The Dragon Cleaver
All three trials had come to an end.
"Dragons and Phoenixes, gather round."
Abbot Beomgak of Shaolin, Taecheong Jinin of Wudang, and Manbakja stood together at the front. As the most senior among them, Abbot Beomgak stepped forward to speak for the three.
"Paeng Jin-hu of the Paeng Clan. Unso of Shaolin. Tan of the Namgung Clan. Hak of the Dancheon Clan. And—"
I watched, as if in slow motion, as the abbot's gaze came to rest on me.
"Ilseok. Dancheon Myeong of the Dancheon Clan, ascend the dais."
Among all the rising stars of the Jianghu hailed as Dragons and Phoenixes, only five would claim the title of Dragon. No hierarchy, no ranking existed between them—such was the tradition. And yet Abbot Beomgak had gone out of his way to call me Ilseok. As if to confirm there was no objection to be had, Taecheong Jinin and Manbakja nodded along beside him.
The five Dragons took their places on the dais.
Abbot Beomgak's eyes swept over the five of them, then took in the crowd of young masters gathered below.
"These are the candidates for the title of Dragon. Let any who object speak now."
"...!"
The instant his declaration ended, silence fell over the hall—and with it, a taut current of tension.
As I mentioned before, the Dragons and Phoenixes were, officially, chosen through trials of footwork, swordplay, and internal energy. There was, of course, a very good reason the word officially belonged in that sentence.
Could every rising star truly bring himself to accept that someone he had never once crossed blades with stood above him on the strength of good test scores alone? However rigorous and fair the trials might be, dissent was inevitable. Because in the end, every one of them was a martial artist.
How could the organizers of the Dragon and Phoenix Assembly not know this? A martial artist is, above all, a creature who proves himself in real combat.
The duel.
It was never something the Assembly encouraged, and yet no Assembly could do without it. Everyone understood that true recognition came only after every last grievance had been aired and settled. Put the other way, it meant one had to pass through this unofficial procedure to be acknowledged as a true Dragon.
"No one objects, then?"
"..."
Objections were slower to come than I had expected. Beomgak of Shaolin, Taecheong of Wudang, Manbakja—it was no small thing to raise a hand against candidates those three had hand-picked.
Then—
"I object!"
A bold voice shattered the silence.
Every Dragon's head turned toward the dais. For the objector was standing on it.
"I cannot accept that Dancheon Myeong is Ilseok—I hereby request a duel with him!"
The man bellowing so brazenly, sneering in my direction, was Namgung Tan.
Abbot Beomgak's gaze shifted to me.
"Dancheon Myeong. Do you consent to the duel?"
"I do."
I had been wanting to teach him a lesson myself, so this was nothing if not welcome.
And so an unprecedented duel was arranged.
In truth, most objections at these gatherings came from those who had failed to make the list of candidates, hoping to drag a nominee down with them. But this time, a rising star who had himself been named a Dragon candidate had called out another Dragon candidate. Every eye in the hall was bound to fix itself on the match.
The center of the arena. Namgung Tan and I stood facing each other—and between us stood Abbot Beomgak.
"As you all know, there are no rules in a duel. Furthermore, for any harm to body or property suffered over the course of the match, neither your opponent nor the organizers can be held to account."
Having said his piece, the abbot looked at each of us in turn.
"That said—conduct yourselves as befits pillars of the Orthodox Murim."
A great deal was packed between the lines of those words. Spelled out, they amounted to: no hidden weapons or foul play, and no overtly lethal techniques.
"Understood."
We both nodded.
Shring. Namgung Tan drew his blade.
"Ooooh."
A divine weapon that wrung gasps of admiration from the rising stars—Cheon-gong's eighth sword.
I was still taking the measure of that blade when he spoke.
"What? Think it unfair?" Namgung Tan asked, arrogance dripping from a crooked smile.
The fellow seemed to have forgotten that I had cleanly cut his white-tempered fine steel sword in two. I shook my head, calm as you please.
"Not at all. A weapon is part of a martial artist's strength, is it not?"
Shring. The Dancheon Sword slid free in my hand—Cheon-gong's final masterpiece. Which, by his own logic, meant my skill was simply the greater.
"Hah! I'll strip that facade away and show them what you really are!"
