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Week One: Administrative Nightmare
The first thing Evil Smiling Demon learned about running the Valley of the Wicked without Cheon Myeon was that Cheon Myeon had apparently been doing the work of seven people.
The second thing he learned was that numbers were his nemesis.
"This can't be right," Soma muttered, staring at the ledger spread across his desk. He'd been looking at the same page for twenty minutes. The characters were starting to blur together.
Column A plus Column B should equal Column C. Except when it's Column D minus Column E, which affects the quarterly projections in Column F—
"Lord Geugak Soma?" One of his new subordinates poked his head nervously through the door. "The gambling den receipts from last month need your approval."
Soma looked at the man. Looked at the stack of papers already on his desk. Looked back at the man.
"Leave them by the door."
"But my lord, they're time-sensitive—"
"By. The. Door."
The subordinate fled.
Cheon Myeon would have known I was lying within three seconds, Soma thought with something approaching grief.
Cheon Myeon would have already summarized all of this, color-coded it, and sent it to me telepathically with helpful annotations.
Instead, Soma was here at midnight, squinting at numbers that refused to make sense, trying to figure out why the Valley of the Wicked's external revenue streams showed a profit but the internal operational costs suggested they were somehow losing money on air.
Soma said to the empty room, "Perhaps, I'm just going to kill whoever invented double-entry bookkeeping."
A knock at the door.
Soma's eye twitched behind his mask.
"What."
Another subordinate—the second one he'd promoted—entered with a sheaf of papers. "Evil Smiling Demon-nim, the merchant guild is enquiring about the shipment schedules, and you need to review the territorial dispute with the Red Phoenix Gang."
"Put it on the pile."
"Which pile, Geugak Soma-nim?"
Soma gestured vaguely at his desk, which now had four distinct piles of papers, none of which he understood the organizational logic behind.
"Any pile. Surprise me."
The subordinate carefully placed the documents on what Soma had mentally labelled the 'Pile of Things I'll Deal With When the Sun Explodes' and scrammed.
Soma returned to his ledger.
Month Three, External Revenue: 15,000 gold taels. Internal Operations Cost: 12,000 gold taels. Net profit should be... 3,000 gold taels. Except the next page says we spent 4,000 on "miscellaneous expenses" which means...
"We're in debt to ourselves?" Soma asked the ledger incredulously. "How is that possible?"
"..."
+
By day three of Week One, Soma had developed a new appreciation for Cheon Myeon's organizational genius, and he had also promoted five more people to try to fill Cheon Myeon's role.
+
By day five, one of the new subordinates was crying and Soma had started having stressful dreams about being chased by sentient ledgers.
+
By day seven, he'd weighed whether joining the Martial Alliance might be less work.
Soma turned back to his ledger and seriously considered just burning everything and claiming bandits had stolen the records.
Who would question the Evil Smiling Demon?
+
The problem was compounded by the fact that he was still going on missions with the second young master.
"Soma-nim!" Geom Mugeuk's voice rang out as Soma evaded a sword strike. "Your left flank!"
Soma spun, Blood Disaster Finger shooting forward from his fingertips.
Shuk shuk—dispatching the flanking attacker.
The battle was exhilarating—this was what he was good at, what made sense, where cause and effect followed logical patterns like "qi shot goes in, enemy goes down" instead of 'Column A minus Column B equals... bankruptcy somehow?'
They fought back-to-back, the rhythm as natural as breathing.
This, at least, hadn't changed.
When the last enemy fell, Geom Mugeuk turned to him with that brilliant smile. "Excellent work as always, Soma-nim. Though..." His expression shifted to concern. "Are you alright? You seem tired."
Tired.
Yes.
That's what happens when you spend all night trying to understand why the Valley of the Wicked owns three properties that don't exist and is somehow paying rent on them.
"I'm fine," Soma said smoothly. "Merely contemplating the nature of existence."
"The philosophical kind or the 'wondering why we exist to suffer' kind?"
Soma looked at Geom Mugeuk. Considered telling him about the bookkeeping nightmare. Decided that would be too mortifying.
"The second one."
Geom Mugeuk laughed, clearly thinking he was joking.
