Chapter 4

“Hey!”

The bastard was back again.

“They’re practicing sword formations today, so there’s nothing for me to do.”

If he had no training, he could find something else to do. Why did he keep coming to Chungheo Hermitage and getting in the way?

When someone made it this obvious he wasn’t welcome, shouldn’t a normal person take the hint?

Was he innocent or just stupid…?

But as Jinmu watched him, another face came to mind.

A dim but loyal fellow.

A fellow who only grinned even after getting the crap beaten out of him.

Cheon U-myeong…

The only person from Sapacheon he missed.

Somehow, Cheongu reminded him of that fellow.

That clueless, sunny disposition.

The way everyone shunned him.

The utter lack of brains.

“Haaah…”

Jinmu shook his head.

“Martial Uncle, could I train over here, where I won’t get in your way? I’ve got nothing to do even if I go back…”

“Fine. Do that…”

Cheongu had reminded him of Cheon U-myeong, and Jinmu didn’t really mind as long as he stayed out of his way. He sighed and nodded, and Cheongu beamed.

Then he started training straightaway.

“Hah! Hyah! Yah!”

He moved through his forms, letting out every sort of battle cry.

It was the Seven Stars Fist, which Jinmu had long since learned from Myeongjin’s spoken instruction.

A little curious, Jinmu watched Cheongu closely as he concentrated on his training.

He must have practiced quite a bit. His fundamentals were solid.

I thought he was just lazy, but he’s pretty good. Except…

He knew the basic sequence well, but the problem was that he made no allowance for his own build.

Cheongu was fat.

That inevitably made his movements heavy and slow.

Which meant he couldn’t help telegraphing his intentions to his opponent.

Whoever taught him is a complete idiot. If his arms are short, he needs to step in farther than the standard footwork calls for.

What had begun as curiosity was becoming unbearably frustrating to watch.

“Hey!”

“Yes?”

Cheongu turned at Jinmu’s call, blinking his little eyes.

“Why are you putting so many changes into your punches?”

“Pardon?”

He looked bewildered.

“You’re thick. Fat. You can confuse someone by flicking a twig this way and that, but make the same movements with a tree trunk and they’ll barely notice.”

“…”

He just stared blankly. Clearly, he didn’t understand a word.

“What I’m saying is… Haaah, this is driving me mad. Of all the people who could turn up, I get this pig of a bastard.”

Sighing, Jinmu stood in front of Cheongu with his arms folded. He would teach him something and get rid of him quickly.

“Do it.”

“Pardon?”

“Show me the Seven Stars Fist again.”

“Oh! Thank you!”

Suddenly excited, Cheongu began performing the Seven Stars Fist.

Thwack!

“Ow!”

Before his plump fist could begin to change course, Jinmu’s scabbard struck his elbow.

“You idiot. Stop fussing over pointless variations and focus on your target. Keep your punches short and simple.”

“Huh? Yes, sir.”

Thwack, thwack!

Matching the footwork of the Seven Stars Fist, Jinmu began correcting Cheongu’s punches with blows from his scabbard.

“Step in farther! No variations! Come on! What kind of idiot are you? Just aim for the balls here! Jab him in the eyes!”

“Ow! M-Martial Uncle. But isn’t that too underhanded?”

“Shut up! There’s no such thing as underhanded in a fight! Once you’re dead, that’s it! Again!”

Thwack! Thwack-thwack! Thwack!

Only after Cheongu had repeated the Seven Stars Fist some twenty times did the unnecessary movements disappear completely.

He should have understood after trying it once or twice… The fellow really was an idiot.

“That’s enough!”

“Huff, huff… Thank you, Martial Uncle!”

Covered in dark bruises and dripping with sweat, Cheongu bowed his thanks and slumped to the ground.

Still, he had kept moving until told to stop. He seemed to have some grit, at least.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t come back after today.”

“…All right.”

He looked terribly disappointed, but what did Jinmu care? The boy would only get in the way of his becoming head disciple.

“Never come back. Understand?”

“…Yes.”

“If you do, I’ll kill you.”

“…”

When Jinmu glared at him with murder in his eyes, Cheongu pulled his neck in like a turtle. Not that it made much difference to his appearance.

“Th-then I’ll be going, Martial Uncle.”

“Right, go. And don’t ever come back!”

Jinmu shouted after Cheongu once more as the boy ran off in that same rolling gait.

Please, please let him stay away…

“Jinmu.”

