27. Spectrum Needle Blood Hand
"Is there... a martial art that makes your hands incredibly fast?"
What was my job again? A righteous hero safeguarding murim's peace? Hell no. I was Yeon Woon-ryong, the web novel author who cranked out text every single night. In the modern world, I'd be hammering a mechanical keyboard at a miraculous 1,000 strokes per minute. But in this godforsaken wuxia hellscape, I had to wield a brush made of beast hair, grind my own ink, and write every damn word by hand.
This was my chance. Screw barbaric crap like firing sword qi or palm winds—that wasn't my problem. What I needed was the ultimate practical labor art: a hyper-compressed technique to churn out manuscripts at the speed of light, transforming me into the supreme 'Manuscript Machine'! It was worth millions of times more to me than some Heavenly First Sword manual.
"A martial art that speeds up your hands, Master?!"
The first to react was Hwangbo Suyeon, practically glued to the seat beside me. Her clear, enormous eyes suddenly sparkled, radiating starlight.
"Then the answer's obvious, isn't it?"
Cupping her flushed cheeks in excitement, she launched into a passionate rant.
"When it comes to the essence of hand techniques and fist methods, our Hwangbo family is unrivaled in the world!"
Pride swelled in Hwangbo Suyeon's voice, laced with a sticky, personal affection. She slyly tugged my sleeve for emphasis.
"So, Master! Come to our Hwangbo estate with me this time!"
"Why the hell would I go to your—"
"I'll guide your training from start to finish—day and night, without a moment's break!"
Was it my imagination, or did she put extra oomph on "tight" guidance? When did this model student from a frozen-up orthodox sect turn into a straight-shooting bulldozer who only knew one gear?
But her ambitious handiwork shattered instantly under a icy tackle.
"Tsk tsk. Where does a little girl spout such nonsense?"
From across the carriage, the Divine Physician Jo Myeong-hwan clicked his tongue and doused her with cold water.
"Aren't those vaunted secret hand arts of the Hwangbo family absolute taboos, reserved only for direct bloodline heirs?"
Hwangbo Suyeon's body stiffened at the sharp point.
"What great family hands down their secrets to total outsiders with different constitutions and bloodlines?"
Her pale face flushed with panic. But she wasn't one to back down.
"Th-there are ways around it!"
She waved her hands frantically, lips twitching.
"Our family isn't that rigid... If we can't pass secrets to outsiders directly..."
Her gaze drifted into space. Those snow-white cheeks boiled past ripe apple into pre-eruption volcano red.
"You could... be adopted into the family..."
She mumbled, voice fading. I furrowed my brow, leaning in.
"Can't hear you. Become an adopted son? You want me to be the son of your father, Patriarch Hwangbo Daeryeok?"
That sounded terrifying in its own right. But that wasn't her real aim, apparently.
"O-or..."
Eyes squeezed shut, ears crimson, she dropped the bombshell.
"If you marry in as my husband, everything's perfectly solved!"
"...What?"
My jaw hit the carriage floor. The air froze—but for a totally different reason this time.
Son-in-law? Was this sheltered orthodox princess proposing to me? Using a secret art as an excuse?
"Eek!"
Unable to handle her own words, Hwangbo Suyeon clutched her scarlet face and wriggled like a worm.
"Then take all my martial arts."
A chill wind. From the carriage corner, arms crossed in silence, the real-deal fanatic entered: Seol Muyeong, in her icy voice.
Hwangbo Suyeon's flushed gaze iced over instantly, shifting to rivalry mode. Their eyes clashed, invisible sparks flying.
"With my arts, you need no family permission—no forced family chains."
Seol Muyeong stared at me intently, face blank.
"I'll hand over everything from that Manjangae abyss cave: every art, manual, even my soul."
"Uh...?"
Blind faith—no, near-religious obsession—swirled in her eyes.
"I gained this power at death's door only because of your great novel, Master. Even my life stems from your words."
Hand on heart, she continued.
"These arts were yours from the start. If you wish... I'll squeeze my heart's blood, shatter my dantian—whatever it takes to transfer it all to you."
Her words were solemn, seductive. Absolute arts from a fortune cave! The insane perk only novel protagonists hoarded!
Who'd refuse a full platter served on a silver tray?
But I shook my head firmly, solemnly, before the sweet temptation.
"I appreciate it, but your arts are useless to me."
"Why?!"
A crack in Seol Muyeong's calm; her voice trembled faintly.
"Is the Snow Ice Sword Empress's arts from centuries ago insufficient? Or is my talent too meager for your vessel?"
"It's not about sufficiency."
I met her wavering eyes dead-on, deadly serious. My author's life hung on this.
"Think. Your arts are extreme yin extreme ice techniques."
"Yes... but what's the problem...?"
"Know what happens if I train them and frost coats my hands?"
I shuddered at the hellish vision.
"Grind ink for writing, and the whole inkstone freezes solid!!"
"......!"
Silence. Perfect silence.
"Ah......"
A dumb groan escaped Seol Muyeong.
"The ink... freezes..."
She seemed utterly overwhelmed by my 'professional spirit'—fearing frozen ink more than any supreme art. Unable to argue, she nodded quietly and shut up.
