The True Sword of Namgung (1)
Dawn.
Namgung Hae-seok sat in his quarters and took one last look around the room.
The military treatises lined on the shelves. The transcriptions and notes he had written over more than a decade of heir training. The household documents he had organized while overseeing the clan’s affairs. The entire life of Namgung Hae-seok, Young Master of the Namgung Clan, was stacked in this room.
All of it was to be left behind.
I lived for nothing.
He had believed he had built deep bonds with the people of the clan. He had trusted that his direct subordinates would share life and death with him. He had taken the elders’ nagging as affection for the family. He had read his father’s cold severity as expectation placed upon the heir.
It had all been a delusion.
Everyone had turned on him in an instant, as if they had been ready for it from the very beginning. Twenty-odd years of life had amounted to no more than that.
Namgung Hae-seok ground ink and lifted his brush. There was much he wanted to write. He wanted to ask what he had done wrong. He wanted to ask whether this was the proper way to treat a man who had devoted his entire life. Yet he wrote none of it. Whatever he put down, this world would only read it as an excuse.
The brush moved.
I, Namgung Hae-seok, leave the Namgung Clan as of this day and return all authority and rank.
One line. That was all. The characters needed to settle more than twenty years of life were no more than that.
Before the sky lightened, Namgung Hae-seok packed. A few ordinary martial robes. And the single sword at his waist. That was everything. He did not touch the Young Master’s formal attire, the jewels, or the books.
What belonged to the clan would stay with the clan. Once he had pared it down, there was almost nothing left to take. The luggage of a man leaving the place he had lived for over twenty years was a single bundle.
He stepped out of his quarters and headed for the main gate. He passed the training grounds veiled in dawn mist, then the covered corridors. A few servants who crossed his path flinched at the sight of him and immediately looked away. There were no greetings.
At the main gate, six martial artists stood waiting. Namgung Hae-seok’s eyes narrowed. There was no reason for six men to be posted at the gate at dawn. Ordinarily two would have been enough.
They were waiting for me.
They had known he would leave. No—they had hoped he would leave. And instructions on how to handle him if he did had already come down from above.
Namgung Hae-seok did not stop walking.
“Halt.”
One of the martial artists blocked his path. A man who had once offered him the sword salute.
“Young Master, you must leave the Changgung Sword behind.”
Namgung Hae-seok’s feet stopped.
“…What did you say?”
“The Changgung Sword is a famed blade forged for the Young Master. It is clan property; you may not take it with you.”
Namgung Hae-seok regarded the man for a moment. A sword forged for the Young Master. He nearly laughed. They could not possibly be ignorant of this blade’s history.
He unfastened the Changgung Sword from his waist.
“I will return the sword.”
He held it out, scabbard and all, and spoke quietly.
“But let me correct one thing. I commissioned this sword before I became Young Master.”
The martial artists’ eyes flickered.
“It was not made for the Young Master. It was simply crafted with clan funds, so I am returning it to the clan.”
They accepted the sword in silence. No rebuttal. No apology. Facts did not matter to them. Only the orders from above.
Namgung Hae-seok looked down at his empty waist.
First time without a sword.
It felt hollow. Since the day he had first worn a blade, this was the first time he had stepped through a gate without one.
Is this the end?
Young Master of the Namgung Clan. Martial artist of the Namgung Clan. Eldest son of the Namgung Clan. All of it had been stripped away. Only after they had taken even the sword did they seem satisfied.
Namgung Hae-seok walked out through the main gate without looking back. Behind him he heard the heavy sound of the doors closing.
Thud.
The sound of more than twenty years shutting.
Morning came.
Namgung Hae-seok’s letter reached the Clan Lord’s hands before the morning assembly even convened. Those gathered in the great hall soon heard its contents. A single-line letter. All it contained was a declaration of severance—the return of every authority and rank.
Namgung Hye-min covered her mouth.
“How could Elder Brother… go this far…”
Her eyes grew moist.
“If only I had reached out a little more… he would not have left like this…”
A trembling voice. An expression steeped in regret. Yet the performance was already wearing thin. Beneath the face of sorrow, the corners of her mouth strained against the urge to rise.
