False Sparring (4)
I opened my eyes to find my third brother standing right in front of me. He spoke up.
“If you hadn’t stepped forward, I would’ve stayed out of it.”
“……”
Was this a dream? God, I hoped it was just a dream.
“But now that you have!”
Why was he raising his voice like that? My ears rang from Third Brother Namgung So’s booming tone.
“I’m going all out. Little bro, this is our first time really talking like this—or crossing swords.”
“……Yeah, brother.”
No point making excuses here; there was no escaping. I suddenly wondered whatever happened to that idiot who said you could enter a tiger’s den as long as you kept your wits. I’d bet my life that fool got eaten by the tiger.
So now, I had just one choice.
‘Take one solid hit and end this.’
Even for a direct-line spar, this was a peaceful era. Plus, this was just an extension of the year-end evaluation. Once there was a winner, this would all wrap up naturally.
“Alright then, no holding back.”
Brother aimed his wooden sword at me. My third brother, Namgung So. The age gap between us wasn’t that big—just three years older than me.
Any younger sibling with a three-year-older brother has probably thought it at least once: What if I fought him for real? Could I win? That’s why brothers grow up brawling and scrapping from a young age.
I wanted to tell all the naive little brothers of the Central Plains:
‘A tiger cub grows into a full adult tiger in just one year.’
Three years? That cub could devour a whole tiger kingdom by then.
Slash.
I swiftly dodged backward as the wooden sword came whistling down. No chance to block it with my arm like in the match against that trainee earlier—this strike was on another level.
Riiip.
The front of my robe tore vertically and fluttered away.
‘Fuck.’
If I’d been even a fraction slower, it wouldn’t have been cloth flying—it would’ve been shards of my own ribs.
One clean hit from that, and I’d be at least half-crippled.
‘Does this damn clan have no brotherly love?’
Oh, right. Never did, even before my regression.
I clutched my chest and stumbled back. I saw Third Brother resetting his stance with the wooden sword.
Thud.
My heel hit nothing—nothing but air. I glanced back; I was at the very edge of the sparring platform.
Brother’s sharp gaze locked onto me.
‘Come on! Don’t I have the cutest little brother around?’
Couldn’t he go easy on me just a bit? He looked like he was facing a blood enemy.
Of course, all I wanted was to be that random passerby walking on by…
Huuu.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself.
‘Take one clean hit and make it quick!’
The spot that hurt least if it broke! I’d block with my left arm—the one I never used anyway. That was the only way to end this fight.
Whoosh!
Huh?
Whoosh??
The sword’s descent sounded even louder than before. My eyes widened twice as much.
‘Fuck!!!’
That’d lop my arm clean off. I rolled away without thinking.
Roll roll.
Boom!
The wooden sword smashed into the platform. Stone chips exploded from the wooden blade in all directions.
‘Shattering stone with wood? If that had hit, I’d be dead for sure.’
My body was caked in dust. Naryeotagon—the lazy donkey roll. A term mocking ugly moves by martial artists, literally “a lazy donkey rolling on the ground.”
That’s exactly what I’d just done. But it saved my head intact.
“Huff huff.”
“Naryeotagon… Little bro, how unsightly.”
As I staggered to my feet, gasping, Third Brother spat the words.
‘Is that really swung without qi? No, wait—is he seriously trying to kill me?’
“I had a sliver of mercy in my heart at first. But after that? I’ve changed my mind.”
“B-Brother?”
Two doses of that “mercy,” and I’d be bidding farewell to this world.
“No more words. I knew from your spars and behavior today that you had no real interest in martial arts.”
Eh? How’d he…?
“Haha! You knew just right. So this spar—I admit defeat…”
“I said no words.”
His piercing glare silenced me.
“Right. Today might be the last time I ever cross swords with you. So I’d rather not remember your final stand as something so pathetic.”
Third Brother moved. Not just arm swings from a standstill—this time, his whole body flowed into motion.
His right foot and left foot precisely claimed the low line. He’d already blocked any naryeotagon escape.
At the same time, his sword swept mid and high. Life’s easier once you roll in the dirt—why don’t people get that?
The strike was even sharper than before.
Should I take it? How bad would it hurt? Just a broken bone? Or would my arm fly off?
‘Yeah!’
A few more exchanges, then take a hittable one!
I raised my sword against the downward chop. The Samjae Geombeop motion I’d repeated hundreds, thousands of times.
The crowd gasped in admiration. For Samjae Geombeop, it was flawless.
Tat!
The wooden sword struck empty air three times. I unleashed Cheonse thrice in a row, each at different spots.
First move: Brother’s elbow twisted slightly.
Second: his wrist.
Third: swords clashed.
Thud—his blade pressed down from above. The prior moves had canceled some force, but it still hit heavy.
Heavy. Immense.
It felt less like a sword and more like hoisting a massive boulder.
‘But!’
I could hold it. I shook it off.
Ssssslide.
I released the force in my blade and twisted sideways. Brother’s wooden sword slid down my blade’s edge.
The friction was so intense, smoke rose, filling the training ground with a burning smell.
‘Got it!’
Boom!
A massive crash—Brother’s wooden sword slammed into the platform.
‘Shook it off.’
Tougher than expected, but it went to plan. A couple more clashes, and when his swing felt safe to take, I’d eat it and end this cursed spar.
I looked up.
“L-Little bro.”
Huh?
