Kicking Away the Torch (2)
If the Mount Hua Sect had its Plum Blossom Sword Experts and Shaolin Temple its Eighteen Arhats, then Wudang boasted its Taiji Sword Masters.
What they all shared was their status as the elite representatives of their sects. And with that came trials to match.
Those trials were infamous for their brutality, but no one ever abandoned the path to Taiji Sword Master out of fear. Who would pass up the chance to claim the honor of representing Wudang?
In truth, the Taiji Sword Master exam tested virtually every disciple at the main mountain. It came once every ten years, though, and you only got one shot at it—limiting it to second- and third-generation disciples.
"But doesn't that put third-gen disciples at a huge disadvantage compared to second-gen?"
"Taiji Sword Master isn't just about raw power. They look at your age, your mastery of techniques, your conduct in Wudang up to now, your sense of justice, your mental fortitude... To them, you're probably just getting tested on the last one."
"Got it. Lucky me—I don't have much justice in me anyway."
"You're not even eligible for Taiji Sword Master. You're just tagging along for part of the exam. Only main mountain disciples can claim the title."
"So I can half-ass it, then?"
"Not if you want to learn the Yang Heart Technique."
Cheonghwa boasted that this was his way of repaying me for smashing my head into the ground. I was grateful, honestly. I wasn't sure about the head-smashing part, but speaking up for someone else like that wasn't easy.
"So how does the mental fortitude test work?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't test your mental fortitude."
Cheonghwa's grin had a rogue-ish edge to it, like some unwashed bandit from the evil sects. Wasn't grinning like that a violation of Taoist dignity?
"Even if you wanted to find out, no one's spilling. Go practice the Cloud Mist Sword Method instead. I showed it to you last time, right?"
"Yeah."
I followed his orders without complaint. Sword practice was a fresh thrill for someone like me, who'd spent a lifetime hunched over brushes and ledgers.
Even the same sword form changed based on the life you'd lived. It was a fascinating revelation.
I thought I was swinging textbook-style, but my juniors piped up: "Why's your sword so sharp and ruthless, junior brother?"
It came from repeating the grind of crushing others to climb in the brutal merchant world. In that sense, the sword was a window letting me rediscover parts of myself I'd forgotten.
"The Cloud Mist Sword Method gets tricky, so don't rely solely on talent."
"I'm working hard on effort too."
"Good. You're getting better than before."
Truth be told, bottom-tier sword talent was barely enough to handle the Cloud Mist Sword Method. Time to tap higher talents. But for the seeds I'd planted with the upper house to bear fruit, it'd take until next spring at least.
I needed some pocket money in the meantime. Something to mull over. Priority one was passing this mental test.
"And try not to bother your seniors if you can help it. You might not get it since you're exempt, but they take this exam seriously."
"Master, I've got that much sense."
"Then you're all set."
Cheonghwa finally relaxed and left, satisfied with my answer.
The second- and third-gen disciples were on edge with the Taiji Sword Master exam looming. How could they not be? One shot in a lifetime.
I headed to the Archery Hall's rear garden. My seniors were already there, practicing with grim focus.
I quietly took a spot behind them and swung away. Bottom-tier talent or not, my natural gifts weren't the worst—better than doing nothing.
I planned to do my thing and dip. Cheonghwa said as much, and I didn't want to mess with folks prepping for something big.
"Hey, junior brother."
"Yeah?"
Myeong-gyeong approached first, of all people. He kept opening and closing his mouth without speaking, hands clasped behind his back. Debating whether to say it, probably.
"What's up?"
"It's not as your senior... I mean..."
"Then don't."
"No, I will."
He brought his hands forward, clutching a worn booklet.
"Ah, scriptures."
"Yeah. Some parts I don't get."
"Sure."
As a merchant, I figured broad scholarly knowledge was key, so I'd read most classic texts. Myeong-gyeong probably just picked the nearest adult, but he'd come to the right place.
"Isiy seongin, hugi sin-i sin-seon, oe-gi sin-i sin-jon, bi-i gi-mu-sa-ya, goseong neung-gi-sa. This bit's confusing."
"The sage places himself last yet arrives first; he stays aloof from himself yet preserves himself. Isn't it because he has no private ends? Thus he fulfills his private ends."
"I can parse it, but 'not asserting himself lets him fulfill himself' trips me up."
"Distinguish the contexts. The first 'self' is the everyday ego we all know; the second is the perfected self. Same word, totally different meanings."
