Can You Become the Spark? (4)
Eyes.
A gaze colder than ice bore down on Yi Song-baek.
The moment their eyes met, Yi Song-baek shuddered at a sensation he had never once experienced in all the years he had lived.
It felt as though a knife sharpened to an unbearable edge was pressed directly against his heart.
What in the world...?
He had thought he understood enough.
He thought he knew exactly what kind of person he was facing.
But the instant he saw that strike and those chill eyes, Yi Song-baek’s thoughts twisted completely out of shape.
Maybe I didn’t know this person at all.
Crack!
"Guhh!"
As Chung Myung drove his sword downward, Yi Song-baek’s waist bent at a grotesque angle and he screamed.
"What the hell are you trying to pursue?"
His icy voice struck Yi Song-baek like a blade.
"It’s easy enough to run your mouth. Doing it is a whole different story. What do you think some punk like you can accomplish?"
Bang!
Chung Myung’s wrist shifted slightly, and he shoved the blade hard against Yi Song-baek’s own. Yi Song-baek was flung backward helplessly, like a dry leaf caught in a storm.
Crash!
He hit the floor, then grit his teeth and forced himself upright.
Tremble, tremble, tremble.
His whole body had begun to shake like a reed in the wind.
When he raised his head, he saw Chung Myung walking toward him, sword tilted diagonally at his side.
Without realizing it, Yi Song-baek bit his lip hard.
Is there anyone else in this world who wears that look so well?
Chung Myung opened his mouth, his eyes lowered and calm.
"Swinging your sword ten thousand times a day. That’s not such a hard thing to do."
His steps were slow.
"But the world isn’t the same every day. Sometimes there’s a storm. Sometimes snow comes down. And sometimes you run into a bastard like me. Then after that day, can you still keep swinging your sword?"
"......"
Yi Song-baek leveled his sword at Chung Myung.
"Words are..."
Chung Myung’s sword came crashing down again.
Whooooooom!
With his sword raised to block the blow, a suppressed groan leaked through Yi Song-baek’s clenched lips.
"There’s nothing I can’t do."
Kwaaaaaang!
Chung Myung’s sword fell on him once more. The blade bent as if it might snap, and his bones screamed in protest.
The grip on his sword tore open and blood ran down. His tightly bitten lip split, filling his mouth with the metallic tang of blood. His bloodshot eyes went so red they looked ready to bleed.
Chung Myung stared down at him wordlessly.
That indifferent face.
That unfeeling expression, so unlike his usual self, seemed as if it might freeze Yi Song-baek’s very soul.
Then Chung Myung lifted his blade away and stepped back. A moment later, he thrust toward Yi Song-baek again.
There was nothing wasted in the motion.
It was a sword thrust so clean and exact it looked like a drill form.
But the one receiving it felt something entirely different.
What the—!
Yi Song-baek twisted his body desperately.
Swish.
Chung Myung’s sword skimmed just past the side of his neck. Even though the blade was still sheathed, the pressure of the wind alone split the skin at his throat, and bright drops of blood scattered through the air.
How is this even possible?
The last thing Yi Song-baek saw was Chung Myung retreating to take a high guard. And then, the very next instant, the sword was already at his throat.
There was no middle.
No—wait, that wasn’t it!
Because the movement was executed so perfectly, the entire sequence of the thrust seemed to happen in a single breath.
Perfect.
What he had to pursue.
And I’m this far away from it?
Yi Song-baek’s body started to tremble harder.
Setting a goal was not difficult. And neither was striving toward that goal until your body broke apart.
What was truly difficult was realizing just how distant that goal was—and not being crushed by the weight of it.
Yi Song-baek, who had seen the goal he was meant to chase with his own eyes, could only stand stunned before that endless road.
"Idle thoughts."
Bang!
Chung Myung’s blade sliced into his suddenly exposed side.
Crack.
With the impact of what felt like an entire ribcage shattering, Yi Song-baek coughed blood. Then he was flung into the air like a pebble thrown by a child, slammed onto the sparring ground, and bounced back up.
"Guhh."
Thud!
He sprawled miserably across the ground, clutching at the sparring platform. Blood poured from both nose and mouth in an unending stream.
Tremble, tremble.
And yet Yi Song-baek still stood back up.
"You think you can endure anything with nothing but willpower?"
Chung Myung sneered coldly.
"If that were really so easy, then who in this world wouldn’t be a master? Get up. Prove it to me. Prove you’ve got the right to talk about perfection."
Yi Song-baek raised his sword.
His knee buckled and wavered, and the hand holding the sword shook uncontrollably, but he somehow managed to force himself into a high guard.
"Hah... haaah!"
He let out a fierce shout and charged at Chung Myung. His sword split into ten sword images at once, each one aiming for Chung Myung’s vital points.
Despite his trembling body, the sword aura blazing blue was as clear and sharp as polished glass.
One.
"Clumsy."
Chung Myung met each of those afterimages head-on without letting his posture break for even an instant.
