Visitors (3)
Even though they called it a friendly sparring match, it was closer to instructional practice in truth.
That was because the gulf between the Wudang Taoist priests and the Zhongnan entry disciples was simply too vast. On top of that, the Wudang disciples had already held one round of “instructional” spars with the second-generation disciples. Consequently only seven matches were scheduled—one for each of them—and the right to choose their opponents rested entirely with the Wudang side.
“I figured it would go like this.”
Myeonghwa wore a knowing little smile, as though he had seen the whole arrangement coming. Cheonhwa tilted his head.
“You expected this, Senior Brother Myeonghwa?”
“More or less.”
The earlier exchange period had never been only about fostering goodwill among the younger generation of the two sects. It had also been a chance to size up potential sparring partners before the friendly matches. Sure enough, the Wudang disciples began calling out, one by one, the names they had marked during that time. Among them were people Cheonhwa knew—Myeonghwa, Yeonhwa—every last one of them ranked inside the top ten of the second promotion examination.
Cheonhwa himself was chosen as well, yet the opponent who picked him was completely unexpected.
I never thought he’d be the one to choose me.
The man who had selected Cheonhwa was none other than Heosang. The look in his eyes, however, was anything but friendly; it burned with the clear intent to crush him into the dirt. Retribution, no doubt, for the scolding Heosang had received from Heogong after picking a fight earlier.
They said his mental cultivation was lacking, but to go this far…
It went beyond unbecoming of a Taoist; it was pure childish petulance. Cheonhwa could only pity Heogong for having to look after such a troublesome junior brother.
He set those thoughts aside and focused on the matches.
Among the seven Wudang disciples, the one who stepped forward first was a Taoist named Heodo. In the earlier spars against the second-generation disciples he had displayed soft-sword against soft-sword, a fighter whose specialty was Hwageong—the art of neutralizing force.
From the Zhongnan entry disciples, Yeonhwa rose to meet him. Her usual languid expression was unchanged, yet her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“Heodo of the Wudang third generation. I shall use the Wuji Heart Method and the Wuji Sword Art.”
“Yeonhwa, entry disciple of Zhongnan. I cultivate Hyeoncheon-jingi and the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven.”
Both sides declared the arts they would employ. The Wudang side was using different techniques than those shown against the second-generation disciples. Myeonghwa supplied the explanation.
“The Wuji Heart Method and Wuji Sword Art are the foundational arts taught in Wudang.”
“So they’re the equivalent of Zhongnan’s four introductory martial arts?”
“Exactly. Still, don’t underestimate them just because they’re basics. The gap in fundamental capability is real.”
How that gap would be closed would decide the outcome.
The referee stepped forward and laid out the rules.
“The Wudang side will yield the first five exchanges. If the match exceeds ten exchanges, the entry disciple is declared the victor. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Begin!”
The signal fell, and Yeonhwa moved. She closed the distance in a flash and brought her wooden sword down from overhead. Heodo raised his own sword to meet it. The dull crack of wood on wood never came; instead Yeonhwa’s blade slid smoothly down the face of his sword. He had neutralized the strike with Hwageong.
Yeonhwa showed no sign of surprise. She reset her stance and pressed the attack. After three consecutive exchanges Heodo seemed to sense something amiss. By the fifth exchange he was no longer countering at all—merely struggling to keep her offense at bay.
What in the world is going on?
Heodo wondered inwardly. He had been trying the whole time to break her center with Hwageong, yet not only did her balance refuse to collapse, she continued to pour on the pressure. Worse, every strike landed exactly where he found it hardest to defend. Simply receiving the assault was already taxing him to the limit.
Sword strokes that read the flow and stay half a step ahead… There’s no mistake—this is Dull Sword!
Dull Sword. True to its name, the style looked slow and blunt on the surface. In reality it was a method that read the opponent’s rhythm and used layered mind-games to apply relentless pressure. With every exchange the sensation of being slowly submerged grew stronger—proof that he was losing not only in technique but in reading the board itself.
I have to reverse the flow somehow!
Heodo pushed the Wuji Heart Method to its peak and unleashed the neutralizing principle of the Wuji Sword Art, yet his opponent simply used even her disrupted balance as fuel for the next attack. All his desperate efforts proved pointless; ten exchanges slipped past with almost insulting ease.
“I have learned much.”
Victorious, Yeonhwa exhaled a breath of cold air as she spoke. Her complexion was pale from the yin-cold qi of Hyeoncheon-jingi; she had drawn the art to its limit to overcome her opponent’s resistance. The longer an exchange continued, the more that cold energy froze the meridians—any miscalculation in dosage could ruin the qi and blood. Without the ten-exchange victory condition, Yeonhwa herself would have reached her limit first.
