The Merchant Journey (3)
The deputy leader pretended not to listen, but his ears had perked up all the same. Even if it was just basic martial arts, this was a chance to become the young master's teacher. Simply correcting the young master's lazy habits—little more than those of a wastrel—would be a win. He saw all the young master's past antics as mere ploys to receive his guidance.
Yet he'd been rejected without a word. It was like offering rice cakes only for someone to shove spicy noodles down his throat first. Flustered and embarrassed for no reason, the deputy leader radiated irritation.
But pressing the young master on why he wouldn't accept his teachings would make him seem petty and small-minded. Caught between a rock and a hard place, the deputy leader could only view the young master unfavorably. He hoped the boy would suffer a humiliating regret later on.
The escorts and merchants had no choice but to watch both the young master and the deputy leader warily. They sensed the strained atmosphere between them, but it hadn't escalated to open hostility. What a mess! It was too ambiguous to take sides or judge right and wrong, leaving everyone deeply uncomfortable.
In terms of status, the young master outranked him, but the deputy leader was a key figure in the merchant group, having long guarded these caravans. In such cases, the younger one should yield first with polite deference to smooth things over. But the young master showed not the slightest concern.
There were limits to obliviousness! The deputy leader occasionally shot glares—not outright, but pointed enough. Telling him not to mind would only prompt, "How can I not?" Perhaps this was the young master's rebellion against the group leader for sending him on this caravan. If he was using them in some power struggle with the group leader?
Ah, they all shook their heads. No one thought the young master that scheming.
Amid the surrounding murmurs, Cheon-woo focused solely on his training and instruction.
"Your breathing's off."
"Forget how hard it is—everyone's staring at us!"
"You're not the type to care about that."
"True, but still."
Resentment was another matter. Ga-bok's usual creed was never make enemies. Especially with martial artists—it was best for one's safety to avoid friction. Merchants weighed profits, but warriors, once offended, acted irrationally without a second thought. The merchant group's own guards were no different, just varying in degree.
Why drag me into this!
The deputy leader held a vital position overseeing the caravan's protection. But position and status were distinct. No matter his skill, the heir to the merchant group was the young master. In the end, clashing with him brought the deputy leader no gain. He couldn't sabotage out of anger either.
Where that displeasure would turn was obvious.
I didn't ask for this!!
Ga-bok felt wronged. It was bad enough trailing the young master in this pointless endeavor, but now he faced the deputy leader's piercing glares too. It irked him—no one dared touch the young master, so he was the easy target for their venting.
What a petty bastard!
Cheon-woo dismissed Ga-bok's grievances as trivial. Insight and empathy differed in perspective. This wasn't a matter of life and death—just petty emotional squabbles. To the Paewang, who had crossed between life and death at every turn, it was childish whining.
Mu-myeong had a point.
For the shortest path of Mireok Paedo, he'd used foreknowledge to nip future evils in the bud. No room for improvement, punished for deeds not yet done. Efficiency had been paramount, of course. Left alone, they grew into troublesome poisons.
Yet his interventions hadn't always held; futures had shifted at times. In past regressions prioritizing Mireok Paedo, he'd ignored altered fates. He'd endured the ripples of change for dominance.
No memory of it.
Cheon-woo knew nothing of Ga-bok's future. Across 100 regressions, he'd never heard it. Despite growing up like brothers since childhood, no recollection after his return. Fled or dead. Ga-bok's slippery demeanor suggested the former, but the latter was possible.
Ga-bok's choice didn't matter. Whatever Mu-myeong's intent, the path diverged from past lives. Repeating flows meant repeating regressions. Fittingly, Ga-bok became the breaking point.
Moreover, despite his whining, he'd kept pace even with double the load. Contrary to appearances, talent lurked. Odd that such a one had been overlooked.
Cheon-woo decided to give Ga-bok a chance. Ga-bok's opinion, needless to say, didn't factor in. A servant followed his master's lead.
"Keep mindful of your breathing even after training ends."
"I'm dying here!"
"As I've said a hundred times, you won't."
"If I die, I'll haunt you as a ghost and curse you!"
"No need to go far—I'll show you hell right now."
"Heh heh, I must be delirious from exhaustion, young master. How dare I harbor ill thoughts toward you."
Look at this guy. He'd adapted quickly despite the pressure. His glib tongue alone showed promise. No inborn prodigy of sacred or heavenly bone, but a flexible jade body that absorbed like willow leaves.
He'd hidden it by slacking off whenever it got tough. Typical of those born with jade constitutions.
Fun to push.
Seizing the moment, Cheon-woo implanted Paewang Qi into Ga-bok's meridians, dictating his qi circulation path. Even the same art varied by build, constitution, muscles, bones, meridians. Heart methods formed the foundation of internal arts. Artificially setting that flow defied common sense.
