The Beginning of the Showdown (5)
“……”
It felt as if all the blood in his body had turned cold.
Baek Cheon stared at the scene unfolding before him, so stunned that he even forgot to breathe.
This is…
The place Chung Myung stood upon.
The view from a Wudang elder’s eyes.
“Hoo…”
Only then did he slowly release the breath he’d been holding.
He had seen Chung Myung fight so many times it had become almost tiresome. But this—watching him, up close, in an honest fight against an opponent suited to bringing out his full strength—was something Baek Cheon had never experienced before.
That’s a true swordsman.
There was no room for some romantic, half-imagined duel. What lay before his eyes was nothing less than a brutal struggle, so savage that even that word felt insufficient.
“Sasuk…”
“...Yeah.”
Jo Gul’s voice had gone quiet, as though he’d been struck dumb.
Strength?
That part didn’t matter anymore.
Who here didn’t know Chung Myung was strong? Among the Five Swords, there was not a single person who would find it strange to see him fighting a Wudang elder as an equal.
What had left them unable to breathe was the sheer ferocity Chung Myung displayed.
He attacked his opponent’s weakness with his own strengths.
Anyone who had ever studied martial arts would know that basic principle, but Baek Cheon was seeing, right now, exactly how it should be used in real combat.
He never missed even the slightest opening, launched attacks that were little different from gambling, and the instant a threadlike chance appeared, he never let up for even a heartbeat, driving his enemy until he could turn that opening into victory.
This was martial arts he knew, yet it felt utterly foreign. No—perhaps it wasn’t the martial arts he knew at all.
Could I fight like that?
Baek Cheon realized it anew.
So this was what people meant when they said that martial skill wasn’t everything.
If he, Baek Cheon, were to fight Chung Myung at equal levels of strength, what would happen?
Probably he’d last less than twenty exchanges before ending up as a thoroughly tenderized lump of meat. Even if he were fighting not this absurdly strong Chung Myung, but one who had been lowered to his level, the result would likely be the same.
Even if he could endure the sword itself, he had no way to withstand that improvisation, that poisonous determination to force a victory at any cost. By now, it wasn’t Chung Myung’s vicious swordplay that seemed impressive, but the fact that Heo Gong was the one standing against it.
His pulse raced twice as fast, and the saliva in his mouth had dried up completely.
The Five Swords, except for Chung Myung, were all staring at the stage with dazed expressions. Especially Yu I-seol, who usually kept an expression so cold it seemed carved from ice—her face had loosened under the shock.
The others…
Baek Cheon glanced back.
If even the Five Swords, who had been watching Chung Myung’s performances until they were sick of them, were this stunned, then what about the rest of the disciples?
Sure enough, the other Mount Hua disciples were all staring dumbly at the ring, mouths hanging open.
“I….”
Some of them kept working their lips as though they had something to say, but in the end, nothing came out of them, and they simply sank back into silence.
Of course.
They probably couldn’t understand the feast of martial principles unfolding on that stage. Even Baek Cheon could only catch flashes of it here and there.
But there were things one could know even without understanding.
“Good heavens….”
“Chung Myung…”
Watching them struggle to speak, Baek Cheon hesitated for a moment.
Should I explain it to them?
What that strike, and that strike, actually meant?
But he shook his head a moment later.
Sometimes, seeing and feeling something for yourself mattered more than any detailed explanation.
And above all…
I don’t want to be distracted by anything else.
Maybe it was selfish.
That bastard Chung Myung was surely trying to show Mount Hua’s disciples even more right now. So as the great sahyung of the Baek generation, it was only right for Baek Cheon to put his sije aside and prioritize the younger disciples.
But just for this moment, Baek Cheon put all of that aside.
As a swordsman holding a sword, he couldn’t afford to miss this sight.
Show me more.
Show me how high you’ve gone.
How high a place I have to reach.
Baek Cheon clenched his fists until all color drained from them, until his knuckles turned white.
Suddenly feeling pain in his own hand, Mu Jin looked down without thinking.
Drip, drip.
