What Did You Just Say?

When I woke, the world outside was already dark.

As promised, Master had brought a bowl of plain rice porridge to Yoo Si-jeong.

His own portion was the same porridge, though not because he was well enough to eat it. It was simply his way of showing consideration, of sharing the same food with me so I wouldn’t feel singled out.

“Eat while it’s still warm.”

“Yes, Master.”

After my short reply, I thrust my spoon deep into the bowl.

...Mm. This is truly porridge.

Porridge had its own kind of flavor, I supposed. This was just watery rice gruel, with no added ingredients at all, and its blandness was such that I couldn’t honestly call it tasty even in the broadest sense of the word.

But hunger made the best side dish. I had eaten nothing, and though my mouth knew better, my hand kept shoveling the plain porridge into my starving stomach.

Master watched me and gave a wry smile.

“Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten anything, so...”

“Think nothing of it. The sick must be treated like honored guests.”

“How would you like me to address you?”

“If you’re asking about that, then from now on, call me Master.”

“Master?”

At my question, he nodded.

“Yes. While you were asleep, I received permission for your entry from the sect leader and the elders. Since I was the one who took you in first, it would be right for me to be your master as well, they said.”

“Thank you, Master!”

“Even so, you are not yet fully a disciple of Mount Hua. We still know nothing about you. An elder will be coming tomorrow, so greet him properly and then we shall make your entry formal.”

“Of course.”

I answered with a nod.

In my previous life, I had entered Mount Hua Sect in much the same way. It was more or less what I had expected.

This time, Master asked in a softer voice, “Now it is my turn to ask you. There are many things I’m curious about. What is your name?”

“My surname is Yoo, and my name is Sung-woon.”

“So you bear the same surname as I do. Perhaps this too is some kind of bond.”

I smiled awkwardly, not knowing how to answer.

It was none other than Master who had given me my name. My surname, too, came from his. So it was only natural that they matched.

“How old are you?”

“Seven. I’ll turn eight when spring comes.”

“I ask only in case it matters, but do you have somewhere to return to?”

“I have neither a home nor parents.”

“And do you remember where you came from?”

“I don’t know that either. I got into a wagon full of piled-up goods to escape the cold and fell asleep inside it. When I woke up, I was in Hua Yin.”

I told him nothing but the truth.

My hometown was some nameless village in Shaanxi.

I was a person, so naturally I had parents who had given birth to me and raised me.

There should have been a name by which they called me, too.

But I forgot it in no time.

My parents always called me “hey,” “you,” “you brat,” and “that one.”

They had plenty of ways to address me, yet they stubbornly refused to use my name.

They kept calling me that, and after so long they forgot my name, and I forgot it too.

“You’ve cut all ties with the world.”

Master looked at me with pity. With nothing to say, I gave a faint smile.

It had all happened so long ago that I no longer felt sad or regretful.

After briefly explaining the sect’s rules and the life that lay ahead, Master took the tray and stood.

“I’ll be in the next room. Call me if you need anything.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And don’t ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠forget to take your medicine on ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time.”

Master pointed to the pouch of medicine beside me and left the room.

He had said that right after I lost consciousness, he took me to the head physician of the medicine hall.

The pulse reading had shown, thankfully, that I hadn’t been injured. I had simply exhausted my strength.

He said I could get up tomorrow, but that I still needed to take medicine for at least five days, so I obeyed without complaint.

When I opened the pouch, I found pill pellets no bigger than my fingernail. I picked one out, tossed it into my mouth, and swallowed it with water.

To think I had climbed Mount Hua in the snow and already needed medicine for it.

Only then did it finally feel real: I had returned to the past.

I didn’t know what kind of chance this was, but delight came before curiosity.

My shattered dantian and ruined body were now matters of the past.

I wanted to enter martial training at once.

The fact that I can build my foundation as a martial artist through the Violet Mist Divine Art is a tremendous advantage.

The Mount Hua divine art I had restored with the rest of my life after becoming a cripple.

It wasn’t only for me. If the sect leader began training in Violet Mist Divine Art now, it could become a tremendous strength for the righteous factions when the day came to fight the Blood Sky Demon Sect.

There were, however, two problems.

The first was obvious: how to return Violet Mist Divine Art to the sect in the first place.

The second was what came after that.

“If I give back Violet Mist Divine Art, then in the end Master will die...”

How was I supposed to solve that?

* * *

Violet Mist Divine Art was the highest of Mount Hua’s supreme martial arts, known only to the sect leader and his direct disciple.

For Wudang, it would be Tai Chi Divine Art and Tai Chi Sage Sword.