With that, Namgung Tan launched himself skyward. I hadn't the faintest idea what "what I really was" was supposed to mean, so I elected not to worry about it.
Tat. Tat. His figure came rushing in, treading exquisitely light footwork.
A low hum. Chilling blue sword qi had gathered along his blade—flawless craft, entirely befitting the direct line of the great Namgung Clan.
There were, however, two small details.
One: measured against Uncle Yeobaek, Namgung Tan's skill fell a good deal short.
"Take this!"
Two, rather more important: the blade in my hand was the Dancheon Sword.
The Dancheon Sword hummed, accepting my qi. Truly, the work of a master artisan deserved every bit of its reputation—as if to double the power I already possessed, sword qi of the utmost refinement sheathed the blade from guard to tip.
And then—
Clang!
A sound that should never come from two swords meeting rang through the arena.
The hall was gripped by disbelief. My Dancheon Sword had shattered Cheon-gong's eighth.
So it was clear: the eccentric master Cheon-gong may well have been a madman, but he was not a man who dealt in empty boasts.
"What in the—?!"
Namgung Tan stood frozen, unable to accept reality. And in his stupor, he had forgotten one thing: the duel was not yet over.
Abbot Beomgak had told us to behave as pillars of the Orthodox Murim. I had not grown so ruthless as to hurl sword qi at a man who had just lost his blade—
A sharp hiss split the air. My kick shot toward Namgung Tan's face.
You bastard—!
Ah, well. I won't deny that the sudden memory of things he'd said in the past put a touch more force behind that kick.
Crack! My kick met his face. Crash! Namgung Tan's body was driven into the far corner of the arena.
Judging it not life-threatening, Abbot Beomgak made no move to intervene. A mercy, that.
In any event, this much was surely enough to consider the duel over.
Feigning nonchalance, I looked around.
"Does anyone still dispute that I am Ilseok?"
Not one of the Dragons answered.
Of course, another five or six duels followed after that. I won every last one of them, naturally.
"Hah—"
I was still catching my breath after the final duel when my brother Dancheon Hak came over. He had fought through his own share of hard-fought matches, and the weariness showed.
He stopped in front of me, face expressionless, and then spoke without preamble.
"Congratulations."
"...!"
I was genuinely startled by those unexpected words. I swear it was the first time I had been this shocked since my regression—I had assumed he had walked all this way to pick a quarrel with me. Truly, I never dreamed he would say such a thing to me.
"...And congratulations to you as well, Brother."
"Hmph. The last thing I want is to hear that from you."
He was the one who had offered his congratulations first—why he then had to act like that was beyond me. And yet, for some reason, that sulky, prickly face of his made laughter bubble up all the same.
My prediction—that Dancheon Hak would never again have occasion to bring honor to our clan—had been wrong. Even with the variable of me thrown into the works, he had stubbornly seized the title of Dragon, just as he had in his past life. That honor would not gleam quite as brightly as before, though, for the rival who could contest it had gone and achieved something greater still.
Dancheon Hak's expression hardened, and he pressed on with grave dignity.
"Don't misunderstand. Whatever you achieve, the seat of Clan Head will be mine."
With that, he whirled around and strode away. I watched his retreating back for a long moment.
Here at the Dragon and Phoenix Assembly, I felt I had for the first time truly come face to face with Dancheon Hak. The moment I proved myself, he stopped despising me. He gave up looking down on me and began treating me as his rival instead.
Perhaps, even in my past life, the two of us might have built something better than what we had. So it seemed to me.
Dancheon Hak was right. The seat of Clan Head still sat far closer to his grasp than mine; outstanding personal martial arts alone do not entitle a man to claim it. If anything, only now—having won the title of Dragon—had I at last managed to grab hold of his heels. He and I had never started from the same line to begin with.
Even so, the thought of Uncle Yeobaek, waiting for me back at the clan, settled my heart. The Dancheon Myeong who had once walked out of that clan alone and destitute, and the man I was now, were two different people.
For now, that was enough.
Nor was I the only one; every Dragon candidate won his duels. Which, in truth, only proved the three earlier trials had not been groundless. Even Namgung Tan, his face swollen and his Cheon-gong blade lost, went on to defeat the other rising stars—whatever else he was, his skill was no fluke.
With the last duel concluded, every procedure was truly at an end.