Of course, no one pointed it out.
“Young Lady, you defend your brother to the very end.”
“Such a generous heart.”
“The one who left is the problem.”
The elders and martial artists already had their lines prepared.
“In the end he ran.”
“An heir without a shred of responsibility…”
“Leaving nothing but a single scrap of paper—he shames the clan to the last.”
“He could not even stay to support the Young Lady.”
When Namgung Hae-seok had remained, they had condemned him for not stepping aside. When he left, they condemned him for fleeing. Staying was a crime; leaving was a crime. To them, the very existence of Namgung Hae-seok had been a crime from the start.
At the head seat, Namgung Jin-cheon folded the letter. No emotion crossed his face. His eldest son had left the clan—the son he had raised as heir for more than twenty years. Yet he felt neither regret nor anger. He simply set the letter aside and spoke in a gentle tone.
“Hye-min.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Prepare to become Young Master.”
“…Yes. I will do my utmost for the clan.”
Namgung Hye-min bowed her head demurely. Beneath the lowered face, she was smiling.
Applause erupted through the great hall.
“A new era is coming!”
“The future of the Namgung Clan is bright!”
They spoke of a new age dawning, of a bright future for the clan. The story of the one who had left ended there.
Anhui Province was practically the front yard of the Namgung Clan. Even so, the clan did not cast its gaze upon every corner of Anhui. Places that made no money. Places no one traveled. Places that offered no reason for interest. A lonely mid-slope of a wild mountain met every one of those conditions.
Kim Seohan sat in a temporary shelter fashioned from an abandoned hunter’s hut. It was a shabby place that barely kept out the wind and rain, but it was only temporary.
Rustle.
Namgung Hae-seok pushed through the undergrowth and appeared. He stopped before Kim Seohan, raised his fists in a formal salute, and bowed his head.
“My lord. Namgung Hae-seok greets you.”
“You finished quickly.”
“Yes. There was not much to settle.”
He bowed even lower. For a man who had been Young Master of one of the Five Great Clans only yesterday, the courtesy was excessive. From the moment he had knelt and sworn loyalty the night before, his mind had already been made up.
Kim Seohan gave a light nod, then looked down at Namgung Hae-seok’s waist.
“No sword.”
“…About that.”
“They took the sword too?”
Namgung Hae-seok explained briefly: the martial artists waiting at the gate from dawn, the claim that the famed blade forged for the Young Master must be left behind, the correction he had made, and the way he had returned it scabbard and all.
When he finished, Kim Seohan snorted.
“Vicious bastards.”
The words held no surprise.
“Leaving is a crime, staying is a crime, and even walking out with a sword is a crime. Hilarious.”
A single sword lay beside him. He had predicted this would happen.
“Take it.”
Kim Seohan tossed the sword to Namgung Hae-seok.
Thud.
He caught it and studied the scabbard. It was not ornate, yet the balance was excellent. Even from the scabbard alone one could tell it was a blade fit for an elder of a major orthodox sect.
Shiiing.
A clear ring of steel. It was not necessarily superior to the Changgung Sword he had used, but it was a properly made sword.
“This blade…?”
“It belonged to an elder of the Mount Hua Sect.”
Namgung Hae-seok’s eyes widened slightly. Kim Seohan spoke as if it were nothing.
“There are plenty of swords. Mount Hua was full of people who had reached the realm where they could win simply by spouting convictions without ever needing to draw a blade again. Truly a wondrous place.”
“…….”
“So I took the useful ones.”
Namgung Hae-seok looked down at the sword. An elder’s blade from the Mount Hua Sect. The quality was more than sufficient for a weapon once wielded by an elder of a great orthodox sect. And the thought that its original owner’s wrists had been severed sent a chill down his spine. He felt anew exactly what sort of being he had chosen to follow.
Yet he did not let go of the sword. Strangely, he felt no revulsion.
This is my sword… not a Namgung Clan sword, but mine alone…!
