Day 4: Passing Down Fist Arts (2)
Late afternoon, as a red sunset settled over Wudang Mountain. Having already passed on new martial arts to Seorin and Chohee earlier, only Hwaran remained.
"Hwaran-ah."
"Yes, sir! Master!"
Her voice brimmed with stiff discipline, her tension almost endearing. Though she would soon taste hell.
With hands clasped behind my back, I slowly circled the girl and spoke.
"First, there's something we need to address about fist arts."
Hwaran waited with a tense face for what came next.
"To be honest, I don't particularly like fist arts."
Hwaran looked up at me with a blank expression. Calling her here to teach fist arts, only to say he didn't like them—it was enough to leave anyone dumbfounded.
"Isn't that obvious?"
I lightly clenched my fists.
"When bare hands clash with edged weapons like swords, spears, or axes, who do you think wins?"
"...The weapons."
Hwaran's voice drooped.
"Exactly. But warriors often claim that by channeling inner energy into your fists to form fist strength, you can shatter even steel."
"But unless your opponent is a fool, they'll coat their blade with sword strength too. When strength clashes against strength head-on, it boils down to the durability of bone versus metal. No matter how toughened a human bone gets, it can't beat a well-forged blade."
"What about distance? They thrust with a three-foot sword, while you have to close into arm's reach to land a hit. Fail to bridge the gap, and you're just taking blows unilaterally."
"As for firing palm strikes from afar? It drains inner energy too fast, and any qi shot through the air can be deflected with the flat of a blade."
And with that, I delivered the conclusion.
"In the end, even if your foe wields just a rusty dagger, you're starting at a massive disadvantage bare-handed."
At my words, Hwaran hung her head completely, her small shoulders trembling.
Have I crushed her spirit too much before even starting the fist arts training?
I wondered if I'd gone overboard right from the outset, but there was no choice. Better to hammer it home now. What a fist art practitioner must guard against most is the arrogance of thinking a trained fist can smash swords. They need to etch into their bones how powerless the flesh is before sharpened steel. Only by acknowledging that hopeless gap would she endure the hellish training ahead.
"But."
At my firm tone, Hwaran lifted her head again.
"If fist arts are so riddled with flaws, How have they managed to survive uneliminated throughout thousands of years of Murim history?"
I slowly unfurled my clenched fist and gazed at my palm. The wind stilled, and the dust in the Training Ground settled.
"Have you heard of body-sword unity?"
"...Yes."
"Body-saber unity, body-spear unity. Every kind of unity exists. Becoming one with the tool. One with the sword. One with the spear."
I brought my fist to my chest.
"But in the end, it's still just metal detached from your hand. Not your flesh. Not your bone."
Hwaran held her breath.
"A sword can be dropped. A spear can break. A saber can be taken. What are you then?"
"...A warrior without a weapon."
"Right. Empty-handed."
I slowly clenched my fist. My knuckles cracked with a sharp pop.
"But this? It won't abandon you."
"This fist is my flesh, my bone. My will itself. As long as you live, as long as you hold consciousness, it's yours."
Hwaran stared blankly at her own tiny fist.
Of course, my true inner thoughts differed from the grand sermon I'd just spouted.
Is it the weapon that's the problem? No, it's the one wielding it.
Superiority in strength isn't decided by weapons. Man grows strong through himself. The strong are those whose very being is strong—no martial art is inherently superior. Look at Shaolin. They churn out world's best experts with nothing but crude fists and palms. In the end, no weapon is superior. What a realm-attainer wields becomes the supreme.
Seorin's sword, Chohee's hidden weapons, Hwaran's fists—they all lead to the same endpoint.
But no need to lecture a Hwaran who's just opened her channels and stepped onto first-rate threshold with such objective truths.
Telling a beginner "all weapons are equal, it depends on your skill" is poison. What this small, fragile girl needed most was blind confidence: My fist is the strongest, most perfect weapon in the world!
"Now that your mindset is set, I'll teach you the real training method."
I dragged over a heavy sack I'd prepared off to the side. Thud—! As it hit the Training Ground floor, a dull sound rang out, kicking up dirt.
Hwaran startled and looked up.
"Come here."
As she approached, I untied the sack. Pitch-black iron lumps emerged: shackles for wrists and ankles, a dozens-of-catty iron ball for the neck, and weights for the waist.
"Hand."
I snapped the shackle onto her proffered small hand without hesitation. Click.
She flinched slightly as the cold metal touched her skin.
"Feet too."
Click.
"Neck too."
Click.
"Waist too."
Click.
With the final shackle locked, Hwaran's knees buckled. Just before hitting the ground, faint qi rose from her body, barely holding her stance.
"M-Master... th-this is..."
"From today on, you don't remove these shackles—not for meals, not for sleep, not even for the privy."
"Circulate your inner energy without rest."
I met Hwaran's eyes squarely.
"Miss even a single instant from your dantian, and your knee cartilage crushes while your spine collapses on the spot."
I tapped the iron ball weighing on her shoulders.
"Don't try bearing the weight with your meager muscles. Scatter inner energy through your whole body, fixing your frame like iron pillars. Draw qi up on the inhale, endure the load on the exhale."
In my previous life, this might've gotten me reported for abuse on the spot.
'What if her disc ruptures?'
A valid worry by modern standards. But this was murim. A world where miraculous inner energy breathed life. Even if the body broke during training, it didn't matter. Warriors reborn their flesh each time they broke through realm walls. Absolute Peak healed old wounds and ailments once; Transcendent Peak rebuilt the body anew. Reach Hwagyeong for bone marrow cleansing, and it strengthened entirely.
In this blessed world of physical mysteries, fearing injury and softening training? Foolish.
Watching Hwaran gasp under the shackles, memories of my own childhood surfaced. I'd half-assed Cheongpung Sword Art, strutting like a genius after winning the sect's youth sword tournament. My usually gentle master suddenly turned stern.
'Come here.'
Hundreds of catties of iron clamped my limbs.
'You brat! Sword arts flow from the wrist. No wrist power, no sword arts! Circulate inner energy like breathing! Even unconscious, don't stop!'
First night, lying down crushed my waist with pain—I bolted up. Circulating all day wasn't enough; even asleep, unconscious qi flow was mandatory. Any lapse, and the weight dug into flesh, jolting me awake in agony.
Night after night, tears and snot streaming, I cursed my master. Why this torment? Other disciples didn't suffer. He targeted only me. Recalling it ground my teeth.
Haa... So my time as that tormentor has come.
Years passed. Now I inherited the harsh role, shackling a disciple dear as my own eye.
'Not "I suffered, so you suffer too"—never.'
This pain would forge her sturdiest armor later. I stood here as proof.
Deliberately lowering my voice, I barked sharply.
"What are you dawdling for! Run the Training Ground now! Remember this: qi lapse means your knees shatter first!"
"Eek...! Y-Yes, Master!"
Clanking iron, Hwaran began running the Training Ground. She wobbled like toppling under the heavy metal but stubbornly pressed on.
Sorry, Hwaran-ah. Your master doesn't enjoy this.
My heart wasn't light either. But... she'd realize someday. The realm where qi circulated unconsciously even in sleep—that was this training's end.
Circulate inner energy like breathing. When bones feel crushed, force qi through. Even unconscious, keep it flowing. That was the only way.