The Night of the Greedy Ones
The next day, Hong Saryeon joined the hellish march as well. Iron weights bound her hands and feet, and an iron plate was stuffed into the bottom hem of her undergarments. Every step forward drew so much sweat it was hard to believe it was the dead of winter, and hunger clawed at her the moment she finished eating.
After a full day of training-cum-mad marching from dawn, they prepared camp for the night—only for her to spar with Jin Sowoon in turn.
“Geum Pyo, you bastard! Waist! Your waist is loose! To wield a shield, your pillar has to hold it firm. Start your lower body training from scratch!”
“Twin Heaven Sword Conclusion?? When did you start acting like some master, Eunho? You think more strikes make it better?”
“Dongryong! You bastard! You still need to guard yourself at least! Or just seal off their attack openings entirely!”
“Saryeon! What the hell have you been doing arriving at the academy half a year early? Can't even hold your sword right?”
After a full round of spars, her appetite vanished despite the gnawing hunger in her gut.
Unlike them, though...
“Why aren't you eating? I stuffed it full of jerky—it's delicious.”
Watching her eldest senior brother blow on the steaming porridge—hot enough to fog his breath—a sigh escaped her unbidden.
What the hell did he eat alone to get that strong?
Just a few years ago, the gap in skill wasn't this wide.
And he hasn't even had time to train, running around everywhere.
I'm dying...
Forcing down a few spoonfuls to survive only made her startled stomach reject the food, sending it right back up. After the vomiting, she couldn't stomach another bite.
“You should eat anyway. To make it through tomorrow, shove it down even if you hate it.”
Her eldest senior brother, cackling as he slurped his meat porridge like it was the finest meal.
As he said, skipping dinner the night before hit hard the next day.
“Huff... huff... k-kill me!”
“Want me to really kill you?”
“...Fuck...”
When she finally collapsed, unable to go on, beatings came with a bone-chilling killing intent. Her startled heart pounded wildly from the pressure, forcing her body to move against her will.
As this repeated, the Tae-eul Gate disciples wondered if they should just flee to some mountain valley and hide.
“I'd rather drink poison from the Sichuan Tang Clan than stay with Eldest Senior Brother...”
“Don't... lose your mind... ughk.”
“Oh? Talking now? Looks like you've got energy left. Double the dose!”
“...”
Training was good. Getting stronger was great. But first, they had to survive. And the intensity only ramped up day by day.
Eunho finally snapped.
“Eldest Senior Brother, why do we keep taking mountain paths?”
Her head already throbbed memorizing the 365 steps of Heavenly Lone Walker God Step, yet the damn Eldest Senior Brother kept dragging them into the hills.
“You think lightness skills are just for roads? Then why learn them instead of riding horses?”
Eunho was dumbfounded. Wasn't that a problem for after mastering it properly? This was like telling a toddler just learning to stand to master footwork.
What the hell is wrong with this guy?
His next words were even more absurd.
“Why practice separately? Train on mountains from the start—no need for roads later.”
“...”
People go speechless at utter nonsense, right?
At the pinnacle-efficiency freak Eldest Senior Brother's words, Eunho lost even the will to retort, forcing a hollow laugh—
“Hm?”
Jin Sowoon turned his head sharply.
Eunho asked uneasily.
“W-what is it?”
“Fight! There's a fight breaking out!”
“Pardon?”
His cheeks flushed like a kid spotting a toy.
“I hear weapons clashing!”
...What the hell is this guy?
“Uh... yeah, sure.”
Weapons in the mountains likely meant folks subduing bandits—or maybe sect disciples squabbling. Either way, none of their business...
“Up! Let's go!”
“W-where to?”
“Mountain fights like this are probably against bandits. Gotta check it out.”
Why go to a bandit fight?
“Let's go! Go!”
But no one could stop Eldest Senior Brother, bucking like a colt with its tail on fire.
“Haa...”
“This is my fate...”
“Should we really run?”
“Poison's better, sob.”
The four slumped after him.
“Hurry up!”
“...Coming.”
The road home was endlessly eventful.
After autumn harvest, when farmers stockpile grain and wealth to last the winter, bandit hordes stir, eyeing their pouches. Many black path wanderers turn seasonal bandits in winter, and officials form special units to counter them. Unlike green forest bandits, these raiders seek pure plunder, making them prime targets for extermination. Government troops try yearly, but limits persist—some collude with corrupt officials. Thus, righteous sects often step in to purge them.
“Amitabha...”
Like the five monks facing a hundred-odd bandits.
Ilgak, draped in yellow robes and performing a ritual chant, extended his palm gently. Golden radiance bloomed from it like clouds, enveloping twenty bandits in one sweep.
Golden light surges from the palm, wrapping foes like clouds and lifting them effortlessly.
“Wha?!”
“What the—!”
“Gah! Can't... can't get out...!”
