Meeting the Golden Body (3)
I-gwon. Shaolin's once-in-a-generation genius. From the start, no one recognized I-gwon as a genius.
To others, he was just a lagging child. Few words. Slow learner. Clumsy movements. His only merit was diligently doing as told without complaint—but that was something anyone could do. I-gwon's efforts were only a bit more than average.
But as time passed, I-gwon's true value emerged. In any other sect, they might have given up on the underperforming boy. But this was Shaolin. No matter how slow I-gwon learned, they made extra time for supplementary training. Senior brothers and uncles took turns caring for him, ensuring he could fulfill his role as a person and a martial artist.
They filled in his deficiencies one by one, and surprisingly, I-gwon absorbed every lesson perfectly. Only later did they realize why his growth had been so delayed. His vessel wasn't just larger... the vessel itself was different, requiring more time to fill than others.
An unbreakable vessel. From that day on, Shaolin called him thus: Geumgang Jiche (Golden Body).
"Amitabha."
I stared at Pottery No. 100 with bewilderment. He stood with feet together, back straight, knees locked, palms pressed reverently at chest height, head slightly bowed.
I knew what that pose meant, which made it all the more puzzling. He was in prayer position right now.
One might think it's natural against a monk, but the issue was that this stance didn't fit the current situation at all.
"You're taking a combat stance, right?"
"Indeed."
"I... see."
Who was I to nitpick if he said it was? Still...
First, I should get ready too.
Whoosh. I pressed the ground lightly and widened the distance. And in that moment, I puzzled again.
Why did I back off?
Wondering if I'd misjudged, I glanced down. Sure enough, my retreating footprints marked the dirt.
"Not coming? Then I'll go to you."
No. 100 spoke in his signature dry tone. I looked up. He still gazed at me in prayer pose. Utterly relaxed. He could start chanting sutras right now, and I'd believe it. To anyone, it screamed sloppy defense. No way did it look like someone gearing up for a fight.
"Do as you like."
I didn't know why I'd retreated, but maybe instinct. Or maybe I was subtly fatigued from prior spars without realizing.
"Good. But unlike the others, I hope this doesn't end too quickly for you."
This guy was just... way too...
"Your confidence is a bit over the..."
No. 100 pushed off lightly from his prayer stance. I cut off mid-sentence and moved instantly.
Fast!
A league beyond the other potteries in speed! I thrust my wooden sword forward, then slashed down.
Slash!
The wooden sword struck No. 100's shoulder squarely.
A solid thud. Lighter impact than expected.
Then, that dry voice again: "Don't let your guard down."
My eyes widened at No. 100. He'd clearly been hit and frozen—yet he smoothly released his prayer pose. No way that was limp relaxation.
His eyes are alive.
I felt his intent. Hoo, haa. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, pulled back the struck arm, and punched straight at me. A simple straight fist, no feints.
I swiftly withdrew my wooden sword and blocked before his thrusting fist. Crack. "Huh?"
The wooden sword shattered. My mind blanked for a split second.
Wooden swords don't break that easily!
Like my shoes, this sword was made of Heukjukmok (Black Bamboo Wood). No. 100's fist kept coming. Fortunately, not too fast. More questions piled up. I shook off distractions and retreated.
"Good reaction."
Expecting a follow-up, I reset my stance and faced him. No. 100 stood still, back in prayer pose, looking deeply satisfied—as if pleased I hadn't crumbled from that exchange.
"Draw another wooden sword."
He spoke lowly. I was still baffled.
Why? That was a perfect opening!
Had he pressed then, I'd have lost without countering. His movement could've chased my scramble and landed a clean hit.
But he waited... I get it now.
Only then did I realize No. 100 was holding back. Excessively so. To the point it'd offend.
A little irritating.
"Does landing one hit mean you see me as a total pushover?"
I tossed the broken sword and assumed a fist-and-foot stance. For the first time, No. 100's unchanging expression twisted slightly.
"No sword? I'll fetch a spare. Take one."
"No need. I'm good at fist-and-foot too."
"......"
Now his displeasure was obvious to anyone.
Does he hate my fist-and-foot that much? Or thinks it's too weak to bother? It's not that bad.
Oddly irked, I kicked off first toward No. 100.
