Chapter 9: The Evaluation (2)

The two students faced each other, their swords drawn.

The other students watched with anticipation, their eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Who do you think will win?”

“Sagon, obviously. He’s the master of the Shinmu Sword Technique.”

“He’s far more skilled than Namgung Yun-ho, especially when it comes to the Shinmu Sword Technique.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Here we go.”

A gust of wind swept across the training ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Namgung Yun-ho stood tall amidst the swirling dust, his posture straight and his gaze steady.

He had straightened his hunched shoulders, and his long hair flowed freely in the wind.

He looked like a warrior from an ancient painting, a relic of a bygone era.

His uniform was worn and faded, and his sword was dull and dusty.

Sagon, on the other hand, was a picture of confidence.

He drew his sword with a flourish, the ornate scabbard and the intricate tassels on the hilt glinting in the sunlight.

The contrast between the two students was stark.

A drum began to beat, its rhythmic thuds echoing across the training ground.

It was the signal for the match to begin.

“Face each other,” Yeom-gwang announced, standing between the two students.

“No killing.”

“Only the Shinmu Sword Technique is allowed. No other techniques or styles.”

“Good luck.”

The drumbeat intensified, and Yeom-gwang stepped back.

Sagon tossed his scabbard aside and lunged forward.

“Let’s end this quickly.”

***

‘Here he comes.’

As Sagon moved, Namgung Yun-ho recalled his instructor’s words.

‘Focus on the technique.’

Don’t try to anticipate your opponent’s moves. Focus on the technique in front of you.

That was Cho Un-hwi’s only instruction.

But…

‘I can see it.’

The whirlwind of sword strikes that had always plagued his vision had vanished.

He could see Sagon’s movements clearly, as if they were happening in slow motion.

‘I can read him like a book.’

Sagon’s sword tip flickered three times.

‘The third form of the Shinmu Sword Technique.’

Wind Splitting Cross?

The technique that had once seemed so complex and overwhelming now appeared simple and predictable.

His body moved instinctively.

Clang!

He parried the attack effortlessly, the impact vibrating through his arm.

A smile spread across his face.

‘This is what it feels like…’

To clash swords with another person.

It was exhilarating.

He had spent so long training alone, striking at the wind, that he had forgotten the thrill of combat.

“What?!”

He could sense Sagon’s surprise.

‘Should I counterattack?’

He instinctively moved to pursue his opponent, who was stumbling backward.

But he stopped himself.

‘No.’

It would be over too quickly.

He didn’t want this match to end so soon.

He wanted to savor the moment, to feel the clash of steel, to unleash his pent-up frustration.

He hesitated, surprised by his newfound confidence.

‘I never thought I’d feel this way.’

The world his instructor had shown him was so different.

Instead of a chaotic mess of sword strikes and unpredictable movements, he saw clarity and order.

All he saw was…

A faint afterimage of Sagon’s sword, a ghostly trail of energy that lingered in the air.

‘Was it always this simple?’

After witnessing his grandfather’s sword dance, he had become trapped in a world of endless possibilities, overwhelmed by the sheer number of potential moves.

But…

‘Do you understand now?’

After witnessing his instructor’s swordsmanship, he realized that anticipation was meaningless.

‘Don’t get too caught up in predicting your opponent’s moves.’

‘The difference between life and death is a single step.’

‘Even if you lose the battle of anticipation, you can still win the fight if you’re willing to die.’

He raised his sword, his gaze fixed on his opponent.

“Haaa!”

Sagon attacked again, this time with the One Strike Severance technique, aiming for his shoulder.

‘His movements are sloppy.’

His instructor’s swordsmanship was…

More.

‘Faster, more fluid, more powerful.’

Clang!

He reversed his grip and swung his sword upward, deflecting the attack with ease.

Sagon stumbled backward, crying out in pain.

“Like this…”

He tried to imitate his instructor’s movements.

Swish!

His sword flashed through the air, stopping a hair’s breadth from Sagon’s chest.

He had stopped the attack before it could fully develop.

“No, that’s not it.”

It was more than that.

Faster, like lightning.

More powerful, like a storm.

Clang! Clang!

He unleashed a flurry of attacks, driving Sagon back with a relentless barrage of sword strikes.

“Agh!”

Sagon tried to counterattack, aiming for his side.

Namgung Yun-ho dodged effortlessly and returned the favor.

Clang! Clang!