Blood was running down from his fist, clenched so tightly it had gone pale.
His nails had dug into his palm and torn the flesh. If blood was flowing now, the wound must have been there for quite some time, and he hadn’t noticed it until this moment.
Mu Jin stared at his hand for a long time, then lifted his head and looked back at the ring.
Revenge?
He couldn’t even laugh.
Revenge?
Against that man? Against Chung Myung?
What on earth was I even looking at?
Of course he had expected Chung Myung to have grown stronger. Given his age and his dazzling talent, it would have been stranger if he hadn’t improved beyond all comparison.
But Mu Jin had thought he himself would not fall too far behind. Considering the peculiarities of Wudang’s martial arts and the effort he had put in, he believed that even if he couldn’t surpass Chung Myung immediately, he should at least have been able to close the gap.
Yet watching the duel before him, Mu Jin was forced to realize how foolishly he had been deluding himself.
On equal footing with the elder…
No, that wasn’t right.
To be precise, it wasn’t equality at all—Chung Myung had the upper hand. And not by a little, either. If he hadn’t been Mount Hua’s disciple, there would be no need to hesitate over it.
But was something like this really possible?
Of course there were monsters in this world, geniuses who transcended common sense. But even so, it was difficult to imagine a young Mount Hua disciple gaining the upper hand over a Wudang elder, of all people.
Mu Jin found himself turning his head.
He wanted to see Heo Sanja’s expression. If he could read that face, he might be able to tell whether Heo Gong was merely sparring with Chung Myung in a controlled manner—or whether he was really being pushed back.
But he soon regretted that decision.
“……”
He had never seen Heo Sanja wear such a face.
Heo Sanja was not a man who hid his emotions perfectly. Mu Jin had seen surprise and irritation on his face countless times, and there had even been moments when his anger had shown through too strongly to miss.
But he had never, not once, seen him make that expression.
That was…
Fear?
And yet the idea that a Wudang elder would be feeling fear just from watching a duel was absurd. No matter how strong Chung Myung was, he was not beyond what Wudang could handle.
But what if Heo Sanja wasn’t looking at the Chung Myung of now, but the Chung Myung of the distant future? Then perhaps fear really would be possible.
“...Heo Gong.”
A groan slipped from Heo Sanja’s mouth.
At that, Mu Jin’s eyes returned to the ring once more. Past Heo Gong, in Wudang robes with his sword hanging low, toward Chung Myung.
Throb! Throb! Throb!
Both feet burned as though they had been set on fire.
The pain felt like someone was gouging his soles with a red-hot iron rod, and every so often, it made his vision swim. But Heo Gong didn’t even have the luxury of checking his wounds.
Because the beast that had bitten into his feet was coming again.
A silent gait, like a hunter stalking its prey with bated breath. Heo Gong felt it in his bones now—he was the prey.
Me?
A prey?
Heo Gong, a Wudang elder?
The tip of his sword quivered. It felt as though blood had rushed upside down into his head.
But the pain in both feet bound him tightly, preventing him from unleashing the fury boiling inside him.
Could this be called anything less than chilling?
It had not been a long exchange. But that brief clash had taken far too much from him.
The wounds on his feet were nothing. Even if his feet were crushed, he could still use footwork. The internal force twisted by their collision didn’t matter either, because Tai Chi Internal Qi, one of the most stable internal cultivation arts in the world, was already healing his internal injuries at speed.
But those trembling fingertips—there was nothing he could do about them. Worse, there was no sign they would calm down any time soon.
This doesn’t feel like I’m fighting a person.
It had felt like barely, just barely managing to block a beast trying to sink its fangs into his throat. As if the sharp teeth had touched him for a split second before pulling away again.
If he had been a heartbeat slower, those sword-fangs would have pierced his throat and torn his carotid artery apart. Just thinking of it made it impossible to settle himself.
By the time the cold sweat on Heo Gong’s forehead had run down to his chin, Chung Myung finally spoke.
“You’re already this tense? At this rate, how are you supposed to hold a sword properly?”
“……”
Instead of answering, Heo Gong bit down on his lip.
