Stubbornness (2)

While waiting for his turn, Cheonhwa watched the others spar.

Some matches ended in an instant. Others dragged into muddy, grinding wars of attrition.

Thanks to the long contests between Cheonhwa and the opposition faction, the third-generation disciples had a solid theoretical grasp of prolonged combat. But watching and doing were different things. Some produced real results; others, despite their skill, managed only meager showings.

Yeonhwa, for instance, still had plenty left in her—yet the moment she secured five consecutive wins, she stepped straight off the stage. She had dropped every opponent within three exchanges, but her exhaustion was plain to see, and her languid expression made no secret of how thoroughly she hated the bother. It was a perfect illustration of her aversion to drawn-out fights.

Jeokhwa, on the other hand, was unused to long contests, and her results suffered for it. She pushed for five wins under precarious conditions and failed. Clearing three was enough to pass, but missing the highest marks clearly stung—her eyes were rimmed red with frustration.

Myeonghwa scraped through to five consecutive victories by a hair. An ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unlucky draw had forced far greater expenditure than expected, yet through Donggong breathing and quick improvisation he weathered the crises and claimed the top score.

And so, while he watched the others endure their gauntlets, Cheonhwa's turn finally arrived.

As he stepped forward, Muwol spoke.

"Any challengers?"

Until now, Muwol's question had been pure formality. No one had raised a hand. This time was different.

Hands went up. Ten of them.

The faces were ones Cheonhwa knew well—every last one belonged to the opposition faction. Daehwa himself was among them.

Muwol was briefly startled by the first voluntary challengers of the day, but only for a moment. One look at who they were, and he understood. He pressed on with calm efficiency.

"Challengers, gather here."

He herded them together and set the order of matches. Then Cheonhwa's first opponent was called.

Sohwa—the one who had so often served as the opposition's messenger.

She did not go straight to the stage. She approached Cheonhwa first, as she always had, to deliver the faction's intent.

"What are you thinking?"

"This is simply an extension of the sparring we've always done."

Meaning the gauntlet of the second promotion exam still fell within the bounds of their wager.

"But this time, we've decided to add a condition."

"A condition?"

"Yes. If we lose every match here as well, our side will forfeit the wager."

The answer caught him completely off guard. He had never imagined the opposition would be the first to speak of giving up.

"And if you lose even once, you forfeit."

"That's a proposal with no advantage for me."

"Senior Brother Daehwa said that if you refuse, he will make you regret it for the rest of your life."

"Using his family's influence, I take it?"

"……"

Sohwa's silence was confirmation enough. From the start, his consent had never mattered. Having delivered the ultimatum, she left without waiting for a reply.

Soon the two of them faced each other again on the sparring stage.

Cheonhwa studied Sohwa's presence. Heat rolled through his sense of qi—the blazing yang energy of an advanced art, the Flame Heaven True Qi. Within the opposition, Sohwa was one of the few who had reached the third stage of inner power, so her use of a superior mind method was no surprise. The problem was that she had already drawn her internal energy to its absolute peak. She was aiming openly for a short fight.

In this gauntlet, lasting thirty exchanges counted as a win for the examinee. For those who had not reached the third stage, thirty exchanges demanded serious expenditure—but for Cheonhwa, who had already endured more than a hundred, it was no harder than eating cold porridge. His opponent knew that, which was why she was going for a quick kill.

He met her eyes. Pride and competitive fire still burned there. She had not accepted defeat.

"Begin!"

The signal fell—and a wooden sword split the air, crossing the space between them in a flash.

Fueled by Flame Heaven True Qi, the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven transformed into a swift-sword art. The principle of seizing the initiative, of cutting between an opponent's breaths, erupted at once.

An instant before the tip could pierce Cheonhwa's skull, his face shifted a fraction to the side.

Swish!

A razor-thin sound of parting air brushed past his ear. He had read the form's prelude and slipped clear in time—but the slightest lapse in tension, and that gap would be exploited without mercy.

As if to declare she was far from finished, Sohwa poured out successive sword strikes. Cheonhwa answered by raising his wooden sword like a shield and cycling through defensive forms.

Crack!

A harsh noise, and the wooden sword screamed. Better than trading blows head-on—but that was all. Even with the force held back, these were strikes saturated with refined internal power. The overwhelming speed of the swift sword converted directly into pressure, and the residual force alone made the hand gripping the hilt go numb.

