Blacksword Gang

In Huo City, a black-haired youth found himself knelt beside an intersection, his hair disheveled and his rags dirtied. In front of him, a piece of cloth sat, equally dirtied, the nonpresence of silver taels on it testament to his pitiful state.

On the road he faced, people passed by without paying heed as though he was nonexistent. And the ones who did were either children—who kicked dust towards his direction before running off, laughing—or sharp-tongued vendors who kept beckoning him to leave, threatening, sometimes.

In response to such things, the youth would cock his head up and cackle, letting out a maddened laughter as though to tell everyone of his insanity. This often drew a scowl from guardsmen who patrolled the streets, and sometimes, although rarely, a man with a deformed head would laugh along.

"Someone bring him to the temple, that old monk might take him," remarked a passerby.

A scholar who sold paper talismans shook his head as he received a pocketful of silver taels. "We already tried. That geezer told us off mumbling about the scent of blood."

"Even that monk? Then this one's hopeless."

The scholar glanced at the youth and clicked his tongue, muttering something along the lines of 'useless people' and 'leeches of society.'

Qigang ignored all of this. The young beggar shook his head, sending the dirt and dust flying off of his hair. He got on his legs and carried himself off, slouching.

The crowd which overflowed the streets moved away as he walked, putting a distance of four steps between themselves and the dirty beggar.

Buildings lined the streets, often sporting wooden pillars painted red and curved roofs, blue-green, with tiles like waves. These buildings were laid out quite neatly, sitting in places that made it seem as though everything was planned.

Hawkers and vendors queued the street sides, oftentimes shouting their products—mooncakes, jewelry, grilled meat, warm porridge—and prices into the crowd. Though to Qigang they never shouted, and he himself knew why.

A few minutes passed, and an alleyway appeared on his right, its emptiness making quite a contrast to the streets brimming with people. Only a few men walked the alleyway, all of them looking as shabby as Qigang himself, and some of them much more skinny.

Somewhere in the alleyway was a gate, and after passing through one would find themselves in a small courtyard. Qigang walked this path, entering the prayer house where the smell of unbathed beggars and incense sticks mixed.

He walked towards the long table which stood in the middle of the courtyard. Old clay bowls engraved with flowery patterns sat on the table, filled with a murky broth which smelled of half-rotten meat.

An old, one-eyed beggar who sat on stone stairs waved his hands as Qigang grabbed a bowl. "Qigang! Over here!"

Qigang turned his head, smiling as he approached the old man. He sat right next to him and drank a mouthful of broth.

"Qigang, you got anything today?" asked the old beggar.

Qigang shook his head as he gulped down another mouthful of broth. "Nothing."

"Shame," the beggar shook his head. "Life is truly shit, boy. Remember those 70 taels I saved up? They disappeared, too. Seems we're tied by our wonderful luck."

"You gambled again," Qigang said while chewing a chunk of half-gone-out meat. He gulped down all that was left within the bowl and tapped his stomach. "Old man, is there anything happening lately?"

The old man raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Huo City is unusually smelly," replied Qigang. "Blood, I mean. I have a good sense of smell."

"Don't worry about that," the old beggar laughed off. "They don't touch people like us. Usually."

Qigang rubbed his chin. "They?"

The old man opened his mouth, but before words could come out, footsteps echoed in the distance, approaching. A groan echoed outside, followed by a scream, then cries, all within the prayer house only able to hear the words 'spare' and 'mercy.'

A shout of panic resounded. "Blacksword Gang!"

The footsteps approached closer, and the old beggar sitting besides Qigang laughed. "I guess I should never gamble again."

A group of men donning dark-blue robes entered the courtyard, the image of a curved sword embroidered on their sleeves, and all of them holding onto a sheathed sword.

A middle-aged man stood at the forefront, his eyebrows and beard thick alike. A large scar grazed by his entire face, starting from the corner of his forehead and reaching his lower lip.

He whistled for attention. "You, beggars!" he shouted in a resounding voice, "You all are now part of the Blacksword Gang."

A bald beggar dropped his bowl. It shattered on the ground. But after this, the whole courtyard turned quiet, the previous conversations turning into silent murmurs, whispers.

Within the crowd of beggars, a harrumph briefly swallowed out the murmurs. "Why would I? I may be a beggar, but my parents raised me with principle. I'll not involve myself with the likes-"

Before the voice could finish, though, a horse-faced gang member approached the voice, the crowd making way as he passed through. A scream resounded, followed by a soft thud, and the gang member walked back with a smirk, a thick, red liquid dripping from the edge of his blade.

