26. Heaven's Mandate (3)
“So, I fought that guy once, you know? He couldn't even touch me. But how's he supposed to beat you? It's ridiculous.”
Myeong-il didn't even glance at Myeong-han chattering nonstop beside him as he brought his sword down on the wooden dummy.
Myeong-il's eyes narrowed slightly. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, all that yapping was bound to scatter his focus. He'd aimed for the Gyeon-u acupoint on the shoulder, but his blade struck the neighboring Geo-gol acupoint instead.
“Hey.”
Myeong-il whipped his head around. Myeong-han, who'd been blabbing away excitedly, caught his glare and swallowed his words.
“You're bothering me.”
“Oh. S-sorry……”
“If you're sorry, then go.”
Myeong-han slunk back to his spot with an awkward grin. Each had their own master, but basic training was done all together by the third-generation disciples. The masters had their own duties, after all. Instructors were different from masters.
“Haa.”
Getting his concentration broken by such idle chatter irritated him to no end. Myeong-il was hailed as the top prodigy among Wudang's third-generation disciples in the Nine Great Sects, but he had no intention of stopping here.
He'd heard far too many stories of seniors who started as prodigies only to crumble—enough to make his ears callused. Myeong-il had zero plans to end up like that.
Myeong-il glanced toward the disciples under Senior Uncle Cheong-hwa. Among the third-generation disciples, that was the only group worth sparring with. Even the young Myeong-gyeong showed promising talent.
……That guy was one of Senior Uncle Cheong-hwa's disciples, right?
Cheong-hwa was one of the rare senior uncles Myeong-il truly respected.
Myeong-il had pretended not to care, but with the gossip buzzing around him all day, he couldn't tune it out completely.
A lay disciple was gunning for a fight with him. To Myeong-il, it was no big deal.
In other Nine Great Sects or Five Great Families, plenty of later-generation disciples were itching to challenge him. Being labeled the top prodigy among third-generation disciples came with all sorts of annoyances.
Normally, Myeong-il wouldn't have batted an eye. What grated on him was the lay disciple's antics.
The guy only trained when Cheong-hwa was watching, then spent the rest of his time playing a shepherd's flute in the fields. No one gunning for Myeong-il had ever been that unserious.
Sure, he'd beaten the head of Victory Thunder Sect, but that was just a minor faction no one in the Central Plains respected. And it was still a lay disciple. Myeong-il didn't buy the hype.
But blowing a flute and goofing off? That pissed Myeong-il off.
Others encouraged him, saying the guy was just acting cocky to hide his lack of confidence. But Myeong-il had heard something different from his master, the sect leader Cheong-ui.
—He won't be a pushover. Prepare yourself well.
If his master said it, there had to be a reason. Not knowing what it was just made Myeong-il more irritated.
Whatever.
Myeong-il decided to let it go. As Myeong-han said, the guy was probably nothing special. His master was just the serious type, cautioning him to stay vigilant. No need to overthink it. After all, Myeong-il had a long road ahead.
“Huh?”
“H-hey, over there……”
Suddenly, eyes from the training crowd turned one way. Myeong-il tried to ignore it, but the gazes soon fixed on him.
Turning, Myeong-il saw a pale scholar who looked like he hadn't mastered even a single form.
“You're Myeong-il, right?”
“……Yeah.”
Myeong-il hadn't even seen the lay disciple's face before, but instinct told him this was the guy.
“Saw you in the evaluation match last time. You were flying around out there.”
“That why you came here?”
Myeong-il cut him off coldly. This was training time. Interrupting it already proved the lay disciple lacked seriousness about martial arts.
“Nah. Thought we could spar. What do you say?”
The lay disciple grinned with zero hint of tension, even scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
The sight infuriated Myeong-il. Up close, the guy seemed even more pathetic. Telling him to brace for this? His master must've been messing with him.
“Why should I?”
“Huh?”
“I heard you need to prove yourself for some lay disciple title or whatever. But why should I help you with that?”
The lay disciple nodded as if Myeong-il's sharp words made perfect sense.
“Fair point. No reason, really.”
“Then scram. I've got training.”
Myeong-il had half a mind to humor a quick spar, but now he didn't even want to bother. Whether this clown proved himself or not had nothing to do with him. Myeong-il turned back to the dummy—then heard words he shouldn't have.
“What, you scared?”
Myeong-il stared in disbelief. The lay disciple was smiling. And damn if that grin didn't resemble the one from his respected Senior Uncle Cheong-hwa.
***
Yep, the magic words, as expected.
Especially effective on kids. Never thought I'd stoop to this, but if he's gonna be that uncooperative, I have no choice.
“What did you just say?”