At this rate, I won't last ten exchanges.

Should he abandon blocking and focus purely on evasion? No—too fast. Right now, weathering the assault was the best he could do.

With every exchange he caught, the flow of attacks grew faster still. An onslaught sweeping forward like a wildfire riding a hard wind. Swift blades closed in without giving him a moment to think, tightening around his throat.

Even so, Cheonhwa clenched his teeth and held on.

Then, after five exchanges, something changed. Sohwa simply stopped.

Cheonhwa checked her face a beat late. It was flushed deep red; sweat ran in streams down her cheeks. Heat poured off her body so fiercely that the air above her shimmered.

It was a stark display of extreme yang martial arts' greatest weakness. The blazing yang qi of Flame Heaven True Qi burned true energy itself—and its user was no exception. In exchange for enormous explosive power, its endurance fell short of even basic arts. A mind method built entirely for decisive short battles.

Sohwa had wrung that trait for everything it was worth across five forms. The backlash left her unable to move.

"That's enough! The first match goes to Cheonhwa!"

Judging that Sohwa could fight no further, the referee delivered the verdict. She collapsed where she stood and was carried off on a stretcher to the Medicine Hall.

Cheonhwa watched her go. In the final moment before she fell, with no strength left even to speak, her eyes had said everything: Why can't I win? She shut them tight, drowning in bitter frustration.

That a defeat which once would have meant nothing now cut so deeply was proof the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠end was near. Thinking only of the exam, he could have taken five wins and stopped. He did not want that. If this was to be the last contest against the opposition, it deserved a fitting farewell. Now that they were no longer simple enemies, he owed it to them—to prove that the past five months had not been meaningless.

The matches continued. One by one, the opposition's challengers mounted the stage. Like Sohwa, each of them burned everything in short, desperate battles, as if trying to carve themselves into that brief span of time.

Nine challengers fell. Cheonhwa claimed nine consecutive victories.

One match remained—and the final opponent stood in an entirely different realm.

The leader of the opposition, the strongest entry disciple of the present moment, stepped onto the sparring ground.

Daehwa.

Taoist name: Daehwa. Secular name: Yang Ji-gwang.

He had been born the eldest son of a prestigious house also known as the Shinchang Yang Family. Most clans that preserved ancestral martial arts kept their footing in the murim; the Shinchang Yang were the rare exception, a line that had for generations served in the military rather than the martial world.

As the family's firstborn, Yang Ji-gwang had shouldered the expectations of every adult around him. From his father and the house's other masters he received Marrow Cleansing, purifying his meridians and opening his sense of qi early. Once he was old enough to learn a mind method, he was fed spirit medicines on a regular schedule and steadily accumulated internal energy.

Fortunately, the talent he was born with matched the love he received. In those days, learning martial arts had been pure joy.

Everything twisted when his younger brother—three years his junior—began training as well.

Yang Baegyeon's talent surpassed Yang Ji-gwang's. At first, Yang Ji-gwang had rejoiced in it. He loved his brother that much. He had watched over Yang Baegyeon from infancy and sworn to be a good older brother; Yang Baegyeon, in turn, had adored the sibling who cared for him. Their bond was deep—yet with time, it began to fray.

Yang Baegyeon rapidly closed the three-year gap. Yang Ji-gwang struggled to preserve the dignity of an elder brother, but at some point his junior's achievements pulled ahead. To claim he felt no bitterness would have been a lie. He refused to sit idle, and he kept striving to catch up—yet the distance only widened.

"The second son is a true dragon!"

"To think such a gifted child was born to us—what a blessing for the house."

The adults marveled at the younger brother's talent. Attention gathered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠around him. Even their parents' regard became his alone. Yang Ji-gwang, left on the margins, continued his efforts in silence—but martial training was no longer a joy.

Still, he tried to think positively. Even if he lagged in martial arts, he was the family's eldest son and Yang Baegyeon's brother. He swallowed his feelings and played the part of a mature child.

Even that mask shattered when the family head ordered him to enter the Zhongnan Sect.

"You're sending me to Zhongnan?"

"Yes. Zhongnan has ties to the military. As a secular disciple, it will do a great deal for your prospects."

To the boy, it was a bolt from a clear sky. But he was too adult, even as a child, to throw a tantrum and refuse. He obeyed the family head's solemn command.

