Pride Makes the Blade Sharper (3)
Baek Cheon’s mood as he looked at Mu Ho from the ring of the sparring platform was anything but pleasant.
He was, after all, a sharp man in his own right. It wasn’t difficult for him to read the subtle atmosphere around Wudang—or Mu Ho’s grim expression—and piece together what had happened.
So that’s how you want to play it?
Only now did he understand what Chung Myung had said before he stepped onto the platform.
“I’m Mu Ho, Wudang’s first-generation disciple.”
“……”
Baek Cheon didn’t answer at once. He simply stared at Mu Ho. Mu Ho, unable to hold that gaze for long, quickly looked away.
If he had only looked proud, Baek Cheon would have gladly cursed him out. He swallowed the sigh trying to escape his chest.
To be fair, Mu Ho hadn’t actually done anything wrong. In the end, he was only another victim.
The one at fault was…
Baek Cheon’s eyes shifted toward Heo Sanja, who stood watching from the platform.
That old bastard, probably.
He was fearless.
Unlike the other Wudang disciples, who couldn’t even bring themselves to meet Baek Cheon’s eyes and kept glancing away, Heo Sanja stood with his chin raised, utterly unashamed.
The contrast between the disciples behind him and Heo Sanja’s reaction was stark. Baek Cheon let out a low sigh.
He, too, was old enough to understand the law of the pugilistic world—the cruel logic of strength. So he had no urge to condemn the elder’s choice as wholly wrong.
Still, one question rose clear in his mind.
What would our elders have done?
Would Hyun Sang and Hyun Young have told him to endure humiliation for the sake of the sect’s honor? To obey the cold logic of the martial world?
No. They wouldn’t have.
Of course, that might be foolish. It might be sentimental and lacking in ruthless practicality. If one stripped away emotion and looked at it coldly, Wudang’s decision might indeed be better for their sect, and more “correct.”
But still…
Baek Cheon lowered his eyes to Mu Ho and spoke.
“I’m Baek Cheon, second-generation disciple of Mount Hua.”
He joined his hands and offered a proper salute. The situation had changed a little, but he did not allow himself to be rude.
Srrk.
The two men, having exchanged greetings, drew their swords at the same time.
Mu Ho’s hand looked slightly hurried as he drew his blade, whereas Baek Cheon did so slowly and took up a relaxed middle stance.
“……”
Mu Ho kept sneaking glances at him.
Once swords were drawn, there was no need for further words—but Baek Cheon could read in his expression that he still had something he wanted to say.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“……”
When Baek Cheon prompted him first, Mu Ho hesitated briefly, then let out a sigh.
“It was not my intention.”
“I understand.”
The sect’s order was heavier than a mountain. It was only natural that someone who lived carrying the name of Wudang would not be able to refuse it.
“However,” Baek Cheon added calmly, “whatever the result of this match, I’ll be the one walking away with my shoulders held high.”
“……”
Mu Ho couldn’t answer. He only lowered his flushed face a little.
What meaning is there in that?
What meaning was there in fame that forced disciples to bow their heads? In honor that made them blush? In a victory that could not be proudly claimed?
Yes, maybe that choice was right.
But at the very least, Baek Cheon didn’t want to gain renown through something he himself could not be proud of. That was probably the feeling of every Mount Hua disciple here, not just his own.
At least in this moment.
Baek Cheon lifted his sword.
How pitiable, this famous Wudang.
And, returning to his middle stance, he said, “Watch carefully.”
Mu Ho’s eyes filled with confusion. All the other Wudang disciples had their gazes fixed on Baek Cheon now.
Yoon Jong has already done his part.
He had to be the hope for the disciples coming up behind him.
Then what was my role? What is it that I must accomplish for Mount Hua?
Baek Cheon’s heavy, steady voice spread across the platform.
“No matter how this match ends, and no matter what the result of the sparring tournament is, the competition between Wudang and Mount Hua will continue. And this sword is the sword that will keep chasing after you. Remember that clearly.”
Such arrogant, insolent words left the Wudang disciples stiff-faced.
What angered them even more was that they were in no position to point out the rudeness in them.
“This is Mount Hua’s sword.”
Baek Cheon’s eyes shone as he took a deep breath.
“Wow, look at our Jin Dong-ryong there, really poking at their temper,” Chung Myung said from below the platform, laughing gleefully at Baek Cheon.
He really can’t be helped.
It was too perfect. Chung Myung honestly found himself impressed.
If it had been him, he wouldn’t have done it that way. He could have dissected their failures one by one and made them spit blood from frustration, sure—but he couldn’t have made their faces burn like this with one single heavy blow.
Results are what matter?
Idiot.
Chung Myung flicked a glance at Heo Sanja.
Yes, maybe that was true. Reputation, once it fell, took several times more effort to restore than it had taken to build in the first place.
But Chung Myung understood now. If this had been the Chung Myung of old, he would have used every trick available to force out victory no matter what. But now he knew that victory came in different forms.
Winning this match was not everything.
What mattered more was Mount Hua catching up to Wudang—and then overtaking them.
Thanks to Heo Sanja’s choice, Mount Hua’s disciples would remember that Wudang’s first-generation disciples had fled the contest.
Conversely, Wudang’s first-generation disciples would carry that fact like a brand burned into their flesh.
Mount Hua’s disciples might still mouth off and act cocky, but they still regarded Wudang as a mountain too high to climb. Not literally impossible for human feet to reach, but so high that one could barely dare to try.
But now they would come to realize that the mountain had not been as high as they thought. Whether that was true or not didn’t matter.
“Go put the nail in it.”
And now Baek Cheon would prove that point.
Swish.
Baek Cheon’s sword cut lightly through the air.
