Wind-Stealing Eight Steps
Gang Ryong kicked off the wall with tremendous force and leaped over it in a single bound, the Yi Gajang warriors following suit in unison as they crashed down upon the Jang Gapae thugs. The Jang Gapae men, who had been ceaselessly stoking their fires, scrambled for their swords to meet the assault.
Clang! Clang! Blades clashed viciously from all directions.
The Jang Gapae warriors, who had rampaged across the jianghu, were of a different caliber entirely from the Yi Gajang fighters composed of third-rate Hwang Sabang recruits—especially since Dang Sobaek, the third son of the Dang family, had led them in place of his superior. But the Yi Gajang men had spent the past few weeks honing their basics through bone-grinding agony. Moreover, thanks to Chief Steward Gwak's brilliant strategy, the Jang Gapae's original force of over thirty had already dwindled to around twenty.
And then there was the hairy brute who leaped deep into their ranks, swinging his fists and feet wildly.
“ROOOARRR! This man Gang Ryong won't die! He's invincible! He's soaring through the skies!!!”
Gang Ryong bellowed as if hypnotizing himself, his irritating roars echoing nonstop. With his burly, bandit-lord appearance and zero fear charging straight into the enemy heart, the Jang Gapae thugs were thrown into chaos, unable to coordinate front or rear.
And facing the enemy leader, U Gwang, was Second Young Master Yi Jinun.
U Gwang scowled ferociously, his killing intent surging.
“So the little brat's picked up some fancy footwork, eh? Think that trick's gonna work on me? Come here. I'll skin you alive.”
Despite the brutal threat, U Gwang was inwardly shocked. Moments ago, if that scrawny kid had properly wielded his sword alongside that footwork, he might have been laid low already. Calming his pounding heart, he eyed the gaunt opponent steadily. No more half-hearted takedown—he'd carve the boy up properly this time.
Yi Jinun raised his sword high, glaring back. Outwardly calm, inwardly he repeated the same mantra endlessly.
I can do it. I can do it.
Fear still gripped him; his grip whitened his knuckles. But what good was clutching the hilt so tightly? The scabbard was still on. Even if he'd drawn it, nothing would change. He couldn't even dream of swinging it. All he trusted were his two legs.
A strategy devised for this unavoidable frontal clash with a mighty foe: lure and isolate the enemy leader, throwing him into disarray. And that was possible only because of Yi Jinun's exceptional footwork.
Once a thread of inner energy began circulating through his body, Jinun had immersed himself in one technique above all others.
Pung Chwi Palbo—Wind-Stealing Eight Steps. Eight steps as if drunk on the wind. One of the core Yi Gajang ancestral arts he'd heard drilled into him since childhood.
No matter how often he read the manual or heard explanations, it never clicked—until watching his youngest brother Jinpyeong demonstrate it after awakening from madness. The shock was like his skull splitting open.
If he could master movements that nullified every attack, he wouldn't need to fight hard; he could preserve his body and flee! So he'd drilled Pung Chwi Palbo relentlessly whenever he had a moment.
After Yi Jinpyeong left the estate, during a serious discussion with Gang Ryong and Chief Steward Gwak about countermeasures against powerful foes, he'd shown off his footwork for the first time. Against Gang Ryong, then the gathered Yi Gajang warriors—they all gaped, applauding wildly. Praise poured in: it was just like the youngest master's moves.
Who knew it'd work against a true expert like this?
I can do it. I'm a descendant of the world's greatest, Yi Gyeol. I can do it like Jinpyeong!
But the foe was Jang Gapae's leader—a grizzled veteran who'd survived every ordeal the brutal jianghu threw at him.
U Gwang scanned Yi Jinun up and down, then hawked up phlegm and spat it at him with a thwack!
Even that tiny motion made Jinun flinch in shock.
U Gwang bared yellowed teeth in a grin.
“Green as grass, just like I thought.”
He spun his sword idly, pacing side to side. Feinting a lunge—whoosh!—JInun flinched again, drawing a sneer.
All around, warriors clashed amid rising dust clouds; flames began flickering from the outbuildings here and there. In the inferno, U Gwang casually swapped his sword hand, stalking like a tiger before a frozen prey.
“Come on, kid. You've trained that footwork so hard—why not attack first?”
Jinun forced calm into his voice.
“Don't you know respect for elders? You come first.”
“Spare me the fancy talk. Can't charge in yourself, huh? Reacting to my moves is your limit?”
The man's read on the situation was terrifyingly sharp. As Jinun stood speechless, one of the Yi Gajang warriors, pushed back in the fierce melee, stumbled near U Gwang.
U Gwang, never missing the surroundings amid his leisurely pace, suddenly swung—aiming to bisect the man.
