Chapter 3

Three months into his training.

“Good heavens! You’ve already reached Sword Infusion!”

He let a little energy flow into his sword, and Myeongjin’s face filled with something close to shock.

“Extraordinary. Even after years of training, Sword Infusion is no easy thing to grasp… And in just three months…”

And learning through spoken instruction alone, he’d probably left unsaid.

“Is it because of the immortal qi of the Six Yang Divine Art placed in your body? Or are you a genius born once in a thousand years, learning ten things—no, a hundred—for every one you’re taught…? No, that can’t be it.”

Myeongjin shook his head, utterly baffled.

Of course he couldn’t understand.

This might be Jinmu’s body, but inside it was the Lord of Sapacheon, once one of the supreme powers of the martial world. The depth of his understanding was on an entirely different level to begin with.

And now that he’d tried learning Wudang’s martial arts… they were quite fun.

His internal energy grew by the day, his understanding of the techniques deepened, and he all but lost track of time.

Above all, they were far more systematic and stable than the rapidly advancing, perilous martial arts of the unorthodox faction.

He admitted it. Wudang wasn’t renowned for nothing.

But there was far too much unnecessary baggage.

Tch. All this etiquette and formality tacked onto perfectly useful martial arts. Shit-for-brains Taoist bastards.

Time continued to pass after the herb of immortality gave him a new body, and Jinmu, first-generation disciple of Wudang, steadily grew stronger.

“Hah!”

A cold, sharp force shot from the tip of his sword, tearing through the space before him.

He stepped back and slashed vertically. His blade split into five, shredding the air.

Shrrrip!

The sword qi surged out some ten feet, gouging a rough wound in the trunk of a thick tree.

But the energy he released was markedly different from that of any other Wudang disciple.

Though the Six Yang Divine Art produced yang energy, it should have held the flowing grace of immortal qi. What burst from his sword was thrillingly fierce.

“Huff, huff…”

Jinmu’s morning training had become a daily routine.

It reminded him of when he’d first learned martial arts, scraping by as a wandering warrior. So absorbed that he scarcely felt time passing, he had already reached the point where he could wield sword qi at will.

Tch. A whole year already, and yet…

Time certainly flew.

He’d been so intent on training that a year had slipped past.

Jinmu looked down at the sword in his hand, his expression full of displeasure.

Wudang’s martial arts.

They were good.

Except for the empty formalities, they were better than any martial arts he’d learned in his former life.

The problem was internal energy.

He’d walked this road before, and he understood the very heart of the arts he was learning, yet his internal energy showed scarcely any sign of increasing.

Of course, any other member of Wudang would have been aghast to see him wield sword qi so skillfully after only a year of training. But Jinmu wasn’t satisfied.

Damn it. Everything else is fine, but what the hell is this…?

It was painfully, excruciatingly slow.

He wanted to leap several stages at once using the familiar martial arts of the unorthodox faction, but the clash between the internal energies made that difficult, too.

Jinmu sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

At any rate, he’d achieved what he’d initially set out to do.

He hadn’t properly tested himself yet, but he felt he could make short work of Wudang’s first-generation disciples at this level.

Until he reached the pinnacle, he couldn’t undo his current internal cultivation and return to a blank slate anyway.

But if I become the head disciple…

Over the past year, he’d picked up a few things without even trying.

Wudang.

Once foremost among the Nine Great Sects, it had wielded tremendous influence within the Orthodox Martial Alliance.

But fifteen years ago, Hyeokryeon Mugang’s attack had come close to annihilating it.

The entire Hyeon generation—the sect leader and elders of the time—had been killed, along with most of the first-generation disciples.

Those who carried on after them were the remaining first-generation disciples, lured off the mountain by Sapacheon’s scheme. The present Myeong generation.

They were Sect Leader Myeonghyeon and the elders who now presided over the Five Palaces and One Hall.

And Jinmu’s master, Myeongjin, had been the sole survivor among those who stayed, thanks to the benevolence(?) of Hyeokryeon Mugang, who had attacked while the first-generation disciples—the true backbone of Wudang’s strength—were away.

In any case, Wudang had gone into steep decline after that, and now only its direct lineage remained.

Worse, the merchants and lay disciples who had maintained ties with the sect came less and less often. Its finances had deteriorated until it could barely keep itself fed.

