Chapter 3: I Am a Small Fry (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 3: I Am a Small Fry (3)
“By the way, why was your nose bleeding?”
So Gu-chi asked me while we were eating.
He had noticed immediately because the cotton stuffing my nostrils was stained crimson.
“Don’t mind it. I suppose my nutrition has been poor lately; my nose just started pouring this morning.”
“For people like us who live by the blade, physical stamina is the most important thing,” Sim Geol chimed in. “It might be best to stay quiet here today. It seems like every martial artist near Sichuan is flocking to this place, so there’s no point in getting into unnecessary trouble.”
What he meant was that in the Murim, one inevitably forms bonds of gratitude and resentment—Eun-won—whether intentionally or not. Meeting an old enemy here would be a problem.
But where would I even have an enemy? You only make enemies by crossing blades; they don’t just appear out of thin air.
“I see. I should be careful, then.”
Still, that was the kind of answer required. It wouldn't make sense for someone living in the Murim to have neither a single grudge nor a single enemy.
After finishing my meal, I returned to my room, drew my sword, and wiped it with a cotton cloth. This was my daily routine after breakfast. I had become so accustomed to it that I felt anxious if I didn't wipe my sword at least once a day.
My motivation for cleaning the sword started when I learned that true masters always clean their blades whenever they have a spare moment. A master treasures and loves his sword. Even a third-rate martial artist, practically begging for scraps of liquor at an inn, would pull out his sword to wipe it after drinking. It was a habit of warriors.
As long as you knew the habits of warriors well, you wouldn't look like a small fry. Even if your temples weren't bulging with power or your gaze didn't radiate internal energy, you wouldn't be looked down upon.
And honestly, I have yet to see people like that. I’ve never seen a master with neigong so great that his temples protruded, and though I’ve heard that the eyes of those filled with internal power look different, I couldn't tell if that was actually true. In the world of small fries, profanity is your neigong and striking first is your internal power.
I took off my blue martial robe, which was stained with blood from my nose, washed it, and hung it to dry. Then, I pulled out an identical blue robe from my small travel bag and put it on. It was the same color, but the hue was slightly deeper—the one I usually wore when visiting the red-light district or taverns.
“Brother Eo, you truly are extraordinary. The way you wipe your sword... it feels almost sacred, like a potter molding a ceramic masterpiece.”
Sim Geol said this as he watched me clean my blade.
I suppose it did. This kind of hand movement doesn't just happen. He probably couldn't imagine how many times I’d cut myself and bled in the beginning. This was the proficiency born from ten years of experience. Now, I could run my finger along the razor-sharp edge with my eyes closed and not shed a drop of blood.
How did I clean a sword for ten years when I’ve only been pretending to be a Murim person for two? Because since I was a child, I worked odd jobs at inns, cleaning the swords of wanderers and ronin to earn pocket money.
Everywhere you go, a small fry never looks after his own weapon. But if you don't wipe a sword or a saber, it rusts, so they need someone to do it. I did that for pennies.
Try doing that for ten years. In terms of sword-cleaning alone, I’m as good as any transcendent master.
Finally, I thrust the sword toward the sky, savoring the feeling of the tip piercing the air, and flicked the blade with my finger.
Tring!
The vibration spread through the entire sword. This feeling—it was one of the reasons I bothered pretending to be a warrior. It felt as if the blade was speaking to me. I loved this sound; it pierced my eardrums as sweetly as a lover whispering endearments.
Then, without turning my head to check the position of the scabbard, I gripped the hilt in a reverse hold and sheathed the sword in one smooth motion.
Thinking back on how much I practiced to master this, I could practically cry tears of blood. Pretending to be a Murim person wasn't for everyone. There were so many things to practice. But in this, I was truly confident. If there were a competition for sword cleaning, drawing, or sheathing instead of a martial arts tournament, the championship would undoubtedly be mine.
So Gu-chi let out a small exclamation of admiration, as if he had discovered the aura of a master in my display.
“Oh! That oneness with the sword... it’s truly a sight to behold.”
Looking at So Gu-chi’s face, he seemed genuinely impressed. Please, it was nothing.
“Hahaha, you’re making me blush. It’s just that the sword has started to feel like a part of my body...”
When talking to a small fry, you should stick to topics outside of actual martial arts whenever possible. If you start talking about techniques you don't really know, it’s easy to get caught. Murim people are always obsessed with one’s sect and lineage.
“Brother Eo, what is your sword style?”
Sometimes they ask, even when you’re trying to avoid it. In those moments, you have to stick to a policy of mystery. Otherwise, it will eventually come back to haunt you. Murim people always judge you by your school.
“It is merely a family secret technique. It is far lacking compared to the techniques of the great sects.”
