Episode 81. No Openings to Be Seen.
The sword art of Gu Yang-Muguk, compiled by Gi Seong-ja, consisted of eight forms. I could roughly imitate the first four, so I counted them as already learned.
1. Long Sword Form: To release energy.
2. Short Sword Form: To compress energy.
3. Ten Thousand Swords Form: To scatter sword energy like a storm of petals.
4. Draw Sword Form: The essence of drawing the sword while performing the previous three forms.
However, the last four forms of the Muguk Sword Art were beyond me.
5. Thunder Sword Form: The sword energy transforms into thunder and lightning—how the hell was I supposed to do that?
6. Wooden Sword Form: To perform five deadly strikes using a wooden sword. Wouldn’t the thing just snap in half?
7. Energy Sword Form: To perform all strikes without an actual sword. Then why even learn swordsmanship at all?
8. Martial Perfection Form: It said to unleash sword, spirit, and internal energy in an instant. So absurd that even I had nothing to say.
After reading it three times, I cleanly, decisively, and swiftly gave up on the latter half.
I’m the kind of man who quits the moment something doesn’t work.
Gi Seong-ja’s explanations were always too brief—trying to learn by force would only invite four rounds of inner deviation. That senior always wrote too little.
Maybe it was because his level was too high, or perhaps he thought detailed explanations were meaningless.
In my past life, I’d realized something while learning martial arts:
Some techniques are easy to grasp at a glance, while others simply don’t fit one’s way of thinking, temperament, or comprehension. Those are best left alone.
The important thing is—I am not a perfect human being.
As the Golden Nine Roaming Manual said, it’s enough to grow a little stronger each day. Forcing what won’t work only leads to ruin. There are many paths to strength; no need to cling to those last four forms.
This time, I decided to approach martial arts with more flexibility and ease than I did in my Mad Demon days.
“If it doesn’t work, don’t force it.”
I placed the Blacksteel into a rather expensive-looking box, slipped the mysterious ring onto my middle finger, and stepped outside.
Perhaps because I’d read the manual several times, dawn had already broken.
I grabbed a jug of sealed Dukang wine from the kitchen, sat at the outdoor table, and watched the sunrise for a while.
Just like at sunset, the morning sky was strange and beautiful—like Yin and Yang switching shifts, light radiating from the clasp of their joined hands.
Whether dawn or dusk, that mysterious glow always resembled my own name—Ja-ha, “Purple Mist.”
Shaking off my reverie, I turned to the afterword written by Gi Seong-ja at the end of the manual.
“Did Gu Yang-Muguk’s sword art impress you? Even such a man lost to me seven times.”
I took a sip of Dukang and read on as if in conversation with the author.
“Impressive, Master.”
“Then am I the strongest under heaven? No. There are others of my level. All men age and die—what meaning is there in boasting of momentary supremacy? If I never duel those peers again and merely outlive them through careful health, would that make me the best? When that time comes, I too will die. In short, the title ‘strongest under heaven’ is meaningless. If, in my travels, I meet one stronger than I and exchange our knowledge, that would be my joy and fortune. How could victory or defeat bring more happiness than deepening one’s martial understanding? True martial cultivation takes time. Those who rush, like Gu Yang-Muguk, only destroy themselves. The successor must choose—will he walk the demonic path of gaining power swiftly, or the way of the hero who grows stronger day by day? Think carefully. No matter how powerful a martial artist becomes, he can never surpass one whose heart remains righteous and steadfast. Many may disagree with me, but this is my belief.”
“Huh. A mere ‘hero’?”
What a sudden discourse on heroism.
In this age, the very word hero has nearly vanished, yet Gi Seong-ja, a man of the past, spoke of it as though it still mattered.
If anyone else had said this, I’d have ignored it. But this was Gi Seong-ja.
I drank alone and pondered his philosophy.
Why?
Was he saying that heroes are stronger?
The text was too brief to satisfy my curiosity. I happened to glance toward the Phoenix VIP room, where Baek So-ah and Heuk So-ryeong were peeking nervously out. When our eyes met, they froze.
“Trying to run?” I asked.
They hurried toward me and spoke like servants reporting to their master.
“We came to see if the fire was out.”
“We came to check where you were, sir.”
I gestured to the seat across from me. “Sit.”
“Yes.”
As soon as they sat, I asked abruptly, “What do you think of heroes?”
Heuk So-ryeong replied, “I’ve never thought about it. Don’t they not exist anymore?”
Baek So-ah added, “I learned when I was little that heroes are admirable people.”
I scratched my head and pointed to the Dukang wine with my chin. “Have a drink.”
“Yes.”
“There’s something special about drinking while watching the sunrise. You’ve got to drink when you’re down in the dumps to truly taste it.”
After a few drinks with these two, whose names both included “So,” meaning laughter, I gave them a nickname on the spot.
“From now on, I’ll call you two Heuk-Baek-So-So—Black and White, Bright and Laughing. Your job is simple: always smile brightly.”
The two glanced at each other and answered together, “Understood.”
“I’ll meditate until my men arrive…”
I drew the Flash Dagger from my robe, stabbed it into the table, and said solemnly, “If you see an opening, stab me.”
“……”
I appointed Heuk-Baek-So-So as my guards and closed my eyes for meditation. If I’d taken an aphrodisiac, I’d probably be dreaming something lewd, but instead, I found myself being beaten by Gwang Seung again.