Myeong-gyeong looked half-lost. Makes sense—scriptures from ancient sages were tough for kids.
"More precisely, the first is the small self, the second the great self."
"Even harder."
"Okay. Among Wudang's ancestors, some are said to have achieved feather transformation ascension, right?"
"Yeah."
"You need the great self for that. The small self won't cut it."
"What's the difference?"
Chatting scriptures drew Myeong-seong and Myeong-jin too—they'd paused their swords, ears perked. Probably stumped like him.
"It says not asserting the self."
"What does 'asserting' mean? I don't go around proclaiming 'I'm me'."
"It's not about flaunting. It's having that sense of 'I' at all. You're aware of your existence right now, aren't you?"
"Ohhh, gotcha."
Myeong-gyeong lit up like he'd cracked it.
"Kinda get it now. Can't explain perfectly, though."
"Then you don't."
"You're sharp, junior brother. Knew it from chatting with folks."
"You're sharper, senior. I wasn't reading scriptures at your age."
A little flattery, and his face melted into a grin. Kids were easy.
Myeong-gyeong left relieved; Myeong-seong watched him go with a hint of envy.
Our eyes met, and he whipped away—something nagging him, maybe from last time I almost asked but didn't. Bad timing now; could rattle his exam focus.
"...Hey."
A whisper from the side startled me—I leaped back, spotting Myeong-jin stone-faced.
"When'd you get here?"
"A while."
"Make some noise next time."
"Did."
"My bad. What?"
"Can you check my swordplay?"
"Huh?"
"You're way better than me."
True enough. Juniors teaching seniors? Eh, if he didn't care, neither did I.
Myeong-jin demonstrated wordlessly. With my talent, his flaws jumped out.
I corrected his stance step by step; he followed without fuss.
After that, Myeong-gyeong and Myeong-jin kept coming with questions—I taught sincerely. Exam nerves made them hungry for any edge.
Myeong-seong, though, avoided my gaze, dodging deliberately. Practice wasn't clicking; I peeked from behind as he slammed his sword in frustration.
If I were just some adult, I'd have stepped in. But in Wudang, I was his junior brother. No junior nursed a senior—it'd bruise his pride if I fussed.
Time flew to exam day.
Second- and third-gen gathered at the grand training ground. Kids usually meant chaos, but today? Dead silence, tension thick.
"How many do they pick for Taiji Sword Master?"
"Average three per generation. Sometimes zero if the elders say no one's worthy."
"Brutal."
"Quit yapping."
"Yes, sir."
Unlike the crowd, I stuck by Cheonghwa. Mental test for me, but no full exam.
I scanned for my tense seniors: Myeong-seong, Myeong-gyeong, Myeong-jin. Wished them luck. Blood's thicker than water—my seniors shining meant good for me. Cheonghwa looked edgy too.
Sect Leader Cheong-ui stood stern on the platform.
"Fine fire in your eyes."
He surveyed them proudly.
"As you know, Taiji Sword Master is Wudang's pinnacle honor. But failing doesn't mean despair—being a Wudang disciple is honor enough."
Second-gen were my age; third-gen still kids. Cheong-ui's voice wrapped them in warmth.
"Mind is key to Taiji Sword Master. True ones conquer impossible ordeals."
Mental fortitude test. I'd asked first-gen acquaintances—most washed out here. Details? Sealed lips. Soon enough.
The ground glowed; purple mist rose from nowhere. Eerie.
It's a formation.
Experienced eyes spotted it quick.
"A scaled-down remake of a demonic cult formation from old. Nine Palaces Illusory Demon Formation. Past Taiji Sword Masters broke through it to storm the Demon Mountains with ten thousand strong."
"Demon cult" sparked fire in their eyes. Famous for shattering minds, birthing madmen.
"Tweaked so no madness, but inside? Pure hell. Steel yourselves."
At Cheonghwa's nod, I slipped into the corner. My exam slot.
"Begin."
Cheong-ui spoke; purple whirlwinds engulfed us.
Disciples crumpled, knelt, retched.
"Gahk... urk..."
Kids' eyes bloodshot, faces twisted in agony.
But me? Fine. I knew how it worked.
Wudang Taoists' pure inner energy clashed with demonic qi. It invaded minds, spawning pain and illusions. But I was forged in demonic qi—like breathing hometown air, easier even.
"Argh, aaaah!"
Too calm would raise flags.
I clutched my chest, writhed, and screamed on cue.