“Ah!”
Finally, Jinun moved. Riding a gust, he slipped between U Gwang and the warrior. Thrusting his sword desperately to block the descending blade, he realized too late—it was a trap.
U Gwang's eyes gleamed down at him. A chill ran up Jinun's spine.
“Gotcha, you little shit!”
U Gwang vanished—or rather, his lower body stayed rooted as his torso twisted half a turn. Leaving the blade hanging midair, his elbow whipped from behind to smash Jinun.
Jinun curled into a ball with all his might. Not from any technique, just instinct. That saved him.
But he couldn't fully dodge; the elbow grazed his occiput.
Thwack!
Uncurling, he saw U Gwang snatch the airborne sword, body swelling hugely as he lunged. No letting prey escape his domain. Right hand shortening its grip on the blade, left fist joining in swift, concise two-handed strikes—optimal to snare the slippery Jinun.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Menacing winds howled everywhere.
The head blow still dazed Jinun; the world spun, his eyes unable to track the storm of attacks.
What to do? Simple—entrust his body to the wind.
Mind emptied, body relaxed. Eyes shut. He flowed with the rising gusts, instinctively.
In the ultra-close storm of blows—nothing touched him.
“Huh?!”
U Gwang's startled yelp. To Jinun, it echoed like his youngest brother's voice.
Back when Jinpyeong “trained” his brothers mercilessly, the first time Jinun dodged a casual sword swing:
“Huh?! Pung Chwi Palbo already... When did you practice this so well?”
“Just... 'cause it's fun...?”
Jinpyeong stared incredulously, then burst out laughing.
“Big brother's on Cheongcheon Ilro, second brother's on Pung Chwi Palbo... Fun, so fun!”
After laughing heartily, he sobered and swung a fist.
“Dodge this one, too.”
That brutal “lesson” birthed his current movement.
Pung Chwi Palbo, Sixth Form—Yudangpung Silwido.
欲擋風 實爲徒勞—To block the wind is futile indeed.
Whether blade, fist, or air-shaking force—it mattered not. Like striking a floating feather, no impact. Body feather-light, riding the wind's grain, no matter how fiercely the assault raged, it couldn't harm him.
After the barrage...
Jinun quietly opened his eyes. His body intact. U Gwang gawked in dismay.
Jinun's chest swelled with triumph.
“It worked! This really—!”
Joy was fleeting. U Gwang's eyes bulged, erupting in a massive roar.
“RRRAAAAAGH—!!!”
Face beet-red, inner energy-packed shout exploding point-blank. Jinun's ears rang, one going eeee—deafened, winds muffled. Body reeling, blood surged from nose and mouth.
Staggering, unable to stand...
“Punk. Nothing special...”
U Gwang advanced. Murder in his eyes. Death clung to the gleaming blade.
“Always some fool forcing me to go all out. Learning weird tricks to piss me off. But listen, kid—life's about real fights. Think you're the first tricky bastard I've crushed?”
Clutching his chest, Jinun backpedaled. The man was beyond him—crystal clear now. He turned and fled, stumbling.
U Gwang laughed mockingly.
“Oh? Where to? You running away?”
Chuckling heartily, he couldn't believe this runt had chilled him. Hawk—ptui! He spat roughly on the ground.
His face twisted. Faint blood mixed in the glob—internal injury from overexertion. Wiping his mouth, he surveyed.
Jang Gapae had seemed rattled at first by the fierce onslaught. But skill endured. Despite numbers disadvantage, they were overwhelming foes; even the hairy fist-fighter showed fatigue.
No need for him—the Yi Gajang would fall soon.
One task left.
“You dogshit brat. I'll rip you apart...”
Fury boiling, he strode after Jinun. The kid hadn't gone far, badly shaken. The fight would end soon. Yi Gajang would vanish from the world.
The small flames roared into an inferno, devouring the buildings. A sudden gust spread thick black smoke, blinding all. Fighters pinched noses and mouths, the battle grinding to a lull.
Amid the warriors, Chief Steward Gwak's face darkened. Things looked grim. Even Second Young Master, holding with mystic steps, had turned tail. The rest fought valiantly united, but couldn't overturn raw skill gap.
Is this it? If Third Young Master doesn't arrive before the smoke clears...
Ultimately, their sole hope was the one they awaited desperately: Third Young Master.
Powerlessness shook him. If only they had more strength, a bit more time...
Moments later, the wind shifted, smoke parting from the battlefield—and a voice rang out.
“What're you all doing?”
Gwak jerked his head up, certain their awaited savior had returned.
But Chief Steward Gwak could only panic.
Perched atop the wall, looking down—was not Yi Jinpyeong.