"You are the pillars who will lead the Jianghu and the Murim from the very front in the years to come."
Once the brief courtesies were done, Abbot Beomgak asked:
"Myeong of the Dancheon Clan. What title do you desire?"
The first choice went to me, who had delivered the most overwhelming results. And which title I would take had been decided long before I ever set out for this Assembly.
"I..."
The one I had desperately longed to make mine.
And it would be mine.
I watched Dancheon Hak's expression crumple.
I'm sorry, Brother. But I have no intention of yielding this one, either.
I swallowed the words down.
"Congratulations, Myeong. No—should I be calling you the Dragon Cleaver now?"
"That sounds awkward. Just call me by my name."
As I stepped down from the dais, Yi Chun-baek was there to greet me. Come to think of it, there was someone else after all—a friend I could open my heart to, besides Uncle Yeobaek.
Perhaps because I had come to treasure him so, Yi Chun-baek's willing forfeiture of a Dragon's seat felt like an even greater pity now.
"One of those seats should have been yours, Brother Chunbaek."
"Haha. What does that matter? I'm quite fine."
The Yi Chun-baek who had said he might regret giving up the third trial was gone. He seemed to have made his peace completely; he looked positively unburdened.
"I'm glad, then."
If he was fine, that settled the matter.
The rising stars gathered around those who had won the titles of Dragon and Phoenix. The mood among the young masters based in Anhui in particular bordered on a festival—they had produced the most Dragons, after all.
"Congratulations, Great Hero Sword Dragon!"
"Hahaha. Thank you."
"And to you as well, Great Hero Spear Dragon!"
"...Yes."
Namgung Tan answered as well—his face still swollen, the mark of my kick written plainly across it.
Dancheon Hak's epithet had become the Sword Dragon—because I had taken the Dragon Cleaver out from under him.
I looked over their faces. They were the same people who had been at Dancheon Hak's side when I first arrived at the assembly grounds—men who had long shared friendship with him, so the result was only natural. I had no Dragons or Phoenixes of old acquaintance, and so even with the title of Dragon Cleaver, no one came looking for me.
Ah—no. There was one.
"Shouldn't that seat have been yours? You are Ilseok, after all."
It was Yi Chun-baek.
"Haha, what does that matter? I'm quite fine."
"Glad to hear it."
The same familiar exchange, replayed with the speakers swapped. Yi Chun-baek and I looked at each other and laughed.
And yet the mood around us was... odd.
"What's with those fellows? Why do they keep sneaking glances our way?"
Sure enough, I could feel them all quietly preoccupied with us. Even Dancheon Hak. And I could tell, too, that Namgung Tan—who so pointedly turned his back on us—was the one most conscious of us of all.
"Must be because I'm so handsome."
"Puhah!"
I liked that about him—Yi Chun-baek had no immunity to even the lousiest jokes.
It reminded me of the day we had left the Dancheon Clan. Dancheon Hak had been seen off by his kinsmen and dozens of elders of the council, while I stood alone—until Uncle Yeobaek came to stand beside me. That one presence alone had been enough to make me stop envying Dancheon Hak.
And now? Dancheon Hak stood in a crowd of Anhui's rising stars receiving their congratulations, and Yi Chun-baek stood at my side.
Once again, I did not envy him much at all.
Precious things are built one at a time. Even a journey of a thousand li is walked one step at a time, is it not?
"Thank you, Brother Chunbaek."
"For what, may I ask?"
"If you hadn't saved me at that tavern, would I have earned the honor of becoming a Dragon?"
"Puhah! Myeong, my friend, you get funnier by the day."
"...It's only that your threshold for laughter is set far too low, Brother Chunbaek."
"What nonsense. I'll have you know I grew into a serious man whose laughter comes dear."
"Puhah!"
At some point, my laughter had come to sound just like his.
"In any case—thank you."
For now, this much was enough to say what I owed him.
"So this is where we part, then." Yi Chun-baek sounded almost wistful.
"We'll meet again."
I answered with perfect certainty. Such is the way of karma and fate. He and I were both faces destined to make our names resound across the Jianghu; if we wished to find each other, we could do so whenever we pleased.
"Yes. Let's meet again—without fail."
Yi Chun-baek and I clasped hands.
This was enough.