This Shouldn't Be Happening (2)
Never in my life had I felt hunger this intense. It was like my stomach was glued to my back. I started to rush toward the dining hall... but then turned on my heel.
No matter how ravenous I was, checking on the maid sisters and the head maid came first.
Besides...
'The food they make tastes way better anyway.'
Normally, I'd ask around where the maid sisters and head maid were. But I bolted straight there. I already knew where to find them.
The massive compound loomed ahead—a place most would call a grand estate. I'd seen it countless times before my regression, the very home I'd lived in. Never dreamed I'd return here after the young lord tournament, right before getting kicked out of the Namgung Clan.
Not flashy, but modest—that's the word for it. Back then, people called it the Shack of Rejects.
I flung the door open and stepped inside. The aroma of cooking rice hit me immediately. The first maid sister, sweeping the courtyard, spotted me.
"Young master! You're safe!"
The second maid sister emerged from the kitchen. "Oh my! Look at you, young master—your cheeks are all sunken in!"
The third maid sister came out from what looked like my room, probably having cleaned it and laid out the bedding. The sun was already setting.
Finally, the head maid stepped out from the kitchen. "Young master, just in case, I prepared dinner. Will you eat?"
Sure enough, coming straight here was the right call. "Yeah," I replied.
I hadn't realized it back then. Why I'd thrashed around so desperately for approval from Father or my brothers. When the people closest to me accepted me just as I was.
For the first time, it felt like I was truly home.
'Though I'll have to leave again.'
To somewhere grander. Shinier. Freer.
Gurgle...
...First things first, fill this stomach.
* * *
It took five full bowls before my senses returned. The maid sisters watched me devour it all in fascination, clicking their tongues in amazement. Even the head maid, whose face rarely showed emotion, was the same.
"I was starving. Haha."
I brushed it off, and they asked if I needed anything else. I said no, told them to rest easy. Then I stepped out for a walk.
In my hunger-induced haze earlier, I hadn't processed it, but today's events were insane.
I'd met Yi Han, met Father... even talked to him, however briefly.
"And he gave me something."
A commonplace sword manual called the Samjae Geombeop. But more than that...
Yi Han had said to me, "Cheonmu Jiche."
Too much had happened at once, blowing past my ability to think straight, so I hadn't focused on it then. But Cheonmu Jiche—I knew that term. And as Yi Han said...
"Father's constitution."
The martial world brimmed with special physiques: Yin-Yang Body, Taiji Body, Five Elements Body, Wuji Body, and so on. Those who possessed them left their mark on history.
At the pinnacle sat the Cheonmu Jiche. A body fit to house the martial arts of heaven itself. One might appear in an era, or not at all. Father had it.
If Yi Han was right, so did I.
That explained why my past self's efforts never bore fruit. Whether by chance, heavenly luck, or that deliberate meridian-blocking stunt...
I'd become a Cheonmu Jiche holder.
Honestly... big words aside...
"I don't feel any different?"
Nothing major had changed from before. A bit sluggish body, no unusual pains. Moving around, it was just the same old me—the body that could never escape third-rate no matter how hard I tried.
And even if I did have a Cheonmu Jiche...
"How the hell do I beat big brother?"
Martial arts wasn't something you conquered with a body alone. Talent, senses, intellect, perseverance, luck... A physique was just one piece of the puzzle.
I was ten now. Big brother was twenty. In ten years, he'd step into the exalted Hwagyeong.
Could I catch up in ten years? With this body that hadn't even started training, unlike my past life?
The answer was clear: impossible. Even if Cheonmu Jiche Grandpa showed up, no dice.
"All that old coot did was get my hopes up."
No changes to the plan. Escape the Namgung Clan. Sure, the first step went sideways, but I was still a patient in recovery.
'Father's personality—he won't say a word to the clan.'
No one would know about my Cheonmu Jiche.
'Not even Yi Han.'
Never heard of him having a loose tongue.
'But why was Yi Han in the clan?'
Not just Father's old friend... something felt off. But...
'None of my business.'
Before I knew it, I'd circled the front courtyard five times. I hurried back to my room; the maid sisters had neatly laid out the bedding. I lay down and flung the door wide open.
Moonlight streamed in. This was the heart of the world's top clan, Namgung Sega. No need to worry about assassins with the door open.
"One good thing about this place."
If anyone sent killers, they'd need to be Heavenly Demon level to infiltrate.
As I wrapped up the day and drifted toward sleep, my eye caught the Samjae Geombeop manual I'd carelessly tossed aside while eating.
The moonlight was just bright enough to read by. Sleep wasn't quite here yet.
'Might as well kill time.'
