Mount Hua Seems to Have Changed Somehow (1)
Swoosh!
Un Geom drew back his sword with crisp precision.
A bead of sweat slid down his brow.
Good sword.
Without question, the Chilmaegeom held something different from the swords they had learned at Mount Hua until now. It could not be called one of the greatest techniques under heaven, but there was a certain spirit to it, a subtle aura clinging to the blade.
It would take a great deal of time to master properly, but even what they had learned so far was enough to prove that the Chilmaegeom stood on a level above the other Mount Hua sword arts.
If this sword can be properly passed down, Mount Hua will grow stronger.
The current generation would become stronger, yes, but the generations after them would grow even more formidable.
Just thinking that made it harder and harder for Un Geom to suppress the smile blooming on his face.
"Ahem."
He hurriedly rubbed at the corners of his mouth with one hand.
"This is a bit of a problem."
After all, a teacher was supposed to look stern in front of his disciples, yet these days he kept finding himself grinning like a fool.
And why wouldn’t he?
The hardships the third-generation disciples had experienced at Mount Hua were hardly even hardships. Since the day they’d entered the sect, what had the first-generation disciples endured? They had poured their youth into Mount Hua in its entirety, shouldering the sect as it teetered on the edge of collapse, pushing through pain and suffering. At the end of that long, dark time, light was only now beginning to show itself.
Not yet bright enough to call it true dawn.
They had only just begun to see the light. Un Geom knew very well there was still a long road ahead.
Even so, he could not erase his smile, all because of the third-generation disciples, who had begun to improve at a frightening pace lately.
His martial uncles and sect brothers seemed to find greatest joy in the sect’s improving finances and the recovery of Mount Hua’s lost martial traditions, but Un Geom was different.
As the hall leader of Baekmae Hall, what mattered most to him was the growth of his disciples. That, more than anything, was his greatest delight.
Those children are different from us.
The first-generation disciples of the present age had also worked hard, but sadly, Mount Hua’s circumstances had never allowed them the environment to devote themselves fully to martial arts. And to be frank, their passion for martial arts had not been particularly strong either.
But the current third-generation disciples were devoting themselves to training with more zeal than any Mount Hua disciples before them.
"Hmm."
Letting out a satisfied little hum, Un Geom strapped his sword to his waist and left the training ground with light steps. It was time to train the children.
His mind was already brimming with pleasant visions.
With Mount Hua’s improved circumstances, the new martial arts they had recovered, and the third-generation disciples’ fierce drive all combined, there was every possibility that Mount Hua could rise again in dazzling fashion.
And those who would lead that resurgence would be the third-generation disciples.
"Then I’ll have to work even harder to make that happen!"
If he could not guide his hardworking disciples, then how could he call himself a teacher?
Rounding a corner and stepping into the training ground, Un Geom’s face broke into a radiant smile as he called out, "All right, let’s work hard again today— what the hell is this, you lunatic!"
He staggered back in shock.
Before his eyes was a scene of utter carnage.
"Ughhhhh... my arm... my arm!"
"M-my back... my back is breaking... my back!"
"S-save me. Save me...."
Un Geom rubbed his eyes without thinking.
What sort of hellscape was this, in a training ground that should have been overflowing with dreams, hope, and passion for the future?
The third-generation disciples were all sprawled on the ground, each clutching a wooden sword and groaning. Their twitching shoulders and the saliva dripping from their mouths were enough to guess what had happened here.
"What in the world...?"
Then a sound still carrying a trace of life reached Un Geom’s ears.
"Huuuuup!"
His head snapped around. There was Jo Gul, shirtless, bringing his wooden sword down in repeated strikes.
"Jo, Jo Gul...?"
"Huuuuuh! Huuuuuuuuuh! Hoooaaargh!"
Sweat poured from his body like rain. With every downward swing, droplets scattered in all directions, and hot breaths burst from his mouth in ragged bursts.
His bloodshot eyes and trembling shoulders told just how hard he was pushing himself. Even Un Geom, after only a moment of watching, felt his own shoulders ache and his legs go weak.
"Now, one more."
Un Geom’s gaze drifted slightly to the side.
What is that supposed to be?
Standing beside Jo Gul, Chung Myung was holding a sword with a lazy, unhurried air. Unlike Jo Gul, who was drenched in sweat, Chung Myung looked impossibly fresh.
His clothes were neat and tidy, and not a single strand of his slicked-back hair was out of place. Unlike the other disciples, whose faces looked as if they were one breath away from death, he was calmly swinging his sword with a relaxed expression.
"It’s not enough to just swing it. Even if you swing once, you have to think as if you’re pouring every ounce of strength from the tip of your toes to the top of your head into the sword. One more time!"
A creaking, grinding sound rolled through Un Geom’s mind like a cart wheel under strain. It felt as if his understanding of the situation was rattling apart.
What on earth was going on here?
Wasn’t Chung Myung the youngest among the third-generation disciples? Then why was Chung Myung teaching Jo Gul?
And worse, everything he was saying actually sounded correct.
"J-just one... more..."
"Kraaaah!"
In the end, unable to endure it any longer, Jo Gul collapsed flat onto the ground and twitched there helplessly. Looking at him, Chung Myung clicked his tongue.
"Tsk, tsk. A person with this little stamina."
He exhaled in exaggerated disappointment.
"Even an ox can work itself to death if you just make it keep moving. Use your head, damn it, use your head! I’m telling you to think about how to swing so that all your strength gets carried into the sword! One more time!"
