Tang Clansman, Do-gyeong, and Tang Do-gyeong

Yap! Yap!

Young Tang Do-gyeong was diligently drilling fist, palm, and kick forms. The Tang Family Eight Fists he already knew by heart. The kicks that followed were the Twelve Viper Kicks. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Last came the palm method he was only mimicking in shape—the Seven Soul Palm Method.

Tang Do-gyeong watched his younger self and looked around.

The same buildings stretched on without end. Every member of the Tang Family lived in structures of identical design; equal treatment, in other words. Far beyond those uniform roofs rose a great academy hall.

At some point his father, Tang Mun-gi, appeared practicing the same fist-palm-kick forms beside him.

Father.

Both Tang Mun-gi and the boy wore the brightest of smiles. Tang Do-gyeong smiled too.

Time passed.

Tang Do-gyeong still practiced fist, palm, and kick in the same place. Tang Mun-gi no longer did. He merely stood.

Tang Do-gyeong knew why. After losing to the main bloodline, his father had truly set the fist aside because he no longer wished to sow discord inside the Tang Family. With no rivals left in Sichuan, the poison arts and hidden-weapon techniques designed purely to kill had become less useful than the versatile, easily controlled fist-palm-kick arts for managing the clan’s territories.

He knew that the Tang Family, which for centuries had refined and preserved its hidden weapons and poisons, now stood on the brink of having its very foundation overturned.

He knew that the ones who earned titles were the martial artists who used fist-palm-kick, while those of the main line who trained only in hidden weapons and poisons remained shut away inside the Tang Family Estate, never making a name for themselves, only polishing their arts in silence.

He knew it was not that the Tang Family’s fist-palm-kick arts were superior; it was simply that the environment favored them. That was why his father had won renown and flourished—because there had been no room for the clan’s hidden weapons and poisons to take the stage.

He knew all of it.

His father had challenged the main bloodline of his own will, to quench the swelling discontent of the branch lines and to make unmistakably clear what the Tang Family’s true mainstay arts were—and how strong those arts truly were.

At first it had been nothing more than youthful bravado. Having trained fist-palm-kick beside his father, he had sworn that even if Father had lost, this Tang Do-gyeong would prove that his father’s fist-palm-kick had never been wrong.

While the child grew, the times changed. The Tang Family had always been one family. Whatever friction existed between main and branch lines, it was never a wound that could not be closed. Once the clan’s territories stabilized, some branch houses became merchant houses; the wealth flowing from the expanded lands gave even the main bloodline the means to fling expensive non-lethal hidden weapons and make names for themselves.

That was when resentment toward the Tang Family began to take root in him.

The memory of that day remained vivid to Tang Do-gyeong, yet wherever he looked everyone had simply forgotten and was smiling. His father had become a merchant of the Tang Family’s commercial branch, and the fist-palm-kick arts remained exactly as they were. The newly prosperous clan developed fresh hidden weapons by the day; everyone laughed and chattered while they rushed to train the new techniques.

I will create the fist art that represents the Tang Family.

That was the vow the boy Tang Do-gyeong made. It was also the moment he first felt the limits of the Tang Family’s fist-palm-kick, and the moment he completely emptied his sleeves of the hidden weapons he had trained with for so long.

And so the boy stepped into the murim.

An underage scion of the Tang Family stirring up trouble in every direction threw Sichuan into an uproar overnight. Tang Do-gyeong received countless scoldings and paid them no mind. Sparring matches tempered his martial arts. Unsatisfied with the Tang Family’s fist-palm-kick, he chose to invent new arts through real combat.

Young Tang Do-gyeong slipped out at every opportunity; that was how he grew, and how he earned the title Fighting Dog.

Withered roots, weak plant.

Tang Do-gyeong asked himself whether he was truly a weak plant. No. He was not. He was already a strong man. Reaching the Super-Peak Realm at his age was an achievement only a handful of prodigies from the Nine Great Sects or the Five Great Clans ever managed.

Had the Tang Family’s fist-palm-kick truly been lacking?

No.

Objectively, the Tang Family’s fist-palm-kick arts were powerful enough. They simply looked inferior when set beside the hidden-weapon and poison arts that could rightly be called the finest under heaven.

