Commission from the Sichuan Tang Clan (1)
Entering the manor's grand gate revealed a vast courtyard.
Impressive.
Seo Baek let out a long breath. It was merely a courtyard, yet it rivaled the entire expanse of Shika Manor.
That sprawling yard teemed with countless martial artists.
Even at a glance, the crowd surpassed two or three hundred strong.
With so many people came a dizzying array of weapons.
Swords and blades, spears, axes—of course, there were exotic ones too, like crescent halberds and bangcheonhwa polearms.
It was like wandering into a martial world armory exhibition.
Yet for all their variety, the weapons shared one chilling commonality: every martial artist's gaze was cold and sunken, laced with steel.
Seo Baek caught the murmur of voices rippling through the throng.
"How many are they picking, anyway?"
"Heard it's twenty at most."
"This many people, and only that? Damn it all."
If the talk held true, it was a one-in-ten shot at best.
Meaning everyone around him was a rival!
No wonder their nerves are on edge.
A scribe seated at a table was dutifully recording names on a ledger.
When their turn came, Seo Baek and Wang Yi Sam stepped forward.
"Name, affiliation, and your strongest martial art or weapon."
"Wang Yi Sam. No affiliation. Wield a broad dao."
"Seo Baek. No affiliation. Use a sword."
With nothing extra to add, their registration wrapped up swiftly.
As they turned to leave, mocking laughter drifted from the crowd.
"Hear that? No sect, no ties, and they think they can take on the Sichuan Tang Clan's commission!"
"Martial world's full of starving drifters like them."
"They're just sniffing for crumbs from the Tang Clan name, heh heh heh."
The jeerers were Jang Wu Myeong, third son of the Sichuan Jang Clan, and his entourage of swordsmen.
Jang Wu Myeong's fair, refined face and lavish silk robes screamed old money.
Worried Seo Baek might snap, Wang Yi Sam muttered,
"Ignore 'em. The Central Plains crawls with worthless scum like that."
"I know."
To his surprise, Seo Baek replied calmly and turned away.
Wang Yi Sam scratched his head, bemused.
The same kid who lopped off Yi Hyeol Bang's leader Jin Seok Pyeong's head in one stroke? Unpredictable guy.
Next up was Jang Wu Myeong.
"Jang Wu Myeong, third young master of the Jang Clan. I'd like to thank the Sichuan Tang Clan for this chance to demonstrate our Jang Clan Sword Technique."
He puffed up with arrogance.
The scribe didn't even glance up from the ledger.
"Next."
"What? You didn't even hear me?"
His cronies soothed the fuming Jang.
"Don't waste breath on a lowly clerk."
"Hmph, fine."
Jang Wu Myeong stalked off to the shade with his posse, strutting like lords.
"Even in these troubled times, flies like that flock here. Speaks to the Tang Clan's pull."
"Agreed."
Seo Baek nodded at Wang Yi Sam's words.
The third son of the Jang Clan, draped in fine silks and trailed by three swordsmen—he had no need to risk his neck for coin.
Clearly, Jang Wu Myeong was a rogue swordsman here to cozy up to the Sichuan Tang Clan.
"Those who finished registering, head to the sparring grounds."
At the scribe's call, the martial artists moved to the sparring area.
It lay beyond the right wall of the manor, wrapping around the back.
The sparring ground dwarfed even the courtyard. As fighters poured in, it still felt cavernous, empty spaces yawning wide.
"Could host a full martial congress here."
Wang Yi Sam whistled in awe.
Soon, the qualification trials began.
The overseer called four names from the ledger at a time.
"Take positions at the east, west, south, and north of the platform. Demonstrate your forms."
The four climbed up, spacing out at the cardinal points before unleashing their arts. Those with weapons drew them; the rest resorted to bare-hand strikes or kicks.
With so many applicants, time was tight—no lingering on full routines. The overseer jotted notes, then summoned the next batch.
"Well done. Next."
As they descended, four more ascended.
The crowd watched intently, sizing up rivals' skills.
But Seo Baek's eyes wandered elsewhere.
That overseer's a classic bureaucrat—no martial knowledge.
It struck him as suspicious.
The Sichuan Tang Clan staking their name on recruits, yet letting a paper-pusher judge warriors? Absurd.
He scanned the surroundings casually.
His gaze caught a third-floor window in a distant building, cracked open just so.
The real judge isn't the overseer. It's them.
Prime vantage over the platform.
Someone from the Tang Clan watching from that room.
Why hide and spy without showing their face?
As Seo Baek pondered, the overseer called Wang Yi Sam's name—but not his. Their turns split.
"Guess I'm up first."
"Give 'em hell."
The four took positions. The overseer barked,
"Begin."
