First Sword of Samhan vs First Fist of Namyang
The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I stood on one side of the training ground, wooden sword in hand, while across from me loomed a mountain of a man with fists the size of my head. The First Sword of Samhan versus the First Fist of Namyang. The title alone sounded like something out of a cheap martial arts novel, yet here I was, living it.
Why the hell did I agree to this again? I thought, already regretting every life choice that had led me to this moment. My body might belong to some legendary swordsman now, but my brain was still very much that of a modern-day shut-in who preferred gaming marathons over actual combat.
The crowd surrounding the training ground was massive. Nobles, warriors, servants, even a few curious monks had gathered to witness this spectacle. Whispers rippled through them like wind through bamboo.
“This is it… the clash between the greatest sword and the greatest fist in the region.”
“I bet my entire fortune on the First Fist. No way a skinny sword like that can withstand those iron fists.”
“Idiot. The First Sword of Samhan has never lost a duel. Never.”
I tuned them out. My grip tightened on the wooden blade. It felt strangely natural in my hands, like the muscle memory of this possessed body was slowly waking up. Still, my heart hammered like a drum in my chest.
Across from me, the First Fist of Namyang—a hulking brute named Pa Chun—cracked his knuckles with a sound like breaking tree branches. His eyes burned with pure fighting spirit. No tricks, no schemes. Just raw, honest brawling intent. I almost respected the guy.
Almost.
“Ready?” he boomed, voice carrying across the entire field.
I gave a small nod. No fancy speeches. No dramatic declarations. Just get this over with so I could crawl back to my room and pretend none of this ever happened.
Then he moved.
One moment he was standing still. The next, the ground exploded beneath his feet as he launched forward like a human cannonball. His fist cut through the air with a low, thunderous whoosh that made my hair stand on end.
Shit. He’s fast.
My body reacted before my brain could catch up. The wooden sword rose in a smooth arc, deflecting the punch with a sharp crack. The impact jolted all the way up my arm and into my shoulder. It felt like I’d tried to block a charging bull.
Pa Chun didn’t stop. He spun, throwing another punch, then another. Each one heavier than the last. I danced backward, parrying desperately. Wood met flesh with dull thuds that echoed across the training ground.
The crowd roared.
This isn’t a duel. This is a goddamn boss fight.
I could feel it now—the power sleeping inside this body. The original owner of this shell had been a monster. A genius with the blade. But I was still me. Lazy. Out of shape. More familiar with keyboard shortcuts than sword forms.
Yet something was stirring. A faint heat in my lower abdomen. Qi? Inner energy? Whatever the hell they called it in this crazy alternate-history Korea.
Pa Chun grinned, teeth flashing. “Not bad, sword boy! But you’re too passive! Come at me!”
He dropped into a low stance, fists raised like twin battering rams. The air around him seemed to shimmer with raw power. I recognized the stance immediately from the rumors. Thunder God’s Iron Fist. One of the most destructive techniques in the Namyang region.
If that thing connected cleanly, I was done. Wooden sword or not, my arm would probably snap like a chopstick.
Okay. Fine. You want aggressive? I’ll give you aggressive.
I exhaled slowly, letting the strange energy flow through me. The wooden sword suddenly felt lighter. My feet moved on their own, sliding into a perfect stance I didn’t remember learning.
Then I charged.
The distance between us vanished in a blink. My blade flashed in a silver arc aimed straight for his shoulder. Pa Chun’s eyes widened in surprise, but he was no amateur. He twisted, slamming his forearm into the path of my sword.
CRACK!
The wooden blade shattered on impact. Splinters flew everywhere. The crowd gasped.
I was left holding nothing but a broken hilt.
Pa Chun laughed loudly. “Looks like your sword wasn’t up to the task after all!”
He drew back his fist for the finishing blow. The air screamed around his knuckles. This was it. The Thunder God’s Iron Fist in full force.
But I was smiling.
Because the moment the sword broke, something inside me had snapped into place. Like a lock finally opening.
Oh. So that’s how it works.
I dropped the broken hilt and stepped inside his range. Too close for a proper punch. My palm shot forward, striking his chest with perfect timing.
It wasn’t a powerful blow. Not even close to his strength.
But it was perfectly placed.
Pa Chun’s eyes bulged. He staggered back, coughing violently. The massive surge of energy he’d gathered for his ultimate technique suddenly rebounded inside his own body.
“What… what did you—”
I didn’t give him time to recover. My fist—now reinforced with that strange flowing energy—slammed into his solar plexus. Not with brute force. With precision. With the kind of control only a true master could manage.
Or, in my case, a lazy bastard who’d somehow hijacked a master’s body.
Pa Chun flew backward like he’d been hit by a truck. He crashed into the training ground’s wooden fence, smashing straight through it before skidding to a halt in a cloud of dust.
Silence fell over the entire area.
Then the crowd erupted.
I stood there, breathing hard, staring at my own hand in disbelief. The energy was already fading, leaving behind a pleasant warmth and a strange sense of satisfaction.
Did I… just win?
Pa Chun slowly pushed himself up from the wreckage. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he was grinning like a madman.
“Haha… hahaha! Incredible! I’ve never felt anything like that before!” He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. “You really are the First Sword of Samhan. No… you’re even more than that.”
He bowed deeply, fists clasped in respect.
“This Pa Chun admits defeat. I look forward to our next match, true master.”
The surrounding warriors and nobles began cheering wildly. Some were crying. Others were already running off to spread the news. I could already imagine the headlines in tomorrow’s gossip circles.
The Reclusive Master Strikes Again.
I just wanted to go home and take a nap.
As I turned to leave the training ground, a familiar voice called out from the crowd.
“Young Master!”
It was her. The girl who’d been following me around like a lost puppy ever since I woke up in this body. Her eyes were sparkling with admiration, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Behind her stood several other women I recognized. Each one more beautiful than the last. Each one looking at me with varying degrees of obsession.
Ah, crap. The harem complications are starting already.
I sighed deeply and scratched the back of my head.
This alternate universe was turning out to be way more troublesome than I’d expected.
Flowing Cloud Palm
A soft counter-technique that redirects the opponent's own force against them. The true First Sword of Samhan's signature move. Perfectly executed despite the user's internal screaming.
I turned away from the cheering crowd and began walking back toward my secluded residence. The weight of countless gazes followed me, but I didn’t care.
Just let me sleep for three days straight. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently it was. Because as I reached the courtyard, I noticed a new group of visitors waiting for me. Their clothes marked them as officials from the capital. Important ones.
One of them stepped forward, bowing deeply.
“Honored First Sword of Samhan. The Emperor requests your presence at the royal palace. There is a matter of national importance that requires your… unique talents.”
I stared at him blankly.
National importance? Unique talents?
This was getting out of hand. I was supposed to be a reclusive master, damn it. Not some errand boy for the imperial court.
But as I looked at the expectant faces around me—and the beautiful, dangerously devoted women slowly closing in—I realized something important.
Laziness was no longer an option.
Not if I wanted to survive this crazy world.
I let out a long, suffering sigh.
“Fine. Let’s go see what the emperor wants.”
Inside my head, the original owner of this body seemed to chuckle with amusement.
You’ve got this, you lazy bastard. Just don’t screw it up.