Haha. In the end my roots were the Tang Family after all.

Even the Fierce Tiger Fist was nothing more than a power-oriented fist style. The Tang Family Eight Fists lacked the principles that belonged to pure strength; delicate hand skill was what mattered for hidden weapons, and the two did not mix.

The boy Tang Do-gyeong became the young man Tang Do-gyeong, stubbornly glaring as he poured out nothing but hard fists. Watching himself smile in satisfaction at that ferocious power, he suddenly felt that everything else had vanished.

Only the arrogantly smiling Tang Do-gyeong remained.

The Tang Family Estate was gone. The countless people inside it were gone. His father, who had waited for him in silent worry. Tang Dok-gi, who had scolded ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him and still waited. Tang Do-yeon, who had shed tears. Tang Do-yul, who had clenched his fists without a word. Even little Tang Ryeo-a, who had always shouted that her big brother was the best.

He blinked once, and Tang Do-gyeong was gone. Only a withered tree stood there—rotting bark, dry heartwood, a worthless trunk.

“Was this truly the landscape I wanted?”

No.

Tang Do-gyeong imagined the landscape he had truly desired.

Young Tang Do-gyeong appeared, practicing fist arts. Beside him stood his father. Tang Do-gyeong gave a short laugh. Father and the boy training the Fierce Tiger Fist together—an impossible scene.

Yet that was exactly what Tang Do-gyeong had wanted.

He began to move, slowly, very slowly. The single fist he drove into empty air was no longer the Tang Family Eight Fists, nor was it the Fierce Tiger Fist.

Family was precious.

Yet the Fierce Tiger Fist he had cultivated his entire life was precious too. Born a man of the Tang Family, he had stubbornly avoided hidden weapons and polished the fist instead.

But that fist—the Fierce Tiger Fist—was Tang Do-gyeong the martial artist himself.

The roots of the Tang Family Eight Fists and the trunk of the Fierce Tiger Fist began to mesh.

Behind Tang Do-gyeong, who now unfolded a fist art that could no longer be named either one or the other, a tree that had at last found its roots cast off its rotting bark, filled its dried interior anew, and began, little by little, to grow into a great tree.

“Senior! Senior, wake up!”

Black Cat burst into my room and shook me awake. My head throbbed, my body ached; I felt roughly the way one does after drinking far past one’s limit. Toxins seemed to be circulating through every limb…

“Tang Do-gyeong has achieved enlightenment!”

“What?!”

I shot upright. My legs trembled, but I staggered outside and found the nangin gathered in a circle around Tang Do-gyeong.

Watching him lost in enlightenment in the middle of the first floor left my thoughts in chaos. Why had the man who had been shut up in his room come downstairs? Had he tried to slip away at dawn and then suddenly broken through?

No—that wasn’t the point.

My body had no strength and my head pounded so hard that clear thought was difficult, but there was still something I had to do.

I gathered my materials and approached. The nangin standing guard immediately blocked me.

“Move.”

“Brother Ho, you know perfectly well that contact during enlightenment can be dangerous—or shatter the insight itself.”

“I know. But this is necessary right now.”

They hesitated, then opened a path. They knew I had no reason to harm Tang Do-gyeong.

I set a table in front of him and spread out every prop I had prepared.

Then I began to perform my gambling techniques, one by one.

I was small.

As he unfolded and refined the fist art that had become something nameless, Tang Do-gyeong lamented. His ambition had been no larger than a grain of millet. What had he hoped to accomplish with a vessel so tiny it could not even hold all of Tang Do-gyeong himself?

The Tang Family’s senior figures would continue to fret. To them, Tang Do-gyeong—who kept picking at a wound that had finally closed—must look like a child waving a torch in front of a powder magazine.

Yes. That was exactly right.

Tang Do-gyeong had been no better than a child.

If the one holding the torch in front of the powder magazine had not been a child but a man everyone could trust—a true hero—would the seniors have tried so hard to snatch the torch away even while he held it?

That was why they had sought to restrain him and take the torch from his hand.

Walking the path of the fist inside the Tang Family had never been easy. Yet had he ever charged in as a boy because he thought it would be easy? Had the Tang Family he saw while growing up ever given him the impression that the task would be simple?

Rather, the young Tang Do-gyeong had been the adult.