His sword tip darted and weaved like a serpent’s head, forcing Sagon to backpedal frantically.

“What is this?!”

Namgung Yun-ho sheathed his sword, a chilling smile spreading across his face.

‘This is fun.’

***

“H-how is this possible…?”

Yeom-gwang couldn’t believe his eyes.

The match was a complete massacre.

Namgung Yun-ho moved like a phantom, his movements swift and unpredictable.

He would close the distance in an instant, unleashing a flurry of attacks before retreating just as quickly.

Two steps.

That’s all it took him to attack and retreat, covering a distance of ten feet with ease.

Clang! Clang!

He was a whirlwind of motion, his attacks swift and decisive, his retreats smooth and silent.

“Agh! Namgung Yun-ho!”

Sagon cried out in frustration.

The match could have ended several times already.

But Namgung Yun-ho refused to give him a clean victory.

He countered every attack with the same technique, matching Sagon’s One Strike Return with One Strike Return, his Clear Wind Moon Slash with Clear Wind Moon Slash.

But there was a difference.

Speed and precision.

Swish!

Sagon’s sword was a finely honed blade, but Namgung Yun-ho’s sword seemed to be alive, writhing and twisting like a mythical dragon.

Clang! Clang!

‘He’s using a standard-issue iron sword…’

Sagon’s sword, a prized possession that had cost a fortune, was starting to chip and crack under the relentless assault.

What kind of sorcery was this?

“That’s the Ghost of Dongcheon Hall?”

“With those skills?”

“Who was the idiot who said he had no talent?”

“They must have been blind!”

Yeom-gwang’s face flushed as he overheard the instructors’ whispers.

‘Damn it! Damn it all!’

He gritted his teeth so hard that he tasted blood.

‘That bastard!’

He glared at Cho Un-hwi, who was watching the match with a smug smile.

“Well, that’s that.”

As Cho Un-hwi spoke, Sagon’s sword snapped in half, and he collapsed to the ground in defeat.

“Namgung Yun-ho wins!”

The Ghost of Dongcheon Hall had defeated Dongcheon Hall’s rising star.

The verdict was clear.

***

Namgung Yun-ho stared at his trembling hands.

They were still shaking from the adrenaline rush of the match.

‘I won.’

He had won his first sparring match in… he couldn’t even remember how long.

Someone patted him on the back.

He turned to see his instructor, his long fringe swaying as he grinned.

“How does it feel to win?”

“I… I don’t know.”

He was still in shock, his mind reeling from the experience.

“Enjoy the feeling while it lasts. You won’t have much time to savor it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be winning a lot from now on.”

His words were absurd.

How could he say that to someone who had spent years losing and running away in shame?

But the instructor seemed completely serious, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

“Don’t you think so?”

Namgung Yun-ho felt a strange sensation in his chest as he looked at the instructor’s confident smile.

It was a warm, tingling feeling that spread through his body, reaching all the way to his fingertips.

“Ugh…”

He dropped to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground.

“Uwaaaaaaaaah!”

He let out a primal scream, tears streaming down his face.

He had been forgotten for so long.

He had become a ghost, a colorless shadow of his former self.

But now…

“Hey, what’s with the waterworks? You’re a man, aren’t you?”

The instructor’s voice was teasing, but there was a hint of concern in his tone.

Namgung Yun-ho buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with sobs.

He had been holding it all in for so long, the years of frustration, resentment, and despair.

“Uwaaaaaaaaah!”

He cried and cried, until there were no more tears left to shed.

***

Cho Un-hwi watched Namgung Yun-ho’s emotional breakdown with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.

‘He’s been bottling it all up for far too long.’

It was understandable.

He had been ridiculed, belittled, and ignored for years, all because he wasn’t as talented as his younger brother.

‘Well, he’s going to be fine now.’

As he watched the Ghost of Dongcheon Hall slowly regain his color, he felt a surge of anger.

‘Ah, right. I almost forgot about him.’

Yeom-gwang was standing nearby, his face contorted with rage.

“Instructor Cho.”

“Yes, Chief Instructor.”

“A word in private.”

“Sure.”

Time to deal with the adult.

Cho Un-hwi whistled cheerfully as he followed Yeom-gwang.

***

Yeom-gwang led him to the equipment room.

It was a dusty, cluttered space where they stored broken training dummies and other discarded items.

It was dark and secluded, perfect for a private conversation.

He slammed the door shut and propped his hands on his hips.