For Shaolin, it would stand alongside Prajna Divine Art.

These were all martial arts renowned throughout the world, yet they were also famous for not keeping separate manuals.

It was both a sect rule and a tradition. That was true not only of Mount Hua, but of nearly every sect I could think of.

Why did sects care so much about security that they would rather keep powerful martial arts locked away than record them in manuals?

Why would they allow only the sect leader and his direct disciple to learn them?

I had once asked that while undergoing harsh training under the sect leader, just to buy time.

“You really do work your wits overtime just to get a moment’s rest.”

“So what is the reason? To keep them exclusive?”

“Exclusive? What nonsense... Do you think even Shaolin’s monks, who follow the Buddha’s teachings, rank their disciples’ learning by status?”

“I suppose not.”

“Many people misunderstand this, but the sect is doing it to protect its disciples.”

The techniques called divine arts each cause internal energy to accumulate at a shocking speed and refine the body toward purity, enough to make people argue they are the finest under heaven.

Not only that, but their forms also display earth-shattering power.

The problem is that they are just as difficult.

Without the backing of talent, they are hard even to learn. And even if one does learn them, there is always the danger of falling into deviation.

What’s more, each time one uses the forms, the consumption of internal energy is so absurd that one must rely on elixirs and tonics from childhood just to manage without strain.

“No matter how great a sect like Wudang or Shaolin may be, its resources are still limited. Mount Hua is no different.”

“Is that all?”

“Moreover, the person teaching must focus on a single disciple if that disciple is to make proper progress. Just as I am doing with you now.”

“But Mount Hua’s divine art was lost more than a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Exactly why I have tried to make up for what we lack compared to other sects. With nothing but blood-soaked effort, it can be done. Of course, once you reach this realm you realize how much our martial arts are lacking, and creating something on par with a divine art is no easy matter.”

“Ah...”

“If you understand, then pick up your wooden sword already. As I did, you too must work harder than you do now if you want to avoid falling behind the other sects.”

“Sect Leader, I’ve been sleeping only two shichen these days.”

“And yet there’s no disciple in the sect who takes as many pills as you do.”

“Someday I’ll repay you with unfilial conduct.”

“You ungrateful wretch. Today, every time you make a mistake in a form, prepare to be struck with the wooden sword.”

The sect leader’s words came back to me with vivid clarity.

What would happen if an ordinary disciple learned Violet Mist Divine Art?

First, there was the problem of actually learning it, since it was so difficult.

Then, even after that, one had to guard against deviation.

And after all that suffering, if one used the forms only a few times, one’s internal energy would be exhausted. Worse still, because the art was not taught in concentrated depth from the beginning, its power would be far weaker than before.

Martial training would progress sluggishly, and so would one’s advancement in realm.

People said there was an ideal time to learn martial arts.

If one clung to a divine art beyond one’s station, one could waste an entire life chasing it.

Better to spend that time training martial arts that were lower in level but easier to learn.

There were practical reasons of many kinds behind it.

People who hated the Orthodox Faction misunderstood this and said that even the Nine Great Sects, the very face of righteousness, discriminated among disciples according to talent.

But in truth, they were carefully judging which martial arts would let each disciple grow the fastest.

The fact that a sect granted different martial arts to different people could not be helped.

A tiger eats meat, and a pine caterpillar eats pine needles; that is what keeps them from harm.

Talent and comprehension are not equal, so the martial arts bestowed upon them cannot be equal either.

The reason I could think this way was because I had been taught to see from the perspective of the next sect leader, not merely as an ordinary disciple.

The point was this: if I returned Violet Mist Divine Art to the sect, I would, in effect, become the sect leader’s direct disciple by force.

And here one had to understand Mount Hua’s rules.

A second-generation disciple responsible for teaching a third-generation disciple is excluded from the list of sect missions for anywhere from a year to, at most, three or four years.

That was because they were entrusted with the grave responsibility of raising their disciple into a proper member of Mount Hua.

But because I had become the sect leader’s disciple partway through, Master was exempted from such rules.

And not even a year after I had entered Mount Hua Sect, Master was assigned a mission.

He died while carrying it out.

That was the end of Yoo Yeon-woo, Mount Hua’s second-generation disciple.

Unless there was some special reason, a disciple could not refuse a mission assigned by the sect.

To save Master, it was better that I remain Yoo Yeon-woo’s disciple rather than becoming the sect leader’s.

So I had no intention whatsoever of becoming the sect leader’s direct disciple in this life.

Not only for Master’s sake, either.

If I became the direct disciple of the sect leader, I would lose far too much freedom.

