Gungdo Pavilion (3)
Whether it was seizing the mood or dealing with people, I naturally had the upper hand against this punk. After all, the people I'd met and the situations I'd navigated as a merchant far outnumbered his experiences.
"Y-You little... "
My sudden aggression made Myeonghan stutter. The atmosphere had shifted just right.
Now what?
At least I'd turned the tide while the kids were intimidated. From here on, it was all about improvisation.
"Senior brother. I'll educate this rude bastard who doesn't know basic etiquette."
The guy next to Myeonghan glared at me. Myeonghan's eyes sharpened in response. With his junior stepping up like that, he couldn't afford to back down.
"No. I'll handle his education personally."
"Are you sure? Your strength might still be..."
"Quiet. I said I'll do it."
The hierarchy was crystal clear. If I became a core disciple, I'd have to serve guys like him the same way. The thought alone made me want to puke.
Myeonghan tapped his foot impatiently. He figured even in his weakened state, he could handle someone like me.
He lifted his chin and glared. A chill hung between us.
"Kneel and apologize now, and I'll chalk it up to lay disciple arrogance and let it slide."
Myeonghan's mouth opened slowly. My reply was swift.
"Screw that."
"So you're choosing punishment over mercy, eh?"
Well, well. Kid who probably never touched booze in his life, spouting fancy adult lines. Kids this age loved mimicking whatever sounded cool.
"How exactly do you plan to punish me?"
"You punk!"
My sneer provoked him, and the tip of his outstretched hand shot toward my solar plexus. Young, but fast—definitely different from someone who started training young.
If I were still the fat-bellied merchant Muk Hwi-yeong, that strike would've sent me tumbling.
But I wasn't that merchant anymore. I was Wudang's provisional core disciple, Muk Hwi-yeong.
I widened my eyes, and time seemed to slow—an unfamiliar sensation. Even the breeze brushing my skin felt vivid.
First, I read his footwork. It was the Cheongunbo I'd learned, after all.
Reading the steps made dodging the technique easy. Just follow the feet, and you could predict the strike.
Whoosh.
His hand grazed past my solar plexus as I twisted left sharply.
Myeonghan clenched his fist mid-thrust, bent his elbow, and tried to smash down. But I slipped away effortlessly. Two months of Cheongunbo practice proved its worth.
I might not know much else, but my grasp of Cheongunbo ran deeper. While I pierced his footwork, he couldn't keep up with mine.
How could two months outpace years of training? A fleeting doubt crossed my mind, but results were results.
"You bastard!"
Myeonghan bellowed as his attacks kept missing by a hair. He was getting pissed.
Even amid the chaos, my eyes grew accustomed to his movements.
This might actually work.
I decided to seize the momentum. As I stepped forward instead of backpedaling, Myeonghan flinched. His wild swing sailed past my back.
His guard was wide open. I slammed my fist into his exposed left side.
Got him!
So I thought.
Myeonghan stared at me. I stared back. Confusion mirrored in his eyes.
"...?"
My fist had hit his ribs dead-on. Yet he didn't even flinch. My hand throbbed instead—like punching rock full-force.
We grasped the situation simultaneously. I knew enough about martial systems.
Martial arts divided into external and internal arts. Orthodox sects emphasized internal, but neglected external entirely? No—external built the vessel for internal power.
So a Wudang disciple with years of external training shrugged off my punch.
"Die!"
From then on, Myeonghan abandoned defense for all-out offense. Knowing my attacks wouldn't hurt, he went berserk.
His focus sharpened his movements. His fist grazed my forearm, tearing the fabric.
If that lands, I'm dead.
Martial artists killing civilians happened often. Most weren't intentional—the disparity was just that vast. A solar plexus punch could rupture organs.
I only knew Cheongunbo, no external or internal arts. Sure, two months of dashing around Wudang and climbing cliffs had toughened me up, but I was still peak commoner level.
Luckily, my superior footwork kept me dodging. But stamina wouldn't last forever.
I needed to end this fast. Myeonghan's face reddened further as his frenzy missed.
Voices approached from nearby. Right—this was the communal Gungdo Pavilion grounds.
