Tempering (4)
Tempering (4)
17-year-old Kim Do-hoon couldn't stop Dojin.
20-year-old Kim Do-hoon couldn't stop Dojin either.
The first to land a wound on Dojin was 24-year-old Kim Do-hoon.
"......Damn, you're tough as hell. Father."
"I'm not your father."
"Oh, you've fixed that attitude too. Thanks to Mom, huh...."
At 24, the real-world Do-hoon had met his wife, tied the knot, and by now would've knocked her up with a pregnancy.
Dojin wiped the trickle of blood running down his cheek and stared at Do-hoon.
Sim-gi-che.
A monster perfected physically, technically, and mentally.
In just a mere 7 years, he'd grown incomparably stronger.
And yet, he got even stronger over there?
Was that even possible?
'It's possible, that's why I'm standing here right now.'
Hoo, Dojin lightly gripped his sword. A low stance with the blade pointed downward.
But even that posture alone pinned down the opponent.
Because it was purely for hu-bal-seon-je—counter-attacking only.
"That swordsmanship, it's my swordsmanship."
"So?"
"Then you're my son?"
"Sorry, but I got no interest in chatting about my memories."
"Yeah, my son...... I guess."
Do-hoon started sinking into his own delusions, then gripped his sword horizontally and aimed it at Dojin.
"Even if you're my son, it's a sword technique I never showed."
Then, Do-hoon shot forward like a goddamn bullet.
Couldn't react. By the time he snapped out of it, Dojin realized his throat had been pierced.
"Huh?"
Serkeok-.
No need for talk.
Do-hoon swung his sword and straight-up decapitated Dojin.
His head spun round and round, his vision whirling with it.
'What the hell just happened......?'
As Dojin thought that, letters floated up in front of his eyes.
[You Lose]
"Get up."
With Raize's voice, Dojin's severed head reattached to his body. Dojin groped his now-perfect neck and looked at Raize.
"What the fuck was that?"
"This is a dream world, so even if you die, you don't really die......."
"Not that."
It was bizarre.
His head started spinning like he'd witnessed the impossible.
"......I don't know that technique."
24-year-old Kim Do-hoon had used a technique he didn't know.
Dojin couldn't wrap his head around it.
"Wasn't that supposed to be my memory? Then the techniques should only pull from my memories."
"Hmm, similar, but different."
"Different how?"
"Yeah. More memories get stored in the unconscious than the conscious. Probably everything you've ever seen in your life, Dojin—movies, anime, comics, novels, Otherworld monsters, knights' sword techniques— it'll naturally mash 'em all together and use 'em."
Everything Dojin had ever laid eyes on in his life, movies or anime, comics or novels, Otherworld monsters or knightly sword arts that they'd plausibly use.
It meant synthesizing and deploying all of it.
Hell, Dojin saw him as a genius, so he'd pull off growth rates and techniques that even Dojin would think were bullshit.
"Ha, haha. So...... he's at least as strong as the real deal, if not stronger?"
"Yep."
"Good."
Fuck yeah, it was good.
This was exactly what he wanted.
An opponent you couldn't beat no matter what you tried.
A powerhouse you couldn't even stand against, even betting your all.
Someone to scour away the rust pitting his blade.
"Then, one more time?"
Up to the 45-year-old Do-hoon etched in Dojin's memory.
21 more years ahead.
In other words, 21 more fights.
Died.
Died.
Won.
Dojin kept beating his old man by dying a hundred times for every one victory.
Before long, 39 years old.
Physical aging was kicking in, but Do-hoon— who'd hit technical peaks to overcome that decay—stood before Dojin.
Dojin charged, banking on his youth and experience.
'......What an idiot.'
Raize watched Dojin with a pathetic sigh. Dojin seemed clueless, but to her eyes, Do-hoon had already surpassed the original by leaps and bounds.
Kinda made sense. Sword master this, that—Earthlings were a frail-ass race that couldn't even level up.
A so-called level 1 master? Useless against the kingdom's knights crawling everywhere.
Hell, no need for that—even 10th-floor orcs would slaughter him mercilessly.
But now, trading blows with level 3 Dojin and winning to boot?
'Total bullshit.'
The Do-hoon in Dojin's head was already a monster beyond the original.
And it didn't stop there—as Dojin adapted and powered up, his imagined Do-hoon leveled up right alongside.
A battle he'd never win...... but Dojin was conquering the impossible.
'How the hell is he pulling this off.......'
Eh, if Dojin was into it, whatever. Raize spectated his brawl.
Chaejaejaeng-!
Swords fly.
Speeds no regular joe or Olympic gold medalist could track.
Do-hoon matched it without breaking a sweat.
'Physical stats are dropping......!'
Power weaker than his 30s self.
Stamina lower than his teens.
Definitely past his prime 20s peak.
But damn, that sword got sharper.
"A washed-up 40-year-old uncle!"
"Thirty-nine."
"Tomato, to-mah-to!"
Not fast. His swings were so sluggish you'd yawn your ass off.
But they always arced in the deadliest path. Slow as shit, yet never missed.
Seurung─.
[ YOU LOSE ]
"Aaaah!"