+
By the end of week one, Soma had:
-
Learned basic bookkeeping (barely)
-
Discovered Cheon Myeon had been handling forty-seven different operational areas and maybe more
-
Promoted a new subordinate (the sixth lasted two days before crying)
-
Seriously contemplated whether he, the Evil Smiling Demon could fake his own death and retire to a monastery
-
Accumulated approximately six hours of sleep in total
-
Started talking to himself regularly (the mask hid the mouth movements, at least)
"This is fine," Soma told himself as he prepared for another mission. "This is totally manageable. I am the Evil Smiling Demon. I have killed legendary martial artists. I can handle paperwork."
His reflection did not look convinced.
Week Two: False Hope and Ink Stains
In Week Two, Soma had made a breakthrough: he'd found someone who could actually teach him bookkeeping.
The man's name was Hwang Ziran, he was sixty years old, had worked with Cheon Myeon on the financial records, and had the patience of a saint—which he needed, because Soma was a terrible student.
"No, Geugak Soma-nim," Ziran said gently for the fifth time that morning, "the external revenue goes in this column. The operational costs go in that column."
Soma stared at his fingers, which were now completely covered in ink smears. Black stains decorated his palms, his fingertips, and somehow the back of his left hand.
"How do you keep the ink from getting everywhere?" Soma asked, genuinely baffled.
"Practice."
"I've killed legendary martial artists with these hands."
"Yes, Geugak Soma-nim."
"I can project qi with enough precision to thread a needle from thirty paces."
"No doubt about it."
"But I cannot write a number without covering myself in ink."
"..."
Soma looked at his ink-stained hands with something approaching betrayal. "This is humiliating."
"It gets easier," Ziran promised.
By the end of Week Two, Soma had actually gotten the hang of reading ledgers. He understood the basic principles. He could look at numbers and comprehend what they meant without wanting to set everything on fire.
He also had permanent ink stains under his fingernails and had started working directly in the Valley of the Wicked's main office since Cheon Myeon left.
The office was full of practical things: big desks, chairs, a large bronze mirror, and filing cabinets. Several other administrators worked there during the day. It had everything Soma needed.
Including a couch.
Soma stared at the couch. The couch was large, cushioned, and looked significantly more comfortable than his room, which contained absolutely nothing except emptiness (空) and the faint scent of meditation incense.
"I'll just rest here for a moment," Soma told himself at midnight, after fourteen hours of reviewing operational reports.
He woke up six hours later, still on the couch, with a blanket someone had nervously draped over him.
This is a temporary arrangement. Once I get through this backlog, I'll return to proper meditation practices.
The couch was very comfortable, though.
Week Three: Deterioration Begins
"Lord Geugak Soma would you like—"
The teacup slipped from Soma's fingers and shattered on the floor.
Soma stared at the broken ceramic pieces.
He'd been holding that cup. He'd had a firm grip on it. How had it just... fallen?
The subordinate picked the porcelain shard, and mopped the floor.
This was the third thing Soma had dropped that day. All of them had been paper documents, which at least didn't shatter, but still. His hands felt... clumsy. Imprecise in a way they'd never been before.
I'm just tired. That's all.
He picked up another document. His fingers trembled slightly. He frowned behind his mask and forced them to steady.
At lunch, the kitchen sent up his usual meal. Soma looked at it and felt his stomach turn.
"I'm not hungry," he told the servant.
"But my lord, you didn't eat breakfast either—"
"I said I'm not hungry."
The servant left, but he still put the food on the next table. Soma returned to his ledgers, ignoring the faint hunger gnawing at his stomach. He'd eaten... yesterday? The day before? Time was getting fuzzy.
The food they'd been serving him was the differrent combination as always—Only for Evil Smiling Demon, the special Soma edition Valley of the Wicked fare that he'd eaten for years. But lately, it all tasted wrong.
Too bland, or too salty, or just... not appealing. Nothing seemed appetizing anymore.
I'll eat later. Once I finish reviewing these territory reports.
Well, he took a nibble or three, that was it.
++
That evening, on a mission with Geom Mugeuk, Soma's Frantic Demonic Palm slammed into three enemies at once—the massive qi projection destroying them in a burst of energy. It was effective, but it left him more drained than it should have.
"Excellent work!" Geom Mugeuk said brightly. Then his expression shifted. "Though... Soma-nim, your sleeve—"
Soma looked down. His sleeve was looser than it should be. When had that happened?
"The laundry servants must have altered it," Soma said smoothly.
Geom Mugeuk's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't press.
+
Back at the office, Soma was reviewing reports when his hand slipped. Papers scattered across the floor in a cascade of fluttering white.
"Fuck," Soma said quietly.
