Learning Martial Arts #5
A scream echoing through this neighborhood was proof that something had gone down. Instantly, people started rushing toward the source like a herd. Folks around here had this habit of bolting to any incident just to gawk. Probably 'cause there wasn't much else to do for fun.
Whoosh. Of course, I was right there with them. Miss out on some action when there's jack shit else to do? Nah. Blending into the crowd lets you spectate in peace.
But.
"Squeeeeek!"
What I found wasn't some major incident—just a single giant rat yokai going berserk on a street vendor's stall. That crazy little rat bastard.
"Yokai! A yokai's appeared! Gyaaaaah!"
An auntie stood there distraught in front of her wrecked stall.
"Oh no! A giant rat yokai!"
"It's totally trashed the place!"
"What's its deal?!"
The onlookers gawked in fascination and amusement but didn't step up to help. Yeah. This was Murim in a nutshell. People in the jianghu didn't meddle in others' business unless it was serious.
Alright, let's see. Just the one giant rat yokai? It was panicking now, surrounded by all these sudden humans, darting around unsure where to bolt.
Should I snag it?
"You!!!"
I bellowed and charged forward, yanking out my trusty Siljang Staff—the savior of the masses and exterminator of evils.
Rumble.
Battle spirit surged, and I imagined a faint hint of internal energy—barely there, if at all—coursing through my meridians. Gotta think like that to make it feel real. That's how you get used to it.
"Squeak!"
The giant rat yokai spotted me, puffed up its fur, and went on high alert. Tough luck, you fucker! This old man's about to test out the martial arts I've been grinding!
"You yokai scum! For daring to wreck an innocent civilian's precious stall, I shall judge you!"
"Holy shit! A Murim warrior!"
"A Murim guy's stepping up!"
"Eek, eeeek! A Murim warrior's here!"
Whoosh! I hadn't learned any formal footwork, but the Three Talents Sword Technique included basic steps. Deploying that nameless footwork, I strode forward boldly.
"Squeeeeeeak!"
The giant rat yokai leaped high like it was challenging me. I targeted its skull dead-on and unleashed a vertical downward slash from the Three Talents Sword Technique.
"Full power!"
Crack!
"Squeek?!"
What a refreshing impact! Solid as hell!
"You're no match for me!"
The rat's head exploded like a smashed pot, and it slammed into the ground. See? Learning martial arts pays off! Cleaner and easier than my old brawling days against yokai. Felt like my legs had more oomph too. Breathing steadier? All from two weeks of basic low-grade martial arts? Psychological or not, I could feel it. At this rate, I'd hit peak master level in no time.
"Ooooh!"
"Nice moves!"
The crowd buzzed with awe before dispersing. The stall auntie thanked me too—"Thank you!"—but it was no big deal. I nodded casually, grabbed the rat's tail, and hoisted it up. Clean kill. Head gone, but the rest intact. Edible, right?
Before, my sloppy fights ruined the meat—no byproducts sold, none eaten. This? Prime.
"Let's go!"
Time to hit that place that said they'd cook yokai meat for me.
"Heh heh heh."
Rat yokai meat sounded gross, but experience is experience. Free daily protein? Irresistible. Plus, I'd just one-shot a yokai with clean technique and helped a civilian—mood was golden. I could chow down anything right now.
"Boss! Got a pristine giant rat yokai corpse! Cook it up!"
"Hm? Ah. Clean kill. But you wanna eat it?"
"Poisonous?"
"Nah... Giant rat meat's tough and tasteless."
"Don't care. Hand over all byproducts and cook it."
"Fine, whatever."
The boss took the corpse and started prepping.
"Headless, but usable."
Not appetizing, so I plopped in a chair and waited. No flavor expectations. Just protein on the cheap. What a fucked-up world. Eating rat for gains. Kills the "civilized society" vibe instantly. Numb to it all. Makes sense?
Grumbling internally passed the time until the boss brought a steaming bowl.
"Here. Dig in."
"What's it called?"
"Giant Rat Stew, what else? Don't expect much. Fit for beggars or dogs."
"...Got it."
He serves it then calls it dog food? Fine. Visual was trash, as expected. Looked like pure regret.
"I gotta eat this?"
"You ordered it."
"Unbelievable! Fucking unbelievable!"
Me ordering this shit! Meat was dark, nasty-looking. But decent portion—full daily protein. Fine. Beggar like me can't be picky. Let's do it!
"Slurp!"
Grabbed the bowl, slurped broth and meat, chewed.
