Coffee and Sandwich - 3
After dinner, I did some light meditation in my room to circulate my energy, then headed up to the rooftop to begin external martial arts training without drawing on my inner power. At first, this pathetic body creaked and groaned all over the place, but after repeating it for about a week, it started to take shape—way more manageable than day one.
"…Ughhh…."
I wasn't thinking that way just to keep from smashing something in frustration right then and there. Once the external training wrapped up, I picked up the dagger I'd set aside nearby. A longsword would've been ideal, but for now, this would have to do—better than nothing.
I drew the blade and gripped it. The sword art I'd mastered had no fixed forms because of that freakish martial style from the Thunderclap Sword Sovereign—whether he invented it or passed it down, who knows—so it wasn't suited for training swordsmanship. Sure, there's that saying about masters transcending or forgetting forms, and it's true both metaphorically and literally. After real battles, when you've broken free of rigid paths and grasped the intent and principles behind the sword, we call that "forgetting the form." So why bother engraving those forms into your body with time and effort if you're just gonna shed them later? Ironically, it's the fastest and easiest way to internalize swordsmanship.
Me? I'd already reached that realm of forgetting forms, but now here I was, hunting for them again. My mind was sharp enough to forget them, but this body sure as hell wasn't. External training might build the basic foundation to swing a sword, but to forge a body truly fit for swordplay, there's no substitute for drilling the techniques themselves. Repetition is the best path to mastery.
That said, the sword art I'd learned—the one with the ridiculously long, grandiose name that I just call Thunderclap Sword—had no forms. So the one I was about to practice was something entirely different. I swung the dagger slowly, mindful of my fatigued arms from the external training, making sure they didn't tremble as I traced precise sword paths.
This sword art's name was Escape Fate Blade Art. I'd taken the forms from Escape Fate Blade Art, the unique style of Moyong Cheol, and reworked them into a sword version on a whim. The guy was so moved he teared up with joy… Looking back, it might've been because I'd forced him into disciple bows while he was acupoint-struck…
Anyway, back then I had to hide my identity, so I couldn't use the too-distinctive Thunderclap Sword. I hastily learned it from Moyong Cheol on the spot—never thought it'd come in handy here. Shows you how unpredictable life is.
Whatever the case, even just the pure forms of Escape Fate Blade Art, stripped of intent, were better in every way than the third-rate street-sword styles I knew. So I slowly unfolded the Escape Fate Blade Art turned Escape Fate Sword Art.
First slow, savoring each motion. Recalling the sequence forward once, then rewinding in reverse. Back at the starting draw, I unfolded it a bit faster. Reverse at the same speed, then faster still the next round. After three cycles, my grip and arms were utterly spent, shaking like leaves.
"Hoo…."
I steadied my ragged breath and slowly sheathed the blade. It slid in silently, locking perfectly into place. Without a glance, I turned around.
"……."
Blanca stood there, mouth agape like an idiot. Our eyes met, and she slowly raised her hands.
Clap… clap clap clap!
Hm. Hearing the applause jogged a certain unwritten murim rule in my mind: Don't reveal arts outside the sect. Straight-up taboo to sneak a peek at someone else's martial training.
"Whoa… what was that just now?"
"…Should I eliminate you?"
"Huh?!"
I smirked at her reeling back in horror from my offhand remark. Hold it together, inner murim warrior. This ain't the martial world, and I sure as hell wasn't the type to train with an audience anyway. Almost everything I knew came from real combat. And in a world without martial arts, watching some sword dance that doesn't even dull the blade—killing over that would be ridiculous.
"Kidding."
She was staring like I was a psycho killer, so I added that, but her eyes stayed glued to the dagger in my hand, frozen stiff.
"…For real, though. Do I really look like a murderer?"
"……Yeah."
After a long silence, Blanca answered.
"Ah, no, I mean…! Gustaf said you look like a killer…."
Did she subconsciously agree? She backpedaled frantically.
"…Anyway, you really work out, huh…."
Obvious deflection, but her desperate vibe told me not to dig into the killer-look thing.
"That why you came up? To check?"
"No, not that… Just curious what you were doing. Your build doesn't scream 'workout guy.'"
Fair point. The clothes from Wells Town were all baggy misfits for my frame, so my current scrawny state stood out.
"Gotta build up the body if I wanna work."
"…Isan… um, mister? You're a merc?"
