Mancheon Asks His Master (5)
“Who am I, you ask? What a strange question. Obviously, I'm just a passerby layman—and your master, Sima Mancheon’s teacher.”
“That's not going to cut it, Master. Not after everything you've shown me so far.”
No matter how ignorant I'd been about the Murim world, I should've noticed sooner. Way sooner.
The Quanzhen Orthodox Inner Cultivation Method and Celestial North Dipper Formation that Master taught me are Daoist arts. And the Dog-Beating Stick Technique is a technique created by beggars from the Beggars' Sect.
Different sects entirely. Unless you have separate Daoist and Beggars' Sect masters—which is rare—no one learns two arts from clashing lineages at the same time. Not unless they're exceptional.
It's the same in fantasy stories. Protagonists usually stick to one school per master. Sure, if the setup has multiple mentors, they might mix styles, but most grind one strong, synergistic school to save practice time.
Someone like Master, who knows a variety of arts and wields them perfectly? Fantasy and wuxia are similar yet different genres, so I can't be sure, but there probably aren't many like that.
“...The reason I hide my identity is for my sake as much as yours. That's all I can say for now.”
Master's unusually feeble tone only deepened my suspicions, but I couldn't press further about his true identity. Push too hard here, and he'd probably vanish without a word. I still had too much left to learn. That would be a disaster.
...But while we're at it, I needed to clear up one nagging question I'd had since the day he accepted the bundle of jerky and took me as his disciple.
“If you want to keep it hidden, Master, who am I to pry? But please, tell me this much. Why did you take me as your disciple?”
If he'd wanted secrecy from the start, he shouldn't have taken a disciple at all. Yet he'd accepted me and taught me with utmost sincerity. It didn't add up.
“Because you have talent.”
Being acknowledged by Master was thrilling, but it wasn't a satisfying answer. What talent could he possibly see in a kid who bluffed at some bastard, got his ass handed to him, rolled on the ground sobbing for mercy?
And let's not forget—I'm a cripple. Hardly ideal for martial arts. So what talent did he see in me?
I clamped my mouth shut, unconvinced. Master gave a wry smile— an expression I'd never seen on him before.
“Mancheon, you just haven't realized it yet. You possess exceptional talent. It's righteousness and chivalry.”
“...Pardon? Righteousness and chivalry?”
His utterly unexpected, out-of-left-field answer left me parroting back like an idiot. Master gazed at the sky, letting out a deep, regretful sigh.
“Martial prowess (武) can be taught. But righteousness (義) and chivalry (俠)? Those can't be taught. They have to be engraved deep in the heart.”
I'd planned to argue what kind of 'talent' that even was, but Master's anguished face silenced me.
“How many people look out for others when their own life hangs by a thread? It's incredibly difficult. Even self-righteous orthodox masters or so-called free-spirited unorthodox wanderers can't do it easily.”
Master bent his massive frame, dropping to one knee to meet my eyes. Wrinkles etched with years of sorrow stared back from the old man's face.
“Yet a lame kid pulled it off.”
“...Thanks for the kind words, but I couldn't even run, so... you know...”
Helping that kid escape and facing the dogs alone? I had no choice in the moment. It wasn't some noble surge of righteousness or chivalry. Words like 'righteous man' or 'good person' don't fit me at all. They clash.
“Mancheon, you're clever. If survival was your goal, you could've tripped the scared kid, used him as bait, and bolted.”
“...”
“Even if the kid survived and snitched, your family's wealth could've smoothed it over easily. But you didn't.”
Master's thick, massive hand gently gripped my shoulder.
“That's why I wanted to give you power—someone who chose the hard path over the easy one. So I took you as my disciple and taught you martial arts (武).”
Damn old coot, don't pin weird expectations on me. That was just how it happened—no planning. Hell, I nearly died and learned my lesson. No more risking my neck like an idiot.
So don't look at me with those warm eyes... it's embarrassing.
In the end, I wasn't feeling great that day, so I fed Master some chicken porridge and headed home. Got caught sneaking out, and Mom laid into me.
Would've preferred her yelling or grabbing a switch—at least my conscience would've been clear. Her tears? Gut-wrenching. Sorry, Mom.
Fall arrived, red leaves drifting down. I trampled them in the now-familiar ruins, practicing the Celestial North Dipper Formation.
The formation pins foes using seven stars: Cheonchu, Cheonseon, Cheonki, Cheonkwon, Okhyeong, Gaeyang, and Yoyang.
Cheonkwon is key—not just as commander, but because it's the Big Dipper's core. If the enemy seizes it, the formation crumbles instantly.
The Cheonkwon holder must time movements perfectly to block intruders. No partners here, so I imagined warriors versed in the Advancing Heart Method, syncing with phantoms.
I'd memorized Master's theory perfectly. Ace a written exam? Easy.
First, I take Cheonkwon, directing against imaginary foes. Then cycle positions, unleashing context-specific strikes.
Commander's doable, but linking seamlessly from other stars? Brutal for a cripple—especially dynamic end-stars Cheonchu and Yoyang.
Already winded. In a real unique monster raid party? I'd be booted ages ago. The reject me awakens a legendary skill; they regret, despair, obsess. Too late—I'm off romping with the saintess who believed in me, pure love bliss.
...Enough nonsense. Back to practice.
I wiped sweat, resetting for another round, when I doubted my eyes.
Something bizarre unfolded at Master's hands.
Thought he was clapping at first. Nope.
Left and right hands lunged at each other, clashing fiercely—like independent beings wielding utterly different arts.
...What the hell??
Right hand battered with lightning-fast, rigid fist strikes. Left parried softly, mixing feints and reality.
Sparks flew in a true clash. Dragon-tiger deadlock—perfect stalemate.
“M-Master's using sorcery! What the hell is that?!”
I yelped, demanding answers at this mystery art. Master replied with his usual nonchalance.
“Ah... This is Dual Hands Mutual Combat. As the name says, your hands fight each other, each using different arts. One man becomes two... no, more.”
Like Dragon Ball's Kaioken—doubling combat power?!
Hiding this gem while feeding me seven-against-one garbage like the Celestial North Dipper Formation? I exploded, slamming my staff down.
“What?! If you've got something that good, teach it! You give me trash formations, practice broken solo-duo cheats yourself? This fair?! Spit out my jerky!!”
Master coughed awkwardly at my spittle-flying rant, soothing me.
“Ahem... It's not that I didn't want to teach you. As I said before, everyone has a constitution. Some arts just don't suit the body.”
“...So you figured I couldn't handle Dual Hands Mutual Combat anyway?”
Hah! Ridiculous. The genius Sima Mancheon, who learned intricate Dog-Beating Stick Techniqueand inefficiently tough Celestial North Dipper Formation simultaneously—defying heaven itself? Me, impossible?
Making Master think that? Time to prove I'm alive.
I slicked back my hair, grinning confidently.
“Master, I'm Sima Mancheon, heaven-defying genius. Don't worry—teach me.”
Master beamed at my swagger, then replied in his kindly tone.
“That's exactly why you can't learn it. Dual Hands Mutual Combat is impossible for clever people, overthinkers—or bluntly, those with too many stray thoughts.”