Bound like fish on a line, the bandits floated up and flew a zhang away before crashing down, weapons slipping free. Bewildered, they stared—immense power had gripped them, yet none were hurt. Just disarmed, since the force lacked intent to kill.
Gulp.
In other words, with killing intent, no one would stand here unscathed.
“I desire no needless slaughter. Lay down your arms.”
The bandits who'd blocked his strike froze like acupoints sealed. But fools who couldn't learn from comrades' fates wouldn't be bandits.
Ignoring his mercy, others charged the Shaolin monks fearlessly.
“Die, you damn baldies!”
“I'll send you to paradise!”
“Idiot, it's just five! What're you scared of?!”
Trusting numbers, they rushed en masse.
Ilgak closed his half-lidded eyes briefly.
“Use no excess force. They must face imperial justice.”
“Yes!”
The four behind him moved as one: fists, staffs, a branch as polearm, and robes whipping like weapons. Bandits toppled fluidly, like a martial demonstration where foes played along.
Of course, the Tae-eul disciples watching from the peak knew better.
“...”
“...This is what they mean by a different league.”
Shaolin's depth: martial arts seamless from training to battle.
“What the hell...”
All warriors know the gap between forms and real combat. Some sects focus practical arts; others craft separate battle styles. Shaolin's vast arts have huge gaps for direct use—yet their disciples bridged them masterfully.
“Ilgak...”
Standout: Ilgak. Simplest moves subdued bandits cleanly, no excess wounds as promised.
Could we do that?
Answer: Impossible.
Subduing without harm is far harder than killing—especially against lethal intent. Only a vast gap makes it possible. Yet Ilgak did it casually.
They'd forgotten his prowess amid Jin Sowoon's teasing. Seeing it anew chilled them.
As they gawked...
“Goddamn...”
A growled curse. Eunho turned: Jin Sowoon, face twisted in frustration.
Eldest Senior Brother feels jealousy too?
A rare human side. He'd once beaten Ilgak, a shocking upset that shook the region. But now, he seemed distant from that victory, awed by the gap—making Eunho's nose tingle.
“That bald bastard stealing the show! Why's a guy headed to Henan here?!”
Huh? Did I mishear...?
“Fuck, those damn monks'll hand the bandits to officials... then the loot... argh! Such a waste, shit.”
Oh. Not the skill gap.
Eunho's face drained colorless.
Jin Sowoon, still cursing, turned.
“Hm? Why the dead-fish eyes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your soul's gone.”
“No way...”
Ignoring it, he spun back.
“Aigo, my stomach. If we'd come sooner, all that loot...”
Yeah... this is him.
“But...”
“Hm?”
Eunho swallowed his question.
“Never mind.”
“Boring. Wonder how much that's worth...”
Eunho buried the doubt: Robbing bandits ourselves would disrespect his fellow black path boss at Black Dragon Stronghold, right?
Academy rep suits him less than bandit chief...
“Argh! That bald fuck—come semester start, I'll drill twelve holes in his scalp. Watch me.”
“...”
He hated the idea, though.
Ilgak and the Shaolin monks subdued the bandits, exchanging brief greetings with the Tae-eul disciples. Jin Sowoon suggested sharing the loot with the people instead of officials, but Ilgak dismissed it lightly. A brief scuffle ensued, but it ended smoothly.
“See you next semester, Benefactor Jin. Namu Amitabha...”
“Always acting so pure.”
“Eldest Senior Brother...”
Parting from the Shaolin disciples bound for further enlightenment, the Tae-eul juniors lay awake long into the night.
“...”
“...”
“...”
Warriors by nature, the midday Shaolin afterimages lingered.
And when juniors pondered deeply, the advisor stepped in...
“Nom nom! Why eat like that? So half-hearted.”
Savoring meat from the bandits' warehouse—a feast finer than usual.
Saryeon spoke first.
“Senior Brother, weren't you amazed?”
“By what?”
“Shaolin's prowess.”
Jin Sowoon, sucking grease from his fingers, smirked.
“That? Why be amazed?”
“...Just, Shaolin is Shaolin, you know?”
Hard to articulate. But their poise spoke of hard-earned years. Not just training—history infused their arts. Centuries refined to pinnacle.
Even knowing they weren't foes, instinct gauged: Could we beat Shaolin?
Saryeon craved the answer.
“Can Tae-eul Gate arts beat Shaolin?”
“Nom. Didn't I already show it?”
Swallowing fully before—
“Huh? Missed it? I was awesome.”
“...”
His win over Ilgak in the practical exam, surely.
“But that wasn't Tae-eul arts...”
“What're you on about?”
“We know. You trained under Three Pure Ones Dragon Buk Wonpyeong privately...”
Jin Sowoon eyed her gloomily, snapping a twig into a toothpick.
“What nonsense. I only learned forms and sequences. The energy was mine, idiots.”
“What?!”
“No way!”
He snorted at their shock.
“You've been skipping meals over that?”
“That's part... but.”
Saryeon sighed deeply.