His planted feet did not move an inch. There was no wavering in the straight line of his back. Only his shoulders, loose and relaxed, and his sword, drawn and withdrawn with immaculate precision, moved at all.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Yi Song-baek’s blade was shoved violently backward.
As Chung Myung’s sword flashed toward the chest exposed by an opening shoulder, Yi Song-baek was sent flying once more with a gasp of blood.
By now, the spectators’ faces had turned openly stunned.
"W-we should stop this, right?"
"He’s... no match for him."
"I-it’s already over, so why isn’t the referee stopping it? He’s going to die like that!"
"How did that guy even make it this far?"
This wasn’t a matter of how many moves separated them. They simply weren’t on the same level to begin with. If sparring meant a match in which two opponents tested their skill against each other, then that meaning had already been stripped away here.
"He, he’s getting up again."
"Has he gone insane? Why the hell does he keep standing?"
"......"
Everyone stared blankly as Yi Song-baek forced himself to his feet.
His wrist was so swollen the boundary between hand and arm had disappeared, and blood from his mouth stained his chest red.
He had looked composed and immaculate only moments ago, but now his hair was in wild disarray, making him look like a half-dead man.
Anyone could see there was no chance of victory.
And yet Yi Song-baek stood again and took his guard.
And at that moment—
Swish.
Yi Song-baek’s sword moved as naturally as flowing water, slicing diagonally through the air.
Shwaaaaack!
The blue sword qi released from his blade skimmed past Chung Myung’s side and struck the corner of the sparring platform.
Slash!
The edge of the platform, made of hard blue stone, was cut cleanly through as if a razor had sliced through vegetables.
Kwaaaaaa!
Even after cutting through the sparring ground, Yi Song-baek’s sword qi did not lose momentum. It burrowed into the earth just before the spectators’ seats and left a deep scar.
Thud!
A chunk of blue stone, larger than a person, which had been launched into the air, crashed back to the ground.
"......"
The spectators all lost their words at once.
There had been hundreds of sparring matches here until now, but never once had anything like this happened.
Countless gifted young talents had displayed their martial arts to the fullest, but to leave a scar on the sparring ground—or to slice the platform itself apart—was unquestionably the first time.
"T-that..."
Someone began to speak, then shut their mouth again.
They understood now.
That this Yi Song-baek was by no means weak.
No—perhaps he might even be among the strongest who had climbed into the arena thus far.
Then what the hell was this sight before their eyes?
And yet, even amid all this uproar, Chung Myung only stared at Yi Song-baek with those lowered eyes.
"I don’t know anything about the sword of Southern Edge."
Even if he said he did, it would only be skimming the surface.
Chung Myung never overestimated himself. He drew a clear line between what he could do and what he could not.
Just as Southern Edge, no matter how hard they tried, could never have taken the soul of Mount Hua with them, Chung Myung, no matter how objectively and coldly he analyzed the Southern Edge's Thirty-Six Sword Technique, could never fully understand the spirit hidden within it.
That was entirely Yi Song-baek’s burden.
All Chung Myung could do was one thing.
Question it. Confirm it.
Can you walk this road?
Perhaps it was a path even more thorny than the one Chung Myung himself had to walk.
Could this man truly be the kind of talent who could walk it, and...
Swish.
Chung Myung’s foot slid into a soft, gliding step.
The Plum Blossom Sword Art was unnecessary right now. Fancy swordwork and the soul of Mount Hua meant nothing here.
Right now, he was nothing more than a mountain blocking Yi Song-baek’s way.
Bang!
Yi Song-baek’s sword, rising to meet the descending strike, firmly halted Chung Myung’s blade.
This was no longer the precarious sword it had been before. This was a sword that carried strength within its softness, a sword that blocked Chung Myung with uncompromising resolve.
Still not enough.
But this alone wouldn’t do.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The exchange continued like flowing water.
The moment he withdrew the sword that had come down on the head, he thrust into the waist. And the instant that was deflected, he spun softly and aimed for the ankle.
The sword meant for the ankle changed direction at once, stabbing into the side again, and after knocking aside the blocking blade, it swept toward the chest once more.
It continued.
After all, a sword was for thrusting, blocking, and striking.
When those motions were linked together perfectly—thrust, block, strike—the sword became form, and form became law.
That was swordsmanship.
A sword that began as something simple took on structure, and eventually became a style.
It was almost as if it were showing the very process by which a sword evolved.
But the result was anything but simple.
The furious onslaught came crashing down on Yi Song-baek like a storm. The countless afterimages of the blade threatened to bury his entire body beneath them.
Within that torrent of descending swords, Yi Song-baek let go of himself.
I...
Through his hazy, unfocused eyes, he watched the swords flying relentlessly toward him.
What am I standing for?
His body had already gone beyond its limit. The side that had been crushed no longer even felt pain. It was a struggle just to stay upright with the sword in his hand.
Victory?
He knew he could never even dream of it.
Then why was he still standing here? Why not collapse and make this all easier on himself?
But contrary to the confusion in his head, his sword began to move on its own, independent of his will.
Thousands of times a day. No—tens of thousands.