They had exchanged blows. Yet unlike the elder, whose body had stiffened under the fear that his neck might be cut off at any moment, the young bastard looked perfectly at ease.
In some ways, that was even more humiliating than being overpowered by the sword itself. Heo Gong had spent his whole life training to become the finest swordsman he could be. And yet wasn’t he already losing to that youngster in mindset alone?
Heo Gong gritted his teeth and lifted his sword to shoulder height, drawing it back slightly. Then his blade leveled at Chung Myung in a direct thrust, a silent declaration that conversation was unnecessary.
At that fierce, venomous aura, Chung Myung curled one corner of his mouth.
He didn’t need to ask what Heo Gong was thinking now.
If attitude alone could change anything, no one would have a hard time of it.
Heo Gong was undeniably strong.
Judging from his bearing, he probably wasn’t all that old among Wudang’s elders. Considering that, his talent was clearly excellent, and his attitude toward the sword was not bad either.
Of course, he couldn’t be compared to Wudang’s elders of the past, but by all means he was a formidable opponent worthy of respect in his own right.
Thanks to his solid foundations, his vast internal force, and above all the unbroken years of effort that had given him such a firm sword path, he was easily above North Sea Ice Palace’s Seol Cheon-sang.
And yet.
Even so, Heo Gong was weak.
Chung Myung bared his teeth.
This was a sword completed entirely by himself.
Heo Gong had likely never once fought a life-and-death battle in his entire life. He may have experienced countless duels and won countless matches, but he had probably never entered a true fight where his life was actually on the line.
Talent, effort, time. Even with all those things, what happened to someone who only ever swung a sword in a greenhouse was standing right here in front of him.
“How tiresome.”
Swish.
After murmuring softly, Chung Myung turned his sword over into a reverse grip and lowered his stance slightly.
Then the bloodstained teeth he’d been hiding were exposed in a chilling grin.
“Looks like I’m the one who has to teach you a lesson.”
Chung Myung’s foot slammed into the ground.
BOOM!
A thunderous crack of air erupted, so loud it was hard to believe it came from a human body cutting through the wind. Chung Myung’s form shot forward like a bolt of lightning toward Heo Gong.
Startled, Heo Gong clenched his jaw.
Calm down…
Chung Myung laughed like a demon as he drove his sword toward him in a straight stab.
It was nothing particularly unusual. If he could keep his composure, it wasn’t an attack difficult to block. Naturally, Heo Gong lifted his sword to meet the thrust.
But at that very moment—
KAAANG!
“Ghk!”
Before Heo Gong’s sword could even stop where he wanted it, the tip of Chung Myung’s blade shot in and shoved his sword aside.
Unconcealed shock flickered across Heo Gong’s face.
Th-this close?
It should still have been beyond the range of his sword. If his hand had not moved on instinct beforehand, he would surely have had his throat pierced.
It felt as if the sword had suddenly grown twice as long.
But there was no time to think about that now.
Fwish! Fwiiish! Fwiiiiish!
Because a relentless series of thrusts was flying at his entire body.
“Aaagh!”
Heo Gong shouted hoarsely and reflexively slapped Chung Myung’s sword away as if striking down lightning.
But—
Clang-clang-clang!
Crack!
In an instant, Chung Myung surged upward and brought all his weight crashing down onto Heo Gong. He managed to block it in time, but the impact was so brutal that a sickening crack rang out from his wrist.
Grind, grind, grind.
“You know something?”
“……”
Heo Gong’s eyes flew wide open the moment Chung Myung spoke.
He even has room to talk…?
“Blocking it doesn’t mean it’s over, kid.”
At that instant, the hand gripping Chung Myung’s sword slid abruptly downward. Naturally, the tip of the blade no longer pointed forward, but upward.
Thump.
And with one clean motion, he shoved Heo Gong’s sword aside.
What?
An attack that made perfect use of the strength Heo Gong himself had used to push the blade upward.
This is Wudang’s…
CRUNCH!
Chung Myung’s elbow slammed into Heo Gong’s face.