That's why teachers guided sensing qi. Yet Cheon-woo forcibly shaped Ga-bok's path with Paewang Qi, controlling even his potential.
Human fates were complex, myriad. In a way, he'd taken Ga-bok's future hostage.
Even a cornered rat bites a cat, they say. Ga-bok vented his injustice.
"What if I master martial arts and become a powerhouse? Think you can handle me then?"
"Don't worry. Betray me, and you'll vomit blood from your seven orifices in agony."
"...Your jokes are terrifying."
"Heh heh heh."
"You sounded just like an evil archfiend!!"
They laughed it off, but the Paewang never lied. His words became reality.
With Paewang Qi implanted, betrayal's unlikely.
Infused with intent, it dominated qi flow. He could induce vomiting blood anytime. Useful for feigning release on a spy, then striking decisively.
Aside from the ruthless intent, Paewang Qi excelled for training. Directing qi and stimulating the body yielded incomparable gains.
Lucky bastard.
Future hostage or not, absent betrayal, no better method existed. Warriors pledged lives for such constraints to reach absolute mastery. A golden opportunity for Ga-bok.
Besides, the Paewang valued efficiency for Mireok Paedo. He never let danger sprout.
Training continued until they reached the edge of Sacheon Province. Tensions with the deputy leader remained unresolved. To Cheon-woo, it was practice; to others, eccentricity.
Repetitive motions without variation—penance or torture? Hard to tell. But Ga-bok's stamina impressed. Like the young master, a novice to the route, yet keeping pace with double the merchants' load warranted note.
Caravan constitution, perhaps, but the young master's guidance wasn't futile. Still, was it true martial training? Blind repetition alone wouldn't forge a warrior; beasts would be experts.
More likely Ga-bok hid endurance, feigning weakness to shirk work. Thus, the deputy leader and escorts eyed them unkindly. A poor state would excuse scolding, but his vigor twisted their guts.
I'm going mad too! Why's he fine every morning?
Ga-bok wanted to ham it up for the crowd. But no fooling the young master, and mornings brought rude health after near-death nights. Hard to complain when improvement was tangible.
Why am I getting healthier?
Training and abuse differed. Yet the abuse proved effective. He feared lifelong "training" in rude health.
Despite the unease, the caravan progressed smoothly. No disruptions or tyranny—just oddity. Merchants grumbled, but it didn't hinder business.
What a headache.
Complete the caravan unscathed, done. But the deputy manager bore the group leader's special order: reform the young master's flawed mindset. Sloth, weakness, indulgence—improved, yes. But this state? Problematic.
Blind eye? No. Return with him worse, whose fault? Not the low merchant's—he wasn't leading.
Maybe laziness was better.
Claim inability to fix sloth, face incompetence charges but some understanding. Unacceptable. The deputy manager reluctantly tried talking.
"Ahem! Young master!"
"Speak if you have something to say."
"How long do you plan this... training?"
"Is it hindering the caravan?"
"Not quite to that extent."
"Then we're good."
Not for me! The deputy leader signaled, merchants watched warily. The stifling discomfort festered inward. Age taught mastering inner fires—source of all ills. How so brazen?
Obliviousness had limits. Hints should prompt change. Arrogance warranted rebuke.
Can't back down now...
Started, must yield results. Unintended power struggle: caravan master? Me, not you low-rank!
Swoosh! Twitch!
Damn those eyes—words failed. No pressure or killing intent, just serene indifference.
"Young master, say the word if it's too hard."
"Understood."
Intent to press hard, words soft. The deputy manager turned away weakly.
Disappointed gazes stung, especially the deputy leader's awkward cough, amplifying awkwardness.
"Doesn't go as planned, eh?"
"You know so well—why not try yourself?"
"Nonsense. The young master's done no wrong. Or do you think warriors rampage without cause?"
"...My apologies."
Already humiliated, the warrior-pride jab stung. Unknown pettiness grated. Ultimately, he wouldn't dirty his hands.
Fell for it!
Should've provoked via Ga-bok's training, baiting warrior pride. Excuse enough without direct clash.
And he invokes warriors!
Face-saving, avoiding full feud. Why a mid-tier deputy with Flashflow Sword moniker? Knowing limits—or calculating.
Fool for trusting him.
Despite distaste, the deputy manager didn't scold. Realistically, right choice. Couldn't slash over dislike.
This shifted views of the young master. Enduring unease at his age? Unusual. Dismissible, but humans sensitive.
He's got backbone.
Better than spineless wavering. But potential for big trouble loomed. Internal now, but that attitude invited roots of disaster.
The deputy manager just hoped no incidents during the caravan.
Not completely clueless.
Young master toed no lines, so mind games ended. But when did the world ever bend to will?