Myeong-il's voice turned ominous. But it was still the squeak of a kid who hadn't hit puberty yet—kinda cute.
“Asked if you're scared.”
“Scared? Me? Of you?”
Myeong-il still looked like he couldn't believe his ears. I nodded even bigger.
“Yeah. Otherwise, why dodge? Swinging at a dummy or at me—it's the same sword stroke. Hell, sparring a real person beats dummy practice any day. Using training as an excuse? Sounds like reasonable doubt to me.”
I mimicked Cheong-hwa's smile as best I could. In my experience, it was the surest way to piss someone off.
As expected, Myeong-il's eyes blazed with fury. Anyone would've flipped seeing that smile.
Thanks, Master.
First time calling Cheong-hwa “Master” in my head, at least.
“He's lost it.”
“Guy's gone nuts for real.”
The stage was set. Third-generation disciples and instructors were already whispering. The instructors knew my story, so no one stepped in. The kids, including Myeong-han, were milling about—not exactly peak training seriousness.
“Your provocation tactic is top-notch, at least.”
Flames roared in Myeong-il's eyes. My taunt had landed perfectly.
Everyone loves a good fight. The disciples cleared space, instructors hauled away the dummy, and an impromptu sparring ring formed in seconds.
“You shouldn't have said that.”
With those words, Myeong-il's aura shifted.
Now that's different.
Nothing like watching from the stands. It felt like facing a beast head-on.
I untied the wooden sword at my waist. One instructor stepped up to referee.
The result of this bout would spread through all of Wudang within an hour. Small groups meant fast rumors.
“Say when you're ready.”
The instructor called out.
“Ready.”
“Me too.”
No hesitation from either of us. The referee darted back, and Myeong-il and I kicked off simultaneously.
Myeong-il's sword slashed down diagonally—Samjae Sword Technique: Eight Directions Storm Wind.
His Cheong-un Step and Samjae Sword Technique were things I knew, but countering was no joke.
I hadn't fought many martial artists, but this feeling was new. I knew exactly what he'd do, yet blocking felt impossible.
I kept circling sideways, avoiding direct clashes. Luckily, I could match his Cheong-un Step with focus.
“Your footwork's solid.”
Myeong-il murmured lowly. He wasn't wrong—I had mastered Cheong-un Step. Even the watching instructors confirmed it.
“Cheong-un Step at proficiency?”
“Yeah. Definitely talent worth Cheong-hwa picking up.”
“Less than three months since he started proper training, right? Insane progress.”
Everyone here knew Myeong-il's prowess. That's why my resistance drew all the attention. They expected me to fold in one exchange, but I was holding my own without clashing blades.
The third-generation disciples whispered in surprise too—they hadn't expected me to fight this well.
“Hup!”
Myeong-il seemed a tad anxious as the fight dragged. His steps dug deeper into the ground—more internal energy.
But I had no real internal energy to match. I was dodging on movement alone. Direct hits were suicide. Even grazing swords made my guts churn—his energy rippling through me. At his age, he hadn't mastered it fully, so it just nauseated. A true expert would've shredded my organs on contact.
Time to play my trump card. I twisted my waist to deflect his sword grazing my shoulder, then rolled past his elbow aimed at my jaw.
“Rolling on the ground?”
“Typical lay disciple—no roots.”
Orthodox folk tsked at the roll like it was worse than death, but their pride meant nothing to me.
As I rolled, I recalled the Moojae Merchant Shop.
◈ Instantaneous application upon purchase
◈ Enhances all movement speed dramatically
Purchases were instant. By the time anyone suspected trickery, it was already applied. I'd bought Swift Movement—the 100-tael one. Looking back, the price was perfect. Fate, no doubt.
I sprang up like a spring and charged Myeong-il. Panic flickered in his eyes. I felt it too.
What the hell—it's this fast?
My feet nearly tangled. My body couldn't keep up with the speed.
“Huh?”
The onlookers looked just as stunned by my sudden change. This was my shot—the one chance I could make. Buying talent mid-fight to overhaul my movement.
I bent my front knee deep, then exploded forward. Swift Movement made every motion blur into one seamless flow.
Myeong-il backpedaled furiously, eyes straining to track me. Even half a breath's pause, and he'd adapt. But I wasn't letting up. I dove low toward his left waist—the awkward spot for a right-hander to swing.
I gripped the hilt tight, pressing flesh to wood. Then I slammed the pommel into his ribs.
With his guard open at the waist, Myeong-il ate the hit and flew back. My strength was finally enough to faze martial artists.
As Myeong-il rolled in the dirt, kicking up sand and failing to rise, the distant referee leaped into the ring.
“Spar's over.”
I collapsed spread-eagled, gasping. Shocked gasps from the third-generation disciples swirled in my ears.