Promotion Exam (2)
The match between Cheonhwa and Yeonhwa was never something the examiners had planned.
The sparring brackets were drawn at random for every round, after all.
Of course, that did not mean the second-generation disciples overseeing the promotion exam were free of concern.
"Are we really fine going ahead with this? The gap looks far too wide."
"Nothing we can do about it. Compared to Junior Sister Yeonhwa, any third-generation disciple would fall short."
"Still, the draw came out strangely. The two of them are complete opposites."
Cheonhwa was orthodoxy itself—a martial artist who had, through relentless effort, internalized his arts until the forms sprang from him without conscious thought.
Yeonhwa, by contrast, relied on her natural instincts, consciously choosing the right technique for each situation and answering every threat with perfect timing.
The most stubborn hard worker among the third-generation disciples, set against the foremost prodigy of the same generation.
Anyone who knew the two of them could hardly help but take interest in such a pairing.
"Who do you think will win?"
"Junior Sister Yeonhwa, obviously."
Cheonhwa was simply too indifferent to rumors and other people to notice, but Yeonhwa was quite the celebrity. A striking face paired with talent so overwhelming that envy itself seemed pointless. Even the second-generation instructors in charge of martial training never doubted that she would one day become a master who would raise the name of the Zhongnan Sect high.
"More than anything, the difference between sword arts and fist arts is huge."
In the martial studies of the Zhongnan Sect, swordsmanship held a decisive weight. When fist techniques and sword techniques from the four introductory arts clashed, the sword prevailed nine times out of ten. Simply in terms of reach, a longsword was naturally superior to bare hands.
"There's a reason they authorized the hand guards. Without those, the match wouldn't even hold up."
"Facing a wooden sword with bare arms, their training is still too shallow. An arm could break if things go wrong."
"Even so, it's still nowhere near enough. At higher realms it might be different, but at their level the side with the longer weapon holds an overwhelming advantage."
"So the heart of this match is how Junior Brother Cheonhwa closes that gap?"
"Exactly. Winning isn't the whole of a spar."
A spar—bi-mu—meant measuring one's martial skill against another's. Victory mattered, but so did how one expressed one's own arts.
"In that sense, Junior Sister Yeonhwa makes a fine opponent."
"Even if he loses, no one will say he failed, right?"
"Right. In a hundred matches out of a hundred, Junior Sister Yeonhwa wins this one."
At least, that was how the great majority of those watching the spar saw it.
"Still, I'd like there to be a one-in-a-million chance."
"I'm not unaware. I want to root for Junior Brother Cheonhwa myself."
The second-generation disciples knew perfectly well how hard Cheonhwa had worked to get this far. He had been a troublesome novice in many ways—and for that very reason, they had grown fond of him. So in their hearts they cheered for him, even if it was a fight with no real hope of victory.
Before the match, Cheonhwa was making his preparations. The feel of the hand guards wrapped around his arms was thoroughly unfamiliar. He swung his arms a few times, trying to adjust to the altered weight.
Getting used to them in a few minutes is impossible.
He had neither the experience nor the talent for that. Still, there was nothing else to do.
Don't think about your chances of winning, he said.
Cheonhwa recalled Myeonghwa's words from moments earlier.
"Remember this, junior brother. Think less about winning and more about how to fight well. Even if you lose, if you show results of your own, you can still earn a good evaluation."
Myeonghwa's advice was sound. Cheonhwa and Yeonhwa had never started from the same place. Cheonhwa was ordinary; Yeonhwa was born gifted. Where Cheonhwa had only just reached the starting line after bitter struggle, Yeonhwa was already walking far beyond it. That gap was not something he could close overnight.
"……"
His head understood all of that. And yet something seethed inside him. Something snarled that he must not accept defeat as a matter of course. It was not bloodlust—something else entirely. The name of that feeling was competitive fire.
Someone might call it overreaching. But if he had meant to settle for reality, he never would have taken Jinhyun's hand and come this far. Rather than resign himself and accept his place, he would stand and fight. That was Cheonhwa's way.
So this is what you meant, Instructor Inwol.
He understood Inwol's words not with his head, but with his heart.
Cheonhwa stepped up onto the sparring platform—not to lose, but to win.
Yeonhwa, who had already taken her place, still looked half-asleep. Languid boredom was written openly across her half-lidded eyes.
I'm not even worth treating as an opponent, is that it?
That attitude fanned the flames of Cheonhwa's competitive fire. He vowed to shatter that easy expression.
As the two faced each other, the examiner gave the signal.
"Begin!"
The spar began, yet Cheonhwa did not move from where he stood. This was not an opponent he could beat by rushing. Grasping his opponent came first.
…No openings.
Yeonhwa held her wooden sword at middle guard, and there was no gap to be found in her stance. At the same time he felt her gaze tracking his every slightest movement. Cheonhwa was certain: the moment he stepped into the sword's range, something bad would happen. If he failed to close the distance in a single bound, he would only be the one to suffer.
The problem is, I have no way to close the distance in a single bound.
The Nine Palaces Footwork emphasized stable shifts of center of gravity; it was a far cry from any light-body art meant for sudden bursts of speed. So the standoff continued, neither of them able to move freely.
It did not last long. Yeonhwa was the one who shattered the tedious deadlock. She stepped out as if taking flight and swept her wooden sword in a horizontal cut.
Danger—!
Cheonhwa reflexively stamped a retreating step. That single pace carried him, by a hair's breadth, out of the sword's reach.
Whissh!
A sharp whistle of parting air cut the silence—far too keen for a mere wooden sword. The motion itself was simple, but the sword force behind it was anything but ordinary.
