Sima Mancheon Seeks His Master (2): Ordinary Man (Fanbu)
An ordinary man—a plain person without any special abilities. A nobody. But the eccentric standing behind me didn't look ordinary at all.
"Watch closely. This is how you swing a staff."
The man who called himself an ordinary man stretched out his long arm, picked up my staff from the ground, and then beat the living daylights out of that large dog like he was swatting a fly on the hottest day of summer. He jabbed with the tip, thrust, swung, blocked, smacked, pressed—playing with it in every conceivable way, pounding away like it was a toy.
What was astonishing was that the ferocious beast couldn't land a single proper counterattack. It just whimpered and got toyed with like a monkey in Buddha's palm. It was practically offering itself up to be hit by the staff.
The large dog rolled around desperately trying to dodge the staff, but before long, it lost track of front and back, wiggling its hindquarters toward the staff like it was begging for more.
"That should be enough punishment for now. You won't be biting anyone for a while. Go home."
Thwack!
"Kyiiiing!!"
The old man smacked the large dog's rear with a resounding crack, and it bolted away like a rabbit fleeing a tiger, not even glancing back.
What... had I just witnessed?
A big guy chasing off a dog with a staff. On the surface, nothing special. But the staff technique he'd shown was something I'd never seen in either my past life or this one—my jaw dropped on its own.
It was so profound that if you elevated violence to an art form, this is what it'd look like. And deep inside me, a desire to learn it began to stir.
I'm a cripple anyway; I'll be leaning on a staff my whole life. Wouldn't it be great to master something like that mystical staff art?
"Uh, sir, thank you for saving me. But where did you learn that bizarre staff technique?"
"It's not some bizarre technique; it's the Dog-Beating Stick Technique, a martial art. Want to learn it?"
Dog-Beating Stick Technique. Straight from the characters: a staff method for beating dogs. Watching the old man thrash that dog earlier, it was a perfectly fitting name. Couldn't be more spot-on.
But naming it something like "dog-beating" suggested it wasn't some high-level art. Probably just for self-defense? Maybe they teach it at a local martial arts dojo nearby?
"Yes! I want to learn it. Where's the dojo? Or did you create it yourself, sir?"
"...A dojo? Me, create it? Hah—hahaha!"
The old man burst into roaring laughter, his massive frame shaking. Then he gently patted my head with a hand as big as his build.
In my daze, I finally got a proper look at his face. Broad forehead, eyebrows long like brushes, a stubby nose, thick lips like a maegi. Bluntly put, he was genuinely ugly. But there was this inexplicable aura emanating from him that made you forget his ugliness. A strange old man.
"You don't know the Dog-Beating Stick Technique, so you're not from a martial family. Fine. Since we've met like this, it's fate—I'll teach you. But there's a condition."
"A condition?"
"Prepare a bundle of jerky and offer it to me with proper respect. That's the condition."
Jerky? Like, the jerky I know? Not money, but jerky?
It wasn't hard, but it seemed too easy—suspiciously so.
"When a disciple seeks teachings from a master, it's proper etiquette to offer a bundle of ten pieces of jerky."
Soksu jerye—the bundle of jerky ritual. The customary gift offered when first meeting a prospective master as a disciple. I'd seen it in scriptures while studying classics.
But it was just empty formality; usually, they took money instead. First time seeing someone actually follow it.
"I'm staying temporarily in the abandoned house on the eastern outskirts of the village. If you want to learn, prepare the gift and come find me."
The massive old man left those words and vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared, walking away casually. It looked like normal steps, but he lightly quickened his pace and was gone from sight.
I rubbed my eyes and stared at the spot where he'd been. I even pinched my thigh to check if it was a dream—it wasn't.
My mind went blank, but I could grasp what had happened. Even I, who knew little about wuxia tales, understood. It was a power-up event. A fateful encounter. Lady Luck had smiled on me.
After parting with the old man, all hell broke loose. My mom, who'd seen me rolling around covered in dirt, had a fit and grounded me.
Dad was the type to let a boy get hurt and learn from it, but Mom was hypersensitive to my scrapes and bruises. Probably felt guilty because I was born lame.
No need for guilt—it wasn't her fault. As her son, I appreciated her care and kindness, but she was too naively sweet for someone as twisted as me.
Guess that's on my warped heart. Sorry for turning into this jerk instead of the cute baby you once had.
...But sorry's sorry, and I still needed to sneak out and learn the Dog-Beating Stick Technique. I'll live freely now and be filial when I'm grown.
Normally, I'd eat a hearty lunch, play, and nap. Instead, I grabbed the jerky bundle Jang Sambung prepared and slipped out without my parents noticing.
Limping along, I headed out the back gate toward the abandoned house on the village's eastern edge.
When I first learned I was lame, it crushed me. But humans adapt—I'd gotten the knack of walking with the staff. Push too hard, and I could even pick up speed. Well, just normal walking pace, but still.
The abandoned house on the eastern outskirts wasn't a total ruin; some rich guy had lived there before abandoning it for some reason, so it was somewhat livable. In the morning, anyway. At night, it was a ghost house.
Passing the half-broken creaking gate, I cautiously stepped inside. The old man emerged with a benevolent smile to greet me.
"You really came. What if I were a bad guy? Coming alone to a remote place like this?"
It sounded more like an adult teasing a kid than a real threat, so I shot back casually.
"You just seemed like a good guy. Don't expect logical reasons from a kid my age."
The old man laughed heartily at my words, then sat cross-legged before me.
"Coming this far means you really want to learn martial arts. Perform one full bow, offer the gift, and show your disciple's respect."
Something I'd heard or read in scriptures came to mind, and I scratched my head.
"Uh, normally, when begging to become a disciple, isn't it the jiubai zhi li—nine bows?"
I asked about the nine bows not because I wanted to do them, but to check if this old coot would play word games and say one bow meant only one lesson's worth.
To my question, the old man replied in a kindly yet firm voice, like he was already my master.
"The nine bows aren't nine to the master. Three to the sect's founder, three to the master's master, and three to the master."
Oh, really? News to me.
"...Then even skipping founder and grandmaster, shouldn't it be three to you, Master? Why just one?"
"Your leg hurts, doesn't it? It's hard, so just once."
It was a perfectly logical reason—logical in a way I hadn't expected—so I blurted out in bewilderment.
"Wait, is that allowed? You emphasized etiquette so much you made me prepare a jerky bundle."
"Was preparing the jerky bundle a hardship?"
"Huh? Not really."
"Then wouldn't kowtowing three times on your bad leg be hard? Or uncomfortable and painful?"
"...Obviously."
After a few back-and-forths, I got his point. Noticing, he concluded his teaching in that signature kindly, resolute tone.
"That's it. Keeping etiquette is important. But etiquette shouldn't torment people."
I could've nitpicked if I wanted, but I didn't feel like it.
"Tell me your name. As your disciple, I should know my master's honorable name."
"Like I said before, I'm nobody worth naming. Just a passing ordinary man."
Ah, yeah, figures. I raised one eyebrow, glanced at his ugly mug, then stood straight and set my staff aside.
Without the support, my disabled right leg trembled wildly, shaking my balance. What are you doing? it screamed. Grab something now. Or just fall over.
Pins and needles shot through my right leg, sending urgent signals. I gritted my teeth, sweat beading, ignoring it.
I stepped forward with my good left leg and knelt.
Thud!
Midway, my right leg gave out, slamming my knee into the ground. But the pose was roughly complete.
I clasped my hands forward, bowed my waist, and paid my disciple's respects to my master.
"Sima Mancheon seeks teachings from a passing nobody."