Chapter 239: It Was Here (4)
How much time had passed since he began his training?
It felt like several months had gone by.
When he'd first entered this space, he'd worried that the people outside might fret over his disappearance.
But now he knew better.
Even if he spent years or decades here, scarcely a moment would pass in the real world.
"Huff... huff..."
Eun Seo-ho collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath.
Thanks to his master's endurance training, he'd never been called weak anywhere. He could now hang from a rafter for ten straight days.
Yet even he lay sprawled out like this—proof of how grueling the old master's regimen had been.
The old master's strikes knew no mercy; he held nothing back.
No wounds marred Eun Seo-ho's body, but the pain was real enough that he'd thought more than once he might actually die.
Watching him, the old master spoke.
"It pains me to beat you like this. But with time so short, live combat is the best training there is."
Pains you? Then why the smile?
Still, Eun Seo-ho had to concede the point. He'd nearly mastered the Geuk-eum-hon-bing-tu, a technique said to take years.
But right now, he couldn't even twitch a finger.
"Can't even twitch a finger...? On your feet."
Damn! Reading my mind now?
Grumbling inwardly, he struggled to push himself up.
But that was it—that was all he had.
"Old master, I can't get up. Just kill me and be done."
"Such dramatics..."
The old master knew his exact condition, of course. That's why he'd pushed him right to the brink—just shy of death.
Ah... right. Can't die here anyway.
In that time, he'd mastered ninety-nine of the Geuk-eum-hon-bing-tu's forms.
Just one remained of the hundred total.
He'd wondered how any technique could have a hundred forms, but now he got it.
That many meant it was profoundly practical for real combat.
The golden script that had once filled the space around him now held only a single line.
Each time he fully grasped a form, its corresponding text vanished.
His instincts told him this: once the final line disappeared, he'd be free to leave.
[Dong-gwi-eo-jin (同歸於盡) Yu-myeong-yu-myeong (留命留名)]
"Kui."
Geum-ryeong gazed up at him from his knee, letting out a soft cry.
Only Geum-ryeong was left to comfort him.
"Just the final form remains."
"Yes."
He eyed the last line.
"Do you grasp its meaning?"
"Perish with the foe—sparing lives, etching names?"
"Precisely. No hidden depths here. A most direct form."
"..."
The Geuk-eum-hon-bing-tu was made for the Seolpung Palace Lord.
To die with the enemy, saving the palace disciples—and leaving a legacy.
Ha... what bullshit.
Forcing strength into his limp legs, he rose.
They trembled, but sheer will kept him upright.
"Don't like this form."
"Hm?"
The old master tilted his head, surprised.
"Don't like it? It suits the Palace Lord's final stand perfectly."
"'Suits the final stand'? What could suit dying to save your disciples? Think the survivors would rejoice?"
Scoffing, he pressed on.
"They wouldn't. Not one bit. And 'etching your name'? Fame's worthless to a corpse."
He gritted his teeth.
How did he know?
From his past life—the ones who'd died for him.
Not just those who'd charged the enemy to save him on the day he died.
Others, too: merchants ambushed en route, who'd bought his escape with their lives; one tortured mercilessly yet silent to the end.
Their sacrifices had elevated Eunhae Merchant Group to one of the Three Great Merchant Houses.
Had he rejoiced then?
No—grief, rage at his own powerlessness, tears of blood.
Baekcheon Merchant Group and the Murim Alliance had trampled those sacrifices.
His vengeance wasn't just personal.
It was for them—for all who'd died for him, for the group.
In this life, he lived fiercer than before, to spare them such fates.
Yes—this time, he'd claim the world's top merchant house without their blood.
"Dong-gwi-eo-jin, Yu-myeong-yu-myeong. All bullshit."
"Bullshit...? It's one of the pinnacle arts for a Palace Lord. Harsh words."
"No! Deserves worse. I'd rewrite it myself if I could."
"And if you did—what would you make it?"
"Me...? Whew."
He caught his breath.
Got too worked up.
But enough nonsense.
Calming himself, he glared at the text.
"I'd change it to this: A-saeng-je-saeng (我生諸生) Cheon-ha-jeung-seung (天下證勝)."
I live, all live—proclaiming victory over the world.
In that instant—
Sasasak—
The final line before him transformed.
[A-saeng-je-saeng (我生諸生) Cheon-ha-jeung-seung (天下證勝)]
The old master burst into booming laughter.
"Hahaha! What a cheeky bastard! Hahahaha!"
At least explain before cracking up.
So I can laugh or not.
Soon, the old master sobered, face grave.
"Truth is, the Geuk-eum-hon-bing-tu's final form exists—and doesn't."
"Pardon?"
"Because it concerns the technique's true purpose. Didn't you wonder why it's so domineering yet defensively strong?"
"...Now that you mention it."
Every form incorporated defensive elements.