I didn't know who they were, but I went all-in. Could I control my body that precisely? Thought blurred into instinct, instinct into action.
His fist flew at my jaw. I whipped my head aside, then dove dramatically to the ground. Sand billowed up as my nose smashed hard. Warmth gushed out.
"What the hell are you kids doing?!"
A roar coincided. Cheonghwa and Cheongsu stood there.
Myeonghan froze mid-punch, dumbfounded. No impact—he'd be rattled.
"S-Senior uncle."
Perfectly timed, blood poured from my nose.
"Hwi-yeong!"
Cheonghwa rushed over, pressing fingers to my neck and face. Miraculously, the bleeding stopped. This was acupoint pressure, a martial artist's trick.
"You brat! Using martial arts on someone who hasn't learned any—what were you thinking?!"
Cheonghwa's shout froze Myeonghan and his crew. To them, she was untouchable seniority. They didn't dare speak.
"I-It wasn't me who hit him..."
"Shut it! Trying excuses in front of me now?!"
Myeonghan bowed his head. His juniors followed suit.
Still, he shot me murderous glances. Smart enough to know I'd played him.
"What happened?!"
A middle-aged man in flowing Daoist robes strode from Gungdo Pavilion. Myeonghan's face lit up.
"Master!"
The three huddled behind him. Cheongyu, Myeonghan's master.
"What's going on? Cheonghwa."
"Your disciple assaulted mine. And he hasn't even started martial arts yet."
Cheongyu startled at my face. The blood trail from philtrum to chin lingered. Damn, it hurt—maybe a cracked bridge.
Cheonghwa glared daggers at Cheongyu. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Ahem. So you're the lay disciple you took in... him."
From their exchange, Cheongyu was senior brother, but Cheonghwa didn't yield. She bristled with hostility.
"Yes. What do you plan to do? Your disciple harmed my future one badly."
Myeonghan opened his mouth silently. Even with his master there, defying senior uncle terrified him.
"What should we do?"
"A sincere apology, obviously."
"Come on. Kids fight. Demanding apologies? You're disrespecting my face too much."
Cheongyu ground his teeth. Cheonghwa remained stone-faced. Their bad blood was real.
Cheongyu eyed her down briefly, then sighed.
"Fine. Myeonghan."
"...Yes."
"Apologize."
Myeonghan clenched his fists, trembling. No will to, but with master and senior uncle watching...
"S-Sorry."
"Good. That's that."
I feigned magnanimity. Myeonghan's face soured.
"Satisfied?"
Cheonghwa nodded approvingly.
"No."
All eyes turned to me. My words, after all.
"What? No?"
Cheongyu snapped. I wiped blood with my sleeve.
"Cheonghwa's part's done. Mine isn't. Common sense: victim's demands come first."
Cheongyu's face twisted grotesquely. Behind Cheonghwa, Myeongseong, Myeonggyeong, and the kids gaped in shock.
"Apology's enough. What more?"
"Medical fees."
"Medical fees?"
"Yes. Can't do anything while recovering—pay for that too."
Cheongyu glared murderously. But with Cheonghwa and Cheongsu here, he couldn't act. I banked on that.
"...How much?"
"Two taels of silver seems fair."
"That's steep."
For a nosebleed, yeah. One tael equaled a thousand coppers. Self-inflicted extortion, even. But merchants thrived on shamelessness.
"Wudang's own saying two taels is too much? Scary if word gets out."
Cheongyu flushed. I'd called him petty outright. Cheonghwa and Cheongsu stifled laughs.
Cheongyu yanked a pouch from his robe. Cheonghwa said Daoists shouldn't have personal wealth, but rules bent.
He irritably rummaged, then handed over two finger-sized silver taels. I bit one—real deal.
"Payment received."
I beamed; he scowled.
"Your name?"
"Muk Hwi-yeong."
"Right, Muk Hwi-yeong. I'll remember that."
Cheongyu spun and hurried off. The three scampered after.
I rolled the silver on my palm, satisfied.
Cheongsu and Cheonghwa stared, exasperated.