He bent to pick them up, gathered the papers, tried to stack them, and dropped half of them again.
Through the window, he could see several of the faceless swordsmen who guarded the Valley. They were looking at him.
Soma met their gaze through his mask.
Don't you dare.
The faceless swordsmen looked away.
Soma managed to collect the papers on the third attempt and returned to his desk with whatever dignity he could muster.
Week Four: Everything is Fine (A LIE)
"My lord, the—oh!"
Soma had been walking toward his desk. There was nothing in his path. The floor was clear, smooth, and completely unobstructed.
He fell anyway.
One moment he was upright, the next moment his legs just... gave out, and he was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with the kind of existential confusion usually reserved for philosophy scholar.
What.
The subordinate rushed over. "Soma Geugak-nim! Are you—"
"Get out."
"But—"
"Out!"
The subordinate scrambled.
Soma lay on the floor for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, and contemplated his life choices.
"This is fine," he told the ceiling. "This is a completely normal thing that happens to people."
He dragged himself upright, checked that no one was watching, and returned to his desk with as much dignity as he could salvage.
Outside, several faceless swordsmen exchanged glances. None of them moved to help. They were respecting him in their own way.
This continued happening with alarming frequency.
The Incident happened on Day 25.
Soma was walking through the Valley of the Wicked's grounds, heading to the eastern area.
The path was clear.
The weather was nice.
There was absolutely no reason for anything to go wrong.
One moment, Soma was walking.
The next moment, his foot caught on nothing, his balance deserted him entirely, and he pitched sideways directly into the decorative but substantial water feature that ran alongside the path.
Splash
Soma surfaced, water streaming from his mask, and stared at his surroundings with the numb resignation of a man whose life had become a cosmic joke.
The ditch was clean, at least.
The water was clear.
There were fish swimming around him—he could see them darting past, unbothered by his sudden intrusion.
Carp, Soma's brain noted with the kind of detached academic interest that came from complete mental exhaustion.
Goldfish. Gold and white coloring. Approximately fifteen centimeters in length.
Water quality appears excellent—no algae buildup, clear visibility to the bottom.
A school of smaller fish swam by.
Rosy bitterling. Healthy specimens, vibrant coloration.
Soma continued cataloguing fish species while sitting in a ditch, because his brain had apparently decided this was a more productive use of time than screaming.
"LORD GEUGAK SOMA!"
Soma looked up to find that the faceless swordsmen had finally overcome their terror and were rushing toward him.
Multiple hands reached down to pull him out of the water.
Soma allowed himself to be extracted from the ditch like a wet cat.
"Are you alright, my lord?"
"Did you hit your head?"
"Should we summon the Demon Doctor?"
"I'm fine," Soma said flatly, water dripping from his robes. "I was merely... inspecting the water quality and fishes' habitat."
The faceless swordsmen exchanged glances that clearly communicated he's losing it.
"The fish population appears healthy," Soma added, because if he was going to lie, he might as well commit. "The carp are thriving. I counted three species of—"
"Perhaps Evil Smiling Demon-nim should change the wet clothes," one of them interrupted gently.
"Yes. Good idea." Others lead Soma, who squelched back to the empty bath house.
He left a trail of water across the floor, peeled off his wet robes, and stared at himself in the bronze mirror.
He looked... bad.
His face was paler than usual. There were dark circles under his eyes. His hair was wet and disheveled. His body looked thinner, the muscle definition sharper in a way that suggested weight loss rather than conditioning.
"Everything is under control." Soma told his reflection.
His reflection looked deeply skeptical.
Soma cleaned himself and took a prolonged dip in the warm huge bathtub.
. . .
He changed into dry robes—noting absently that they hung looser than they should—and returned to his office.
There were still thirty-seven documents to review before tomorrow's meeting.
Day 27
"Soma-nim."
Soma looked up from his ledgers to find Geom Mugeuk standing in his office doorway, looking concerned.
When did he get here? Was I expecting him?
"Second Young Master," Soma said smoothly, as if he hadn't just been caught with ink smeared along his ring finger and papers scattered across his desk in a pattern that suggested organizational chaos.
"I wanted to check on you," Geom Mugeuk said, stepping inside. His eyes swept the office—taking in the couch with its rumpled blanket, the desk covered in documents, the ink stains, everything. "You've seemed... overworked lately."
"I'm fine."
"Your robes are looser."