The ever-worsening quality of the provisions brought by that rude little bastard from the Cheong generation was proof enough.

Jinmu couldn’t have cared less about any of that.

What mattered was that there was still no head disciple, the sect leader’s direct heir.

None of the first-generation disciples had attained a sufficient level yet.

In any case, becoming the head disciple who would succeed the sect leader meant gaining access to Wudang’s secret teachings.

And among those teachings was—

The Two Principles Mind Art.

That was what Jinmu wanted.

He couldn’t be sure it was true, since he’d only heard it in passing from the fellow who brought the provisions. But that was definitely what the bastard had said.

---

Fifteen days earlier.

“Impressive. Anyone watching would think you were trying to become the head disciple.”

“…?”

“Well, they do say the head disciple gets to train under the sect leader himself.”

Who the hell wants lessons from Wudang’s pathetic excuse for a sect leader?

“I suppose that’s only natural for the designated successor. That’s why all my martial uncles want the position.”

Normally, the bastard just dumped the provisions and left. He must have been bored, given how much he was talking.

But Jinmu had absolutely no desire to become the head disciple. Why should he compete with those first-generation brats to become the next sect leader?

Then.

“Ah, I wish I could become head disciple, too. Then I’d be taught Wudang’s supreme arts, like the Supreme Ultimate Wisdom Sword or the legendary Two Principles Mind Art…”

At that instant, Jinmu’s heart began pounding as if it would burst.

“What did you say!”

“Pardon?”

“The Two Principles Mind Art?”

“…Yes.”

Startled by Jinmu’s reaction, the second-generation disciple watched him warily.

Good heavens. The Two Principles Mind Art?

Wasn’t that the secret of secrets among Wudang’s teachings, the art that let a person cultivate two different martial arts in one body?

He’d heard it had been lost before Jinmu—no, Hyeokryeon Mugang—was even born.

The fact that no Wudang master had appeared who practiced it since then was proof.

But what if it still existed, and Jinmu learned it?

Surely he could cultivate the Black Dragon Primordial Art without it clashing with the immortal qi.

“Are you certain? If I become head disciple! They’ll teach me the Two Principles Mind Art?”

“…Yes. Though everyone knows that.”

Everyone had known except Jinmu. If only he’d bothered to ask sooner.

Meanwhile, the second-generation disciple’s flustered expression gave way to a sneer.

“Martial Uncle Jinmu, you aren’t even a disciple of one of the palaces. You’re from Chungheo Hermitage… Whatever you’re thinking, it won’t happen.”

“What?”

“Every first-generation disciple is competing for the position. Do you honestly think you stand a chance?”

Stupid bastard.

Couldn’t judge a man to save his life.

Competition? So what?

Now that he could see the road, all he had to do was run.

Among martial artists, the strongest was king. He’d knock down every first-generation brat in his path and take the position for himself. Simple as that.

And then.

Heh heh heh. Goodbye to this godforsaken Taoist sanctuary!

---

Jinmu smiled in satisfaction at the memory of that conversation fifteen days ago.

But.

There was still one more problem.

A reason he couldn’t leave Wudang even if he became head disciple and obtained the Two Principles Mind Art.

His master, Myeongjin.

Frankly, it was close to a miracle that he’d survived this long after losing his martial powers.

Jinmu understood all too well just how devotedly this body’s original owner had cared for him. Even now, the instinctive worry was so strong that he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

He wanted to go so far as to steal Wudang’s sacred treasure, the Great Purity Pill, and feed it to him.

But.

He was gradually solving that problem, too.

The solution was none other than better nutrition.

For a little while now, he’d been feeding him actual meat instead of broth.

At first, Myeongjin had stubbornly refused. But after Jinmu pleaded with him in a tearful performance that would put a Peking opera actor to shame, he’d finally started eating it. And sure enough, his strength was returning little by little.

Wicked Taoist bastards.

Sect prohibition or not, how could they feed a sick man nothing but fucking greens?

There really was nothing like meat for restoring strength.

Thanks to that, his worries had eased recently. Not enough to abandon the man and run, but enough to leave him alone for a while.

Of course, he hadn’t told his master about his plan yet.

If his master started asking questions, he’d have no choice but to tell him everything. This outer shell simply wouldn’t let him lie.