The ambition to create the Tang Family’s representative fist art, the dream of training the fist together with his father—those things had only grown smaller as the years passed, the clan changed, and Tang Do-gyeong himself matured.

In the end he had become nothing more than a petty foot soldier, clinging to a single meager martial art and obsessed only with completing it.

Faced with the hardships of reality, the size of his dream had shrunk and shrunk until only something wretched and unrecognizable remained.

Yes—exactly like a twisted tree with rotting bark and a dried-out heart.

A solitary withered trunk left standing on a barren hill whose own roots he had severed.

I rejected the hidden-weapon arts.

Tang Do-gyeong knew. Anyone of the Tang Family who surrounded him knew.

He possessed an extraordinary talent. His natural martial aptitude shone even in fist arts, yet as a true son of the Tang Family his gift was specialized for hidden weapons.

A child who could throw a hidden blade and strike the tiles held in another’s sleeve, snatching them away—that was no ordinary talent, even for Tang blood.

Fist arts were fist arts; hidden-weapon arts were hidden-weapon arts. The reason he had refused to use the hidden-weapon skills he had already learned, the reason he had stopped training them, the reason he had emptied his sleeves of every blade lest his hands reach for them—

—was because the image of those hidden-weapon arts surpassing the realm of fist-palm-kick had been painted so vividly in his mind.

Tang Do-gyeong had to be a master of fist-palm-kick. He had to create the fist art that would represent the Tang Family.

The young Tang Do-gyeong’s path shifted once more. The most striking change was the dense belt of throwing daggers now packed at his waist and inside his sleeves.

If I have decided to become a great tree, why should I not embrace everything?

Hidden-weapon technique began to weave itself into Tang Do-gyeong’s fist.

Observing himself, he wondered: Is this compromise? Had he not sworn as a child to stand tall with fist-palm-kick alone? Was adding hidden weapons now the right choice?

I am Tang Do-gyeong.

A man of the Tang Family and, at the same time, Do-gyeong. That was the person called Tang Do-gyeong—formed by the mutual support of the surname Tang and the name Do-gyeong.

Had the Tang Do-gyeong of today been built by his own efforts alone? He had always claimed his actions never strayed from chivalry, yet he knew the truth.

He had never crossed the line of the orthodox path, but where was the courtesy in forcing sparring matches on others? And what of the grudges born from victory and defeat? He must have made countless enemies, and it was the elders of the family—Tang Dok-gi foremost among them—who had settled those grudges. The money for his sparring tours? The hundred gold nyang he had prepared for the wager with Ho Cheon-an? All of it had been family support.

He had believed himself solitary, yet Tang Do-gyeong had been only one tree standing inside a forest. The forest that had sheltered the boy Tang Do-gyeong from the storms outside, and had continued to shelter the rampaging young man.

A forest rose inside him. Trees beyond counting filled his sight.

Looking at that forest, Tang Do-gyeong gave a short laugh. With so much now to embrace, how could this be compromise?

He had simply grown larger. The Tang Do-gyeong who had learned hidden weapons as a descendant of the clan, and the Tang Do-gyeong who had taken up the fist after the shock of his father’s defeat—both were him.

The Tang Do-gyeong now unfolding an art that lay somewhere between the Tang Family Eight Fists and the Fierce Tiger Fist was also Tang Do-gyeong.

A fist art that represented the Tang Family? Too small.

He would create a martial art that represented the Tang Family.

He would stand tall as Tang Do-gyeong, son of Tang Mun-gi. He would stand tall as Tang Do-gyeong of Tang blood.

He would become a son of Tang Mun-gi to be proud of, and a Tang Do-gyeong of the Sichuan Tang Family who would never be found wanting wherever he was placed.

With that thought and that vow, Tang Do-gyeong moved his body.

Still lacking.

He felt the shortfall. At some point the young version of himself had come to a complete halt.

The new fist forms that blended Tang Family Eight Fists and Fierce Tiger Fist had achieved a satisfying result. The art born of trunk and roots joined together had created eight solid techniques.

Two pillars that would form both the man and the martial art called Tang Do-gyeong.

