The Drunken Breakthrough
Once the treatment was finished, Liscal led Muslan away.
“Never thought I’d see you end up in this room,” Liscal said as he showed him inside.
It was a room reserved only for gladiators who won their matches. Victory earned them the right to stay in a private cell until the next fight. Though small, it had a bed and a toilet. Best of all, the shackles were completely removed.
“The Illimas will come by every few days to clean. At least… your life has been extended until the next match. Once your body recovers, you’ll be allowed to use the training grounds. Just don’t do anything that draws attention. The other slaves here hate anyone with your kind of background. The fact that I don’t lay a hand on you doesn’t mean they won’t. The lowest of them are prone to doing things that make no sense.”
The Illimas were the slave laborers who worked permanently in the arena. Their main job was picking up coins that fell during matches. The odd-eyed girl who had given Muslan information was one of them.
Thud!
Liscal tossed a coin pouch onto the bed.
“This is what you earned from today’s match. If you want to survive the next one… you’d better eat well and move around enough to fix that weak body of yours. You made some money today, so it should be possible.”
In the arena, money could buy anything—food, better rooms, even women.
Yet the gladiators who survived and eventually escaped this place never wasted their earnings. They used the money to buy good equipment, hire instructors to refine their techniques, or bring in renowned physicians when injured. That was how they improved their odds of survival.
Muslan, however, had no intention of spending the money that way.
Eating well? It mattered a little. But it wasn’t urgent right now. The room was good enough. Quiet—perfect for training.
So, just as planned, he picked up the coin pouch. The stitched tongue made speaking incredibly difficult, yet he could still talk. After all, it hadn’t been bitten clean off.
“I’ll buy something now.”
“What do you want? You’d better think carefully. Changing rooms won’t improve the meals they serve.”
“Alcohol.”
“What?”
Liscal’s face twisted in disbelief.
“Give me alcohol!”
“What? You want alcohol?”
“Yes. Alcohol.”
“You’re insane. Completely out of your mind.”
“Can’t I buy it?”
“You can. Even the cheapest bottle costs one galand. You still want it?”
“Give it to me.”
Liscal pulled one galand from the pouch. He glared at Muslan for a moment, then muttered under his breath.
“Well… I suppose that’s one way to go out.”
But Muslan stopped him and pulled out more coins.
“Exchange all of it for alcohol.”
“……”
Liscal’s gaze turned ice-cold. He shook his head slowly.
“You really have lost it.”
A short while later, an Illima brought cheap fruit wine. Muslan accepted the bottles and quietly sat in a lotus position.
This was where it began.
The reason he had asked for the wine was because of the nature of the Chwihyeon-gyeong technique. It was a rare art even in the murim world, one that used heat as its medium to enhance physical abilities.
In particular, the Chwihyeon-gyeong relied on the energy of alcohol to raise the body’s internal heat. Forming a dantian in this world’s qi environment was no easy task, but with the power of alcohol, it wasn’t impossible.
He intended to drink heavily and use the resulting intoxication. Yet the alcohol didn’t affect him as expected. The body’s previous owner had rarely drunk.
Muslan saw this as an opportunity instead. The energy of alcohol was ultimately a form of poison. A body without tolerance was actually better for forming a dantian.
If he had been completely ignorant of martial arts, this method would have been impossible. But he had been a master in his previous life. There was nothing he could not do.
Muslan sat cross-legged on the bed, his expression grave. He had been attempting to form a dantian repeatedly, and even with the help of alcohol, it was proving far from easy.
Because the Chwihyeon-gyeong used alcohol, practitioners were taught to drink from a young age. But the original owner of this body had clearly disliked liquor. Even a small amount sent intoxication flooding through his entire frame.
That part was fine. In fact, it was exactly what he wanted. The stronger the alcohol’s energy, the easier it became to cultivate the Chwihyeon-gyeong. The real problem was the flow of qi in this place.
‘It’s this violent? This isn’t just strong—it’s outright savage.’
It truly was. The qi here was like a ping-pong ball that could fly off in any direction—powerful, but nearly impossible to control.
The saving grace was that the Chwihyeon-gyeong possessed the know-how to tame such wild energy. Since it was a technique that cultivated qi through potent alcohol from the very beginning, adaptation came more easily than expected.
Sweat poured down like he was in a sauna, then cooled, only to repeat. Though he appeared to be sitting still with his eyes closed, a war was raging inside him.
“Huuu…”
His breathing exercise continued until dawn. At last, Muslan let out a long sigh.
He had crossed a great mountain.
Though faint, he had succeeded in forming a dantian. His eyes gleamed sharply.