Because of the grueling training and education, I would have almost no personal time.

I remembered the locations of all the elixirs, manuals, hidden stores, and other so-called chances that would be discovered in the future.

Even after becoming a cripple, I had ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gathered and organized all sorts of information in the hope of helping the sect in whatever way I could.

I needed to get into the martial world as quickly as possible and run my feet ragged across the Central Plains.

If I became the sect leader’s disciple and delayed my departure into the martial world, then the Blood Sky Demon Sect would destroy this life just as they had the last.

I won’t deny that part of me wanted to avoid the exhausting training with the sect leader this time around.

* * *

By dawn, my fever had mostly broken.

Master spent the morning training until the elder arrived.

This time, he did not object to me watching him train.

My fever had mostly subsided, and he said he would show me the sword of Mount Hua before my formal entry, so he went to demonstrate.

“The sword I’m about to show you is called Falling Blossom Sword Art.”

“Falling Blossom Sword Art?”

“Yes. It consists of eight forms. It isn’t especially high-level, but I thought it would be the most suitable martial art to show you. I’ll swing the sword slowly so you can watch in comfort.”

I nodded to show I understood. Receiving my answer, Master immediately assumed the stance for his demonstration.

Falling Blossom Sword Art.

A sword art founded by the Patriarch after watching plum blossoms fall.

It was not a low-level sword art.

It counted as a first-class martial art.

But within Mount Hua, which was full of superior martial arts, it was not held in especially high regard.

One could simply say that it was a martial art for second-generation disciples to use when warming up, or during duels as a light and enjoyable technique, or one that third-generation disciples with some years under their belt and recognized talent could train in.

Master was a Peak master.

Falling Blossom Sword Art should have been no burden to him, even when performed slowly.

But that thought shattered the moment he began moving the sword.

“Hup...”

The path of Master’s sword strangely lacked stability.

From the first form, One Sword Like a Flower, through the fifth, Following Wind to Dance, it seemed plausible enough, but from the sixth form onward, something felt caught and snagged.

Why?

My understanding had once reached the peak of Transcendence.

Before my dantian had been broken and I had fallen into ruin, I had stood among the latter ranks of the hundred greatest masters in the world and faced the wall of the Transformation Realm.

Though I could no longer learn martial arts now and my eyes could no longer fully track a martial artist’s movements, things were different when the motions were slow.

It was easy enough to find flaws in the sword art of a Peak master.

But I could not tell why it was lacking.

Beads of sweat gathered on Master’s brow, and after finishing the eighth form he asked me, “What do you think?”

“As expected, Mount Hua’s sword lives up to its reputation. To think you could swing such a heavy sword so lightly.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It was as if you were waving a slender branch.”

“I-I see.”

Despite the praise, Master looked down at the sword in his hand with a troubled expression.

In Mount ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Hua, saying that someone swung a sword like a branch was closer to a scolding or advice than to praise.

That was because Mount Hua’s sword resembled plum blossoms.

To make plum blossoms bloom, one must become a sturdy tree that has driven its roots deep into the earth.

To swing one’s sword like a branch was to say the sword could not make plum blossoms bloom.

Of course, one could not say Master’s sword was terrible.

Whenever a Peak master demonstrated a sword art, martial artists lined up just to watch and learn something from it.

But something is off.

When he performed the forms, his left foot fell out of alignment by about three inches, and his right arm, which held the sword, was lifting slightly.

“Did you notice anything else while watching the martial art?”

Since he asked, I answered at once.

“Your arm and foot looked uncomfortable while you were swinging the sword. Were you cold, perhaps?”

Master’s eyes widened in surprise as he asked back, “They looked uncomfortable to you?”

“If that’s just how the sword art is supposed to look, then I apologize.”

“No, no. You have a sharp eye.”

Rather than deny it, he accepted it.

Only then did I realize that Master himself knew his own problem.

If a Peak expert could not even notice this about himself, then he should be ashamed enough to stop using sword qi for the rest of his life.

But if he knew the problem and still had not corrected it, what was the reason?

Before I could finish the question forming in my mind, something flew into view.

Bang!

With a heavy collision against the floor, a middle-aged martial artist made a noisy entrance.

With his red hair, red beard, and hearty, forceful expression, he swept away the snow kicked up by the impact with a single wave of his hand.

The arrival had been sudden, but I recognized him at a glance.

Elder Jeok Mu-ha?

Of course, he looked at least twenty years younger than when I had last seen him.

Seeing the man who had died half a year ago suddenly appear before me, I felt the urge to greet him warmly.