At the eastern edge, Wang Yi Sam raised his broad dao vertically, blade skyward in ready stance. He stepped diagonally forward with his left foot, then swung.
Two-handed grips on the long-hilted chopper.
The heavy blade whistled crisply through the air.
Whoosh, whoosh, thrum, whoosh.
A broad dao's hilt was staff-like, its handling akin. Wang Yi Sam exploited that perfectly.
Forms leveraging the blade's weight for doubled devastation.
No flash, just efficient poise without waste.
His broad dao style was pure battlefield pragmatism.
Ideal for chaotic melees against hordes.
Moments later, the overseer called,
"Enough. Well done."
Wang Yi Sam descended, breathing hard.
The next four were named—including Seo Baek.
"I'll be off."
"Make it count."
Seo Baek set down his pack, hung only his sword from the rack, and mounted the platform.
At the east, he glanced at the third-floor room.
Knowing Tang eyes watched, his master's words echoed.
Never reveal the Shika Heart Method to Central Plains' upright sects unless your life demands it.
He'd obey any command, but that one felt impossible long-term. The Shika Heart Method would see Central Plains light someday.
Not today, though.
No need to unleash it on this petty stage—especially under Tang scrutiny.
Problem was, no Shika Heart Method meant no Shika Sword Technique either.
In that case...
Shing.
Seo Baek gripped his back-sheathed sword, raising it vertically, blade to sky. Left foot forward diagonally, he slashed.
The cut flowed into repeated forward thrusts.
Then knees bent, body low, spinning with a horizontal sweep.
The greatsword cleaved air with thunderous force.
Thrum, thrum, thrum-thrum, whoosh.
Yet something was off.
Seo Baek moved deliberately slow—even a layman could track and dodge his forms.
Child's play strikes.
His sluggish pace drew every eye.
Jang Wu Myeong's crew especially—doubling over in hysterics.
"What's with that guy? Swordplay that slow?"
"Martial arts or morning stretches?"
"Hahaha!"
Other fighters smirked at the spectacle. Desperate enough to try? Tang prestige was no joke.
But a few watched with sharper interest.
Wang Yi Sam topped them—stunned.
Seo Baek's forms mirrored his own broad dao demo exactly.
That's... my broad dao style?
He'd suspected from the ready stance.
And it was spot-on—no deviation.
Just two or three times slower.
That made it more astonishing.
Matching my broad dao with that massive sword?
His own dao was long and heavy, but Seo Baek's blade dwarfed it.
Wang Yi Sam couldn't imagine wielding that monster for broad dao forms.
With that sword? Impossible.
And not just mimicking—doing it slow.
Greatswords hated slow swings as much as wild flails.
Gravity aided fast drops from on high. But deliberate slowness? Constant tension against the weight.
Wrists, arms, a body forged in external training—or bust!
What a monster.
Wang Yi Sam shook his head in wry admiration.
Meanwhile, hidden eyes tracked Seo Baek.
From the third-floor room, far off.
Two figures: a mid-twenties youth, Dang Jo Jeong, and a mid-forties woman, Dang Hong—Tang Clan kin, she his aunt.
Dang Jo Jeong remarked on Seo Baek's display.
"The kid's copying the prior guy's saber style. Same sect? Looks young enough to be your junior uncle."
"Talk sense."
Dang Hong snapped.
"A junior aping his senior's art? Mocking who? Those so-called upright sects tolerate that insubordination?"
"Didn't think of that..."
Dang Jo Jeong trailed off, biting his lip.
Dang Hong pressed.
"What'd you glean from the boy's saber?"
"Weight. Kid's young, but his external training's solid."
"Idiot. That's why your progress lags."
"Huh?"
"Not weight—speed! He's concealing swift-sword mastery."
"But no inner energy traces. Just brute muscle..."
"Right now, yes—pure external. But in a real fight? He'll tap his heart method."
Dang Jo Jeong's eyes widened.
"He's deceiving us?"
"Cunning little snake."
Dang Hong's serpentine gaze slithered over Seo Baek.
"Hiding sect, heart method, sword essence. Daring to fool the Sichuan Tang Clan."
"...!"
Dang Jo Jeong blinked, then asked,
"Mark him special on the ledger?"
"No need."
Dang Hong's lips curled slyly.
"Once this job's done, no one's surviving anyway."
The trials dragged half a day before concluding.
The overseer returned from somewhere and announced the passers before the crowd.
Twenty in total. Meager against the two-to-three hundred gathered.
Seo Baek and Wang Yi Sam made the list.
"We both passed!"
"Good."
The overseer continued,
"We depart at midnight tonight. All passers, assemble here."
Tonight, at the hour of the rat—no delays.
The Tang Clan's errand brooked zero tardiness. Urgency incarnate.