“We feel our limits anew. Shaolin has hundreds like Seventy-Two Ultimate Arts. Huashan, Wudang over a hundred each. While Tae-eul Gate...”
Tae-eul True Scripture, Great Heaven Sword Method, Small Heaven merged into Twin Heaven—plus Cartoon Invincible Fist, Ten Thousand Swords of Heaven and Earth. Still lacking variety.
Geum Pyo couldn't freely use Ten Thousand Swords with shield; Dongryong stuck to Small Heaven Sword.
Arts don't equal raw power, but limits clip wings.
“...”
Geum Pyo, Eunho, Dongryong all glum in agreement. Blessed compared to nothing, yet thirst burned for equality.
But...
“What bullshit?”
Eldest Senior Brother, baffled.
She expected platitudes: Grateful for blessings. Remember the old days.
“Blind to the gold in my hand, chasing silver coins... that's you lot.”
“...Pardon?”
Four heads snapped up. Gold: Tae-eul arts. Silver: Shaolin.
Love for own sect aside, comparing to Shaolin was harsh.
As they gawked...
“Tsk tsk, so dense... how are you this dense? Aigo, Tae-eul Sword Emperor! Your descendants are idiots... oh, not me.”
Thumping his chest in lament, Eunho ventured.
“Eldest Senior Brother... care to explain more...?”
Let's get on with it. He looks frustrated—must be something good.
“Tsk. Why's it called Tae-eul True Scripture?”
“The name...?”
“Exactly. Why name it True Scripture, not Divine Art?”
“...”
“Aigo, Tae-eul Sword Emperor.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Tae-eul means the origin of heaven, earth, all things. True Scripture studies all creation.”
They blinked blankly; he continued.
“Odd, right? Oral tales paint Sword Emperor's feats godlike, yet True Scripture's power seems weak.”
True. Pure, stable energy—but slower than Nine Great Sects, no standout traits. Too big a gap for embellished tales.
Then the key.
“True Scripture isn't a heart method. Just study of Tae-eul.”
“Then what we've cultivated...”
His tone turned wailing.
“Aigo, idiots licking watermelon rind, complaining it's tasteless—my juniors.”
Just explain clearly!
“No forms or sequences in True Scripture study. Sword Emperor's arts are just closest approximations.”
“...No forms in a martial art?!”
Sect arts pair with heart methods; harmony births power.
“That's the genius. Such depths without them. No forms is your blessing.”
Despite his fervor, they doubted.
“Watch. My recent study.”
He closed his eyes.
Before prodding him...
“...!”
Chilling sword intent froze their spines.
“Gasp!”
“Hup!”
“What?!”
Before them: four Black Dragon Swords—identical to his—aimed at their throats. Yet his hands untouched his blade.
When drawn? Floating alone?
Then—
“Eh?”
The swords crumbled to dust.
A groan from Jin Sowoon.
“Nngh... still far off.”
They whipped around: his Black Dragon Sword lay sheathed beside him.
Eunho blurted.
“What was that?!”
Unheard-of. Not mind sword or flying sword mastery.
“My take on True Scripture study.”
“Your take?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes. This is my form.”
“...”
“Why give Geum Pyo a shield as sword sect disciple? Why let Dongryong walk the middle path? Because...”
He eyed each.
“Your ideals differ.”
They hung on every word; he smiled faintly, pleased.
“Tae-eul's way: change. True Scripture enables your change. Ponder what form you'll take.”
Uniform training makes experts, survives Demonic Cult. But perpetuates name only—not Sword Emperor's will.
Guide them to their own Tae-eul. Hence this harsh training.
Juniors asked cautiously.
“...Ourselves?”
“Yes. My drills build foundation. To advance, change alone. True Scripture matches it. I can't force or interfere.”
Thus, ancestor's intent.
Slower, harder—but right path. Believed so.
“...So if we seek a path, it'll appear?”
“Yes.”
“Haa...”
Eunho marveled at True Scripture, but wondered.
“...When did you start that path?”
Jin Sowoon grinned silently.
True. Save formal rites, he'd never ordered “do this.” Always ahead, glancing back, waiting.
Even as they self-loathed, stuck—he endured impatience, waiting for their pursuit.
Until realization.
“Senior Brother...”
“Eldest Senior Brother...”
Tears welled.
“Sorry. Didn't grasp the depth.”
“No more complaints about tough training.”
“No fleeing thoughts.”
“Add another iron plate. Grind us harder.”
He chuckled, offering cooked meat.
“Fine. Eat up. Fuel for tomorrow's hell.”
“Yes.”
“Yup!”
“I'll eat even if I hate it!”
They'd never guess his silver tongue came from past-life Small Justice Squad tricks.
Heh... kids are easy to handle.
As they devoured...
He said slyly.
“...You thought of running?”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“...”
Movements froze. Mouths full, saliva surged.
Forgotten: how vicious—and petty—he was.
“Grateful I'm suffering too? No, plotting escape...”
Indeed.