Against wind, rain, and snow, his sword had been swung again and again until it no longer needed intention to move; it had become capable of defending itself against an enemy blade.
A sword storm filling the world and pouring down upon him.
But why should he fear it?
After all, the world was made up of thirty-six directions of defense. If he could block them all, then there would be no sword that could reach his body.
Yi Song-baek’s sword swept out, taking the thirty-six directions in turn. Not fast, but not slow either.
Orthodoxy.
The sword that contained that and that alone began to fall into place with perfect clarity.
Bang!
He blocked it.
Bang! Bang!
He blocked it.
The world was too terrifying, too abrupt.
And so the one who wished to advance had to protect himself in full. His sword was one of defense, a sword that refused to waver and insisted on itself.
Southern Edge's Thirty-Six Sword Technique.
The essence of Southern Edge swordsmanship, carrying within it the weight of centuries, was now being unfolded in Yi Song-baek’s hands.
Everyone watching had their mouths hanging open.
An unbroken chain of attacks, and a sword that stood at the center, holding its ground without being swallowed.
Baek Cheon clenched his fists tightly.
The wound at his wrist split open a little, and blood seeped out, but he did not even feel the pain.
An endless confrontation?
That sight seemed to lay bare the entire history of Mount Hua and Southern Edge struggling against one another for victory.
The dreamlike exchange violently seized the attention of everyone gathered here.
But that vision-like scene did not last long.
Pow! Pow! Pow!
The one who sought to break through and the one who sought to block.
Such a contest could never last forever.
Chung Myung’s sword, forcing its way through Yi Song-baek’s defense, began to hammer into his body.
Yi Song-baek was flung back spitting blood, without even managing a scream.
Thud!
His entire body reduced to tatters, he crashed against the far edge of the platform.
"Ah..."
The crowd bit their lips tightly and watched him.
Defeat.
An utterly pitiful defeat.
And yet who here would dare blame or mock Yi Song-baek?
Everyone thought the fierce sparring had finally come to an end. They had even been ready to offer the defeated Yi Song-baek thunderous applause.
But one man alone—
Click.
Chung Myung did not lower the sword pointed at the man sprawled on the ground.
Whispers surged through the crowd like wildfire.
"Don’t tell me... he’s still going?"
"Isn’t that too cruel? He’s unconscious..."
Then it happened.
Twitch.
One finger of Yi Song-baek’s hand, lying motionless on the ground as though dead, gave a small spasm. Then, trembling, it pressed against the floor.
"......"
Everyone held their breath.
Yi Song-baek, bracing himself on one hand and trying to rise, collapsed face-first onto the floor again. His broken arm could not support him.
Some people shut their eyes at the sight.
St-stop...
Please, someone stop this.
But Yi Song-baek did not stop.
With the other arm that had not yet broken, he braced himself on the floor and dragged his useless leg inward, forcing his body up. He staggered, then staggered again.
An oppressive silence settled over Mount Hua, so still it felt as though even the sound of a falling needle could be heard.
Drop. Drop.
The sound of blood dripping from Yi Song-baek’s body rang out clearly.
At last, Yi Song-baek managed to stand, and with unfocused eyes he stared blankly at Chung Myung.
Then he raised even his broken hand, gripped the sword, spread his feet shoulder-width apart, and pointed the blade forward.
High guard.
The beginning of Mount Hua swordsmanship, and the beginning of Southern Edge swordsmanship.
Everything turns and turns, only to return once more to the beginning.
His consciousness was all but gone. And yet Yi Song-baek forced himself upright to the very end. The will of a swordsman who had chosen the road of endless hardship would not let him fall.
Chung Myung looked at him quietly, then nodded.
And with all the courtesy he could possibly offer, he spoke.
"This disciple of Mount Hua, Chung Myung, requests a spar with Yi Song-baek of Southern Edge."
"......"
No answer came.
But that did not matter.
Chung Myung let his sword hang. The blade pointed toward the ground spun in a perfect circle and rose toward the sky.
High guard.
Chung Myung took the exact same stance as Yi Song-baek, and his sword rose high into the air.
A single sword.
The strongest single sword he could produce now came crashing down toward Yi Song-baek’s head.
Paaaaaang!
With a sound that seemed ready to tear through the ears, the air above the sparring ground was blasted outward in all directions like a typhoon.
"......"
The sword stopped just before Yi Song-baek’s forehead.
Chung Myung withdrew the blade, hung it at his waist, and looked at Yi Song-baek.
Yi Song-baek’s unfocused eyes, even as he stood unconscious, still seemed to stare back at him.
Maybe you’ll have to walk a harder road than I did.
But still...
Chung Myung clasped his hands and bowed toward Yi Song-baek. Then he said,
"I learned well."
Even without consciousness, perhaps he had heard those words.
Yi Song-baek’s body slowly began to topple.
Chung Myung reached out and caught him, holding him upright.
"You were excellent."
His hand gave Yi Song-baek’s back a light pat.
Here.
The soul of Southern Edge still lived on.
Still.