Sword Obsession (2)
Ganquan County, Yan'an, Shaanxi Province.
Intelligence reached Nachalgeom as he marched south under the Paegeommunju's orders.
"So. Who's the promising one in the sector we were assigned?"
"Yes, Captain. The most famous name right now is the Zhongnan Sect's Flash Sword Dragon."
"Flash Sword Dragon—that third-generation disciple of Zhongnan everyone's calling the greatest rising talent of the righteous path?"
"That's right. Word is he hasn't even turned twenty, yet he's already reached the realm of a Peak Expert."
"If the rumors aren't lies, he might actually be worth fighting."
The report kindled a spark of anticipation in Nachalgeom.
For the past several months he had clashed with the unorthodox martial artists flooding into the north, and the results had been frankly disappointing. Most of them simply let demonic arts seize the reins and tried to overwhelm him with raw power; the ones who truly held the bridle could be counted on one hand.
Demonic arts were powerful, no question—but even the finest sword was nothing more than a pearl necklace on a pig if the wielder did not know how to use it. Far too many of them never grasped that simple truth and let the arts master them instead.
I'd rather trade blows with righteous-path dogs than waste time on fools who can't control their own demonic arts. At least that would help my training.
In that sense, the clash with the Huashan Sect seven years earlier had been thoroughly satisfying. Fighting Taoist swordsmen enraged by the burning of their halls had been a thrilling experience.
Huashan's sword has so many variations that answering them was a real pleasure.
The dazzling changes blooming from the tip of a blade had been as beautiful as plum blossoms scattering on the wind, and the killing strokes that flowered within that brilliance had been sharp enough to send a chill down the spine. Word was Huashan had joined this war as well. If the chance came, he wanted to cross swords with them again.
But first I have to deal with the Zhongnan Sect, who are pushing north without a shred of fear.
He could only hope the rumors would not leave him disappointed.
With that thought, Nachalgeom set out for Fuxian with his men.
Cheonhwa and his martial brothers pushed north from Huangling County toward Fuxian. Along the way they aided towns suffering under unorthodox martial artists, just as they had in Huangling—and the farther north they went, the clearer it became that the enemy's skill was steadily rising.
It was exactly as Myeonghwa had said. Even a great sect like Paegeommun could not absorb and digest so many unorthodox factions overnight. Control could never reach all the way down to the rank and file. So Paegeommun had simply chosen not to control the surplus. Instead they hung the respectable banner of Paegeommun affiliation over the excess manpower and sent them south—the weaker the martial artist, the earlier they marched.
"Officially it's to give the weak a chance to grow," Jang Sam explained. "In truth, they're sending the weak down first to bleed our strength dry."
"A tactic only possible because they have the numbers."
"It's a strategy that throws lives away, but when has the unorthodox path ever cared about that? Most of the first wave are the ones they just absorbed, so they have even less reason to hesitate."
Cheonhwa nodded. The reasoning was sound. This war was meant to expand Paegeommun's influence—and at the same time, to discard the manpower they could not digest.
And the people caught in the middle… what crime did they commit, to suffer like this?
He thought of the faces he had seen on the road here. Every one of them had been stained with grief and pain. If it had been the fruit of their own karma, that would be one thing—but this was the work of unorthodox tyranny. He could not simply look away.
There is only one way to end this.
Drive Paegeommun completely out of Yan'an and finish the war. Every other problem could wait until after that.
Cheonhwa and his party reached an open plain near Fuxian. Someone had arrived before them.
Unlike the rabble they had met so far, these unorthodox martial artists held formation. Almost certainly the Paegeommun force Jang Sam had spoken of—the ones still marching south. They had brought people with them, villagers by the look of it, hands bound with rope, faces white with terror. Forced captives, without a doubt.
What are they thinking?
As if answering the unspoken question, one man stepped forward and roared.
"I am the swordmaster of Paegeommun known as Nachalgeom! I challenge the Zhongnan Sect's rising star, the Flash Sword Dragon, to a one-on-one life-and-death duel!"
A life-and-death duel—literally a fight with lives on the line.
"Refuse, and I will cut the throats of these innocent hostages one by one! And if any of you rush me together to save them, I will take every head without a moment's delay!"
At his cry the Paegeommun martial artists drew their blades and took station behind the bound villagers, making it brutally clear that the first head would fall the instant Cheonhwa failed to step forward.
What is he playing at?
Taking hostages he had half expected. Demanding surrender would have made sense. A life-and-death duel had not.
This isn't a ploy to make me drop my guard. He's serious.
Through his spiritual awareness Cheonhwa read the truth in Nachalgeom's eyes. That Peak Expert of the unorthodox path had truly staged this entire hostage operation for the sake of a single duel—and the subordinates pressing blades to the hostages' necks accepted the situation without a flicker of protest.
"I'll be back."
Cheonhwa swallowed a sigh. Moving exactly as the enemy wished left a bitter taste, but if what they wanted was a one-on-one life-and-death duel, there was no need for other schemes. He simply had to win.
Cheonhwa and Nachalgeom left their respective groups and took positions at a measured distance. A smile curved Nachalgeom's lips; the situation clearly pleased him. His gaze raked over Cheonhwa from head to toe.