Sometimes it happens—you fall asleep and hear your own snoring. A man who hears his own snore in his dreams—that’s me.
Feeling uncomfortable, I opened my eyes, pulled up an empty chair, and propped my legs on it. When I glanced lazily at the two women, they spoke up.
“Rest well, sir.”
“We see no openings.”
I closed my eyes and replied, “That’s me.”
I snored again, this time determined to punch Gwang Seung in my dreams.
“Sir, you should wake up now.”
At the sound of Heuk So-ryeong’s voice, I nodded without opening my eyes.
“Did I meditate too long?”
“Yes.”
“…I mean, it was perfect.”
I wiped the drool from my mouth and looked around. The air was tense—violently so.
To my left stood my Black Cat Clan men, including Sa Shin-jang, all in formation. To the right was another group—uniformed martial artists glaring at us. Judging by their attire and demeanor, they were from Nammyung Society. Among them stood Jo Pal, the inn boy, pointing at me.
“Not that one. That’s the real leader.”
“That guy?”
The man leading the Nammyung warriors fixed his gaze on me.
I yawned and said to Heuk-Baek-So-So, “Move to the left. Those are my men.”
They quickly obeyed, joining Sa Shin-jang’s side. Still half-asleep, I gulped down Dukang wine on an empty stomach—drooling, hair matted, drunk at dawn. A picture of pure disgrace unmatched under heaven.
The Nammyung officer asked, “You’re the leader?”
I gestured lazily across the table. “As you can see. Sit.”
He approached alone and sat opposite me as the two groups faced off.
We locked eyes in silent combat.
I’d trained in this sort of staring contest since my inn-boy days—rarely lost one.
Finally, the man blinked first and said, “I’m Nam Yeon-poong of Nammyung Society.”
Judging by his surname, he was likely kin to their leader. I glanced at my men and introduced myself appropriately. “I’m the head of the Black Cat Clan.”
Nam Yeon-poong furrowed his brow. “Disciple of the Great Nalachal?”
“No. The man who killed him.”
“I see. And Gu Yang-bok?”
“Dead.”
“Did you know he paid tribute to our Nammyung Society?”
“He mentioned it before he died.”
Nam Yeon-poong studied me, then glanced at his men—fewer than mine. It seemed he’d come in haste after hearing from Jo Pal.
“You’re young,” he said. “Do you know our leader’s temperament?”
“And what’s he like?”
Nam Yeon-poong rubbed his forehead, trying to stay calm. “Listen, Black Cat Chief. Come to Nammyung Society and apologize to our leader. That’s the only way to prevent escalation. Go back, ask your men about us, gather your information, and then come to apologize. Otherwise, this becomes war.”
“Apologize?”
He pointed toward the town. “Do you think our leader cares about mere tribute money or the Narak Society? Money isn’t the issue. He wants to know why you killed Gu Yang-bok without reason. The leader’s sword spares no one—demonic, righteous, or otherwise. Settle this before it turns bloody.”
From his words, I gathered Nammyung Society was indeed powerful.
I said, “Tell your leader this: Gu Yang-bok died because he cheated at gambling. Whether he paid you tribute or not doesn’t matter. The money he gave you was stolen through fraud. If you knowingly accepted it, that’s aiding a crime under the Martial Alliance law. If Nammyung helped him, then you’re accomplices in gambling fraud. So asking me to apologize is wrong. Relay that—and add this.”
“What?”
I pointed at Nam Yeon-poong. “I’ll be at the Black Cat Clan. Have your leader invite me properly in his own name. Then I’ll visit and discuss this matter like men. But that foolish talk of apology—that must’ve come from your own thick skull…”
I tapped the Flash Dagger still stuck in the table. “Yeon-poong, do you want to die here?”
“……”
Leaning forward, I said coldly, “Is Nammyung Society strong? Maybe. I don’t care. For reference, Great Nalachal was more arrogant than you before I killed him. Now go tell your leader what I said. Save your useless barking for your underlings. Got it?”
Nam Yeon-poong glared at me, then scanned my men. He was weighing his options, but he wasn’t stupid enough to die here.
He stood, exhaled sharply, and said, “We’ll meet again.”
Since I’m a man who never lets things end cleanly, I kept teasing him to the end.
“Yeon-poong.”
He turned.
“I just spared your life. Go.”
When I grinned, his face turned crimson. He spun around and stormed off, his men following in heavy silence. Jo Pal went with them, of course.
Only then did I call over So Gun-pyung. “Gather those women and all of the Gambling King’s funds, then we’ll head back.”
He nodded. “Understood.”
I motioned for Ilbo, the inn boy, and handed him an empty cup before pouring him some Dukang. “Good work.”
He grinned. “Thank you, sir.”
With disciples and subordinates all watching, I added, “Pack everything up within two hours. We’ll drink properly once we’re back at the Black Cat Clan. We’ve made good money today—let’s celebrate in style.”
I said it to lift morale, but truth be told, all I’d done today was drink and scold Nammyung’s man. Nothing else.
Being a leader is exhausting—and rather pathetic.
Come to think of it, if I were still the Mad Demon I once was, I’d have killed Nam Yeon-poong, his men, and Jo Pal without hesitation.
The fact that I hadn’t… was it because of responsibility for my subordinates?
Or because I was changing, little by little?
I didn’t yet know.