Reading before bed was the best sleep aid anyway.
Shh.
I flipped to the first page.
[The Samjae Geombeop is a sword art drawn from heaven, earth, and man.]
Just as I remembered—nothing special.
"Yawn~"
One line in, and drowsiness hit.
[This seat created this sword art for one reason. To reach the heavens.]
"Pfft...!"
The second line nearly made me snort. Sleep almost fled.
'Whew... close call.'
If the author weren't a martial artist but a storyteller or playwright, they'd have been a legend.
After that, standard stuff on the Samjae Geombeop. Good—sleep crept back in. Nothing fancy: no profound depths like Wudang swords, no flashy changes like Huashan, no sun-piercing speed like Jeomcheong, no comprehensive mastery like Shaolin arts.
Just thrust up, slice down, cut horizontal. Three moves, that's it.
[This seat...]
Always "this seat" for self-reference. Almost laughed again. Had to admit it—this was the funniest Samjae Geombeop manual I'd ever read.
[This seat could not comprehend one fact. Most who learn the sword ponder its endpoint first. Their ideal. Sword qi, sword gang, sword intent, heart sword—whatever. But these are mere waypoints.]
'Nice.'
Sleep returning. I propped my head on one arm, holding the book with the other, reading on. A few more minutes, and I'd crash hard.
[The end is reached only through a beginning. Most ignore its importance. Wudang's taiji. Huashan's plum blossoms. Jeomcheong's sun. All start the same: thrust, slice, swing. Thrust faster for sun-cleaving single flash. Slice more intricately to paint plum blossoms in the sky. Swing more fluidly to birth taiji. If you're reading this, you've grasped what this seat means.]
'Nope, no clue.'
I laid my head fully on the pillow, holding the book with both hands now.
[I mastered all sword arts in this world and distilled them to three. I named the first Cheonse (Heaven Strike). The second Jise (Earth Slice). The third Inse (Man Cut). Master these three perfectly, and this seat guarantees: no sword art will be beyond you.]
"Perfect con artist material. Bedtime."
[Thus, Cheonse, Jise, Inse—these three form the Samjae Geombeop.]
Thud.
I closed the book. Shh. But I threw off the covers and sat up.
Sleep was still coming. Maybe this was whimsy, curiosity about the "this seat" braggart, cool breeze from the open door, or undigested dinner.
Moonlight glowed softly. Wind felt nice.
"Overate, huh?"
One bowl usually; five today. Stomach felt full, yeah.
I grabbed the wooden sword leaning nearby. Even a practice blade from Namgung Sega felt superior to normal iron—solid weight, like it had a steel core. Perfectly balanced.
Sword and book under my arm, I stepped out.
"Not into moonlit workouts."
Especially martial training. Just had nothing better to do. That was reason enough.
Plus, the book wasn't fun, but intriguing. The author? Narcissist supreme, or a fanboy dreaming of Wudang, Huashan, Jeomcheong.
Whatever. A Samjae Geombeop by Sword Emperor or Sword Sage is still Samjae Geombeop.
I flipped to the next chapter. No walls of text—just simple diagrams of moves and explanations.
"Perfect for digestion. Alright! Swing ten times, then sleep."
Hiya!
I mimicked the first move from the illustration.
* * *
On the roof of the 1st Gajujeon.
Namgung Hancheol and Yi Han clinked glasses. They watched the spectacle below as an appetizer—Hancheol impassive as ever, Yi Han exclaiming nonstop.
"What a sight."
Night had deepened. Even in a martial clan, bedtime. But Namgung Sega blazed brighter than day.
Daytime meant duties; no personal time. Yi Han's gaze shifted.
Bundles of sword qi sprouted like spring shoots. There, shirtless men trained in a group.
Now the other way. "Whew, fearsome."
Sword gangs soared in clusters. Squad leaders sparring.
Such scenes unfolded everywhere in the clan.
Hancheol silently refilled his cup. His eyes fixed on one spot.
The clan glowed even at night—but that place was pure dark. The quarters where Namgung Daeso, just starting to regain his warmth today, stayed.
Yi Han soon stared there too, clucking his tongue. "Tsk tsk."
In the shadows, Namgung Daeso shuffled out, dragging his sword—precious as gold to any Namgung—on the ground like a wooden toy.
Yi Han had snuck into the clan countless times, seen hordes of Namgungs. Never one dragging a blade so lazily.
If Hancheol weren't watching quietly, he'd have cursed the kid out.
Moments later, Yi Han asked Hancheol, "You! What the hell did you do to that boy that I don't know about?"
Hancheol drained his cup. "Didn't lay a finger on him."
"Then what the hell is that?!"