"Gack!"
But goddamn, how does it miss expectations so bad?! Disgustingly bad!
Chew chew.
Tough as leather—tears welled up! Save me!
"Ugh... Tastes like absolute shit."
"Told ya."
"Gonna finish it anyway. Gotta eat meat for muscles. Count on you next time, boss."
"Huh..."
He shook his head and left. "Usually dog feed..."
"Whatever."
Once it's in your gut, it's all the same! "Gah!"
Thus, I battled through the entire Giant Rat Stew. Sole motivation: this meat becomes my muscle. Some Amazon tribe calls rats "yahem." They call all meat "yahem"—rats are staple protein. Channel that mindset.
"Whew."
Post-meal, still early. "Now what?" Nap? Holiday felt too precious. Fiddling with the Siljang Staff while pondering... Ah, right! Weapon!
"Staff...!"
This stupid stick! I'm training martial arts—why keep using it? I know sword swings from Three Talents Sword Technique now!
"Perfect!"
Ditch the staff! Buy a real sword with my cash! I'm sword-ready!
"Kya."
In Murim and only now thinking sword? I'm such an idiot. Act on impulse. Headed to the smithy district.
***
"Smell that iron."
Entering the smithy street, the metallic tang hit hard. True blacksmith aroma? Manly as fuck.
Thump thump.
Buying a real sword? Heart pounding. What's a sword? Ultimate male fantasy weapon. Long blade, sharp edge. No man hasn't dreamed of slashing foes with one. Basic as breathing—elementary school shit.
Modern me, who's only gripped kitchen knives? Buying a sword felt like splurging on that pricey must-have toy.
Entered a decent-sized smithy.
Clang!Claaang!
"Heat?" Hammers rang, forge glowed. But eyes locked on the weapon racks!
"Ooh!"
Swords, sabers, axes, spears, glaives, weird ringed greatswords—all displayed. Man heaven, age irrelevant.
"Here to buy a weapon?"
Clerk approached as I browsed.
"Looking for a sword. Gonna browse."
"Hm..."
He eyed my rags, nodded. "Recommend these for you."
"What kind?"
"Practical for Murim folk. Try it."
"Sure."
Not flashy. Mass-produced utility sword. Cheap-looking. Matching my vibe. Fine.
"Alright."
All look same anyway. Grabbed one, drew slowly.
Shing.
"Whoa."
Real deal. Long enough, sharp. Heavier than expected.
"Hmm."
Plain design. Unlike fantasy longswords—pure Eastern style. Odd rectangular guard. Western swords familiar, Eastern not so much.
"Handle seems short though."
One-handed grip. Doesn't fit my two-handed Three Talents Sword Technique. Buy to match training.
"Ah, then this one."
Tried another—perfect.
"Spot on."
Good grip, works two-handed. Length fine. Hone sword sense with practice.
"What's this sword? Name?"
"Han Sword. Convenient for Murim warriors. Not fancy, but usable."
Han Sword. Nice.
"Price?"
"You seem discerning—330 mun special."
What the fuck?!
"Too pricey, no?"
Rip-off pissed me, but kept cool, haggled. No fixed prices in Murim—poor folk get screwed.
"I know these go for 250 mun. Don't gouge."
"No way! That's junk used! This is new!"
"Hm."
"Fine, special 300 mun."
"Still high. 280."
"Can't."
Fake-walked away—no budge. Iron will under 300.
"Ugh... Deal."
30 mun off? Good enough.
Clink.
Handed over blood money, sheathed sword, exited. Wedged scabbard in belt.
"Heh heh heh!"
Mood skyrocketed! I had a sword at my waist! Real Murim style...!
Tiny thing, but pure joy. My first real sword. Staff was trash anyway. This? Psychological boost. It'll protect me.
"You're my first blade."
Urge to pet the scabbard. Stroked it like a lunatic. Looked like some demonic cultist in love with his sword.
"Haa."
Overwhelmed. How soon after arriving in Murim? Insane world. But now I'm a proper Murim man—martial arts, sword. New horizons. Feels good.
"The staff."
Scabbard took belt space—awkward for staff. Sell used? Nah. Sub-weapon it. Well-practiced. Backup if sword drops.
Thus, sword at hip, back to inn. Scanned crowds—tons of sword-bearers. I slaved for one; they all have 'em. Latecomers lag without handouts.
Avoided eye contact. No needless fights. Most Murim "warriors"? Thugs. No wins there.