The Tang Family structure of the Eight Fists and the Do-gyeong structure of the Fierce Tiger Fist had combined to draw a single thick stroke for the fist—

—yet the pillar that still needed to be raised for the hidden-weapon side was far too thin.

All he possessed were the feeble hidden-weapon skills learned as a Tang child.

So this is the price of neglecting hidden weapons while living as Do-gyeong alone.

Tang Do-gyeong smiled bitterly. Having so thoroughly turned his back on them as Do-gyeong, the result was inevitable.

Then it happened.

Two hands appeared inside Tang Do-gyeong’s inner world.

Ah.

At the familiar movements he knew at once whose hands they were. The man he called Brother Ya—Ho Cheon-an.

Brother Ya.

Slowly, instinctively, Tang Do-gyeong began to copy those hand motions.

Gambling techniques and hidden-weapon arts were different things, yet they shared several common foundations.

Manual dexterity. Deception. And stealth.

Little by little Tang Do-gyeong understood Ho Cheon-an’s techniques. It was possible only because they were techniques meant purely to be seen.

How a certain hand motion created the illusion that the dice inside the wooden cup had never moved.

By what process a single golpae tile became two.

How the pips on a die changed with the flick of a fingertip.

The extraordinary talent for hidden weapons that Tang Do-gyeong had always possessed began to mesh with Ho Cheon-an’s gambling techniques, which had reached the realm of the divine.

Of course, the hidden-weapon results that could be extracted from a man who possessed only the basics and raw talent, and from gambling techniques that shared only a few common points even if they had reached the divine realm, were not especially impressive.

Yet even that much was enough.

Still short and fragile, another single stroke was drawn—one capable of supporting the thick, massive pillar of the fist.

Ha.

Tang Do-gyeong gave a short laugh. He gazed at the two great hands that had filled the lacking part of Do-gyeong.

Brother Ya already knew what this Tang Do-gyeong needed, didn’t he?

Watching the hands continue to demonstrate the techniques, he felt a bright cheerfulness. Was this fate? Who would have imagined that a mad fighting dog who had lost his purpose and gone blind would meet a nangin and change like this?

He looked down.

In that short time the tree called Tang Do-gyeong had grown tall. Beneath it a brightly smiling Tang Do-gyeong threw fists and flung hidden blades.

He turned his gaze sideways.

Countless trees stood there. Familiar figures waited beneath them. His father Tang Mun-gi. Tang Dok-gi, who had always run about cleaning up after his disasters. Tang Do-yeon, who had wept for him. Tang Do-yul, who had barked at him.

The childhood peers whose Tang tiles he had once stolen. His adorable little sister Tang Ryeo-a, whom he could have put in his eye without pain.

And the countless blood kin of the Sichuan Tang Family he had ever known.

They were all looking at him. Meeting the discontented eyes of the young Tang Do-gyeong, they laughed heartily and nodded.

One fist.

Every tree—every member of the Sichuan Tang Family—drove out a single fist. Tang Do-gyeong unfolded the eight fist techniques and wondered what name he should give this art that was both hidden-weapon technique and fist art.

Every tree of the Tang Family threw hidden blades faster than Tang Do-gyeong. He laughed and copied the motions. Yes—when it came to hidden weapons, this Tang Do-gyeong would always lag behind any other of the Sichuan Tang Family.

The three barely-formed hidden-weapon techniques unfolded from his hands.

It was still a lopsided character, little more than a single stroke leaning heavily to one side, yet Tang Do-gyeong felt no worry. He could fill it later through study and experience.

Perhaps the name was lazy, little more than a list of words, yet Tang Do-gyeong was satisfied.

It is the martial art I created. If I am satisfied, that is enough.

He opened his eyes.

Ho Cheon-an’s hands, still moving, came into view, along with the nangin who had stood guard. The rest of the nangin watched in held breath so as not to disturb him. On the stairs Black Cat sat munching puffed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠snacks.

Tang Do-gyeong clasped his fists in salute.

“This Tang Mo offers his thanks for all of your kindness.”

“You have achieved something great!”

“Congratulations, Great Hero Tang!”

Only then, confirming that the enlightenment had fully settled, did the nangin return the salute. Tang Do-gyeong’s gaze passed over Black Cat, who was pretending innocence, and settled on Ho Cheon-an.