When you act humble like this, it inevitably makes you seem even more impressive. It was better this way, as they would jump to the conclusion that I had some secret background I couldn't reveal. Since I couldn't actually show any real power, I needed to flatter them a bit to keep them in a good mood.
“By the way, Brother Sim, Brother So, which Zhongnan Sect techniques have you practiced? Is it the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven? Or perhaps the Heavenly Star Sword or the Nine Image Sword Style? Could it be the Sun-Slaying Sword Style?”
These techniques were all secret arts of the sect, things that mere secular disciples could never learn. However, small fries loved it when you talked them up like this.
“How could secular disciples like us learn techniques meant for direct disciples? We only know a bit of the Zhongnan Sect’s Universal Sword.”
Now that I was rattling off the names of Zhongnan Sect techniques, they seemed to drop their guard and look at me with an air of recognition.
In truth, the reason I started pretending to be a Murim person was that my memory is quite extraordinary. When I worked odd jobs at the inn, I remembered everything the Murim people said. Because of that, my knowledge of Murim affairs, the top masters of each sect, and various martial arts was already at the level of a seasoned veteran of the Jianghu.
That didn't mean my innate talent for martial arts was great, though. I once made the mistake of thinking I was a genius and practiced sword forms for three months, but there were hardly any movements I could replicate properly. I just didn't forget information easily because I had to focus on it to survive.
“It’s quite noisy outside,” So Gu-chi said.
Oh! This guy actually has some neigong.
Seeing as he heard a commotion that hadn't reached my ears yet, his internal power seemed to be a step above mine. Sim Geol seemed to have noticed as well.
“Brother So, go see what’s happening.”
So Gu-chi went out and returned shortly.
“A fight broke out between some ronin.”
Sim Geol replied indifferently.
“Really? They couldn't even wait for the tournament tomorrow. Small fries will be small fries.”
So Gu-chi shook his head at those words.
“They are fairly well-known even among ronin. It’s the Smiling Face Sword and Poison Wolf Ibu.”
“Them?”
I was surprised as well. The Smiling Face Sword and Poison Wolf Ibu weren't just "fairly well-known"; they were rumored to be masters among the ronin. A fight between them would surely be a bloody battle. It would be worth watching and quite entertaining.
“Then let’s go see. Let’s see if their skills are as great as they say.”
The Smiling Face Sword was a man with a muscular build that contrasted with his pretty-boy features. He was drawing the attention of the women at Ten Thousand Dragons Fortress. Poison Wolf Ibu had a fierce appearance, made even more eerie by a leather patch covering his left eye.
I could tell instantly which one had the upper hand.
I don't know much about the world of true masters since I’ve never belonged there, but in the world of small fries, people use several methods to disguise themselves and flaunt their strength. To a real master, it’s incredibly childish, but it works in the world of small fries.
One method is making yourself look fierce to intimidate the opponent. Another is creating a sense of pressure using accessories.
Speaking of which, a certain memory comes to mind. Since Sichuan and Tibet are adjacent, it wasn't hard to see Lama monks in Sichuan. One of them walked around with a child’s skull hanging from his neck, so I avoided him.
Then, I happened to overhear them by a stream, scrubbing the skull. I heard them say the skull’s color had faded and they needed to repaint it with white lime. That’s when I realized they weren't masters, let alone actual Lama monks. The fact that a Lama monk spoke the Central Plains language fluently was a scam in itself. So, at a shabby inn in the Nine Dragons region of Sichuan, when they were harassing terrified villagers, I stepped in and gave them a satisfying beating.
Because I beat them while pretending to be a master, a nickname even started circulating around the Nine Dragons area: the "Red Sword Hero."
Good grief, the standards of villagers are something else. Back then, I had been wandering through the mountains and hadn't maintained my sword, so it was just reddish with rust... and they called it a "Red Sword."
Anyway, those who wear such accessories usually don't have any real skill. From that perspective, Poison Wolf Ibu’s attempt to project a fierce impression suggested a lack of confidence in his own abilities.
However, surprisingly, the two axes Poison Wolf Ibu used were incredibly destructive. Seeing him swing those heavy-looking axes so freely, his skill was indeed worthy of recognition. The Smiling Face Sword was also formidable, skillfully countering the axes.
But after having personally witnessed a few battles between true masters, I’ve realized that small-fry fights are much more realistic.
In truth, a battle between masters is a harmony of neigong and exquisite techniques; only masters with similar power can truly evaluate the fight. When a small fry like me watches, I just see flashes of lightning, hear the roar of thunder, and see swords and sabers whistling through the air a few times. There’s nothing to really talk about regarding the forms or the specifics.
But after watching a small-fry fight, you can talk about it all day. This is because everything is visible to the eye. In that sense, small-fry fights are fun. They’re interesting because you can actually grasp the exchange of offense and defense.