I need to sit and regulate my breath once I’m down.
Hyeoncheon-jingi possessed outstanding restorative properties—even the damage caused by its own yin-cold qi could be healed by the same art. Without that special quality, ordinary cultivation of the method would have been impossible.
As she left the stage her eyes met Cheonhwa’s. She lifted the corner of her mouth and gave a little wave, proudly showing off her victory. To everyone else it simply looked like a radiant smile.
The moment she reached the spectator seats she latched onto Jeokhwa, who was standing nearby.
“Junior Sister… I’m cold.”
“Wait—don’t stick so close, you’re freezing!”
“I just want to rest a little.”
“Stop clinging and go regulate your breath somewhere else! Why do you always glue yourself to me the second you finish using Hyeoncheon-jingi?”
“Because Junior Sister is warm.”
“I am not a stove!”
Jeokhwa struggled to peel the clinging Yeonhwa off; Yeonhwa locked both arms around her and refused to let go. The entry disciples were long accustomed to the sight, but the guests found it thoroughly novel. The Wudang Taoists tried hard not to laugh; their mouths twitched all the same. Only after a second-generation disciple intervened and dragged the two of them away did the commotion finally settle.
“Ahem. Forgive us for that unseemly display.”
“Not at all. It is heartening to see such close bonds among martial siblings.”
The referee, embarrassed by the entry disciples’ antics, cleared his throat and offered a brief apology. The second Wudang disciple to take the stage accepted it with a gentle smile.
Once the uproar subsided, the friendly spars resumed—and the Zhongnan entry disciples suffered a string of consecutive defeats. In a sense the outcome was only natural. Even with handicaps, their opponents were simply beyond what entry disciples could handle. Yeonhwa’s solitary victory was the true anomaly.
At last the final match of the day arrived. From the Wudang side rose the troublemaker of the Heo-generation, Heosang. Across from him stood Cheonhwa—unofficially the foremost of the entry disciples.
“Woo-bo, give it your all!”
“Show them the strength of the entry disciples!”
“Fight well, Junior Brother Cheonhwa!”
Cheers poured over Cheonhwa as he climbed onto the stage. Expectant gazes from every direction. The fervent hope of the entry disciples for his victory. Could he live up to it?
In the past the weight of those eyes might have crushed him. Now he simply set the worry aside and left himself only one resolve: to give everything he had.
He reviewed the matches the Wudang disciples had fought so far. Natural talent might be ordinary, yet a man could still broaden his horizons through experience. Five months of continuous spars against the opposing faction had sharpened Cheonhwa’s eye for swordplay.
In a real fight I couldn’t guarantee the outcome.
Heosang’s twisted personality was one thing; his talent was genuine. Even against the second-generation disciples he had put up the second-best showing after Heogong.
But under the restrictions of this match, I can win.
Yeonhwa had already proven the possibility. Limitations on martial arts, the five-move concession, and the special victory condition all worked in his favor.
And he’s underestimating me.
Look at those eyes. He was openly looking down on Cheonhwa for lacking natural genius. There was not a shred of tension in that swaggering posture.
I’ll sink my teeth into that opening and never let go.
A cold, predatory light flickered through Cheonhwa’s eyes.
Heosang was certain of victory.
His opponent was a second-class fighter of no particular talent. He himself was a first-class martial artist whose gift was said to be the finest among the entire Heo-generation. How could he possibly lose a spar?
The real question was how thoroughly he would grind the other boy into the dirt.
You made Senior Brother Heogong scold me… I’ll make sure everyone here watches you crawl in shame.
He studied his opponent, already deciding how to carve him up the moment the five-move concession ended. Cheonhwa’s face was calm to the point of indifference. Facing a match against him and still looking that unconcerned—the boy was irritating in every possible way.
Heosang’s features twisted, yet he still observed the formalities of the spar.
“Heosang of the Wudang third generation. I will use the Wuji Heart Method and the Wuji Sword Art.”
“Cheonhwa, entry disciple of Zhongnan. I have trained in Gyunchon Chukgi-gong and the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven.”
Both had declared foundational arts of their respective sects. Foundational arts laid a martial artist’s true face bare; whichever side had neglected the basics would be the one to taste humiliation.
“Begin!”
The referee’s signal fell, and Cheonhwa moved.
The five-move concession born of the difference in skill—while the opponent executed five forms, the other side was bound to do nothing but defend. Heosang intended to use those five exchanges to take the measure of his foe.
Honestly, I don’t even need five.
To employ Hwageong one first had to grasp the opponent’s movement. Heosang’s talent was exceptional precisely at reading such motion.
Throw a stone onto still water and ripples form—flow is inevitable. Why can’t these people read something so obvious?
