Day 3: Sparring (1)
Thanks to overexerting his qi the day before, the empty, cracked dantian felt remarkably refortified now, solid as could be.
"Heh. Must've slipped some pretty rare herbs into this. Seorin, you silly girl. You should've just split it among yourselves instead of giving your master something so precious."
He couldn't help chuckling at his disciples' thoughtful gesture.
These days, he no longer had to wake them every morning. Ever since their trek through that treacherous terrain, the girls rose before dawn on their own, quietly making their way to the Training Ground.
The first day, he'd been surprised. The second, proud. But on this third morning, a faint pang of regret tugged at him.
Seorin waking up with her hair a tousled mess, Chohee kicking in her sleep and flinging off the blankets, Hwaran wedged in between them, gasping for air. Coaxing those sleepyheads awake, herding them to the Training Ground, tending to their endless chatter as time flew by—those memories left a soft ache in his chest.
But he shook his head, brushing off the idle sentiment.
It's not like I should feel this way every time they grow a little. Shake it off.
As he steadied himself, three shadows appeared at the Training Ground entrance.
"Master, did you sleep well?"
Seorin led with a proper bow. Chohee and Hwaran followed, looking even more composed than yesterday or the day before.
Above all, he'd caught Chohee tapping Seorin's shoulder in the corner yesterday, whispering something. That small contact, that conversation—it meant their bond was mending. That was the biggest change.
Even better, the ominous qi that had clung to their sword tips had transformed.
They've overcome their heart demons, it seems.
The most dangerous foe for any martial artist was the uncontrolled killing intent blooming unchecked from within. Mastering it proved mental maturity and a true grasp of martial fundamentals. They'd shed their awkward edges, forging a proper warrior's resolve.
Heh. Seeing such promising progress, he couldn't just stand by.
He strode to the center of the Training Ground, hands clasped behind his back. Not even bothering with a wooden sword.
"Good. Today, as a special treat, your master will face all three of you at once."
Time to test their progress.
"Show me everything you've practiced so far. Don't hold back."
The three exchanged silent glances, and the air grew heavy in an instant. Clearly syncing their breaths.
"Then, here we go."
With a light nod, Seorin charged first. Her blade traced the first form of the Qingfeng Sword Art: Changcheon.
Her movements were oddly subtle. No whistle of air as the wooden sword sliced empty space. And rather than arcing upward fully, the trajectory slyly veered toward his heart.
Seorin, you rascal.
Hmm. Not great. Fast and fierce, sure—but lunging with a real strike against a prepared foe was a deduction.
"Seorina, the essence of Qingfeng Sword Art lies in the feint! You're too focused on the real strike."
He flicked his right index finger, lightly deflecting her silent thrust.
Thwack. A dull thud echoed as her sword bounced away, throwing off her balance. In that instant, Chohee slipped in from the left, stabbing with the third form: Yuseong.
She'd erased even her footsteps, targeting only his side's fatal acupoint with a stealthy jab. A desperate, all-in lunge.
"Choheeya, Yuseong isn't just about adding weight—it's a majestic fall! What use is Wudang's sword if it's this sneaky?"
He twisted aside, dodging, then slapped her elbow upward with his left palm, shoving her sword aside.
Meanwhile, Hwaran from behind swung wildly with the fifth form: Nanpung, refusing to miss her chance.
Her sword shadows split into seven, blanketing his neck, brow, solar plexus—every vital point relentlessly, laced with intent to kill.
Even the little one. Hmm. Aftermath of that sudden real combat?
Heart demons conquered, but the habit lingered in her body.
"Hwarana, Nanpung isn't mere scattering—it's gathering the fragments! Don't chase gaps; embrace the whole!"
Without turning, he reached back, tracing lightly with index and middle fingers.
Shick, shick, thwack! He pinpointed the true trajectory amid the seven illusions, flicking it away.
With Hwaran's strike foiled, the three naturally circled, encircling him. Perfect. No words exchanged, yet their rhythm synced flawlessly.
Seorin attacked again: second form, Unhae.
Closing in after Changcheon's distance, exploiting the foe's lapse... but.
"Unhae against a stationary foe loses effect! Brace for Yuseong once mo—"
Simultaneously, Chohee swept low with fourth form Yeonhwan, blocking retreat, while Hwaran smashed down with sixth form Taepung, aiming to crush from above.
Hoh. Aiming for this?
Upper, mid, lower—three-way assault. A systematic formation sealing escape in one breath.
But...
"Your killing intent is too thick. How can I not see it coming?"
He rolled lightly on his right foot, grazing past Seorin's frontal charge into her guard.
As she startled and turned, he yanked her shoulder, hurling her into Chohee and Hwaran's paths.
"Ack!"
Their blades nearly pierced each other's vitals, but they barely halted and withdrew.
"Breathing's good, but your moves are too linear. Qingfeng isn't about stifling presence and hunting vitals."
Seorin looked unconvinced at his critique; Chohee blinked slowly. Hwaran hung her head, panting.
Did I crush their spirits too hard?
A twinge of regret, quickly dismissed. What stood before the wall needed precise strikes, not shallow comfort.
"Come again! Show me your sword momentum!"
Gripping their wooden swords tight, the three charged anew.
About half a shichen later.
Tasting his grown disciples' skill was always a joy, but their breaths grew ragged, limits near—fingers trembling.
He could've gone forever, but time to end it.
"That's enough."
He extended both hands: right index flicked Seorin's tip upward; left palm shoved Chohee's blade; right toes nudged Hwaran's away.
Shweee—ting! Thwack! All three swords flew into the air.
Inertia nearly toppled them, but they endured, standing tall.
"Hahaha! Excellent! Truly impressive!"
He'd expected them to tumble from that exchange, but they held. Laughter burst unbidden at their endurance through the long bout.
Some disappointments, but overall: pass.
Yet their faces soured. Panting up at him, eyes brimming with dejection.
...Did I kill their morale too much?
He pondered briefly, then shook his head.
A few days ago, they'd survived death's door, gaining real combat sense. Perhaps they'd grown cocky over beating heart demons.
But this spar showed them the true martial wall—petty killing tricks couldn't breach it. They'd felt bone-deep how light their swords still were, how endless the path.
Not bad. Good, even. Warriors learned to rise from such bitter falls.
"You've much to mull from today's spar. Chew over your master's advice just now..."
He paused mid-sentence—not from the disciples, but a figure at the entrance.
Blue robes, ornate qinggang sword at waist. Handsome face marred by arrogant eyes.
Mujin. Prime disciple of Cheongmyeong Elder, strutting as a fresh Absolute Peak expert.
Always picking subtle fights with this sidelined elder.
His sneering opener shattered the warm mood.
"Hmph. The old backroom coot and his ragtag brats making a racket with child's play at dawn."
As Cheongun sighed softly at the insolence—
Swish—
The three, moments ago slumped in daze, whipped their heads toward Mujin. Vacant eyes sharpened instantly.
Chohee gripped her fallen sword, knuckles creaking.
These girls... raging like this for their master's insult.
Grateful for their loyalty, but those manic glares spelled trouble—a big incident brewing.