36. Not Bad
After safely navigating that suffocating face-off with the bigwig Jegalmugeom, an unbelievably perfect and sweet peace settled into my daily life.
No terror of abduction. No murderous intent from drawn blades. No frantic pursuit by fanatic readers with fire in their eyes, digging into my identity. I could pour my entire soul solely into writing Murim Solver Jin Hoseong.
And on top of that, even my main job(?) as the literature teacher at Cheongryong Mugwan had turned into a perfect "free period"!
All those brutish, sweat-stinking thugs and instructors who only knew how to swing their muscles had up and left for Liaodong for some exchange match with Juwak Mugwan. This had to be a miracle bestowed by Muncheongseong, the Star of Literature, taking pity on me from my past life of deadline hell.
During this golden time, I wrote and wrote. I churned out text like breathing, plotted the next chapter like eating a meal. Three chapters a day. An insane volume that even in my modern-day days as a high-earning web novel author, I'd struggled to produce.
Every day, I diligently filled page after page with this primitive brush and ink.
Once the three chapters were done, another round of training began.
The rattling carriage barreling toward Liaodong lands. The Divine Physician Jo Myeong-hwan who checked my battered body's pulses and tossed out that outlandish proposal. Those wondrous afterimages pouring from his fingertips. Spectrum Needle Blood Hand. A divine art and martial technique that struck the body's acupoints at an overwhelmingly fast speed, splitting and dividing light itself.
Dozens of hand afterimages. Overwhelming hand movements unleashed before the eye could even blink. A speed unrivaled under heaven.
What if I could apply that mad speed to my brushwork? Typing speed of 1,000 strokes per minute? No, 2,000, 3,000—a miracle reproduced with just this one brush!
I immediately ground ink on the inkstone and spread out fresh paper.
I replayed in my mind my master's hand movements etched there and the manual he left me. Relax the shoulders. Use the elbow as a pivot to maximize wrist rotation radius. Gather Living Spring True Qi at the fingertips for explosive acceleration...!
"Take this!"
With a shout, I swung the brush-holding hand at invisible speeds.
Splattersplattersplatter!
And the result was... a total catastrophe.
"Damn it all!"
I clutched my head and screamed. The paper, pristine and noble just moments ago, was now covered in hideous black blotches. Not just the paper—my face, clothes, even the safe house's expensive wallpaper and floor were splattered with ink like a fountain everywhere.
Failure. A miserable, perfect failure.
Just raw speed didn't solve everything.
I gritted my teeth, wiped my messed-up face, and coldly analyzed the failure's cause.
The reason was clear. Spectrum Needle Blood Hand's foundation was still the "needle application method." Holding thin, light silver needles. Thrusting straight, fast, and precise toward the body's acupoints. That was the core mechanism.
But brush writing was different. The brush had to be laden with sticky, heavy ink. Not thrusting, but gliding elegantly over paper—stroking, pressing, flicking in continuous curves.
Force that explosive acceleration into it blindly, and what happens? Inertia. The ink soaked into the brush bristles couldn't keep up with the insanely fast trajectory. Unable to match the speed, it flew off the tip in all directions. The strokes veered grotesquely off the paper.
"Damn... physics engine applying like this."
I gnashed my teeth. What mattered wasn't just "speed." It was the delicate "control" to perfectly dominate that overwhelming speed. And converting a martial art of "thrusting" with needles into an art of "stroking" with a brush—an ultimate application!
This meant recreating the martial art, birthing a new practical compression labor technique just for me.
I gripped the brush again.
"Let's do this. Hell, with free periods, I've got time. Polish till it works."
Grinding ink, I flashed my eyes once more.
From that day, my mad training—no, "grind"—began.
The grueling process of churning three chapters daily was my practical training.
At first, I cut speed to one-tenth. Focused Living Spring True Qi not on the wrist but the brush tip. Formed a fine qi membrane to wrap the bristles, leaving only the very end exposed, preventing ink splatter.
To convert thrust to stroke, rotated the wrist snap flexibly like a modern table tennis pro.
Shwooo.
Slow but seamless. Use rebound from one stroke's end to elasticate into the next.
"A bit more... tilt the angle more!"
Failures and fixes in loop. Day by day, the messy handwriting took shape. Splattering ink danced tamely under qi control from the brush tip.
And my brush speed exploded—faster by the day, no, the hour.
Shshshshslash!
Soon the room filled with faint wind-whooshes and paper-rustling pops.
My right hand lost form. Dozens of blurry afterimages embroidering the air.
This was no longer Spectrum Needle Blood Hand. A mad retrofit of this world's martial arts for deadlines and absolute productivity.
Named: Spectrum Brush Method.
The great writer-exclusive martial art I'd invented finally showed perfect results.
"Haa... haa...!"
Panting roughly, I set down the brush. Before my eyes, steaming fresh manuscript stacks piled like mountains, ink scent not yet faded.
Unbelievable speed. Just days ago, three chapters took blood and all-day agony. Now, in far less time, I produced a miraculous five chapters!