"…Not mister, not merc. Do the job, then you're a merc."
"But at your age, you are a mister."
"……."
Her words had me drawing the dagger to check my reflection. Messy overgrown hair and unkempt beard aged me up big time. Blanca edged back a bit more at the sudden draw. I shot her a glare, then sheathed it.
"Gotta cut this hair."
I muttered, grabbing the ends dangling to my eyes. Blanca stepped closer, milling around.
"Want me to cut it?"
"…You can?"
"Sure, I do Dad's hair."
I pictured Gustavo's head. He always wore a hat at the shop, so… hard to recall.
"……."
"…What?"
My skeptical look sent her retreating another step. Was Gustavo wearing that hat because he couldn't bring himself to tell his daughter, 'You suck at cutting hair'? Suspicion bloomed.
"…Gonna cost me?"
Suspicion lingered, but no choice. I'd cut plenty of people's hair in murim, but never my own—self-trimming felt off.
"Nah, free since you helped at the shop."
"Then shower first."
I stood, and she tilted her head.
"Why? Cut first, then shower. No point washing twice."
"I stink of sweat."
"So? Wash your hands."
"Wait here."
She dashed down via the rooftop door. Soon back, she led me to a chair in the corner, draped a cloth, grabbed scissors and comb, stood behind me.
"Don't move."
Snip snip. And I…
"……."
…realized haircuts are scarier than I thought. In murim, I'd trimmed beards but never cut hair—barbers felt dodgy for warriors. The constant snip-snip by my ears had my fingers twitching involuntarily.
"Why can't you stay still?"
"……."
She stretched both hands to hold my head steady and resumed. As the hair covering my ears floated away and the stuffiness eased, I finally relaxed a bit.
"…Come to think of it."
With some breathing room, the time felt wasted, and a sudden thought hit, so I spoke up.
"Know anything about Relics?"
Meeting the fixer tomorrow for work maybe—I wanted intel on the "Relic" Lena warned about first.
Recalling her advice to research Relics brought up that bodyguard whose jaw I dislocated recently.
…He'll be fine. Just one clean hit.
"Relic…?"
Snipping at my nape, Blanca echoed the question, then snip, cut a lock.
…I flinched. Luring with a question, then striking the gap—sneaky.
"…Yeah, that Relic. The kind from ghost story rumors?"
Snip snip— sounded like she was hacking away carelessly.
"…You cutting properly…? And what's a Relic anyway? Who mentioned it?"
"…Oh, outsiders wouldn't hear about it…?"
She hummed, came around front, peered at my face, combing hair every which way.
"Way out in the wasteland, there's a basin. Hundred years back, during the corp war, a massive explosion hit there."
"…Explosion? Nuke?"
"Nah, not that kind of weapon. Unknown cause—most died or vanished, war fizzled out. After, weird artifacts popped up here and there in the wasteland."
"…Those the Relics?"
"Including whatever caused the boom, but they never found that one. The discovered Relics? All useless, or so the stories go. Just folklore."
From the tale alone, no clue why Lena said to look into it. Except one thing. I glanced at Lena's dagger nearby.
She had some hidden past, giving her deeper insight into Relics than most…
Snip!
"……!"
I barely stifled a yelp, body rigid. The scissors grazed skin way closer than before.
"……."
"……Oops."
"Oops…? What the hell did you do."
"Ah, haha… I said oops?"
Awkward laugh, hands flying. No mirror, but my sides felt airier by the second. Scissors whispering over skin finally stopped. Blanca fiddled with my hair, sighed softly, lowered her hands.
"Phew, managed to salvage it… looks good on you."
"……."
Wanting a mirror but dreading it, I held out my hand.
"What?"
"Scissors."
"…Why?"
"Shave."
"With these?"
"Yep."
I snatched them half-forcefully, spread the blades, channeled inner energy. Considered the dagger but nixed it—too sentimental for shaving. Pumping energy into the scissors boosted their cutting edge. Shaving the thick beard, I caught Blanca's wide-eyed shock in my periphery.
"…How?!"
Scissors were decently maintained, sharp enough for hair, not beards. She knew that, so natural reaction.
"Told ya. Good."
Rubbed my clean jaw and mouth—no stubble. Handed scissors back.
"……?"
She didn't take them. I looked up at her staring.
"…Whoa."
Her dumbstruck mutter at my face made me crave a mirror right then.