The Dam That Wouldn't Break
Master never gave her heart deeply to anyone in this world. It wasn't that her heart never stirred at all, but it always stopped short, as if caught at the chin. Like a reservoir ringed by high embankments—not frozen, yet never overflowing. You could see the water moving, but it only rippled, never spilling or flowing freely. From the moment she took me in until this very day, my sole wish had been to breach that dam.
When I met her a few weeks ago, I was glad. I learned she did not regard me as a roadside stone or tree, and that when she thought of me, she could be honest, if only a little. Even if it was merely a few droplets of mist that barely cleared the wall, I saw that the wall itself could overflow and crumble. Hearing one honest word from her, taking one strike from her blade—that was my only desire. How could I not rejoice?
So when I saw her again and found her more human than before, I should have been glad. I should have been even gladder to hear she had spoken comfortably with strangers she barely knew, meddled in their affairs, and traveled far for revenge. But I was not. I was angry.
They say a monk cannot shave his own head, yet that only means he cannot do it neatly—not that he cannot cut hair that reaches his waist. When I looked into my own heart, my muscles tensed, my mouth went dry, and reason failed me. There was no other reason but rage. It was an utterly unreasonable feeling.
Of course, Master was the most important person in my world, but what I had wanted from her was honesty, wasn't it? That she cherished me above all others was a joyful fact, yet it mattered only because it meant I might be the one to make her honest. If someone else could help her feel joy, anger, sorrow, or delight and thereby crack the wall around her heart, that too would be good. If her cherishing only me had been the important thing, then I should never have stabbed her with a blade or spoken words I did not mean. Who would keep cherishing someone who casually stabs them and ignores everything they say?
Upon reflection, it was simply foolish jealousy. Contrary to what I told myself, I was angry and afraid that Master might take interest in someone other than me. Thought and feeling were at odds, and the sight was so ridiculous that a clown could not have done better. Had I not been angry, I would have laughed uproariously instead. Even to my own eyes, it was childish and ugly. Yet for all my youth and foolishness, there was one thing in which I surpassed Master. When feelings defied reason, I did not suppress them. I could be honest with what I felt, even if it made no sense. In that alone, I was better than her.
"What is that supposed to be? Some kind of performance?"
I gave no answer. I had no obligation to, and besides, I was too winded to speak even if I had wanted to.
The Storm Wave Blade Art of the Wave-Breaking Wind Blade relied on a pair of goose-feather sabers and rattan armguards. It fused swordplay, footwork, and fist-and-kick techniques into a whirlwind that, in a single chaotic instant, lightly grazed throat and limbs like feathers. Because it demanded constant movement of feet and arms without ever clashing weapons, even a short exchange left one gasping and limbs aching. I knew the problem well.
I had neither goose-feather sabers nor rattan guards—only a single sword. Substituting a sword for the sabers robbed the art of its lightness, making lethal wounds difficult. It was far from ideal. Still, I chose it for two reasons: first, the gap in our strength made maintaining distance with orthodox swordplay impossible; second—
"I think I've given you enough time to catch your breath. Here I come again."
"...Hup!"
It probably would not work, but if it did, it would be decisive. Yet it seemed it would not. A single drop should have twisted every limb and meridian with poison, yet somehow this constitution felt nothing. While maintaining the Yeokcheon Cho-ui Ji Sin and pressing my sword close to absorb the weight of Cho Yak's greatsword, a fresh wave of resentment rose in me.
At a glance she was much shorter than me, and her weight was obviously less. If this were the result of the Reversing Muscle Art, my heightened senses—sharpened after obtaining the Heart-Reading Eye from the blind man of Wugeuk Castle—should have detected it. Yet there was no sign she practiced it. That meant this tiny body was simply stronger than mine when I inflated my muscles with the Yeokcheon Cho-ui Ji Sin, and moreover immune to all poisons. It was an innate constitution I could never imitate.
Nor was her constitution merely strong. Unlike me, whose limbs were growing numb from repeated clashes, Cho Yak showed no sign of fatigue compared to our first exchange. If a Heavenly Martial Physique truly existed, this had to be it.
Because of this absurd difference in natural gifts, the tide of battle was slightly against me. Still, it was not yet hopeless.
I squeezed out every last ounce of strength, knocked Cho Yak's sword aside, kicked off the ground, and leapt half a jang backward—only to feel a rope brush the back of my calf. A dead end.