Soma glanced down. The sleeves of his white robes were definitely hanging differently than they used to.
"Laundry error," Soma said.
"All of your robes?"
Shit.
"I've been busy," Soma deflected. "Cheon Myeon's departure left certain... administrative gaps."
"I know." Geom Mugeuk's expression softened. "That's actually why I'm here. My right hand Seo Daeryeong, is excellent at organizational management. I could lend him to you for a few weeks, help you get things sorted—"
"No."
The word came out faster than Soma intended.
Geom Mugeuk blinked.
"I don't need help," Soma continued, forcing his tone to something more measured. "I have everything under control."
I fell into a ditch yesterday, then started to cataloguing fish species.
"Soma-nim—"
"Was there anything else, Second Young Master?"
Geom Mugeuk studied him for a long moment. Soma kept his expression neutral behind the mask, even as he felt something in his chest twist at the concern in those eyes.
"No," Geom Mugeuk said finally. "But... if you need anything—"
"I'll let you know."
Geom Mugeuk left, looking unconvinced.
Soma returned to his ledgers and tried to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking slightly as he picked up his brush.
Day 28
Soma had been working in the office for sixteen hours straight.
It was past midnight. Ziran had gone home hours ago. The other administrators had left. Soma was alone with his paperwork and the growing realization that he was very tired.
He stood to retrieve another document from the filing cabinet.
His vision swam.
He grabbed the desk to steady himself, breathing carefully through the dizzy spell.
When did I last eat? Yesterday? The day before?
He couldn't remember.
The food the kitchen sent didn't appeal to him anymore. Nothing tasted right. It was easier to just... not eat.
He'd grab something later. Eventually.
He made it to the filing cabinet, retrieved the document, and turned back toward his desk.
His legs decided they were done cooperating.
Soma caught himself on the cabinet before he could fall, then slowly lowered himself to sit on the floor because standing was clearly not working.
"This is ridiculous," he told the empty office. "I am the Evil Smiling Demon. I have fought for days without rest. I have survived grievous injuries. I am not going to be defeated by paperwork."
The office, like the other furnitures before it, did not respond.
Soma sat on the floor for several minutes, gathering his strength, before finally dragging himself to the couch.
Just a short rest. Twenty minutes. Then I'll finish reviewing those reports.
+
Day 29
He woke up nine hours later to sunlight streaming through the windows and Ziran politely pretending not to notice that Soma had spent another night sleeping in the office.
"Good morning, Geugak Soma-nim. I've prepared today's priority documents."
Soma sat up, his body aching in ways it shouldn't.
Soma accepted the stack with his usual ink-stained fingers, preparing himself for another marathon of administrative hell.
Then Ziran cleared his throat.
"However, I should mention that I've brought in two associates to assist with the workload—both highly competent bookkeepers who worked with Cheon Myeon on the more complex operational reports."
Soma looked up sharply. "Associates."
"Yes, Geugak Soma-nim. With your permission, they can handle the remaining backlog. The urgent matters have been addressed, and the quarterly reports can be delegated. You've done the critical review work—they can manage the implementation and filing."
Two figures stepped forward and bowed deeply. One was a thin man with wire spectacles who looked like he'd been born holding an abacus. The other was a stern-faced woman whose fingers were as ink-stained as Soma's own.
"We're honored to serve, Lord Geugak Soma," they said in unison.
"..."
"You're saying... I don't need to review these?"
"Not personally, Soma-nim. Wen Suan and I will handle the financial reconciliations. Qiu Si will manage the operational reports and correspondence. We'll bring only critical decisions to your attention."
"So I can..."
"You can resume your normal schedule, Geugak Soma-nim."
Soma set the papers down.
"How long will it take you to finish the backlog?"
The three bookkeepers exchanged glances.
"Two days," Wen Suan said confidently. "Everything will be current and organized."
"Two days."
"Presicely."
Soma stood there, processing this information.
One month of administrative hell while having an existential crisis.
And now, suddenly, he had time.
"Excellent work, Ziran," Soma said, his voice perhaps slightly more unsteady than usual. "Proceed as planned."
"Yes, Geugak Soma-nim."
The three bookkeepers settled at the various desks and immediately began working with the kind of synchronized efficiency that suggested they'd done this before.
Soma walked out of the office in a daze.
Soma sat beneath the sprawling branches of an osmanthus tree in one of the Valley of the Wicked's courtyards, staring at the spread of food before him.
It was... extensive.