Alone, cut off from his house and bound for Zhongnan, Yang Ji-gwang came to a conclusion: he had been cast out because his talent fell short of his brother's. Otherwise he would never have been sent to Zhongnan at fifteen.

After receiving the Taoist name Daehwa, he simply drifted on inertia. He learned what the instructors taught, took his turns on duty, and in free hours trained as he always had at home. The practice brought him no pleasure, but nothing cleared his mind like it. By the time he came to himself, he stood at the peak of the entry disciples.

The fact brought him little joy.

I started martial arts at least five years before the rest of these children. Of course my results would be strong.

From the day he entered Zhongnan, Daehwa had already possessed the skill of a named disciple. Everything he learned there was little more than a repetition of the past. There were those with talent enough to threaten him eventually—but unless they were once-in-a-millennium prodigies, they could not surpass a martial family's son who had been shaped by a master's hand. In time, as disciples of a great orthodox sect, they might catch up. During the five years spent as entry disciples, it was nearly impossible.

Then the first promotion exam arrived—and Daehwa witnessed a miracle that turned the impossible into the possible.

How is that even possible?

He could not trust his own eyes. The foremost prodigy among the third-generation disciples—the one who would someday surpass him without question—had been defeated. Unable to believe it, he looked into the miracle's author.

Taoist name: Cheonhwa. Background: an orphan of the world. A boy who had by chance been taken in by a Zhongnan master and entered the sect. Through eccentric methods and relentless effort, he had shattered the outcome everyone expected. A stubborn monster.

The more Daehwa learned about Cheonhwa, the more hatred he could not contain. He, too, had worked. How many times had he trained without rest on the practice grounds until he blacked out? He had driven himself so hard that even the family physician had ordered him to stop.

So why could you do it, when I could not?

What had he lacked? Effort. Desperation. Ruthlessness. The weapons Cheonhwa wielded had surely been his as well. By environment and talent, he should have been the superior one.

So why do you keep moving forward while I only mark time in place?

The more he faced it and dug into it, the more something inside Daehwa rotted in secret. It reached its peak when the rumor spread that Cheonhwa had been designated head disciple. The moment he heard it, his heart-image twisted hard. Through the cracks of that warped state, a Heart Demon forged of hatred opened its eyes.

If it was impossible for me, then fairness demands it be impossible for you as well.

The Heart Demon sprouted, and Daehwa ran on pure feeling. He gathered those who resented Cheonhwa, formed the opposition faction, even pulled in second-generation disciples who disliked him, and proposed the wager—driven by a single will: to cast Cheonhwa out of Zhongnan.

The results refused to go his way. Cheonhwa never broke. It was the opposition whose resolve cracked first, fraying to the edge of collapse. So, as a final thrash, the ten who remained staked everything on Cheonhwa in the second promotion exam.

His consciousness returned from the past to the present. Before him stood Cheonhwa on the sparring stage—the second promotion exam, nine consecutive wins already secured, only this match left.

Does this fight even mean anything?

He asked himself, and no answer came. The original plan had already fallen through. He had even leaned on his family's prestige to force a change in the terms. For all practical purposes, the wager was already lost.

Better to kill him here and disguise it as an accident.

The Heart Demon whispered. Paint over this shameful reality with the hated one's blood.

"……"

Daehwa wrestled with himself. Killing an opponent under the cover of accident was a martial artist's disgrace, the act of a petty man. And yet another part of him longed to shed the shackles of being human and simply find ease. He writhed in the Heart Demon's temptation.

Cheonhwa watched Daehwa. Unlike before, his presence flickered unsteadily—something fragile in it. Was he still unable to believe the opposition had been driven this far? In that state, drawing out his true skill would be difficult.

Still—I cannot afford to lower my guard.

This was the strongest of the entry disciples. Even at full strength, Cheonhwa could not be certain of victory. And right now his body was far from normal. Nine consecutive matches had driven his stamina and internal energy to the floor. He was recovering hard through Donggong breathing, yet he remained ragged. The opposition's short, all-or-nothing assaults had left him no other choice.

Hard as it is—only one step remains.

He shook out arms and legs trembling finely with fatigue and leveled his wooden sword. His opponent raised his own in answer.

When both were ready, the referee asked,

"Are you prepared?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Good. Then—begin!"

The signal dropped, and Cheonhwa and Daehwa charged as one. Wooden swords crossed with a dull crack.

