.

Slightly stunned, the young man simply sat there, not even bothering to think of chasing down the bag thief.

I knew he was going to do that from the start.

He stood up, looking into the ring at the two sweaty men who were bowing to each other, and pressed his lips together as he regarded the loud chaos around him as people chanted and cheered for the victor.

He sighed to himself.

Such primitive creatures, we are. No matter how prideful we are in our superiority as humans, nothing brings more excitement than behaving like animals.

With that, he got up, brushed the fabric of his hanbok, and wove through the circle of spectators who were now looking for the old man who had promised them earnings for the bets.

Pfft. He's long gone now.

He looked down and uncovered another satchel – this one was made from real leather – from under the layers of his deep green hanbok, and smirked to himself as he swung the strap over his shoulder.

Joke's on you, you old fool. That bag was filled with stones.

Walking along the dirt path, he passed by a group of concubines in their colourful dresses, and looked down, making sure his gat headdress covered his face - or more specifically, the gash across his eye - from them.