What in the world?
Un Geom’s eyes twitched.
He didn’t know about the other disciples, but he had already come to understand that Chung Myung had effectively seized control of the third-generation disciples. It was an incomprehensible thing, but once in a while the world produced geniuses who transcended age, didn’t it?
But what Chung Myung was saying now wasn’t the kind of thing you could know just by being naturally gifted or talented.
Is he saying that child even understands martial arts at that level?
The more he looked, the stranger it became.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Un Geom shook his head.
This was no time for such nonsense.
"What in the world is going on here!"
At his shout, Chung Myung whipped his head around.
"Oh, Hall Leader!"
Then he trotted over to Un Geom.
"Did you sleep well last night?"
At that sight, the third-generation disciples ground their teeth.
That despicable little bastard!
If he’d gone into the imperial court, history would’ve remembered him as a master schemer!
The kind of human trash you couldn’t even prick with a needle without bending it!
Normally he lived as far from the word “respect” as one could get, yet the moment he faced Un Geom he became so painfully polite that it made their insides turn over.
Especially Jo Gul and Yoon Jong, who could fairly be called his greatest victims; both of them stared at Chung Myung with the utterly enlightened expressions of men who had seen through life itself.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"We were training."
"Training? This?"
Well, yes, it was training. He had seen Jo Gul swing the sword with his own eyes. But the result was...
"Ughhh."
"H-Hall Leader..."
"It’s... too hard. I feel like I’m going to die..."
The third-generation disciples looked at their teacher like rain-soaked puppies. Seeing that, Un Geom’s heart stirred, and before he knew it his voice rose.
"Training is meant to strengthen the body and improve one’s level! Do you not understand that too much of it can do harm instead? And you...!"
"I know, Hall Leader."
"Hm?"
Interrupted by Chung Myung’s voice, Un Geom narrowed his eyes slightly. Had he not just cut off the very answer that was supposed to follow appropriately?
"But I didn’t start this training. The senior disciples said that this time, they absolutely would not be shamed at the Hwajong Jihoe again...."
"...H-Hwajong Jihoe?"
Right. The Hwajong Jihoe wasn’t far off. That much was true, but...
"The senior disciples have been recalling the humiliation of the last Hwajong Jihoe so intensely that they’ve been swallowing their tears...."
Tears?
Un Geom turned his head slightly to look at the third-generation disciples.
Behind Chung Myung, the children were frantically waving their hands. Watching that scene made something boil up inside him.
"They don’t look that way to me."
"Ah, come on. How could that be? Martial uncle! If they can take a beating from those scum of Mount Zhongnan and feel nothing at all, how could they claim to be disciples of Great Mount Hua? They’ve got Mount Hua’s pride to think about!"
Eh?
Well, that was also true.
"You can lose once. But losing twice would be unthinkable, wouldn’t it? A disciple of Great Mount Hua losing to something like Mount Zhongnan."
"...That’s true."
Confusion began to settle in Un Geom’s mind.
There were exactly two things he valued above all else in this world. One was Mount Hua’s pride, and the other was properly raising his disciples.
Now those two matters had begun pointing fingers at each other and fighting in his head.
Reading the look in Un Geom’s eyes, Chung Myung quietly stepped closer and whispered, "Think about it, Hall Leader. The best way to raise Mount Hua’s honor is to make the senior disciples strong enough to crush those guys’ noses in, isn’t it?"
"Well, yes... "
"Then the elders will also commend your efforts in guiding the martial nephews."
This scheming little bastard.
Un Geom was not so ignorant as to miss the fact that Chung Myung was trying to sweet-talk him. But the words reaching his ears were far too tempting. He couldn’t care less about being commended for his efforts and all that, but beating Mount Zhongnan...
"Do you think it’s possible?"
Un Geom heard himself asking before he could stop it. Those words carried far too many meanings.
At the question, Chung Myung grinned.
"I’m Chung Myung."
"... "
Un Geom looked at him in silence for a moment, then cleared his throat.
Come to think of it, the one who had changed these children was none other than Chung Myung. Hadn’t these boys, who had once been mired in inertia, changed within only a few months after meeting him?
Perhaps something like this was needed now more than learning one more sword technique. Even for Un Geom, it would be impossible to begin from scratch and train them enough to defeat the disciples of Mount Zhongnan.
Just this once more...
Un Geom looked over everyone and spoke.
"Listen well, disciples."
"Yes, Hall Leader!"
The third-generation disciples focused on him with pitiful eyes. It was as if their final hope—
"Seeing all of you train with such enthusiasm fills me with pride beyond measure. Ordinarily, it would be my duty to train you, but it would hardly be right for me to interfere with your voluntary training in this way."
—was collapsing?
What? Their hope was collapsing?
"Until the Hwajong Jihoe begins, I’ll leave your training to your own discretion. In the meantime, there’s no need for you to come to the training ground every day. However, you must be careful not to injure yourselves."
Hall Leader?
This isn’t it. Huh? Hall Leader?
"Ahem. Then continue."
Un Geom turned on his heel.
Several of the third-generation disciples had unconsciously stretched out their hands toward him, only to slowly pull them back when they saw Chung Myung’s eyes.
Once Un Geom had disappeared completely from the training grounds, Chung Myung spun around, tilted his head, and said, "Anyone who told Hall Leader they were having a hard time, step forward."
"... "
"Hurry up."
"... "
As Chung Myung drew the wooden sword from his waist, the disciples’ gazes filled with despair.