Brother stared at me in shock.
“H-How? What did you just do?”
What’s with him?
“Just blocked it.”
“……”
Brother still gaped, stunned.
What the hell!
“Did you see that?”
Whispers from the clan leaders.
“How did the youngest young master…? But that last move was near-perfect Samjae Geombeop.”
What’d I even do? Just blocked with Samjae Geombeop and deflected the excess power.
“Is this even possible?”
What’s that mean? Isn’t it basic?
I glanced at Father. He watched with his usual blank face.
Yes! That’s the normal reaction I wanted.
“Deflecting that with mere Samjae Geombeop?”
The head of Cheonggung Geomdan looked baffled.
“Does deflecting it even make sense?”
Now Daeyeon Geomdan’s head.
Then Second Brother spoke.
“That was Third’s favorite technique. They call it that because it slices you whether you block or not.”
No! That—that’s—argh!
Don’t these people know any other words? Frustrating. Infuriatingly so.
Third Brother refocused, sword aimed.
“If it wasn’t luck.”
Short pause.
“Do it again!”
This is insane. How can I show what I don’t even understand?
* * *
‘What was that?’
Singui felt something odd from the clash—a faint discomfort, not quite irritation, but nagging enough to notice… something subtle like that.
The paused spar resumed.
Namgung Daeso was still being pushed by Namgung So’s sword.
But as sword exchanges increased, that unease bubbled up more.
‘Could it be?’
A flicker of hope. In a match he was surely losing.
Maybe… if he played it right…
Not certain, but perhaps a reversal? That was the nagging feeling.
Meanwhile, Namgung Je-cheon felt certainty.
‘Tonight, I feast till I burst.’
He knew little of martial arts—just strong vs. weak, and strong wins.
Third Young Master Namgung So: strong.
Fourth Young Master Namgung Daeso: still weak.
Strong crushes weak. Nature’s law.
But nature sometimes has the weak shatter the strong. Water drops piercing stone aren’t just sayings.
Namgung Je-cheon saw something in Namgung Daeso.
He didn’t know what, exactly.
But he knew what it’d become: strategy. The weak’s wisdom to topple the strong.
How far it’d go? Unknown. But it was working—Namgung Daeso was still fighting.
* * *
Tat!
Third Brother charged with fire in his eyes. Tireless, his swings sped up.
Every dodge drew more gasps from the crowd.
No time to care now.
Another sword approached. Fierce pressure, as always.
Seemed intentional or not, but he’d stuck to downward chops.
It was getting familiar.
‘If I time it right?’
Maybe reduce the force. Three times had been my limit so far.
But pushing Samjae Geombeop hard? Four was doable.
Swish.
My wooden sword, till now just for show, moved.
Cheonse plus Jise from Samjae Geombeop.
The prior three spots, now plus ankle.
Tap!
Perfectly where Brother stepped.
Namgung So’s eyes widened again.
‘This is it.’
Same as before. At the last moment before full force transfer, Little Bro’s sword struck true, robbing completion.
Normally, his wooden sword should’ve shattered mine on impact.
‘Here it comes again.’
Swish.
First wrist, then elbow. He’d thought coincidence.
In heated combat, pinpointing that instant before full power? Impossible.
Unless…
‘No way.’
Skill gap allows it—for experts vs. novices.
But Little Bro wasn’t above him.
‘This time too.’
Should’ve stepped half-pace forward, channeling momentum to upper body.
But precisely before that half-pace—sword thrust out.
Half-pace gone.
Thud!
Lower stance disrupted as planned. Still manageable.
Waist, arm, wrist.
‘Pull it up!’
Then again! Approaching at waist strike moment.
Shoulder raise.
Grip tighten.
Three thrusts. Not powerful, but straight, unignorable.
Downward chop, chain broken, falls on Little Bro.
‘He’ll block this.’
Swordsman’s instinct, warrior’s experience.
But…
“Ow!”
Little Bro yelped as my pathetic thrust hit his wrist, dropping his sword, tears welling.
“Haha! As expected of Brother. I lose.”
Then voices around.
“Even without qi, Youngest Young Master’s stellar Samjae Geombeop dragged it out. But clear-cut. As expected, Third Young Master wins.”
As expected? With just Samjae Geombeop?
“Third did it without qi, so it just took longer. Haha!”
“Patriarch. Spar’s over. On to the next.”
Over? Not yet!
“Haha! Guess martial arts aren’t for me.”
Little Bro tried stepping down casually.
“Hold.”
Namgung So said lowly.
‘Didn’t they see?’
Scanning around. Elders seemed to notice, but eyed Father, silent.
Others clueless.
‘That crafty, huh.’
I’d have thought it a simple loss too, without sparring him myself. After his prior matches.
Calling that runt “Samjae Byeongsin”? Ridiculous!
Good—he lost without showing it. Perfect timing on the wrist hit, prior clashes tuned the flow.
Everyone’d buy it as plausible, even if not fully fooled.
Just as I thought it over, stepping down—
Third Brother cupped hands to Father.
“Patriarch, I report.”
My foot halted one step from the edge.
“Speak.”
Father curt.
And Brother called him Patriarch, not Father. Meaning: this was official clan business, not father-son chat.
Brother bowed deeper.
“I request a rematch with real swords against the youngest.”
No, why?!
One more step, and it’d be done!
“I cannot accept that spar’s result.”
Then Father smirked.