Myeongjin had opened the hermitage door and come outside at some point. He called to Jinmu with a pleased expression.

“Oh, Master. I’m sorry. Your meal is late.”

Damn it. After a year of this, even speaking respectfully and preparing his meals had become second nature.

Was it those damned memories?

He kept acting like a real disciple.

“A late meal won’t hurt. But I haven’t seen that child before.”

“No. He’s a bit stupid and slow.”

“Ho ho, I see. Still, you guided him well. Just as you should, indeed.”

Whatever pleased him so much, Myeongjin looked thoroughly satisfied.

“I’ll prepare your meal at once.”

“Very well.”

---

The next morning.

Myeongjin, whose strength had improved considerably, went for a walk to get some exercise. Coming outside to train, Jinmu glanced at the path leading to Chungheo Hermitage, wondering if Cheongu might turn up.

No sign of him.

The boy who always came hadn’t arrived at his usual time.

“Phew, thank goodness. Now I can train in peace.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and was about to draw his sword when—

“You wretch!”

“…”

An angry shout rang sharply across Chungheo Hermitage’s front yard.

There stood the fat boy Cheongu, pale with terror, and a Taoist in his mid-thirties. A mere youngster.

Jinmu searched his memory.

Jinheo, first-generation disciple of Wonhwa Hall.

A martial brother far senior to Jinmu, and one of the Seven of Wudang.

“Oh, Senior Brother.”

“‘Oh’? ‘Senior Brother’?”

At Jinmu’s lukewarm response, Jinheo’s eyes narrowed oddly.

His face was changing color, too. He looked positively furious.

“What brings… you here?”

Myeongjin was one thing, but Jinmu couldn’t stomach speaking respectfully to this young Taoist bastard as well. He trailed off over the polite ending.

“Was this your doing?”

“What might you… mean?”

Jinmu remained unruffled. Jinheo seemed to be doing all the raging by himself.

“I’m asking whether you’re the one who taught Cheongu this rubbish!”

Haaah. This brat was younger than him by decades. Who did he think he was barking at?

Then again, he wasn’t Hyeokryeon Mugang, who was over eighty. He was Jinmu, a full ten years younger even than Jinhye, the youngest of Wudang’s other first-generation disciples.

Fair enough.

“What are you talking about?”

“Cheongu’s Seven Stars Fist!”

“Oh!”

He had made a few adjustments.

That much was true, but—

“You wretch! How dare you teach such cowardly techniques in this sacred sanctuary!”

Jinmu gazed steadily at Jinheo as the man jabbed a finger at him, spittle flying.

Listening to him was getting a little irritating.

“Why? Did you lose?”

“‘Why? Did you lose?’ Just listen to the way you speak, you little bastard!”

“…”

“You taught Cheongu the cowardly tricks of deviant schools, and another child was injured during sparring!”

“Hmm. So he won.”

“Won? You still don’t understand, you wretch! The boy nearly lost the ability to carry on his family line!”

As Jinheo ranted without pausing for breath, Jinmu chuckled and gave Cheongu an approving look.

“What does a Taoist need a family line for?”

“What? How dare you!”

“Good grief, did you swallow a foghorn last night? You’re splitting my ears.”

“Wh-what?”

Jinheo stared at Jinmu in bewilderment.

Now that he thought about it, his junior brother’s manner of speaking was strange.

Jinheo had known Jinmu as an acolyte. He had been a simple, earnest child, devoted to serving Jinheo’s martial uncle, Myeongjin.

What on earth could have happened to change him so much?

And what was that posture? As if lounging with his weight on one leg weren’t enough, he was squinting one eye and picking his ear.

“You…?”

Jinheo was utterly taken aback. Jinmu would put a street hoodlum to shame.

“Look here, Senior Brother.”

“‘L-look here’?”

It was getting more outrageous by the moment.

“As long as his balls didn’t burst, what’s the fuss? He won in the end. Isn’t that what matters?”

“B-balls… Shut your mouth, you wretch! How can a disciple of the Tao utter such vulgarities?”

“You’re awfully loud. What else am I supposed to call balls?”

Jinheo’s face flushed as though it might burst.

“If all you’ve got is pointless nagging, off you go.”

“Wh-what? You little…!”

“For fuck’s sake. What’s with all this ‘you wretch’ bullshit first thing in the morning? It’s pissing me off. We barely even know each other.”

“Hah!”