Ho Cheon-an produced the Blood Jade Token and a hundred-gold banknote and said,

“A match?”

“Gladly.”

Ho Cheon-an casually tossed the dice into the air. Both hands held cups inverted so the interiors were fully visible. Feeling an inexplicable urge to laugh, Tang Do-gyeong watched not the dice or the cups but Ho Cheon-an’s hands.

He chose one cup.

Ho Cheon-an smiled and tipped the remaining cups over.

“Oh…!”

“At last!”

Amid the nangin’s exclamations, the cup Tang Do-gyeong had chosen revealed a die showing the number one.

Ho Cheon-an placed the banknote, the Blood Jade Token, and a set of golpae tiles into Tang Do-gyeong’s hands.

“Brother Ya, these are…?”

“You’ll need them soon.”

Ho Cheon-an dropped heavily into the chair beside him. After nearly two hours of performing gambling techniques while his whole body still ached as if he had been beaten, he had no strength left.

“Go. Time is short.”

“...So it is.”

Tang Do-gyeong answered while sensing the energy beyond the window. His deepened internal energy and newly sharpened senses caught the approach of Tang Family members outside the Wanderer Inn.

Keep the secret.

At Black Cat’s request Tang Do-gyeong nodded. She had used rough methods on Ho Cheon-an, yet she seemed to care for him in her own way…

He wanted nothing more than to hand Ho Cheon-an a Grudge Token, yet remembering Black Cat’s words before the enlightenment, he restrained the impulse and offered Ho Cheon-an a formal salute.

“Truly… I have incurred an enormous debt.”

“Go.”

Taking one last look at Ho Cheon-an waving weakly, Tang Do-gyeong turned to the nangin who were saluting him.

“Thank you, all of you. This Tang Mo will never forget today’s events.”

“Take care, Great Hero!”

“Get along well with your family!”

Leaving the noisy farewells behind, Tang Do-gyeong stepped out of the Wanderer Inn.

“Big Brother Do-gyeong!”

“Do-gyeong!”

Tang Dok-gi restrained the two who looked ready to fling themselves at him and asked,

“Tang Do-gyeong. Do you intend to withdraw your declaration of severing ties?”

Tang Do-gyeong started to answer, then smiled faintly. You’ll need them soon—so that was what it had meant.

Shiiik!

Tang Dok-gi’s eyes flew wide. Tang Do-gyeong had suddenly… thrown a hidden weapon? Even as shock registered, his hand moved on reflex. The thrown object was a golpae tile.

The instant he reached to catch it, the tile split into three.

No—there had been three from the beginning. He had merely thrown them so they appeared as one.

Tadadak!

All three golpae landed in Tang Dok-gi’s hand, yet his eyes remained wide.

“Triple Ring Flying Daggers…? How do you know a technique like this?”

“I am sorry, Uncle. And to all of you of the Sichuan Tang Family.”

Tang Do-gyeong dropped to his knees.

“I am a sinner who uttered the outrageous words of severing ties, yet I beg your forgiveness. Only now have I realized that Do-gyeong existed because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Tang Family existed. I am still lacking, but I wish to try as a member of the Sichuan Tang Family.”

“Big Brotheeer!”

“Do-gyeong!!”

The two rushed forward and threw their arms around the kneeling man. Tang Do-gyeong smiled bitterly. What had he done to blood kin who could be this happy?

Tang Dok-gi approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You mean to take up hidden weapons again?”

“Yes. I have simply realized that I am not merely Do-gyeong but Tang Do-gyeong. I will no longer refuse hidden weapons. Yet I have not abandoned the fist either.”

“Heh heh…”

“I have merely decided that instead of creating the Tang Family’s foremost fist art, I will create the Tang Family’s foremost martial art.”

Tang Dok-gi let out a helpless laugh at the absurd declaration. The two who had been embracing him in joy also went round-eyed.

“Very well. I will watch carefully.”

Tang Dok-gi turned away.

“The road ahead is long. The Tang Family Estate must already be in an uproar because of you. Settling it will not be easy.”

“Big Brother! I’ll help, so don’t worry!”

“You idiot, what are you doing! The sooner we arrive, the easier the cleanup will be!”

Watching the two urge him on, Tang Do-gyeong smiled.