Anyway, once Myeongjin recovered, and he became head disciple and learned the Two Principles Mind Art…! Heh heh heh.

While Jinmu stood lost in a pleasant daydream for once—

“Um…”

“Gah! Fuck, you scared me!”

He was so startled he nearly stabbed the newcomer with the blade in his hand.

He’d made the mistake of letting his guard down too much just because he was inside Wudang.

But he’d never seen this one before.

Arms as thick as a man’s thighs, a belly so big the flesh spilled out of his clothes… Practically a pig?

“Hehe. You’re Martial Uncle Jinmu, right?”

I am indeed Jinmu, but who might Your Porkship be?

“I’m Cheongu, a second-generation disciple from Wonhwa Hall.”

Not Cheongpig? What part of you says “feather”?

“I brought the provisions.”

“Provisions?”

Instead of the usual rude bastard, some piglike fellow had turned up.

“Leave them and go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cheongpig—no, Cheongu—bowed politely, smiling until his eyes, already almost hidden by his plump cheeks, curved into crescents.

Well, who cared if one second-generation disciple replaced another?

More to the point, it wasn’t time to start cooking yet, so Jinmu cleared his head and resumed his training.

But.

At the first technique—

“Wow!”

At the second—

“Whoa!”

“…”

This is driving me up the wall.

If this pig’s finished his business, why doesn’t he leave? Why is he sitting there staring at me? He’s wearing me out.

“Aren’t you leaving?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I was disturbing you, Martial Uncle. I’ll be off, then.”

Despite Jinmu’s sharp tone, Cheongu smiled amiably and headed away from Chungheo Hermitage.

Watching him waddle off at a run—

Look at him roll.

He was so fat it made Jinmu tilt his head in puzzlement.

He had to be neglecting his training.

Otherwise, how could anyone get that fat eating nothing but greens and grain abstinence pills?

Well, he had no intention of making friends with the Wudang lot… There was hardly any need to worry about that fellow’s weight.

Jinmu kept at his training.

The next day.

“…”

He came out to train and found a familiar pig of a bastard throwing punches and kicks at the thick tree covered in sword marks. Until yesterday, that had definitely been his territory.

“Oh! Martial Uncle!”

Definitely yesterday’s pig.

“What’s your deal?”

“I’m Cheongu!”

Was the pig clueless, too?

“I mean, why are you training here? If you’re a disciple of Wonhwa Hall, shouldn’t you train at Wonhwa Hall?”

“Hehe. We don’t have training today.”

No, that’s not what I’m… Haaah.

“Are you going to train, Martial Uncle?”

“…”

“Go ahead. I’ll be over there, then. Hehe.”

What a fool. What was so funny that he kept grinning?

Anyway, Jinmu began his training, and every time his sword thrust out—

“Wow! Whoa! Oooh?”

“…”

Damn it. I can’t concentrate.

What the hell is this bastard’s problem?

“Hey!”

“Yes, Martial Uncle!”

“Aren’t you leaving?”

“Couldn’t I stay and watch?”

“No!”

“But I don’t have training.”

Listen, you pig.

With a training schedule that packed, wouldn’t a normal person spend a day off having fun with the others in his generation?

“Won’t they be looking for you at Wonhwa Hall?”

“No.”

“Got no one to play with?”

“Well, everyone seems busy.”

“…”

Ah. Don’t tell me this bastard…

“Hey. Do the others happen to go somewhere else whenever you come near?”

“Huh? How did you know?”

“And they won’t spar with you either?”

“That’s right. I suppose it’s because I’m the worst in our generation.”

“This provision delivery… Did the fellow who used to do it apologize and ask you to swap with him?”

“Yes. He said he’s been a bit busy lately.”

“And do they laugh at you when you make a mistake?”

“I guess I’m good at making people laugh.”

Cheongu smiled brightly and nodded with enthusiasm at Jinmu’s questions.

He’s being ostracized. That’s what this is.

Though he didn’t seem to have the faintest idea himself.

“Phew. Anyway, go. I’m busy.”

“Oh, I see. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Don’t come. Tell them to send someone else. Or I can go get the provisions myself.”

“Yes. Hehe.”

With another sunny smile, Cheongu rolled off and disappeared.