By murim standards, it was a pitifully small dantian. But achieving it in such a harsh environment where qi ran rampant was no small feat.
Muslan’s breathing exercise continued even into the morning.
He had been dozing lightly, feeling the subtle energy within his dantian. Morning light was approaching, but he paid it little mind. When the sun fully rose, Liscal came to find him.
“You actually drank all that…”
Liscal clicked his tongue. He looked at Muslan with a pitying gaze.
“Get up. Don’t tell me you need someone to carry you.”
“I don’t.”
“At least your mind’s still working. I was wondering if I’d have to use the whip.”
At Liscal’s urging, Muslan slowly rose to his feet.
Liscal immediately took him to see the physician.
“How does it look?”
Liscal asked. The physician sat examining Muslan’s tongue.
“He’s lucky. It’s healing cleanly. Maybe because he’s young—his recovery is impressive. Did he drink troll blood or something? How did it close so fast?”
“Good. I was worried it might cause problems.”
“If you’re worried, feed him well. From now on, just make sure he eats properly. But what’s this smell I’ve been noticing?”
“It’s alcohol, obviously.”
“Liscal, are you drinking again? During work hours? Are you mad?”
“Of course not.”
Liscal gestured toward Muslan with his chin. The physician looked between them, then glared at Liscal.
“Then what in the world is this man? You gave alcohol to someone whose tongue was nearly cut off? Are you in your right mind?”
The physician exploded in anger.
“Why would I do that? He asked for it himself. Said he wanted to trade all the money he earned from Zakru for alcohol.”
“Insane. So that’s why he looks half-drunk?”
“I don’t know how much he drank. He took eight bottles of Luban’s brew, so he couldn’t have finished them all. Maybe one bottle?”
“You mean that stuff where even one glass leaves you in hell the next day?”
“That’s the one.”
“Madness. Absolute madness. You just let him drink it?”
“I only follow orders. The owner told me not to touch him. And this fellow had every right to request alcohol. I’m not asking for special treatment. So, can he fight?”
“It’s strange how steady he looks after drinking Luban’s brew. His tongue’s healed too.”
“That’s why I’m asking. When can he return to the arena?”
“Hah. In that condition?”
“There’s no rule saying you can’t fight while drunk.”
Liscal stared at the physician. The man fell silent.
“Tell me honestly. The audience liked his face and wants to see him again.”
“He does have a face worth watching. In that case, why not properly raise him?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“If I told you the story behind him, Physician, you probably wouldn’t be able to eat for a day. Still want to hear it?”
“…Never mind.”
The physician was curious, but he stopped asking. If Liscal said that much, it had to be something truly stomach-turning.
The arena’s essence was selling violence and death. It was a place where slaves under his care died right before his eyes. Even the physician who worked there had grown numb to most things. How much worse must it be for Liscal?
“When can he fight?”
“He can fight right now. He walked here on his own, didn’t he? Boxing only requires standing up, right?”
Liscal let out a short laugh.
“You’re halfway to being an expert yourself, Physician.”
Because he hadn’t expected much, he wasn’t particularly surprised. After visiting the physician, Liscal told him he had to fight immediately.
‘He’s telling me to die quickly in the arena.’
That only strengthened his resolve.
His goal in this life.
To live for himself.
In the murim world, he had lived too much for others. As the military strategist of the two great powers that divided the murim, the Blood God’s Banner, he had been betrayed by the lord he served and lost his life.
At least he had chosen his own end, so he held no lingering attachment to that world. Then what should he do in this new life he had been reborn into?
One thing was certain.
‘Escape this slave status.’
He decided to accomplish that goal first—the one he had already set for himself.
Muslan rose calmly from his seat.
“You’re taking that with you?”
Liscal asked, eyeing the wine bottle.
“Am I not allowed to?”
“Well… there’s no rule against it. Why not carry it straight into the arena?”
“Is that permitted?”
“That’s not allowed. It could cause an accident. Just take it as far as the entrance.”
“Understood.”
“Ah! Wait. This might actually help you win the crowd’s favor. Throw that bottle into the stands. The audience will love it.”
“Is that allowed?”
“Some gladiators throw their equipment into the crowd after a fight. It leaves a deep impression. Of course, it only means anything if you survive. Go ahead. You’ll be the first to bring alcohol into the arena, and throwing the bottle into the stands will make an even stronger impression.”
It was clearly sarcastic. Muslan knew it, but he didn’t react strongly.
He had formed even a faint dantian. There was nothing left to fear. He intended to survive again, defying Liscal’s expectations once more.
Liscal seemed to read his thoughts and muttered one last line.
“This time, you’d better not count on luck.”