The Gift of Breath
“Huh? Oh! Right.”
“Tell Chira to ease up on his strength a bit.”
“Strength?”
“Yes. He’s holding a weapon, after all. Too little force is a problem, but too much is just as bad.”
Muslan rose again and demonstrated. His swordplay flowed smoothly from one motion to the next. At a glance, it almost resembled a dance.
Yet it was no dance. When the moment demanded it, every strike landed with decisive impact. Anyone who truly understood combat would have been stunned by the display. So much meaning was packed into those simple movements.
Obben and Isaac watched, and certainty settled over them. Muslan was far more skilled than they had imagined. And they had stumbled upon extraordinary fortune.
From that day on, Isaac and Obben trained with renewed hunger, desperate to learn even a little more. Muslan, despite his still-broken body, pushed himself to teach them.
“Hah… hah…”
Isaac collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving. Evening was approaching. Most gladiator slaves trained like madmen, but these three did not. They never knew when they might be dragged out to fight. Overexertion could leave them bedridden for days—and in the arena, that meant death. So they trained with measured intensity, taking every precaution against injury.
“You pushed too hard.”
“You did too.”
Isaac and Obben exchanged weary glances. Chira had already passed out long ago.
“My legs are going to be shaking for days.”
Even as they grumbled, their faces looked strangely refreshed—like men who had just broken through a wall they had been staring at for years.
“If we ever get out of here, what would you two want to do?”
“Getting sold to another arena…”
“No. I mean if you were no longer a gladiator slave.”
“Never really thought about it. Living in the empire as a foreigner isn’t easy.”
Obben spoke first.
“Mercenary.”
Isaac’s answer was short and immediate.
“Mercenary?”
“If I stop being a gladiator, that’s the only thing I know how to do. I’m good at fighting. I could turn to crime, but living that way in the empire is too dangerous. You’d be risking your life every day. Though… we’re already doing that now.”
“Crime, huh…”
“Yeah. Being a mercenary is better than being a criminal.”
“Is that your dream?”
“Dream? Not really. The best outcome would be becoming a noble mercenary, but… that’s impossible from the start.”
The empire was a rigid class society. Even among mercenaries, treatment depended on birth. Those of noble blood commanded high prices and were usually former knights.
“If that’s the case, becoming a vassal would be better than a noble mercenary. Find a decent house, swear fealty, get a home of your own. With luck, maybe even marry.”
Obben laughed as he spoke, clearly enjoying the fantasy.
“But that’s just a dream. Being a regular mercenary would be good enough. Anyway, why are you asking all of a sudden?”
“Because I won’t be staying here.”
Isaac and Obben both grinned—not mockingly, but with genuine warmth.
“Yeah. You’ll make it. Your popularity’s already ridiculous. Just don’t waste your money. Save it. There have been cases of slaves buying their freedom here.”
“How rare is it?”
“One in a thousand? Maybe more? Isaac, what do you think?”
“Rare. Very rare. First you have to survive. Not just survive—survive in one piece. Like me. Even then, finding mercenary work won’t be easy.”
Isaac smiled as he gestured at his missing arm. The bright expression only made the bitterness sharper.
“Even reaching that point would be a success. At least you could live without starving.”
“Is paying your own price that difficult?”
“You have to pay five times what you were sold for. That’s Airs’ rule. If you keep winning, it’s not impossible to save that much. The problem is actually saving it. Everything here costs money. Proper food, proper treatment—everything. So most people don’t even try. They aim for one thing instead.”
“What?”
“The big matches. The really big ones. If you become popular enough to fight in the final bout on a special day, that’s it. The prize money is enormous. I’ve heard gold coins rain down.”
“That dangerous, though. The opponents would be desperate too.”
“And strong. But you don’t have to worry about that, Muslan. Just keep saving from now on. Buy your own freedom. Since you’re in the Catterpil division, you can stick to boxing and earn steadily. You know what you have to do for that?”
“Cut down on drinking?”
“Not drinking at all would be even better.”
Isaac smiled innocently.
Muslan watched the two chatting during their rest and made a decision. He had met countless people in the martial world and possessed a keen eye for character. Isaac and Obben were not the sort to betray him easily—even when lives were at stake.
So he decided to give them one more gift.
“How do you control your breathing during a fight?”
Both men’s eyes widened.
“Breathing?”
“Yes. Breathing.”
