My Plan Is Like This (1)
I'd pulled an all-nighter. Not the kind where you stumble out into the city, down a ton of booze, roll around with some courtesans, and watch the sunrise with a smug grin on your face...
No, I'd just stepped out to bask in the moonlight and swing my sword a few times, but when I opened my eyes, the sun was already up.
"What the...?"
My first thought was pure bewilderment.
"Me?"
Self-denial hit right after.
"I trained all night?"
A stronger denial followed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
But before any of that, what was truly astonishing was... my trembling hands and legs. The lingering echo in my heart that wouldn't fade. If my stamina had held out, I could've kept going.
"This is insane."
It was enough to drive me mad, jumping up and down.
For the next ten years in the Namgung Sega, I'd decided not to learn martial arts. All for my own sake! In this place crawling with monsters, wasn't my brilliant dream to live decently, long and thin, in skinny happiness?
Not getting a hole punched through my gut and kicked out!
But deep down in one corner of my heart...
Fuck. This feels amazing.
The first thoughts that hit when you open your eyes to a lucid mind in life. Most kids born to Murim clans would think the same.
I want to become a Murim warrior.
And if I'm going to be one anyway?
A strong Murim warrior.
Plus, if you're surrounded by strong Murim warriors tripping over themselves everywhere, that dream swells even bigger.
It's no wonder there's a saying like "Mencius's mother moved three times for his education." Mencius's mom relocated three times because of the environment.
Your perspective changes completely.
If you're in a beggars' den, that's all you see. In a marketplace, nothing but merchants and shoppers.
Humans aren't birds. We're not horses that can cover a thousand ri in a day with fast legs. Our places are limited, so we naturally live influenced by our surroundings.
In that sense, the Namgung Sega is the best environment for any aspiring Murim warrior. And kids raised in the Namgung Sega grow up watching none other than the Tianxia First Person.
They think, if they're going to be strong Murim warriors, why not insanely strong ones...?
Before regression, I was the same. You couldn't call that heart small. I'd pushed without a single day's rest for twenty whole years. Until my dantian shattered.
Yeah.
If it were the old me, I might've chased that pipe dream right now. The Cheonmu Jiche, dismissed as third-rate Samjae Geombeop—yet I trained through the night with that focus. And this inexplicable clarity on top.
It was all thanks to the Cheonmu Jiche, sure. But the fact that I'd swung the Samjae Geombeop all night? Undeniable. My shaking arms and legs were proof.
Gurgle.
...This damn stomach always times its bullshit for the worst moments.
Tch.
Fortunately, the head maid was up—rice cooking smells wafted from the kitchen. The other maid sisters were still asleep, it seemed.
"Young master. Time to wash up and come out."
The head maid called as she passed, noticing I'd stopped training.
"Yeah. Hey, granny."
"Yes."
"Did I really swing my sword all night?"
I had a hunch, but no certainty.
"I saw you slashing at empty air when I came out. All night?"
"Ah, no. I'll wash up. What's for breakfast today?"
I brushed it off and changed the subject. Continuing would've been... too embarrassing.
"Chicken."
And the thought that hit me:
The main house really is the best.
Back in the nursery, it was just grass and weeds.
* * *
As the sun fully lit the world, two men still sat on the roof.
"Does that kid know?"
Yi Han asked. Namgung Hancheol downed the last of the liquor and descended from the roof.
"The booze is gone."
With that nonsense. Yi Han bellowed after him.
"Doesn't he? Huh? Hey?!"
No reply came.
"He's gone. Damn."
Yi Han gazed mournfully at the empty cup and climbed down. Before that, though—a glance.
At Namgung Daeso, shirtless, heading to the well.
Jing (精). The tiny miracle that ten-year-old boy had forged yesterday. Fragile as a single grain of rice, liable to crumble anytime—but it was made.
And the wound that should've kept him bedridden for three months? Now it looked like it'd heal fully in about seven days.
"That's... the Cheonmu Jiche?"
* * *
After breakfast, around lunchtime, Singui himself came by.
He poked and prodded my body every which way, declared I'd be fully healed if I rested without overdoing it for seven days, and left.
The maid sisters let out relieved sighs—it was our little secret—and the head maid smiled kindly from the side.
I smiled back at them.
Damn...
My insides were burning, though.
-An injury that should've needed three months of recovery for the qi and blood to settle properly. Great recovery power. Youth really is a blessing, huh?
There was one snag with the "recovery power" bit, though.
The Samjae Geombeop. And that clarity.
Goddamn it! Moonlit gymnastics really don't suit me.
In the afternoon, I left my quarters and strolled the Namgung Sega.
Countless warriors bustled about their duties. I seemed to be the only one with time to spare.
Feeling like a slacker, I nearly hung my head in shame—but I'd already regressed, and with my departure looming, no need to watch my step.
Singui himself prescribed seven days' rest, so I was free from the Sega's schedule.
I could've lounged in my room, but I had business outside.
First, I need to grasp how the Sega's running.
With Plan A failed, time for Plan B.
Who'd have thought it'd snag right from the first button...
Totally unexpected.