That strike from before.
Not especially fast or slow, but packed raw power. Even as I closed in, he held prayer pose unmoving.
So damn cocky.
Let's see how long that lasts. I shifted motion. My straight charge wobbled like a drunkard. Not mastered yet—I usually held back—but intel said No. 100 wasn't that fast. Hard to track this erratic path.
Chupal Seonbo (Drunken Eight Immortals Step). And pair it with the perfect match: Chukwon (Drunken Fist).
Beggars' Sect art fused with Shaolin technique. I stretched my body loose, shedding ingrained constraints. Force out fixed forms. Ignore etched stances. Half-unconscious state—not perfect, but close. The other half senses only external stimuli.
"Hic~!"
No booze, but I staggered like hammered.
"The world's spinning~"
My body truly teetered on collapse. I scrawled a "之" path to his front and punched.
But a feint.
If he bit, I'd unleash the real attack.
"Hic~?"
Yet No. 100 didn't twitch. Still praying, stock-still.
Even better.
I retracted the wobbling punch and extended a kick. At his shin. This one real.
Let's see you dodge this!
Thud!
My kick hit his steadfastly praying shin. I kept staggering—Drunken Step's nature. But my face twisted grimly unlike before. Not from the step, but toe-searing pain.
Zing! My toes throbbed like detaching. Maybe broken? Couldn't plant my foot.
I gaped at No. 100. "You... human?"
Kicking his shin felt like metal. Full power? My foot would've shattered. Lifelong cripple.
No. 100 eyed me. "That's why I said take a sword..." Disappointed gaze.
Pat. He closed distance. "Amitabha. Let's end it."
Finally releasing prayer, he thrust that straight fist. I planted my foot. Zing! Numbing pain shot up, less than before.
Bearable.
Dodging his attack like this? Impossible. Foot injured. No sword. Fists left.
Can I deflect?
Success meant countering his open chest. Fail? I eat it.
Time dwindling.
Can't deflect that.
Instinct's verdict. Earlier, its simplicity fooled me—but beyond slowness, no flaws. This speed? Deliberate. He wanted prolonged spar somehow.
My eyes gleamed. If you're strong, prove it!
Hard vs. hard? I won't lose.
Earlier carelessness. Didn't expect such hardness. Probably honed external arts like Iron Body Skill.
Thud. I stomped, foot sinking deep prints. One of few fully mastered hard techniques.
My stance now oddly mirrored his prior prayer pose.
Go!
Danjeon qi roiled at rippling mind. Body brimmed full. I punched. Baekbo Singwon (Hundred-Step Divine Fist).
"Hah..."
Jinheo, peering down, looked stunned. "Amitabha. It's normal."
Ilseon Dosa approached, chuckling at his reaction. "Everyone new to the youngest young master freaks out. This time it's as expected. Natural, really?"
This is natural?
How could he say it so calmly? Jinheo eyed another absolute here. Mujikja chatted casually with Namgung Je-cheon as usual.
"Rookie! I win the bet. One high-grade spirit pill from the elixir vault—bring it when you return to the clan."
"Argh! Not fair! Youngest young master! For real!"
No tension from them. Others mirrored shock: wide eyes, gasps or curses gazing down.
Mukhu's voice from behind: "Baekbo Singwon... Master uncle, does this make sense?"
Jingak followed: "Incredible. Not even Shaolin, yet so perfect."
That's not it.
Jinheo saw what they missed.
Not broken.
He looked again. Namgung Daeso clutched his arm, howling in mock death agony from clashing with I-gwon's fist.
Gotta hurt.
Full-power Baekbo Singwon against a body harder than stone. I-gwon urged him to stay still, flustered. Each time, Daeso thrashed: "You iron-headed bastard!"
I-gwon wilted slightly but cautiously reached out undeterred. To Jinheo, I-gwon clearly took to Daeso. First time someone smashed full-force without shattering, probably.
I-gwon stepped closer. "Hey! Don't touch! Touch and die! Back off!"
Jinheo called down: "Escort Namgung Sega's youngest young master to the medical hall."
Several disciples hurried below. A strange anticipation lit Jinheo's eyes.
Perhaps... Shaolin can give that child no more, but Namgung Daeso might fill the gap.