“Does something like that even exist? Breathing techniques are for knights and above.”
“I happen to know a few methods.”
“You’re going to teach us? A breathing technique?”
“It’s nothing grand. Don’t worry.”
“Really?”
The technique Muslan taught them was the Innate Heart Art, one of the secret arts of the Chwiseon Gate. Though called a secret art, it was remarkably simple to learn. Unlike ordinary martial arts, its purpose was not to accumulate and wield internal energy.
The Innate Heart Art did not draw upon energy stored in the dantian. Instead, it used the vital force every human possessed from birth—the primordial true energy. It simply borrowed a portion of that innate power.
Most martial artists would have been horrified at the idea of using primordial energy so casually. For them, it was a last resort, a desperate measure that could leave one crippled. It was power used only when prepared to die.
Yet the Innate Heart Art did not consume it so recklessly. It merely drew upon a small fraction of the user’s own primordial energy. Because of this, its effects were far weaker than true martial arts. The limit was clear from the start.
Those born with abundant innate energy would see greater results. Records spoke of people displaying several times their normal physical ability. Those born weak, however, would notice little difference.
Moreover, the technique could not be sustained for long. At best, it lasted mere seconds. Using it too often also drained stamina rapidly. In essence, it was a method of burning one’s own vitality to produce a brief surge of strength.
That was why serious martial artists rarely bothered with it. The drawbacks were too obvious.
Still, the Innate Heart Art had undeniable advantages. It was extremely easy to learn. Once the breathing pattern was mastered, it could be used immediately. There was also no risk of energy deviation, since no internal energy was being cultivated or circulated.
Muslan passed the technique to Isaac and Obben, calling it simply “a breathing method passed down in the Maran Kingdom.”
Fortunately, both men grasped the effects almost at once.
They’re quicker than I expected. Both of them are sharper than they appear—and they already understand how to use their bodies properly.
“This feels strange… Why does it feel like more power is flowing in?”
“That’s the power of the breathing.”
Isaac and Obben looked bewildered. They had only changed the way they breathed, yet their strength had clearly increased.
“Once you grow accustomed to it, you’ll be able to draw out even more. The downside is that you tire faster. Use it sparingly.”
“Muslan… this technique…”
Obben’s voice trailed off, his single eye gleaming.
“What is it?”
“Is this like a mana breathing technique?”
“No. If it were mana breathing, strange light would be coming out of your eyes.”
Isaac immediately refuted him.
“Ah… right.”
“Exactly. This isn’t mana breathing. Mana breathing lets you sense and use mana, like mages do.”
Mana breathing was a method of enhancing the body with mana, typically used by skilled knights. In the arena, however, it was strictly forbidden. Matches involving mana users would be too dangerous for the spectators.
“I see. So if it’s not mana breathing, how does it make us stronger?”
“Simple. Obben, imagine you just ran ten laps around the training ground at full speed.”
“The training ground?”
“Yes. Ten laps would leave you exhausted, wouldn’t it?”
“If I ran at full speed, sure.”
“Now swing your sword in that state. Could you put real power into it?”
“?”
Isaac and Obben looked at each other, then fell silent as they pictured the scenario. They had experienced it countless times. When your lungs were burning and your breath was ragged, strength simply wouldn’t come.
“Could you?”
Muslan pressed.
“No. I couldn’t.”
“Then think about the opposite.”
“The opposite? Ah… the opposite of being out of breath?”
“Exactly. If ragged breathing weakens you, then steady, powerful breathing can strengthen you. This technique isn’t magic or mana breathing. It’s simply a way to channel more of the breath you already have into raw power. The cost is that you tire quickly.”
“Ah… so you’re saying you exhale more forcefully?”
“That’s right.”
“Then… could we use this breathing while running too?”
“You’d run faster.”
“……”
“……”
After hearing the explanation, Obben and Isaac stared at each other in stunned silence.
“This… this isn’t an ordinary gift. This is a secret technique you couldn’t buy even with money. Are you sure it’s all right to teach us?”
“He’s right. This is…”
“I’ve already taught it. Are you going to take it back? I told you—I’m leaving this place. So don’t give up either. When I go, we’re all going together.”
The Catterpil boxer who had only fought three matches. By experience alone, he was far beneath Isaac and Obben.
Yet there was undeniable weight in Muslan’s words. Isaac and Obben’s eyes grew solemn. A dream they had long abandoned began to stir once more in their chests.