The kitchen servants had apparently interpreted "I'm hungry" as "please bring enough food to feed a small army" and had delivered accordingly.
Soma looked at the feast laid out before him.
The table held a bamboo steamer with twelve delicate xiaolongbao soup dumplings, still steaming, alongside shaomai filled with pork and shrimp and fluffy barbecue pork buns.
Translucent har gow shared the space with turnip cakes pan-fried to crispy perfection and a dish of century eggs.
A large bowl of rice porridge topped with preserved vegetables and pork sat near a whole steamed fish resting in ginger and scallion sauce.
He surveyed the twice-cooked pork, the mapo tofu, and a simple plate of stir-fried vegetables, with a large bowl of white rice steaming quietly beside them.
The meal was completed by a bowl of sweet red bean soup, the dessert that the kitchen had apparently decided he needed.
Soma removed his mask and began eating.
The first xiaolongbao was heaven. The soup inside burst across his tongue—rich, savory, exactly what his body had been craving for weeks.
The second was even better.
By the fourth, he'd moved on to the har gow, then the char siu bao, then the congee, working his way through the dishes.
The mapo tofu was perfectly spicy, the numbing Sichuan peppercorns making his lips tingle. The twice-cooked pork was crispy and fatty and absolutely perfect. The steamed fish was delicate and fresh.
He ate.
And ate.
Somewhere around the eighth shaomai and third helping of rice, Soma's stomach began sending warning signals.
He ignored them and reached for more turnip cake.
I'm fine. I'm just... making up for lost time.
By the time he'd worked his way through most of the spread, Soma was lying back against the osmanthus tree trunk, hand on his very full stomach, staring up at the sky through the branches.
He felt like he might explode.
Or vomit.
Possibly both.
Suicidally he put his mask back on.
"This was a mistake," Soma told the osmanthus tree.
The tree, like every other inanimate object he'd confided in this month, did not respond.
A servant approached cautiously. "Soma-nim? Would you like me to clear—"
"Ah yes, please."
If I eat one more bite, I will actually die.
"Yes, Soma-nim."
The servant started collecting the dishes.
Soma closed his eyes and tried to convince his stomach that yes, this much food at once was a completely reasonable idea and no, he will not going to vomit under the nice osmanthus tree.
After about thirty minutes of uncomfortable fullness, the nausea began to subside.
Soma dragged himself upright and headed toward his quarters.
Time to resume proper training.
+
Several faceless swordsmen paused in their patrols, catching sight of their lord walked back to his quarter.
The faceless swordsmen exchanged relieved glances and moved on with noticeably lighter steps.
Their master was back.
Soma's room was exactly as he'd left it a month ago: empty, white walls.
He walked to the center of the room, faced the wall, and settled into his standing meditation stance.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Spine straight. Arms positioned correctly.
Breathe.
The familiar routine settled over him like coming home.
Soma stood facing the wall, qi circulating through his meridians in the familiar patterns he'd neglected for weeks.
Everything felt... right again.
Though, he was weaker than he should be after a month of poor sleep and irregular eating.
But this was fixable. This was just a matter of proper training and nutrition and returning to his normal routine.
Two days and the administrative backlog will be handled. Then everything can go back to normal.
He shifted his stance slightly, adjusting his center of gravity, and continued his practice.
As the sun set Soma felt something approaching peace.
The crisis was over. He'd survived. Everything was under control again.
He finished his evening practice, returned to proper standing meditation, and let his mind settle into the calm emptiness he'd been missing.
Tomorrow I'll resume full training. Maybe spar with some of the faceless swordsmen. Get my edge back. Everything will return to—
His thoughts snagged on something.
A vague sense of forgetting something important.
Soma frowned behind his mask, trying to pin down the elusive thought.
Something routine.
Something I used to...
Took daily...
Which he hadn't taken since...
When was the last time?
Soma tried to remember through the haze of administrative chaos and sleep deprivation.
Fuck.
He'd been so consumed by paperwork and falling into ditches and trying not to collapse that he'd completely forgotten about the medicine that he should consume.
For almost a month.
"Fucking hell," Soma said aloud to his empty white room.
His body had been trying to tell him something was wrong.
The clumsiness, the enhanced pickiness about food, the exhaustion that went beyond simple overwork—those were all early withdrawal symptoms.
And he'd ignored them because he'd been too busy trying to understand why the Valley of the Wicked was paying taxes on properties that didn't exist.