He had chosen the signature stance unique to Mount Hua and, as if nothing had changed at all, looked calmly at Mu Ho. But Mu Ho, by contrast, was growing more and more withdrawn.
Why am I like this?
The man before him was only a second-generation disciple.
Yes, his fame might be greater, and yes, he was called one of the foremost talents under heaven, but they had not spent the same years in training, and their ranks were different too.
So why did Mu Ho feel himself shrinking?
Because of what happened earlier?
Was his lack of pride affecting even his fighting spirit?
No, that wasn’t it.
Mu Ho looked at Baek Cheon again, this time with fresh eyes.
There was something about him that none of the Mount Hua disciples who had appeared in the sparring matches until now had possessed.
An oppressive presence, a crushing weight. The sort of aura that only so-called “big names” had—this young man had it.
It feels like facing a senior brother.
The feeling was slightly different, but in any case it was a ridiculous pressure, enough to remind him of sparring with Mu Jin. Was it even normal to feel that kind of pressure from someone at least ten years younger than him?
Common sense was common sense, but reality was reality. Right now, Mu Ho was clearly shrinking before the man in front of him.
So I’m the challenger.
Mu Ho clenched his teeth.
It had become an ugly situation, but he was still a first-generation disciple of Wudang. Losing the match was out of the question.
Steeling himself, Mu Ho suddenly shouted and unleashed his sword qi.
Fwoosh!
A short, testing slash of sword qi flew toward Baek Cheon like a crescent moon.
But—
Bang!
The plum blossom sword, swung with seeming ease, casually knocked that heavy sword qi aside.
The movement was almost absurdly relaxed, as if it were nothing at all.
Mu Ho stared, unable to believe what he had just seen.
He brushed it away?
Though the strike had been short, the force behind it had not been light. And yet how could he have deflected it so effortlessly?
That meant Baek Cheon’s skill was at least twice as strong as Mu Ho had expected.
Baek Cheon gave Mu Ho one slightly disdainful look before slowly stepping forward. He wasn’t moving quickly at all, and yet somehow that made the pressure feel even greater.
Mu Ho bit down hard on his lip and lunged again with a shout.
My senior brothers were beaten when they tried to create distance.
Ordinarily, Wudang’s sword excelled at mid-range. But his seniors had surrendered the initiative while backing away, and in doing so they had lost to Mount Hua’s dazzling swordsmanship.
That meant there must have been some problem in that exchange.
End this before he can properly unleash the Plum Blossom Sword Art.
Mu Ho’s judgment was not wrong. In fact, it was a wise response, one that showed he had properly understood Mount Hua’s swordsmanship.
The only problem was… his opponent happened to be Baek Cheon.
“Haaah!”
His sword, carrying a surge of internal strength, swept in toward Baek Cheon’s blind spots.
Clang! Clang!
But before it could even fully extend, it was blocked by the plum blossom sword.
Crack.
As a shock so fierce it felt like his wrist would break crashed through him, Mu Ho’s brows furrowed deeply. The instant sword met sword, an absurdly forceful rebounding qi surged back from the opponent’s blade.
Jo Gul’s sword was nimble, and Yoon Jong’s sword was concise.
But this sword?
It’s heavy.
The instant they touched, it felt as if his own blade—and no, as if Mu Ho himself—was being crushed under sheer force and internal power.
This is really a second-generation disciple’s sword?
A sword grew heavy with time. Yet Mu Ho couldn’t understand how a second-generation disciple, one with so little time behind him, could wield such a sword.
“Haaahhh!”
Mu Ho roared, knocked the plum blossom sword aside, and swung again.
I am a disciple of Wudang.
No matter how remarkable his opponent might be, Mu Ho had the pride of a disciple of the world’s greatest Taoist sword sect. He did not want to look pathetic. He could not.
Then waterlike sword qi burst fiercely from his blade. It was Wudang’s sword qi: continuous, unbroken, and relentless.
I won’t give him even a moment’s opening.
He knew it instinctively. The moment he allowed this man to bring out that dazzling Plum Blossom Sword Art, he would lose. But if he could keep pressing without giving an opening, then he still had a real chance of seizing the advantage.
My sword won’t break—
And then it happened.
Swishhhhh.
Baek Cheon’s sword drew a soft, graceful arc and slipped straight into Mu Ho’s sword qi.
What?
He hadn’t blocked it. He had pierced it. As if he meant to cut Mu Ho’s sword qi apart. Mu Ho clicked his tongue inwardly.
Idiot…
Chwaaaaaak!
But at that moment, Baek Cheon’s sword sliced through Mu Ho’s continuous sword qi—through the very thing that had flowed without interruption like a river—cleanly in half.
...What?
Mu Ho’s jaw dropped in shock.
Miianbujeol.
The continuous, unbroken sword qi of Wudang was severed by a single strike. It was as if a waterfall crashing down in full force had suddenly been cut clean in the middle.
And then the plum blossom sword that had sliced through the sword qi surged forward without pause. Baek Cheon drove the hilt of his sword straight into Mu Ho’s emptied chest.
Thud!
Mu Ho flew backward before he could even fully understand what was happening.
“……”
Even after being thrown to the ground, he didn’t feel any pain.
His chest, which had absorbed the impact in full, didn’t seem to feel pain either.
His mind was still flooded only with the shock that his own sword qi had been cut down by a single strike.
Then Baek Cheon, looking down at Mu Ho sitting dazed on the ground, said quietly, “I’m not the only one observing my opponent’s sword.”
“……”
“That sword qi…”
A pale smile touched Baek Cheon’s lips.
“I’ll cut it down with pride.”
Mu Ho’s face twisted horribly.