"Dojin!?"
Raize bolted to the wailing Dojin. Clutching his head and screaming out of nowhere—Pain Control Technique glitch? Freaking from the death throes?
"Fucking frustrating!"
Phew, not that. Fresh off another loss, Dojin refused to accept it and thrashed on the ground.
Raize eyed him, debating advice.
"......Treat him like a pushover."
"─What?"
"Your dad. You're overthinking it."
This fake world was built from Dojin's memories, fake enemies too.
So if Dojin pictured the guy weak, he'd crumble accordingly. Obvious.
"Then what's the fucking point?"
"Huh?"
But Dojin didn't bite. He shot back at Raize.
"If Dad was a pushover, I wouldn't need your help in the first place."
"Well...... but aren't you pissed from all these Ls?"
"Yeah, losing pisses me off, duh—but ain't that normal? Dad's a genius who's swung that sword longer than I've been alive."
Easy meant no thrill. This wasn't kid stuff.
Easy meant pointless. That's the whole tale.
"The real Dad might be even crazier. So whatever I dream up is always outdone by the real deal."
You craft an unbeatable foe, then beating it means something.
Beating some chump you can stomp naturally? Lame.
"You're missing the point."
Dojin wasn't gaming right now.
Wasn't kicking back for fun.
Defeat didn't break him.
He didn't fear loss.
"I'm honing off the rust."
Peaceful Otherworld.
Sudden OP powers out the ass.
Turned Dojin's blood-soaked life of strife into a booze-and-babes joyride.
Booze, chicks, games, hedonism—plenty to rust out a legend like Dojin.
"......Even this needing Dad's help is kinda hilarious."
Dojin was a blade forged by once-in-a-lifetime genius Do-hoon.
Hell, even de-rusting that blade needed Do-hoon's assist.
Couldn't escape the old man's shadow—Dojin cracked a bitter grin.
"If I beat it."
But skies are made to shatter. Worlds born to burn.
This puny sky? He'd smash it over and over. Ram it endlessly.
Rust, dullness—whatever. It wouldn't snap.
Him.
Me.
'Cause he was the finest sword that man ever made.
"Next."
"Take a breather......."
"Raize, next."
"......Fine."
[NEW CHALLANGE!]
Dojin raised his sword, locking on the foe.
39-year-old Do-hoon drew his blade casually.
One of countless bouts whose count he'd never track, past or future.
It kicked off.
'Strong.'
Chijijik-!
Blade rides the flat, spitting sparks.
That split-second opening—Dojin soared skyward.
Gravity at 9.8m/s² slams him down in a flash.
Foe on two feet, him on his back.
Huge gap. Dojin eyed the sword spearing his chest and threw in the towel.
Dojin died.
'Insanely strong, no cap.'
41-year-old Do-hoon's style plunged deeper.
Died hundreds honing his own swordplay.
42-year-old Do-hoon flipped his style entirely outta nowhere.
Dojin ate 200 deaths adapting.
43-year-old Do-hoon barely differed from 42.
No decline with age.
Dozens more deaths.
44 years old—some fluke encounter? Enlightenment? He exploded in power, offing Dojin near a thousand times.
But.
This flesh dies, dies.
A thousand deaths?
Time's got his back.
"Crazy."
Raize, watching, flat-out said it.
Insane shit. Sane folks don't pull this.
Thousands of deaths already. Pain Control Technique wrecked ages ago—Dojin was in full-on ascetic hell.
"What?"
"......I get you can null pain. But death's death, pain's pain."
Dojin's pain-to-pleasure swap.
Only triggers on feeling the hurt.
So no matter how quick he fires it off, the pain hit lands.
Brief stab, throat slice—thousands of times. No way you're sane. No endurance.
Yet Dojin grinned like it was nothing.
"Raize."
"......Yeah."
"Watch close. Next one's my win."
Dojin declared and dove at his father again.
Lost.
"Quit it......."
"This round."
Lost.
"How...... the fuck can you keep going?"
Now Raize was more baffled than blocker. What fueled that bottomless grit?
Source of that alien willpower?
Dojin, charging Dad once more, spilled it.
"It's all imagination, but I can fuck that guy's shit up."
"......Huh?"
Simpler than expected. Purely selfish, yet the biggest motivator ever.
Finally, Dojin toppled his 44-year-old old man.
And the finale.
The 45-year-old father he'd faced nonstop before hitting this world.
"Father."
"Yeah."
"Thanks for raising me."
"......You eat something funky?"
"And, thanks for all your hard work."
45-year-old Dad wasn't all that fierce.
Exactly as Dojin remembered.
Real-deal Do-hoon, through and through.
No shot against superhuman Dojin, naturally.
Dojin fully cleaved his father, roots and all—felt light as air.
Raize sidled up.
"You good?"
"Yeah. Feels great, actually? Might nut."
"......Pervert."
Raize ragged on Dojin for that timing.
Then she eased off the ritual.
Back in reality, Raize's jaw dropped, drool pouring.
"Hueeeek─!?"
Pushushushu─.
Dojin stared in disbelief at Raize, his dick still buried, pissing all over her belly.
"You're the real pervert."