Daehwa drew his internal energy to its peak and poured out forms. Beginning with the fifth stance of the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven—All Under Heaven Strike as One—thrust after thrust drove in. Cheonhwa cycled through defensive forms and turned the assault aside. Each block sent a fierce rebound surging up the wooden blade. Every thrust was heavy, packed with dense force.

His Jin Release is strong in itself—but that isn't all. The influence of his internal power is unmistakable.

The sharp qi-wave he felt from Daehwa was almost certainly the energy of the Vast Heaven Qi Art. The Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven, charged with that true energy, carried the principles of a hard sword—true energy whose nature specialized in generating powerful force.

I read the preludes and cut them off in advance, and the power is still this high. Let even a single strike through, and it's over.

Daehwa knew that, and he was using counter-methods to herd Cheonhwa's movements—drawing the exchanges long and fishing for openings. Truly the original source of those counter-techniques. Unlike the rest of the opposition, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠who had only used them to survive, he was wielding them on the attack—and even if they failed, he carried the confidence that raw ability alone could overwhelm Cheonhwa.

The counters are a problem, but the sword's movement itself is maddeningly difficult to handle.

Long intervals, aggressive use of the tip, striking and withdrawing as swiftly as a snake's tongue. The motion was closer to a spear than a sword, yet it never left the frame of the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven. It fell short of the absolute peak—but it was more than enough to call a sword of Daehwa's own.

If we weren't restricted to Zhongnan arts alone, I might already have lost.

Despite so clear a gap in martial power, Cheonhwa could hold on because of his opponent's mental turbulence. At critical moments the tip of Daehwa's sword trembled strangely and the force drained away, letting him barely weather the attacks. Without that, he would not even have had room to think while absorbing the pressure.

Murderous intent flaring up like a seizure and vanishing again—no matter how I look at it, that isn't normal.

The difference was so subtle that only senses honed for survival in a harsh world could have caught it. He would have preferred to simply endure thirty exchanges—but the Vast Heaven Qi Art's Jin Release was draining him faster than Donggong breathing could restore. He had to cast the deciding move before his overtaxed body hit its limit.

Cheonhwa gathered what strength remained and charged. The sight was of a moth racing into flame. Daehwa's face twisted as he poured attacks down on him. Cheonhwa took every strike, teeth clenched, and forced his way forward.

In the extremity of the moment, Cheonhwa asked himself that question. The many fragments of insight he had gathered through months of sparring against the opposition—still only a dim outline, far from complete. Even so, he could set down an answer that was his alone.

Resolve was the will that upheld the heavens. Yearning was the foundation that filled the earth. Heaven and earth joined became the center of the world within his heart-image—and as that provisional period was set, the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven began to change.

In the interval where blade met blade, he swung as his heart directed. Unbroken will became an unshaking center, a pillar that could endure a savage assault. The thrashing struggle to live became a free sword-path and flung open the way.

A cut shook off the enemy's attack. A thrust severed the flow. A block locked the offensive down. A cleaving stroke swept the space clean.

They were sword shapes that had never existed in the art—and yet they were unmistakably the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven.

With his mind's intent, Cheonhwa caught the transformation rising through his body. True energy and flesh answered the new sword intent. As his will shifted, the efficiency of his martial arts changed as if he had put on clothes tailored exactly to his frame, and the force riding his wooden sword grew fiercer still. In pure technique of the blade, he had reached parity.

As Cheonhwa shattered the counter-methods head-on and drove forward, Daehwa felt the crisis and unveiled his trump card. His qi-wave—already drawn to its limit—swelled and pulsed. Sensing it through his qi perception, Cheonhwa knew at once what he meant to do.

He means to use Stored Jin.

Stored Jin was the art of packing force into true energy and releasing it all at once. It consumed vast internal energy and carried the risk of injury—but it could produce a Jin Release that exceeded the bounds of one's capacity.

No room to dodge or block. I'll meet it head-on!

Cheonhwa reinforced the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven, already at its peak, with pure intent. Two wooden swords, each driven to the absolute limit by its master's own method, crossed at a single point—

BOOM!

A sound no wooden swords should have been able to make crashed through the air. Unable to withstand the collision of overwhelming Jin Release, both blades shattered into flying splinters. Residual force still remaining whipped their robes hard.

Yet even with their weapons destroyed, neither man stopped. As if of one mind, they lunged at each other bare-handed. Their swords might be broken—but their limbs were whole. With their entire bodies they declared that the match was not yet over.