“Who do you think you are?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you stupid, or are you just pretending to be?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Yeom-gwang pulled out a pouch of tobacco and struck a flint against steel.

“You’re quite confident in your skills, aren’t you?”

He lit his pipe and exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Yes, it’s easy to feel invincible when you’re a first-rate master at your age. You feel like you can do anything.”

A first-rate master at twenty-five.

It was an impressive achievement, one that put him on par with the most talented disciples from the major sects.

Yeom-gwang clearly resented his talent.

“But skill isn’t everything. There are rules to follow in this world.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Yeom-gwang frowned.

“Listen, you little…”

He took a deep breath and calmed himself.

“Hand over Namgung Yun-ho.”

“He’s not an object.”

Yeom-gwang exhaled another plume of smoke.

“I admit, he’s improved. I was too busy to notice his potential before. Good job.”

“I’m not looking for your praise. It’s my job to train the students, isn’t it?”

Yeom-gwang’s eye twitched.

“You little punk.”

“Are you insulting me?”

“Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it? I’ve disliked you from the moment you arrived. You’re an attention-seeking, manipulative little…”

He spat on the ground and cracked his knuckles.

“You’re always causing trouble, flirting with Instructor Yeo… but you know what? This is perfect.”

“I heard that violence against another instructor is grounds for immediate expulsion.”

“Heh heh, why do you think I brought you here?”

He gestured at the dark, secluded room, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

“A good beating will teach you a lesson. You’ll learn how to behave yourself.”

He cracked his knuckles again.

Cho Un-hwi chuckled.

“Yeom-gwang.”

“What?”

“Do you have a death wish?”

Crack! Thud!

He grabbed Yeom-gwang’s arm and twisted it behind his back.

“You’re aiming too high.”

He kicked the back of Yeom-gwang’s knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Agh!”

“Shh. Quiet now.”

He pressed his fingers against Yeom-gwang’s neck, silencing him instantly.

He had struck a pressure point, sealing his opponent’s voice.

Yeom-gwang struggled to speak, his face contorted with pain.

“Now we can have a proper conversation.”

“Gah… gah…”

“Now that we’re on the same level, let’s talk.”

Crack!

He twisted Yeom-gwang’s arm further, eliciting a scream of pain.

Cho Un-hwi looked down at him coldly.

“Stay out of my business.”

“Gah… gah…”

“I’m more worried about you. You call yourself a martial artist? With that beer belly? You can barely move.”

He slapped Yeom-gwang across the face, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

“You know, this is a nice place. No one can hear you scream. We should hang out here more often.”

He tightened his grip on Yeom-gwang’s arm.

Crack! Crack!

Yeom-gwang’s shoulder popped, sending a wave of agony through his body.

It wasn’t just the pain in his arm.

He was a martial artist he should have been able to break free from a simple hold.

But for some reason, he couldn’t muster any strength.

And the worst part was…

‘Those eyes! Those cold, emotionless eyes!’

He had been retired from active duty for over a decade. He couldn’t handle this kind of pressure.

Tears streamed down his face, a mixture of pain and terror.

Cho Un-hwi finally released his grip when Yeom-gwang’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Thud!

“Gasp… gasp…”

“Listen carefully, Yeom-gwang.”

Crunch!

“Uwaaaaaah!”

Cho Un-hwi stomped on Yeom-gwang’s hand, crushing his fingers.

Yeom-gwang curled up in a ball, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Cho Un-hwi grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, slapping him across the face again and again.

Smack! Smack!

Blood streamed from Yeom-gwang’s nose, his eyes glazed over in shock.

“Keep pushing your luck, and see what happens.”

“N-no… I…”

“We’ll see who regrets it in the end.”

***

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Instructor Cho! Are you alright?!”

Yeo Mae-hong’s frantic voice echoed from outside the door.

She must have heard Yeom-gwang’s screams.

Cho Un-hwi stepped away from the whimpering figure on the floor and opened the door.

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“What happened?”

“I’m fine. I was worried because you disappeared with Chief Instructor Yeom. Where is he?”

“He told me to reflect on my actions and left.”

“Really? That’s strange…”

“We should get going. The evaluation is over, and I’m starving.”

“The mess hall again?”

“You know me so well.”

Yeom-gwang trembled as he listened to their conversation from inside the equipment room.

“What… what was that…?”

His face was a bloody mess, and his broken fingers throbbed with pain.

He was terrified.