I exhaled in one breath and raised my head. My eyes met Cho Yak's.
"Wouldn't it be better to stop now? The outcome seems decided."
Cho Yak remained perfectly calm. Not a single drop of sweat marked her body, and her mind held not the slightest worry of defeat. She had every right to feel that way. We had exchanged several blows, yet she had never once been disadvantaged; every clash had only drained my stamina. The fact that I had resorted to the Black Snake Poison Claw, the Sevenfold Poison Hand, the Yeokcheon Cho-ui Ji Sin, and the Storm Wave Blade Art all at once meant none of them had satisfied me. Conversely, Cho Yak had relied solely on left-handed greatsword techniques from beginning to end. She had no reason to feel dissatisfied.
I swallowed once and opened my mouth.
"I found your youthful appearance suspicious from the start, but seeing how dim your eyes are, you must be older than me after all, Auntie."
"...If you truly wish to learn one more lesson, I will not stop you."
If I had possessed enough wisdom to quit simply because I was at a disadvantage, I would never have started this foolish endeavor in the first place. I was still angry.
Cho Yak slowly raised her sword. I faced her and gathered myself. Resentment, desire, even rage—all converged into a single purpose and finally melted into my limbs, gripping them tightly. Cho Yak's eyebrows twitched at the sight, yet she did not halt her blade. She had seen the first exchange and judged that, while impressive, a single technique could be countered. I hoped she still thought so.
"This is ridiculous."
The complaint slipped out before I could stop it. I tried to force my voice through a throat that wanted only to gasp, and immediately broke into coughing. After several hacks I spat out phlegm.
Looking down, I saw my two legs sprawled across the ground. The rope at my back told me I had not been thrown outside the arena. Yet when I raised my head, Cho Yak stood with only a few bruises, otherwise unscathed. As for me—there was no need to say it. I was a wreck. My limbs were numb and unresponsive, my sword had several notches, my throat was raw, and my head spun.
Cho Yak raised her sword again.
"You had quite the technique. I nearly suffered a setback."
"You should have just suffered it."
I sighed with a hoarse voice. I truly had no plans left. What kind of monstrous strength and endurance was this? I had attempted the technique three times. Once the mental image filled my mind, it had felt possible, and after succeeding twice I had pressed on to the third, feeling pure joy regardless of victory or defeat. Even the final strike had landed, however shallowly. For an instant my palm had touched her stomach; only afterward had I been hurled away by her two fists gripping the sword. Yet Cho Yak stood as if she were truly the Indestructible Vajra, completely unaffected by the Heart-Crushing Hand to her lower abdomen. I no longer had the will to try anything else.
Perhaps because I had poured everything into that last sword strike, the fury that had burned in my chest had cooled. I was about to open my lips and say, "Fine, I'll call it an accident for now," when Cho Yak let out a deep sigh and muttered,
"Sister must have it hard, having taken in such a disciple."
My consciousness, which had been spinning like a top on the verge of collapse, snapped upright as if struck by a whip.
"She should have captured me and given me a thorough scolding, or driven me out entirely. Instead she was too soft-hearted and left me be, and this is the result."
After blinking several times, my blurred vision sharpened. Strangely, strength returned to limbs that moments ago had seemed incapable of moving a single finger. It was not abundant enough to overflow, nor did it feel wrung dry—just enough to move comfortably. I pushed myself up from the ground and asked,
"You speak as if you know a great deal."
"Do you think I speak without knowing? Sister returned from traveling all the way to Fuzhou to meet her disciple, deeply wounded. Even a three-year-old could tell whose fault that was. And yet you bare your teeth and bark at someone close to your master without the slightest discretion. That is truly the behavior of an ill-bred dog."
Instead of answering, I raised my sword. Cho Yak likewise raised hers without further words. Facing each other with blades drawn, I felt anger, yet my mouth was not dry and my thoughts were not scattered. Instead, a strange calm settled over me, as if I were facing a wall in meditation. At the end of that moment—whether an instant or a full sijin—a rather interesting idea occurred to me. Since I had no chance of winning with ordinary swordplay anyway, I might as well try what had come to mind.
As Cho Yak lifted her sword, I raised my arm as well. I reached for the vivid sensations of those days, yet my sword refused to move, as though it had taken root in the sky.
"Enough. This is sufficient."
It was Master.