"To save the disciples—and let the Lord return alive. Grasp that, and you leave this place."
"And if not...?"
"..."
The old master fell silent, but cold sweat beaded on Eun Seo-ho.
He'd nearly been trapped here for centuries.
Suddenly, the A-saeng-je-saeng Cheon-ha-jeung-seung line surged into him, swelling his inner energy.
His vision blurred.
"Time to go. See you next."
"Yes, old master."
Bowing to the fading figure.
"Keep that heart always. Even at death's door—survive."
"I will."
Then all went white.
.
.
.
"Eh?"
Bookshelves filled his view.
Here... right, the North Sea Ice Palace library.
He'd entered the old master's arrangement while reading.
Shelves crammed with tomes surrounded him.
He glanced at the book before him—a mundane tale.
Geuk-eum-hon-bing-tu...
Its contents were etched in his mind.
He'd compile it into a manual for his master.
No ban on recording it.
They were both busy; best method. Worst case, master could burn it later.
And vivid now: those eight characters.
A-saeng-je-saeng (我生諸生) Cheon-ha-jeung-seung (天下證勝).
That would be his addition—the technique's final form.
Dong-gwi-eo-jin Yu-myeong-yu-myeong wouldn't do.
Master mustn't bear such a grim "final duty" for the Palace Lord.
Then his attendant approached with a tray.
"Brought your snack."
"Ah, thank you."
* * *
The Ice Palace Lord listened to her subordinate's report.
"Still in the library?"
"Yes."
She'd permitted his access.
Truth be told, she'd read every last volume there.
A peerless Lord's life grew dull; books eased the tedium.
Eun Seo-ho's visit felt fresh.
Silver Mist Sword and One Tiger Slaughterer...
The world seemed to anoint him Seolpung's new Lord.
But one thing's missing.
Martial arts.
Arts exclusive to Seolpung Lords, generation after generation.
No manuals existed.
Lords transmitted them orally to successors.
Too domineering—insufficient training led to demonic corruption.
Reasonable, but risky: a sudden Lordly death severed the lineage.
Thus, Lords chose heirs early, teaching gradually—ceding the throne only after full transmission.
That was the pity.
Before Seolpung's fall, her friend had eyed eldest son Kwak Myeong-hyeon as heir.
Now Kwak Myeong-hyeon was Lord—but a half-measure, lacking the three symbols.
Beyond that, she always pitied Seolpung.
Talent dictated attainment—an obvious truth.
Seolpung's most gifted was its Grand Elder.
Records showed the Elder's arts as phenomenal.
Successors, less talented, wielded weaker versions.
Yet fate delivered one bearing two symbols.
Merely twenty, yet at Peak realm.
And...
Same constitution as me!
Though Eun Seo-ho seemed unaware.
This time, no vain loss like the previous Lord.
She'd shield him from those vile foes.
But I can't move freely...
After a moment's thought, she asked her subordinate.
"Where's Young Master Eun Jin-ho?"
"Resting in bed, recovering."
"That sly fox. Could just tell him to stay longer... though words won't sway him."
"Protectors and elders are visiting in shifts."
"Wearing his face thin, eh? How long till recovery?"
"Three days or so."
"Three days..."
Perfect.
* * *
That night.
After dinner, Eun Seo-ho sought the Ice Palace Lord again.
Seated in her crystal chamber, she struck him as profoundly beautiful.
Beyond looks, an innate nobility inspired awe.
"You summoned me."
"Yes."
She gestured to a seat.
"Tea?"
"Thank you."
This differed from yesterday's—peachy, yet more fragrant, vibrant...
"Made from Bing-ok-do."
Bing-ok-do... the stuff master climbed for as a kid, only to fall.
Ahem...
He didn't spit his tea.
"How is it?"
"A wondrous taste. Nothing like it."
"Purifies the bloodline, refines your energy to purity. Your Seolpung arts already ensure pristine qi, of course."
"Better with more good, no?"
"True enough."
She sipped, then continued softly.
"Heard your brother broke his bottle?"
"Kup!"
He choked.
"Cough! Cough!"
"Oh dear! All right?"
"Y-yes! Sorry for the spectacle."
"No matter. My disciples can be mischievous—you have my apology."
"Means they care. Haha."
"Three days to recover, they say. So..."
Here it comes.
Tensing, he focused.
"Shall I teach you a martial art?"
"Pardon? You mean...?"
"Yours are Seolpung's. Hard for most to recognize."
He nodded.
Master had said as much.
"But the world surprises. And you're in merchant circles."
"Yes."
"Not full murim, but travels bring encounters. Some might spot Seolpung arts."
He did worry about that.
No need to go all-out yet, but no guarantees ahead.
"My proposal: learn ice arts—not Seolpung's. Disguise as another ice practitioner."
She smiled.
"I'll teach you myself."