Third form of the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven—Heaven’s Angling.
A diagonal slash swept in as though casting a fishing line across a river. The same simple, single-stroke technique the Zhongnan entry disciples had repeated countless times throughout the friendly matches. Responding should not have been difficult.
He moved his wooden sword as usual, seeking the flow. The instant the blades met, Heosang froze in shock.
What is this flow…?
The trajectory had looked utterly simple, yet the substance inside it was something else entirely. Every other entry disciple had possessed openings—faint distortions in the flow while executing a form. All one needed was to slip into those gaps. But here—
Why are there no openings at all?
Cheonhwa’s flow held not even a hairline crack. It felt like standing before a sheer cliff face: the rock-solid foundation forged through countless hardships and relentless effort. The moment of shock cost him the timing needed to neutralize with Hwageong, and the impact of the strike sent him stumbling backward without resistance.
I… failed to read it?
Unable to accept the reality before his eyes, Heosang bit down hard on his lip.
No. That was just a momentary slip. If I do it properly I can handle this!
Yet Cheonhwa gave him no leisure to think; the next attack was already flying. The lowered tip of the sword rose in a single motion and thrust straight forward.
Seventh form of the Thirty-Six Swords Under Heaven—Heaven’s Upward Gaze.
A snap-thrust launched from below without warning, as sudden as a gaze lifting to the sky. Heosang pressed his wooden sword against the incoming blade and tried once more to unfold Hwageong. Again he felt that same unyielding steel.
Even if there are no openings, as long as there is flow I only need to match it and redirect.
He sharpened every sense—blade form, footwork, breathing, gaze—determined not to miss a single scrap of information. Matching himself to that heavy, inexorable current, he attempted to slide the thrust aside.
The sword tempered by stubborn, grinding practice refused to waver under any disruption and drove straight toward him in a single line.
What is this…!
Failing Hwageong yet again, Heosang was struck by the thrust and forced back a second time.
“Khack!”
Even as he gasped for breath he analyzed what had just happened.
It’s not simply that he uses the sword well. He’s swinging it around some other core entirely.
Physical technique? No. Qi-based skill? No. Sorcery? His seniors would have sensed it at once. The conclusion he reached was simple: a level of sword art that his present self could not comprehend.
Born with extraordinary talent, he had grasped the situation after only two exchanges.
I’m… going to lose?
The premonition of defeat rang clear. Not because of a gap in talent. Not because of a difference in years of experience. He was about to fall to some incomprehensible something—at the hands of a boy he had looked down on.
Don’t make me laugh! As if I’d accept that!
Heosang erupted in fury at a reality he could not endure. Childish rage wiped the rules of the spar from his mind. Forgetting the three remaining free exchanges still owed to his opponent, he wrenched his internal energy to its peak and launched a form of his own.
A nobody like you doesn’t get to climb over me!
The attack was practically a sneak strike. As if to reaffirm his martial gift, it was steeped in the unbroken continuity of the Taiji Sword Art. Yet a blade swung solely to trample another was nothing a disciple of a righteous great sect should ever display.
By the time the second-generation Zhongnan disciples and the Wudang Taoists sensed something wrong, the wooden swords were already a hair’s breadth from contact. Cheonhwa, however, slipped aside with ease. Through the endless wheel-matches against the opposing faction he had accumulated dozens—hundreds—of sparring experiences. Among them had been more opponents than he could count who swung their swords with raw emotion. The moment he recognized Heosang’s rage, his body moved as naturally as flowing water.
You’re saying this form isn’t even worth answering? You dare look down on me?
Lost in his own delusion, Heosang poured out strike after strike. Though incomplete, the attacks still carried the principles of Wudang swordsmanship. Cheonhwa avoided every one of them with effortless grace.
“Aaaargh!”
Heosang roared and kept swinging, yet a blade ruled by emotion never once touched Cheonhwa.
I’ll kill you!
Killing intent flared, and Heosang’s aura twisted into something ominous. Those with keen spiritual sense instantly understood what he intended.
“Heosang! Stop this at once!”
Inwol and Heogong lunged forward to intervene, but Heosang’s sword refused to halt; it drove straight for Cheonhwa’s vital points. It was a moment of absolute crisis—yet Cheonhwa coldly examined the oncoming blade. The once-soft curves had straightened under the weight of murderous intent, making the trajectory easier to read. That half-baked killing sword exposed gaps that had never existed in true Wudang swordsmanship.
Cheonhwa did not miss the opening. He raised his wooden sword high overhead.
And half a beat before Inwol and Heogong could reach them—
CRACK!
Cheonhwa’s wooden sword crashed down onto Heosang’s skull like a thunderbolt.