"……?"
Yeonhwa's expression twisted, ever so slightly, as if she had not expected him to evade. He had dodged the strike, yet Cheonhwa could not simply rejoice.
That dodge was pure luck.
His skin had prickled and his body had moved of its own accord.
I can't keep dodging forever.
Even knowing the tell, he doubted he could keep clear of a sword that fast.
Even if I have to take the hits, I have to close the distance.
Cheonhwa drove his body boldly into the sword's range. Yeonhwa answered at once, as if she had been waiting, and sent a cut flashing out—a downward stroke from high to low. Cheonhwa met it with the upper block of the Fire Cannon Fist.
Ting!
The wooden sword struck the hand guard with a dull, heavy sound. A massive shock lanced through the blocking arm, leaving it numb and tingling. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the sensation and pressed forward. Of course his opponent did not simply stand and watch. She retreated, resetting her stance even as she prepared her next attack.
From there the exchange became a relentless push and pull. Or rather—could it even be called an exchange? Cheonhwa advanced while blocking or simply absorbing the blows. Yeonhwa gave ground, swinging her wooden sword to keep him from closing in. To call it a contest of techniques was generous; in truth, Cheonhwa was simply being beaten from one side.
Two or three steps. That was all. Those two or three steps of distance stretched out endlessly. As time wore on, it was Cheonhwa who began to tire. Nothing was broken, nothing seriously wounded, yet the cumulative drain of the impacts could not be avoided. The unfamiliar weight of the hand guards only added to his fatigue.
Exhaustion soon opened a gap. Yeonhwa did not miss it. A rising cut flashed up from below and cracked against Cheonhwa's jaw. As his head reeled and his senses scattered, a merciless thrusting form came driving in.
"Guh—!"
Cheonhwa spat a ragged breath and went rolling across the floor. A high ringing filled his ears. His vision blurred; he could not draw a proper breath. The blow had landed cleanly, and he could no longer keep his body under control. Continuing the spar looked impossible.
In the instant the examiner moved to end the match—
A twitch.
The boy began to move again.
Through the haze of half-consciousness, fragments of the past rose in Cheonhwa's mind.
Spring. Days of mild sunlight filtering down. He had entered the Zhongnan Sect, following Jinhyun.
Summer. Days of blistering heat. He had studied letters so that he might learn martial arts.
Autumn. Days of cool wind. He had learned the Balanced Heaven Qi Accumulation Art.
Winter. Cold days of falling snow. He had drilled the Five Elements Fist and the Nine Palaces Footwork.
Spring again. A season of new shoots rising. He had stepped onto the stage of the promotion exam.
Memories flickering past like a lantern show. Not merely the thrashing of a boy struggling to survive, but the traces of everything he had learned and made his own. For that reason they were the fullest, densest stretch of his short life. Through a full turn of the four seasons he had worked without rest. Only a year—and yet, a year.
What had he shed blood and sweat for? If he did not prove its meaning here, then when would he ever?
Bang!
He drove an arm into the floor—a desperate thrashing that declared he could still fight. Staggering, he forced his body up from the ground. His unfocused gaze made plain how thin his consciousness had grown. His trembling hands and feet said the limit was near.
And yet—
The boy's eyes had not given up. Moving those shaking hands and feet, he took the opening stance of the Five Elements Fist. Cheonhwa stepped forward. The Nine Palaces Footwork that carried him showed a center of gravity that would not break. The fist arts he had internalized unfurled of their own accord, driven by the will to win.
Yeonhwa—and every person present—could only stare in shock. What was that will that refused to stop even when anyone could see he had already reached his limit?
"……"
Yeonhwa's keen senses told her the truth. This was a kind of last flare—the final thrashing before the light of consciousness went out. If she simply held on until he collapsed under his own weight, victory was hers.
Yeonhwa poured out sword strikes without pause. The boy did not retreat. He met the rain of cuts with horizontal fists and cannon fists, yet far more blows landed than he managed to block. Even so he did not shrink back; he only strained harder and drove forward again and again. The desperate light in his eyes, as if he stood with a cliff at his back, carried a strange force of presence.
Overwhelmed by that presence, Yeonhwa found herself giving ground without realizing it. An unyielding will not to lose flowed into her along the edge of her razor-sharp perception. It was a sensation she had never once encountered, and she wavered before she could stop herself. The very gift that let her read an opponent's intent had become a liability.
"……!"
By the time she recovered her wits, she had been driven to the very brink of the boundary. With nowhere left to retreat, her opponent closed the distance. Eyes blazing, a tightly clenched fist came crashing down. If she allowed even a single clean hit, a ring-out loss was as certain as the sunrise. The basic sword forms were no longer enough for the situation at hand.
Yeonhwa found her answer by instinct and put it into motion at once. Her grip on the wooden sword shifted, and a sword art utterly unlike anything she had used so far unfurled. The moment she caught the incoming fist on the blade, she rolled the sword and twisted its path aside.
Left as he was, his balance might break. Cheonhwa stamped the Nine Palaces Footwork, reset his center, and launched straight into the next assault. These were the motions of the Nine Palaces Footwork and the Five Elements Fist he had repeated to exhaustion from the end of winter until the coming of spring. Forms so thoroughly embodied would not fray, no matter how spent and battered he became.
What followed was a brawl that reversed the pattern of every exchange until now. Cheonhwa poured out fist forms, desperate to land a single decisive blow. Yeonhwa slipped his attacks with soft, flowing motions that did not exist in the basic sword arts. An even, taut struggle continued, neither side able to claim the upper hand—until:
"That's enough!"
The examiner cut in.