The original owner no longer had hands and would never wield a blade again. Having cleanly dismissed the Mount Hua elder, Namgung Hae-seok felt for the first time as if he were gripping a sword that was truly his own.
Kim Seohan spoke.
“You’ve got a sword. Now that you’re holding one, we should test it.”
“Pardon?”
“Come at me.”
“…Right now?”
“Yes. Don’t start whining about needing time to get used to it. In real combat you may have to snatch an enemy’s sword and use it on the spot.”
His own recent experience at Mount Hua. Kim Seohan rose to his feet.
“I need to see what you’re made of.”
Namgung Hae-seok offered no protest. Instead he raised the sword at once.
“I humbly request instruction.”
He settled slowly into stance. The martial arts of the Namgung Clan—the sword forms he had drilled since childhood—were etched into his body. His feet moved. The blade extended.
Whish!
The sequence that followed the opening form was stable. The sword path was straight. The foundation was solid. The tip did not waver.
Daeyeon Sword Art.
The foundational sword art of the Namgung Clan. Simple yet firm, excellent for mastering the center of the blade. Namgung Hae-seok performed it faithfully. Nothing was sloppy; rather, it was well polished—proof that he had never idled through his life.
But why is he using this?
The question rose unbidden in Kim Seohan’s mind. The Daeyeon Sword Art was a fine foundational form, but a foundation was only a foundation.
“Stop.”
He lightly deflected Namgung Hae-seok’s blade and gave the order. The younger man immediately withdrew his sword.
“…Was I that lacking?”
“No. The Daeyeon Sword Art was fine. But… you don’t use any other sword arts?”
“Pardon? Other sword arts?”
Confusion crossed Namgung Hae-seok’s face. Kim Seohan asked, half-dreading the answer he already suspected.
“The sword art that follows once you master the Daeyeon. I’m asking where the Changgung Muae Sword Art is. You’ve already built a foundation more than sufficient to advance into the Boundless Blue Sky Sword Art… Don’t tell me you never learned any other forms?”
Namgung Hae-seok blinked as if hearing the name for the first time.
“My lord… what is the Changgung Muae Sword Art? The Namgung Clan has no such technique.”
“…….”
Kim Seohan was left speechless. He had feared it, and it was true.
This world… don’t tell me?
He rapidly reviewed the original novel. The female lead, Namgung Hye-min—direct descendant of the head of one of the Five Great Clans and the story’s protagonist. Had the original ever named the sword art she practiced?
No. Only that she had trained a sword art to ten stars. That her blade shone brilliantly. That her sword qi stormed like a tempest. Descriptions without a single name.
Damn it. The romance-fantasy author never knew how to name martial arts.
Kim Seohan was certain. The reason was obvious. In wuxia, the name of a martial art is the identity of its sect. Within the name you can see the direction it pursues.
Later generations sometimes fail to inherit the true meaning and leave only a grandiose title, but the techniques at their creation had always carried lofty intent.
A romance-fantasy writer would have none of that. The Maehwa Sword Art was famous for its flashiness and floated around the internet, so the author had probably picked it up somewhere. Beyond that, there had been neither the ability nor the will to invent names.
As a result, the only thing left to the Namgung Clan of this world was the Daeyeon Sword Art—the bare minimum framework that could fit the original’s clumsy descriptions. Advanced forms like the Changgung Muae Sword Art could never have matched the female lead’s portrayals, so the world had simply erased their existence.
Worse than Mount Hua.
Mount Hua had at least retained the husk of the plum blossom. Superficial flair had crept in and the joint formations had vanished, yet the shell of the Maehwa Sword Art remained. The Namgung Clan was different.
Perhaps because it had been the female lead’s stage, the world had carved away the clan’s sword even more savagely for the sake of Namgung Hye-min’s narrative.
What the hell did you do, world?
Kim Seohan thought it in all sincerity.
Wouldn’t wiping out the entire Namgung Clan right now be a mercy for them?
That the Blood Cult Leader himself was thinking of salvation—that was how wretched the sight was. Even after watching the floor of romance-fantasy wuxia punch straight through to the underworld, it seemed he had still underestimated this world.