No way was I barging into the inner court's core, where the central pillars gathered. Meeting my brothers already? Hard pass.
I couldn't even imagine how they'd react.
Fundamental curiosity about martial arts. Aspiration and drive for improvement. My brothers were pure martial dictators, fused from those three.
In Murim, they're called eccentrics and revered. To me? Just super-strong wildcards who could bolt anywhere.
So I headed not to the inner court, but the outer.
The outer court's resident armed force was just one: the Jeokhyeol Dan.
There were five other forces besides, but only Jeokhyeol Dan stayed put. Inner court had three total.
Eight armed forces in the Namgung Sega.
Unlike other sects, the Sega's structured by these forces. Father's disdain for complexity shone through, but it was the ideal system born from Namgung's unique culture.
The strong rule. The stronger one's word is absolute law.
This held across the Namgung—and Murim at large.
The Nine Great Sects, One Gang, Five Great Families. Simple, clear lineup of the strong.
The inner and outer courts' eight forces answered to the Elder Council—eight elders.
Unique bit: Force leaders got emergency autonomy. If they judged prior orders impossible, they could assume elder authority.
Elders or leaders—same peak inaction. Time turns leaders into elders. Like rehearsal.
The Elder Council answered to the Grand Elder.
Grand Elder to the Patriarch.
Officially, an Elder Assembly topped the Patriarch—but it was a paper tiger.
Plus public institutions: the medical hall and training hall.
My destination: the outer court's training hall.
The place I'd haunt daily in seven days.
Haa...
If I lined up the humiliations I'd suffered there before, it'd stretch from one end of the capital to the other.
Painful memories surfaced already.
But no better spot to untangle this mess.
There it was.
I crouched low, pressed against the training hall wall. Peeked inside with just my face.
Secret recon today. No way I'd blow my seven days' freedom getting spotted by trainees.
The interior was empty.
Lunchtime?
"No way. Training's supposed to be free-form, right?"
Namgung Sega training had no fixed method. No clue about other sects, but here? One way: year-end evaluation.
Train however you want. Evaluation decides your future.
Heard there used to be systematic training long ago. Gone now.
No need to force it—they did it themselves.
Competition breeds struggle, struggle breeds competition. Endless virtuous cycle.
All from trainees' tireless efforts.
A world judged purely on skill.
Win, rise. Lose, fall.
All martial arts open. Pick what suits you.
But not without conditions. Each had grades; prove worth by winning up from the bottom.
Win more, grow stronger inevitably.
Deny the system? Fall behind, culled, rejected.
"Money, connections, excuses? Worthless when everything overflows in Namgung Sega."
Some predicted it'd stagnate and rot someday. But even as I peeked, it flowed relentlessly.
All thanks to that martial god, Namgung Hancheol.
Thus born: this nest of martial-mad monsters.
But then.
"Damn! Where'd they go?"
Rustling voices from behind. I ducked behind the building.
"See 'em?"
"Yeah."
"Incredible, right?"
"Incredible? That was peak. That flashy footwork. Sword lights dancing in the air. Poised dignity. Cool breeze tousling the hair right on cue. Cheonggung Geomdan seniors' swordsmanship has reached the realm of art."
Ah... field trip, huh.
Trainees visited desired forces for martial arts observation. Must be that day.
"Hey, you hear about the youngest young master?"
"Yeah, but apparently he's joining the training hall with us."
"I heard about him too... Rumor is, on welcome day, the Patriarch took him personally."
"Me too!"
"Same!"
"Ditto!"
"But is that rumor true?"
"What rumor?"
"About his aptitude. Strength: bottom. Agility: bottom. Internal energy: lowest."
"We won't know till we see. You never heard the legend? 30 days, 60, 90. The 369."
"Heard it. That's all direct-line young masters, right?!"
"Exactly! Rumors are just rumors."
369—a training hall legend. I shrank deeper into hiding.
How much hell that rumor caused me before...
Haa...
369's full name: 30, 60, 90 days.
How long my brothers took to pass the hall.
All Namgung disciples—direct, branch, outsiders—must pass the training hall.
Pass to become official Namgung disciples.
They weren't official yet. Neither was I, though direct-line.
Still had to pass like any Namgung.
Basic test: year-end evaluation.
Or skip it via Musik Bimu—breathless sparring. (Really just "idiot sparring.")
One person spars all trainees under winner-stays-on. Win all? Done.
Proves you're the strongest, no need to stay.
First brother: 30 days. Second: 60. Third: 90.
They pulled off the insane feat.
Sounds easy? Near impossible.
Not just a hall—trainees were prodigies, geniuses flying high outside.
"Yo, I passed out horse stance last night."
"Sloppy bastard. I only swung my sword a hundred thousand times yesterday."
"Fuckers. How you gonna catch Cheonggung Geomdan seniors? I did horse stance plus a hundred thousand downward strikes."
"Pipsqueak. 'Only'? I did that with iron shackles on arms and legs."
My all-night Samjae Geombeop? Breathing to them.
These martial idiots.
Brains stuffed solely with martial arts. Total know-nothings.