Thus, the crises of near son-in-law abduction for typing speed and slushie ink disasters from these quirky girls were perfectly rejected.
"Heh heh heh. Youth is truly grand."
From the corner, Jo Myeong-hwan chuckled delightedly at the mad spectacle.
"But save the martial arts talk till we reach Nakyang safely!"
His voice carried sudden weight. The friendly village elder vanished; the overwhelming pressure of a Ten Great Master, the Divine Physician ruling life and death, crushed the carriage.
He nodded at me.
"You, stop slouching. Lie properly on this cot."
I obeyed, easing onto the plush makeshift bed. The moment my back touched, shattered bones and torn muscles screamed in unison.
"Urgh..."
As I groaned, Jo rolled up his sleeves and drew a thick curtain from the ceiling.
Swish.
A screen formed our private clinic space.
"Now, remove your top."
"Ack... easy, easy..."
Peeling off scabbed clothes was torture anew. Finally, my ragged shirt came off, exposing my upper body to the chill air.
"......!"
Gasp from beyond the screen. Hwangbo Suyeon and Seol Muyeong must've glimpsed my silhouette's ruin.
Back shredded purple by whips, shoulders and sides pocked with skewer holes. Less human torso, more butcher's slab.
"Heavens..."
Jo Myeong-hwan sighed heavily. His wrinkled hand ghosted over my skin—probing pulses, meridians. No joking neighbor grandpa now: a grave life-handler. His intensity made me swallow dryly, tensing.
Clink.
His leather pouch unfurled. Dozens, hundreds of needles gleamed under lantern light, blue-eyed predators. Hair-thin silver needles packed tight—overwhelming just to see.
"Now for restorative acupuncture to mend your weakened body and max recovery. It'll sting—brace yourself."
"Wait, all those—"
Before I finished—
Fwosh!
I doubted my eyes. Jo's hand... vanished.
Not gone—its trajectory far outstripped my dynamic vision, leaving dozens of afterimages shimmering like heat haze.
'Wh-what the...!'
Just faint pricks everywhere assaulted my brain. Sight lagged sensation in bizarre dissonance.
Spectrum Needle Blood Hand—the hand art boasting world's fastest speed. Divine realm: splitting light to pierce acupoints. The legend I'd only texted was live on my bare skin.
The ultimate technique elevating the Divine Physician to Ten Great Masters.
Hundreds of needles struck dying points precisely, forcing clogged channels open, infusing life force. Initial stings warmed to dull heat. Warm qi bloomed from my dantian, racing madly through vessels. Frozen body melted in ecstatic thaw; tension melted unknowingly.
'Insane... truly insane...'
I refocused my hazy mind, staring blankly at Jo's flickering hand phantoms.
And then—
'At that speed... how fast could I write novels?'
Treatment? Forgotten. My brain whirred solely on Spectrum Needle Blood Hand's manuscript efficiency.
Modern peak: 1,000 keystrokes/minute. Here? Beast-hair brush, ink-dipped strokes. Max 3 quires/day, wrists screaming.
But transplant Jo's hand motion to my right arm?
'3 quires? Please. That speed hits 10 easy!'
Plots overflowed my head; output speed bottlenecked me.
'How do I do it?'
I fixated unconsciously. Not warrior's greed—pure deadline-maddened writer's frenzy. Capture that trajectory. Decode muscle flex/release, joint angles—graft to my brushwork!
"Grrgh...!"
Eyes wide—no blinks wasted—I locked on the afterimages madly. Brain pumped adrenaline forcibly.
Miracle happened.
Whoosh.
Jo's Living Spring True Qi, piercing meridians with life force, climbed my optic nerves—sharpening vision crystal-clear. Haze sharpened to lines. Dozens of phantoms revealed true paths bit by bit.
'I see it... starting to see!'
Unnatural obsession rebuilt a mere teacher's stalled dynamic vision forcibly. I sank deeper, deeper into that hand's dance.
—
Meanwhile, Jo Myeong-hwan continued acupuncture silently, sensing odd dissonance.
'Why's this guy twitching so much?'
Brow furrowed. His Spectrum Needle Blood Hand struck before pain registered—no writhing expected.
Yet Yeon Woon-ryong's right hand quivered faintly since moments ago.
'Pain? No way.'
Then fingertips, wrist twitching, elbow jerking—soon whole right shoulder pulsed rhythmically.
'That hand shape...?'
Jo's eyes widened mid-treatment.
'Impossible...!'
Internally aghast. Strongest acknowledged fastest hand art—yet an empty-dantian normie sees it? Mimicking unconsciously?!
Swish.
His hand halted midair. Face twisted not in leisure, but ghost-struck shock and dismay.
Swallowing, he gazed at Yeon Woon-ryong—slack-jawed, staring vacantly.
Just in case. Absurd, but—
Voice trembling, he spoke.
"You... don't tell me......"
Silence blanketed the carriage. His heavy voice reverberated.
"You can... see my hand... right now?"
But his shocked patient only drooled a grotesque, greedy grin, mumbling.
"Heh heh heh... 10 quires a day... 100-chapter backlog... brush ablaze... freedom!"
The moment a top writer's true 'madness'—baffling even murim's greatest physician—awoke.