One Foot Ahead: Han Kangwoo's Brutal Training
In the original story, Gong Wooseon evaluated Han Kangwoo's teachings like this.
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I had to run for dear life. If I glanced back, Master was half a chi closer. Only by staring straight ahead could I keep that one-chi distance from him.
All training began at dawn and ended only when the moon rose full. But even in my dreams, I couldn't escape it.
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When I read it as a novel, Gong Wooseon's metaphor hadn't really clicked. Now I finally understood its true meaning.
Han Kangwoo's training was downright vicious. We'd wake in the morning, scarf down some simple Tarakjuk porridge, then dive into stamina drills. But calling it "stamina drills" was a joke—it was pure hell from the start.
I had to run until my body was completely drained. Han Kangwoo chased right behind me, ready to grab me. Every time he did, training time extended by half a shichen. Once drained, I'd rest briefly, then go again. Slacking off? Not tolerated. He wrung every last drop of stamina from me like squeezing water from a dry rag.
Now I got why he stressed composure. This volume of training would shatter most minds. Without a relaxed spirit, you'd crack into insanity in days. He pursued me just hard enough that I'd only evade capture by running at death's door. Slack off even a little, show any ease, and he'd snag me without fail.
I didn't dare look back, just prayed for it to end as I ran and ran. Recovery items? Pointless—they just prolonged the session.
"Stamina is the foundation of martial arts. Without its perfection as a base, true growth is impossible."
By lunchtime, after this so-called stamina "drill" disguised as torture, I was wrecked. Lunch was late, of course. Some weird power of his stalled time. Those drills felt like 24 hours straight.
At least I'm not sleepy. Thanks to that Tarakjuk he made himself?
Lunch was Byeokgokdan pills to fill the gut. The ones he made himself—they banished fatigue fast. Not as good as a jujube date, but enough to prep for afternoon training.
Afternoon was real theory and forms. Morning had been warm-up; this was true martial arts training.
"A fighter must always think. The orthodox form is formless."
"What does that mean?"
"Simply put, don't be bound by the same pattern whether facing a four-legged beast or a first-rate expert wielding sword qi. Fixate on form, and you'll hit a wall. Be free of it, and you're free of limits."
Before training, Han Kangwoo explained its purpose and benefits. His teaching style rivaled top modern online lecturers. Fitting for the world's strongest.
He'd crush it with martial arts tutorials—number one instructor for sure.
"Martial arts have forms because of human intellectual limits. If you could always choose optimally, your actions would be the form. Your swung sword becomes the Taiji Sword; your footwork, the Langbo Mibo."
He picked up a pebble and tossed it toward the lakeside where the waterfall cascaded.
Splash!
"But humans can't do that. So we created forms and techniques to overcome limits. Brilliant effort—categorizing responses by situation, drilling them for flexible adaptation. That's martial arts' origin."
The pebble's ripples spread on the shore, then vanished in the raging waterfall.
"But problems arose. Forms meant to conquer limits end up devouring their users. The ends justify the means, inverted. When I roamed the jianghu, Wudang Taoists were trapped by the Taiji Sword. Huashan too, by the Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword. Martial artists enslaved by their own arts."
"Trapped by martial arts—what exactly does that mean?"
I asked about his Zen-like riddle. He unpacked it patiently.
"Suppose I use Taiji Sword. Evaluating it? Efficiency in subduing the foe—or perfection in it. That's what founder Zhang Sanfeng intended: a supreme technique to kill or suppress."
He raised his hand high. I swear I saw a sword in it. Gripping an invisible blade, he slashed downward like a calligrapher's perfect stroke. Even pros would weep.
Does mastering swordsmanship reveal calligraphy too? That classic wuxia trope—wanliu guizong, all streams return to the source—popped into mind. Buddhist term, but in novels, it means master one, grasp all.
"Taiji Sword's perfection lies in results. But Wudang swordsmen I saw didn't think that—probably still don't. To them, a 'good' one just mimics ancestral forms. Captive to shape. Martial arts evolve like people over time. Old arts aren't hidden divine secrets—they're outdated rags."
Reject change, decay. Same for martial arts. Old yields to new—that's nature. Endless improvement needed, but Nine Great Sects and Five Families? Far from it. They hoard secrets instead of innovating. Transmit elite arts to few disciples, and it's just rote passing—no new frontiers. Sure, a rare enlightened few break past, but they're grains of sand on a beach.