"It seems you beggars don't understand, as expected of your likes," he said. "In case you still don't get it now, we're not giving you a choice. Join—or die."

Qigang observed the scene, calm. The old beggar turned his head and whispered, "It's actually not that bad a deal, boy. The Blacksword Gang is stacked."

"You don't mind becoming a killer?" asked Qigang, lifting a brow.

The old man let out a scoff, loud enough to make a gang member turn his head. "We wouldn't have to kill, I bet. We'd just be there to increase their numbers, like paper tigers."

Qigang nodded. He looked towards the scene in the courtyard once again, the old man doing the same. "Looks like we missed something," said the old man.

A good portion of beggars walked towards the gang members, their palms held out, facing outward. They each received small bags, clinking as they were dropped onto their palms.

The old man's eyes glinted. He approached the gang members, and Qigang reluctantly followed.

"Geezer," grunted a gang member as he threw a small bag of taels towards the old beggar's direction. "You won't do much with that body so you're getting less."

Qigang heard the old man grunt, though he still accepted the money. He, too, received a sum, a bag half larger than the old man's. Hearing the clinks as it landed on his palm, as well as the weight, there was no need for a look inside.

The old man leaned in and smiled. "You gotta share, boy."

A shout resounded before Qigang could reply. "That's it. Everyone's got the payment, now you're all part of the gang, the Blacksword Gang."

Some gang members clapped as though to congratulate, but the smug-like grins on their faces told otherwise. Some roughly pat the beggars on the back, saying "Welcome."

And to this the beggars could only join in, clapping for themselves in response. The man who led the group rounded everyone up, whistling to gather attention. "We're leaving," he said.

He walked out of the courtyard and the gang members followed behind in a tight, organized pack. The beggars who had just been recruited glanced at each other before scuttling off, following the group. Qigang and the old man followed.

"We're Blacksword members now!" Qigang heard a young beggar cheer.

"Naive," whispered the old beggar, walking right beside Qigang. "A few skirmishes and he'll beg for leave."

Qigang looked towards the young beggar and let out a rueful smile, but said nothing.

As they exited the alleyway, the lively roads appeared once again; vendors and hawkers lining the brimming streets, a melange of all types of people.

The gang members turned right, walking proudly with their heads tilted up, while the beggars followed behind with much less confidence. All who passed by turned their heads, some not even whispering as they expressed their thoughts.

"Isn't that the beggar from the bridge?" said a passerby, pointing.

"Looks like the Blackswords are rounding up beggars now," laughed an elderly man.

The group of beggars moved closer to the gang members as though it would hide them from pointing fingers. Qigang and the old man followed right behind, unhurried.

"Looks like we're really getting pulled into this," lamented the old man. "I wonder if they'll let me gamble?"

Qigang grunted. "There's nothing we can do about it."

The old man raised a brow. "...You're pretty calm, boy."

"You too," smiled Qigang.

Such conversations came up as minutes passed. The gang members led them towards the Western District, and at some point in their journey, men in the same dark-blue robes as the Blacksword members appeared, some walking the streets, some talking, some buying from vendors. All of them held swords, too.

After a few turns Qigang struggled to take note of, at the end of the road appeared a building—sitting on a stone platform, elevated—and on it were wooden gates, opened, separated by red pillars, a sign saying 'Blacksword Gang' on the middle arch. It was the entrance to a manor, a manor like those of the aristocrats.

"See, they're stacked," whispered the old beggar, laughing.

The Blacksword members finally stopped, and along with them, the following beggars, including Qigang and the old man, also did.

A whistle echoed, and the leader of the group spoke. "This is headquarters." He then led the group inside, towards the manor.

Inside was a courtyard, one big enough to fit a small army, and impressive enough for the old man to repeat how stacked the Blackswords were. There were already people inside, a lot of them, countless. There were all groups of shabby-looking men, standing behind smaller groups of dark-blue uniformed members; they filled the entire courtyard.

Ahead, a few stone steps led towards a building, a separate part of the manor. It stood on round, red pillars, and was topped by an aegean-blue roof, curved like any other.

An elderly man in a pitch-black outfit stood on the platform, elevated. He had long, black hair striped by some strands of gray, and long eyebrows which drooped down on its edges. In his hand was a black paper fan.

"Welcome to the Blacksword Gang," he said, and the beggars tightened their backs, tensing up.