Episode 13. The Smell Was Hard to Bear
The Golden-Turtle Roaming Art I’m training—Geumgu Soyo-gong—was created by a master named Giseongja. Strange as it sounds, it started from a method for training gamecocks.
Giseongja himself was a formidable master, but he was not the sort to swagger across the martial world to show off. Like many Daoist sages, he didn’t cultivate martial skill to hurt others but to chase longevity; his method reflected that. Even the old kings of the Zhou court wouldn’t have cowed him. Yet very few ever mastered the full Geumgu Soyo-gong—true completion is rare because its aim is literal immortality.
To put it bluntly from a swordsman’s view: it’s the state of “swords can’t harm you”. A turtle that cannot be pierced by blades walks the world as it pleases—that’s the idea behind the art.
The system has five stages:
- Wooden Rooster (Mokgye)
- Flame Rooster (Yeomgye)
- Fighting Rooster (Tugye)
- Transcendent Rooster (Chogye)
- Golden Turtle (Geumgu)
Each stage hides a secret technique, with both forms for weapons and unarmed methods. My memory wasn’t wiped clean—what I lost was irrelevant—so I concentrated on the inner-energy stages of the art.
I remember puzzling over the rooster theme at first. Why would an enlightened chicken transcend into a steel turtle? Apparently Giseongja loved breeding fighting cocks and saw no essential difference between scoundrels of the jianghu and gamecocks—both were feral, both fought for survival. I suppose I agree: whether it’s a mad monkey or a fighting rooster, the methods can be similar.
The Wooden Rooster stage focuses on perfect stillness of mind—unmoving heart. I used that principle to purge the demons that had clung to me. At Flame Rooster and above, your inner energy heats your limbs and weapons; the style depends on extreme yang energy.
When I broke Flame, the rumors started. By Fighting Rooster I had a reputation; I’d earned the name “master.” To be precise, I’d surpassed Transcendent Rooster in my past life, though I never truly conquered the Golden Turtle—then I came back to the past and started again.
Chogye—Transcendent—is where breath flows freely, where you don’t fight by rule but bend the rules themselves. It’s freedom in combat. I had chased the final stage my whole life, but the Golden Turtle is stubborn: the body not pierced by blade is a monument to how grueling the last steps are.
This time felt different.
It was only a hunch, but a very good one. After doing a dozen repeats of the basic circulation in the small room, my Wooden Rooster level spiked. If I had time, I could have broken into Flame quickly—my progress felt lightning-fast.
I buried myself in the little room, repeating the circuit without mercy. When I finally opened my eyes it was dawn. Jahakwan slept in a hush. As vital energy moved through my channels, my senses sharpened: I checked for footsteps, breaths, anything out of place, then slid into a light nap.
There were still enemies in the area, so I had no illusions of comfortable sleep. In that half-sleep, memories of the greats from my previous life drifted by—figures who’d acted long before I became strong. I smiled inwardly. Those who once favored me would be helped; my enemies would be crushed. To do both meant living the monk’s life for a time: skipping meals, holding off nature’s calls, sitting until your body complained.
Strength is born out of patient endurance—strange as the metaphor reads, it’s true. Inner power blooms after days of sitting and bearing the discomfort. That’s how it builds.
At noon I woke hungry. Cha Seong-tae had cleaned up last night’s mess, and the food stall I favored—Chunyang’s—lured me with the thought of a bowl of soup and rice.
I even found Cha’s purse tucked inside his outer robe—heavy enough to be his own, not mine. Lucky.
I washed, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and walked the streets. Despite the deaths of Jo Ilseom and Jo I-gyul the night before, Ilyang-hyeon appeared unchanged—quiet and ordinary. But the rumor that I had been the hand behind it had spread; every face that met mine widened with that ghostly surprise reserved for those who glimpse a specter.
At Chunyang, the owner Jang Deoksu yelped when he saw me.
“You—back so soon?”
“Deoksu. One bowl of soup and rice.”
He set down a massive bowl: slices of lean meat, strips of vegetables, a spicy seasoning—what they called Chunyang gukbap. Not something you find outside the Baiyue lands; they mix their noodles and rice into a hearty pot. The first spoon warmed something in my chest. I almost cried.
“Spicy today—got sweat in my eyes,” I said.
“You like it? I overdid the spice?”
“Perfect.”
While I ate, Deoksu whispered the news:
“You really killed Jo?”
“I did.”
He bubbled with disbelief. “How? Jo Ilseom was the strongest around here.”
“He walked around with a blade and died like a weak man. That’s all.”
We laughed. “What about Jo I-gyul?” he asked.
“He came to kill me—ordered his men to dig graves. He went into the grave himself.”
“Serves him right. I’ll tell Jo Sam-pyeong when he returns. I’ll warn the other shopkeepers too—this town shouldn’t have traffickers. Good riddance. Want more rice?”
“No.”
I took some money from Cha’s purse and set it on the counter. Deoksu blinked.
“You always ate for free.”
“Since your noodles were awful, I owe you. Cash this time.”
“You’ve changed, truly.”
I strolled the neighborhood after finishing—checking faces, making sure nothing strange brewed. People were relieved at the Jo brothers’ deaths; they feared the new branch the Jo family would have formed, draining them dry. That, Deoksu confirmed, so I returned to the little room and sank into training.
Staying in a shabby inn might sound foolish when a mountain hermitage beckoned, but the inn was safer—less conspicuous, fewer variables.
Days passed. I trained, napped, and when hunger hit I went to Chunyang. The days were simple: cultivate, eat, relieve myself. Becoming a master is a grind; a sane person would doubt their sanity in such a life.
When my body cramped from too much sitting, I walked the lanes. I kept my emotions like a wooden rooster—deadened and still—focusing only on the practice. The inner energy stacked up quickly. Compared to my past life the speed felt chaotic. After about twenty days holed up in the room, the light naps and relentless repetition broke me cleanly into Flame Rooster.
A miracle speed—but remember, I had trained hard before. The gains came fast now. By the time I reached Flame, the little room reeked like a pigsty. The body’s waste from the breakthroughs had piled up; the smell was hellish.
Yet that rancid stench felt like a deserved reward. It meant my body had been purified. With each stage the body clarified like fresh water; soon I wouldn’t have to endure such stench again. My skin glowed, hair grew softer, my eyes sharpened—my senses rose alongside my energy.
I clenched a fist and fed it with energy; a thrill ran down my spine. I’d grown far faster than expected. Geumgu Soyo-gong used to strike me as only useful to cure obsession, but now I thought, I might grow far stronger than before. A jianghu man’s joy is progress, and nothing equals it.
Lost in that strange, foolish worry—what if I become an immortal?—a sound from outside snapped me back.
“Ugh! What’s that smell? It reeks of rot!”
I stepped out. Cha Seong-tae stood at the doorway, white-faced, about to faint.
“You shit yourself?” he blurted, hand at his mouth, then dashed outside heaving.
He gagged, retched, and threw up on the ground.
A deep murderous urge—cold and bright—rose in me. I pushed it down and walked out into the courtyard.