And the handwriting? Sharper, more precise than before, vibrant like a living dragon.
Ultra-fast, precise brushwork revived the sentences' rhythm.
"Kuhahaha! Success at last!"
I roared a mad lion's victory cry at the air.
"No more deadline hell for me! I'm murim's top typewriter—no, a living print shop!"
Wrist pain? None. Qi-controlled smooth rotation and elasticity cut fatigue to under half.
This perfect pace. This overwhelming productivity. Dopamine overflowing, I snatched the brush again.
Couldn't cool this boiling creative fire. At this rate, ten chapters—no, a whole volume daily!
"Alright, ride this momentum straight to the finale!"
Humming excitedly, I unleashed Spectrum Brush Method again.
Shshshshslash!
The room filled once more with mad brush afterimages and thick ink aroma.
My soul merging with text in perfect immersion. An absolute sanctuary, no interruptions.
Today too, I reveled in the world's safest, happiest writer routine.
Perfect. Everything under my control.
...It was right then.
"Teacher Yeon."
A voice I hadn't heard in ages, since I could freely enter Danga Sangdan. The trash-collecting old lady.
Opening the door, she bowed politely and openly handed me a letter. Taking it, she quietly turned and left.
I rushed inside and checked the letter.
Please grace the upper house's safe house with your presence this evening.
A grand game has been prepared.
A grand game? I crumpled the letter, frowning deeply.
If this underworld cold-blooded woman wasn't just hounding manuscripts but politely inviting me with talk of a "grand game," this was no ordinary reader meet or deadline nag.
I sighed deeply, earth-shatteringly, and flung off my ink-soaked work clothes.
I'd never had the guts to ignore a summons from Danga Sangdan's real power, Danche Ryeong, the ultimate bottom-feeder that I was.
By evening, as the red sunset vanished outside and chill, thick darkness blanketed Nakyang's streets, I slipped into the safe house via the formation's life gate that Danche Ryeong taught me last time.
Creeeak.
The walnut door opened with a dull grind. I strode in, feigning calm—like a shadowy mastermind with the world at his feet—arrogant expression perfectly equipped.
And the scene inside delivered far heavier, more suffocating pressure than I'd imagined.
Across a massive rosewood table, two people quietly awaited me. One, predictably, Danche Ryeong. Opposite her, ramrod straight: Jegalmugeom.
"You've arrived, Lord Yukgong."
Danche Ryeong rose gracefully, bowing deeply to me. Gone was her usual sneering throat-grab; pure reverence, as if serving an absolute sovereign.
Jegalmugeom too rose quietly, offering a heavy, polite fist salute.
"You've had a hard journey."
Feigning leisure, I flopped into the grandest, plushest empty seat, crossing my legs.
"So. What grand game warranted interrupting my sweet rest and sacred writing to summon me at night?"
To my brash, arrogant query, Danche Ryeong answered cautiously, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"Truth be told... Mu-rim-meng has placed a most secret and grand 'commission' with our Danga Sangdan, so we summoned you urgently."
What? I doubted my ears.
Mu-rim-meng? Commissioning us?
The absolute center of righteous murim, iron-fisted controller of all law and order—that massive power symbol—commissioning a third-rate novelist like me?
As my pupils quaked and my mental defenses crumbled, a sharp memory fragment flashed: Right, just days ago.
The Murim Alliance forcibly summoned me to uncover the truth behind the Moyong Clan kidnappings at Liaodong Castle. To dodge his sharp interrogation, I shed my trembling scholar shell for the perfect persona of a shadowy mastermind."
Finishing the investigation, I'd flung open the heavy iron door and tossed a haughty, killer parting line.
"Oh, if you ever need my help, just say the word."
Smirking cockily, I'd added, "Suckers... er, customers are always welcome."
'Ah.'
I barely clamped my jaw to stop my mouth gaping.
That line was just desperate bluster to escape the grilling and warn that touching me dooms Mu-rim-meng too—a nonsense ad-lib.
But those prickly, suspicious Mu-rim-meng brass took my mad acting and bluff as 100% truth?
'They see me as murim's legendary underground fixer, handling headaches bloodlessly in the shadows?!'
This transcended misunderstanding—a massive butterfly effect.
Screaming inwardly, cold sweat beading, yet from my heart's depths, cathartic thrill boiled like lava.
Mu-rim-meng commissioning me meant unofficial "partnership" recognition.
I wore the cool, leisurely smile of a mastermind in the shadows.
"Not bad."
At my heavy, relaxed words, tension-drained Danche Ryeong and Jegalmugeom's shoulders visibly eased.
I lightly tap-taped the rosewood table, chin haughtily raised.
"So. Mu-rim-meng, guardians of murim's law and order, deigns to commission me."
As if I'd calculated this all along, I shot cool glances at them alternately.
"First off, shall we hear the commission details?"
My unstoppable con game began anew. But this board's scale and impact dwarfed all before—thrilling beyond compare.