A body honed to a fine edge—proof of steady external and body-tempering training. A stable center of gravity ready to move at any instant—the product of real combat experience. And over it all, the distinctive presence of a master who had broken through the wall and formed a Spiritual Nature. Every detail declared that the young Taoist before him was no ordinary martial artist.
So the title of greatest rising talent of the righteous path wasn't empty talk after all.
One thing, however, puzzled him.
For a genius, something feels off.
Those called geniuses always carried a certain air, and they poured everything into refining that unique temperament while neglecting the rest. What he sensed from the Flash Sword Dragon was nothing like that complacency.
It's closer to desperation.
A body tempered without rest, and internal-energy breathing so thoroughly internalized it had become second nature—both born of a desperation that only appears when talent is far out of reach. As a swordmaster of Paegeommun who had crossed blades with countless martial artists, Nachalgeom knew the difference.
Which is exactly why I like him more.
Nachalgeom favored people who struggled. He was one of them himself. When you desperately wanted something, fighting with everything you had was only natural. Talent had nothing to do with it.
His gaze settled on Cheonhwa's eyes. Reading the question there, Nachalgeom—still in high spirits—spoke first.
"Wondering why I want a life-and-death duel?"
"……"
"That look says you're asking how I knew. No need to overthink it. I simply wanted to face a proper swordmaster. My men feel the same."
Seizing the nearby villagers as hostages had been insurance in case the opponent refused the duel. Now that the duel was set, the hostages had served their purpose; he intended to leave them where they stood. He could kill them, of course—but why dirty a blade over something so tedious? Better to spend that time crossing swords with a worthy opponent.
"……You're serious."
Cheonhwa was left speechless by the naked honesty. Nachalgeom, utterly unconcerned by the reaction, simply said:
"Curiosity satisfied? Then let's begin."
Nachalgeom leveled his drawn sword at Cheonhwa. Cheonhwa answered by drawing the jade-colored wooden sword Okgyeong and settling into a ready stance. The light atmosphere of a moment before vanished, replaced by a silence sharp enough to cut flesh.
A single wind swept across the plain.
Taking it as their signal, both men charged.
Nachalgeom struck first. He drew up his internal power, wrapped the blade in blood-red sword qi, and unleashed a storm of cuts—
Pajeonggeomsik — the signature sword art of Paegeommun
True to a style steeped in the principle of Hegemony, the assault crashed down with merciless force. Outmatched in pure sword momentum, Cheonhwa had no choice but to weather the storm and wait for an opening. Calmly he read the flow through the principles of Soft Sword, then answered with the principles of Blunt Sword—minimal motion, every cut turned aside.
The explosive force of Jin Release riding each strike was every bit as vicious as the Hegemony Sword deserved. Had Cheonhwa not absorbed the shock through his dantian, Okgyeong might well have been torn from his grip.
I must not give him even a hair's breadth of an opening.
The principle of Hegemony was relentless once it scented a gap. A single lapse in defense and the entire tide of battle would reverse in an instant.
The chance will come. Until then I must not grow impatient. I only have to endure.
The Hegemony Sword lived and died by momentum. He had to answer it with absolute thoroughness and deny that momentum any chance to rise.
In the midst of that defense, a dissonance pricked at him.
Why isn't he using demonic arts?
The Hegemony Sword was a costly style. Cheonhwa had expected at least a flood of demonic energy to offset the drain—yet he could find not the faintest trace of it on Nachalgeom. He wondered whether the man was simply concealing it, but Nachalgeom, mid-swing, seemed to read the question and shouted:
"Demonic arts aren't to my taste!"
He was already strong enough without them. His progress had never stalled; what need was there to learn demonic arts? Every swaggering fool who flaunted demonic energy or demonic techniques, he had simply cut down and left behind. That was the pride of a swordmaster who had crossed countless lines of death and tempered himself without end—the confidence that he could grow stronger without demonic arts or demonic energy at all.
And the intricate flow of his sword paths proved that confidence was no empty boast.
His sense of distance is exquisite.
What created that exquisite interval was Nachalgeom's footwork. The foundation of footwork was distance control—using it to seize positions advantageous to oneself and disastrous for the opponent. Nachalgeom's footwork was faithful to that foundation. The domineering sword technique stole the eye and made it hard to notice, but Cheonhwa was certain: that footwork was the man's true ultimate skill.
Hard to stop.
With every passing moment the interval between them grew more precise. Nachalgeom claimed positions from which defense was difficult and attack was easy. Even Cheonhwa, who could survey the field as if looking down through the Six Harmony Sensory Path, found himself hard-pressed to answer.
Now I understand why they call him Nachalgeom—the Rakshasa Sword.
A rakshasa could be a guardian deity of Buddhism, but it was also a demon that beguiled and devoured men. From the perspective of the one crossing blades, measuring distance grew harder with every breath; from the perspective of a spectator, it would look as though the opponent had fallen under a spell and was flailing stupidly at empty air. At this rate Cheonhwa was far more likely to show an opening before Nachalgeom's stamina ran dry.
I have to throw the deciding move before that happens.
Yet a simple counter would not be enough. Judging by that footwork, a straightforward return strike would almost certainly be slipped by a single step.
What I need is something unexpected—something even his footwork cannot evade.
There was one form that could create that unexpectedness. Cheonhwa prepared the single stroke that would overturn the board.