Jinmu muttered just loudly enough for everyone to hear. Jinheo’s face went from livid to deathly white.

“This is intolerable. Your manner of speaking, that warped character you’ve clearly developed from training alone… As your senior brother in this sect, I shall teach you proper conduct!”

Jinheo pulled his sword free, scabbard and all, radiating a fierce menace. Jinmu narrowed his eyes in irritation.

“Teach me?”

“Indeed, you wretch! I may not be a disciple of Yeongeun Palace, which teaches our precepts, but as your senior brother, I shall set you straight!”

“Set me straight, my ass.”

A sly look entered Jinmu’s eyes as he slowly turned his gaze on Jinheo.

He had yet to exchange blows with anyone else at Wudang.

He figured he was probably better than the first-generation disciples, but still.

“What will you do if you lose?”

“Lose? If I lose?”

Jinheo gave an incredulous laugh.

Jinmu was still young.

He had started out as the acolyte of the bedridden Master Myeongjin, after all.

The sect’s leaders had used the Six Yang Divine Art to build up a considerable amount of internal energy in his body, but Jinheo also knew he was learning martial arts from Myeongjin through spoken instruction alone.

And this Jinmu thought he could defeat him, one of the Seven of Wudang?

Where did that confidence come from?

“Training alone has left you ignorant of how high the heavens are! Step forward! I’ll break that arrogance and teach you a lesson you won’t forget!”

“You’ll regret it…”

Clack!

With a nasty smile, Jinmu drew his sword and held the scabbard in his hand.

The opportunity had come sooner than expected.

The road to becoming head disciple.

Jinheo, a first-generation disciple, was a rival, so to speak.

Wouldn’t defeating him and making a name for himself bring Jinmu one step closer to the position?

He’d been wondering how to pick a fight with someone anyway, and here the man had come to start one himself. What a heaven-sent opportunity.

Jinmu slowly lowered his sword tip toward the ground.

“Come on, then.”

“…”

It just kept getting worse.

“Come on, then”? Where on earth had he learned that loutish way of speaking?

And he ought to have assumed an opening stance. What was that posture supposed to be?

How could anyone tell what sword art he was using like that?

“You insolent little brat!”

“Good grief, are you going to fight with your mouth…? The sun’ll set at this rate. It really will.”

“…”

“Well, if you won’t come to me!”

Thud!

He had simply been standing there.

Yet the instant his foot left the ground, the distance closed, and his downward-pointing sword flashed up from below like lightning.

“Ah!”

Jinheo gasped at the unexpected movement.

Without any graceful changes of course, the blade came straight at him. It seemed faster than any other Wudang sword art.

Th-the Spirit Gate Point!

But there was no time for astonishment. The sword tip was aimed at his Spirit Gate Point.

This could only be Wudang’s Thirteen Spirit Gate Swords.

Jinheo bent at the waist and turned his hand to match, sending his sword through a graceful curve.

Very well. I’ll face you with the same sword art!

That was Jinheo’s decision.

If he showed the insolent brat the difference in their mastery of the same art, perhaps the boy would learn something.

But this was only meant to correct his behavior. He couldn’t injure his junior brother. A strike to the wrist with the flat of the blade…

“Gah!”

Suddenly, Jinmu’s sword, which he’d thought he had hemmed in, plunged straight down.

M-my groin!

Jinheo’s face contorted.

That sudden change of technique threatened to take his precious parts clean off.

He twisted his sword again to knock it aside, only for Jinmu’s blade to surge upward against its own momentum.

“Hup!”

His eyes this time.

You little bastard! Is he doing this on purpose?

Jinmu’s sword tip alternated between Jinheo’s groin, eyes, armpits, and other such places.

Every time Jinheo tried to attack, an unorthodox strike broke his rhythm. It was driving him mad.

Irregular and underhanded though it was, this was unmistakably the Thirteen Spirit Gate Swords.

The sword art consisted of thirteen techniques aimed at the Spirit Gate Point on the wrist, intended to disarm an opponent or render them unable to fight.

A gentleman’s sword art, steeped in Wudang’s spirit of sparing an opponent’s life.

So why did that sword tip keep singling out his eyes and groin like some unorthodox faction scum’s?

With nothing more than a slight change in the direction of its techniques, the Thirteen Spirit Gate Swords transformed perfectly naturally into a vicious, treacherous art of the unorthodox faction.

“You wretch!”

Furious beyond measure, Jinheo was just about to answer with an elaborate sword technique when—