"So many in the jianghu, blinded by ancients' realms and fame, chase shadows backward."
"The jianghu's buzzing now over Sword Immortal Ta Wooly's manual from three centuries back."
"That Heavenly Sword Secret Art?"
Han Kangwoo knew of it. As the Sword Ghost who'd roamed, of course.
"Yes."
"Sigh. That ghost won't die. And the Central Plains gripped by it for three centuries..."
Ta Wooly's Heavenly Sword Secret Art never fully appears in the novel. In Extreme Sword Heavenly Immortal, it's a MacGuffin—sparks conflicts, stays hidden till end.
"Master, do you know anything about the Heavenly Sword Secret Art?"
"No. But it's surely nothing special. Ascension isn't just raw power. That snout Taoist? Peak Huashan sect leader level, but he could ascend anytime."
Calling Huashan head "mere"? That gauged Han Kangwoo's tier. Yeah, in the novel, stronger folks were countable on fingers—especially late-game villain scum.
"Back to the lesson: what you must learn is freedom from form. But it doesn't start from nothing. Break down all things—even atoms leave basics. Deconstruct human martial arts, and fundamentals remain. Now, I'll teach you those."
Practice time. He taught 258 basic motions—martial arts' building blocks. Assemble them into arts. Current jianghu judges by mimicking founders' toys. But he taught crafting situation-fit ones. Master every tiny block first.
"This is our potential. But not perfection. As you train, subtract or add motions. Never stop refining—or you'll stagnate like today's jianghu."
Me tweaking his refined basics? Even Kim Minyoung would say impossible. He's expecting too much.
"Memorize these simplest basics in your body. Ponder effects of each in every moment."
"Hm... no sword moves."
"I carry a sword just to avoid trouble. Once free like me, sword, spear, fist, kick—all the same."
Sounds alien still. Sword equals fist? Nah.
"To expand your martial learning via combos, master basics. From now, once per ke, I'll ambush you. Block efficiently."
"Ugh. Tough."
"Don't obsess over blocking. It's not success or failure—it's how. In training, process trumps result. Master these, defense becomes breath-natural."
His training was endless. Body and brain both tortured. Even sleep offered no escape.
"Wh... where is this?"
"Your mindscape."
I stood in an all-white bizarre space. Han Kangwoo faced me.
"This loony bin's my mindscape?"
"Loony bin? Clinic?"
"Yeah, like that."
"Probably from training pain—bleak mindscape opened. That's why I stressed composure. Bad sign."
"Then shouldn't I rest?"
He nodded. Rational master. Composure was his mantra.
"For now, purify this mindscape. Once dyed in your color, we'll train."
"Yes, got it!"
I sighed in relief. Then—poof—a half-naked woman popped beside me. Jin Sawol. Shaking her ass in skimpy thong panties.
Fuck! My true desires leaking?
Not plain Sawol—devil horns, beast tail, devil costume barely covering.
-Hehe~! Young hero Jong. Can Sawol get a deep kiss here?
She tapped her tattooed womb. Illusion, obviously. Real Sawol wouldn't know "kiss." My inner demon, maybe.
-Oh~! Here, young hero~!
Now an angel. But slutty micro-costume, narrower than the devil's—wings fluttering as she descended. Devil in angel skin.
-Let's do naughty stuff~! You wanna fuck me too, right~!
Angel and devil tempted fiercely. I scattered the thoughts fast. My 50% sex, 50% lust brain craved it with any rest. Loosen too much, this becomes a fuckfest den. Han Kangwoo'd be disappointed.
Time to bail.
I snapped back to reality.
"Huh? Jaesung-ah. Your face looks like a monkey in heat..."
"Yeonji! No time for chit-chat! Pants off, pussy out!"
"Eek! W-wait! What's sudden...!"
I pounced, ripping pants and panties at once. Had to purge the head full of lust.
"Jaesung-ah! This is basically rape...! Though I kinda like it!"
"Hngh~! Yeonji's fragrant fermented soybean pussy~! No time, so just twice each in pussy and ass. Backdoor clean?"
My girls always prepped anal.
"Heeek~!"
I played her body like an instrument, purging every drop of desire.