The next day, I went to the training ground where the Blue Fists practiced.

Dressed in blue uniforms, they were clearly different from the White Fists—more relaxed and confident, matching their higher skill level.

Since the Fist Master hadn’t arrived yet, I greeted them comfortably. Of course, they already knew I had trained with the White Fists.

One of them asked me,

“Have you learned everything you need in the White Fists? I heard you only came for about seven or eight days.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Two years. If you hadn’t properly learned in the White Fists, training with the Blue Fists wouldn’t be easy.”

Though it sounded like concern, it was really thinly veiled resentment. They had suffered through two years of training, while I passed in mere days. It was a subtle complaint that I benefited from my status as an Eegongja—that it wasn’t a skill difference but a status gap.

I didn’t bother to argue. There would be others with similar grudges, and this wasn’t a matter solved with words.

After a while, the Fist Master appeared. I learned that he personally taught all ranks—from White Fists to Black Fists. Other Ma Jons left the teaching to their disciples, and their underlings taught below them, but the Fist Master took care of all his subordinates directly.

“I truly respect the fact that you personally train every Iron Fist,” I said loudly. Some might think I was flattering, but I was sincere. In such an atmosphere where no one asked questions, the Fist Master must never have heard praise like this before. So I gave it.

His eyes turned to me. Looking into his fierce and taciturn face, I spoke louder.

“You are admirable!”

It’s better to say this once in front of everyone than a hundred times in private. At least this wasn’t flattery. He deserved praise. For a Ma Jon to personally care for even the lowest underlings was truly difficult.

Yet his gaze seemed to say,

—Flattery won’t work.

And my eyes replied,

—Then it should work, since this isn’t flattery.

When real training began, the Blue Fists all took off their upper garments.

From the Blue Fists upward, training was done shirtless to observe every muscle movement.

They all bared their chests and looked at me with eyes that said, “Look at our pale Eegongja’s body.”

I slowly stripped my clothes off. Everyone was surprised.

Muscles hardened by training and countless scars. If one knew who each scar was from, even the Fist Master would be shocked.

I smiled broadly and said,

“I came here to avoid getting hit.”

A clear sneer flickered across the Fist Master’s mouth. He still doubted how long I could last.

The full training session began.

Again, the Fist Master did not teach me a single move. I watched the techniques they demonstrated and then copied them. From this level onward, breathing techniques mattered, too. I learned those breathing methods by closely observing their nose, throat, abdomen, and mouth using Shinansul.

Then I asked the Fist Master to confirm.

“Please check if my breathing method is correct.”

“Who taught you the breathing?”

“I learned it by watching your martial arts.”

The Blue Fists looked unconvinced.

But the Fist Master would trust me. He was surely reading my ki. What must he think of my skill?

My father’s words came to mind—that if I become entangled with the Fist Master through martial arts, I would inevitably have to face him.

I raised my hand and said,

“I have another question!”

The next day, and the day after that, I trained hard.

The somewhat skeptical looks of the Blue Fists toward me gradually disappeared. I worked hard, performed better than anyone, and most importantly, brought out a new side of the Fist Master.

“How should this technique be applied in real combat?”

Strictly speaking, this question wasn’t for the Blue Fists but for the Fist Master.

Surely the Fist Master wanted to explain the practical applications of the techniques to his subordinates. I would have wanted to if I were him. Would the Fist Master be any different?

And indeed, he explained in great detail as if he wished I hadn’t asked. The Blue Fists were surprised. They hadn’t expected the Fist Master to be so thorough.

“Is there a special mindset to not fear the sword?”

I also asked questions about psychological aspects.

“Why fist techniques?”

Fundamental questions like these were things even the Fist Master himself would keep asking—from White to Black Fists.

With that question, I naturally asked myself:

‘Why the sword?’

How one answers that question will determine how far they can grow.

Five days after starting Blue Fist training,

The Fist Master spoke to me in front of the watching Blue Fists.

“From tomorrow, you’ll train with the Red Fists.”

“Yes.”

None of the Blue Fists objected. In just a few days, I had mastered the techniques they learned.

So much so that the man who spoke to me on the first day came to apologize.

“Please forgive my rudeness on the first day.”

“Anyone would think that way. Probably someone in the Red Fists will say the same soon.”

“Even that person will come to apologize a few days later, like me. Thank you for opening our eyes, foolish and ignorant as we were.”

All the Blue Fists behind him nodded lightly. I bowed back. Showing them a new side of the Fist Master was a meaningful time for them.

“I heard Muguk is training under the Fist Master.”

Geom Mu-yang was very attentive to his younger brother’s actions.

“He broke through Blue Fist training in just over ten days and started training with the Red Fists a couple of days ago.”

Ma Bul, sitting opposite, replied,

“With an Eegongja’s martial skills, that’s quite possible.”

Ma Bul knew what the Great Successor worried about—that this Eegongja might really become the Fist Master’s disciple.

“You don’t need to worry about the Fist Master. If the Eegongja tries to draw him in, it will backfire.”

Then Geom Mu-yang recalled past events.

“Do you remember what you told me before?”

“What did I say?”

“Drunken Demon is unpredictable. Once he starts stirring, even the Eegongja won’t handle him easily. The Eegongja will lose the Ma Jons he’s carefully gathered.”

When Ma Bul had received a broken bottle from Drunken Demon, he had told Geom Mu-yang this.

But in the end, the news was that Geom Mu-guk was drinking and hanging out with Drunken Demon.

“Don’t take this the wrong way. I only say this because I can’t ignore what happened with Drunken Demon.”

Though he said not to be offended, Ma Bul wasn’t pleased. Was it really necessary to bring up his previous words so precisely? Did that mean he had been holding a grudge?

Is a crack between people really irreparable?

At first, I tried to ignore the crack, was careful not to make it worse, thinking it would be fine as long as it didn’t break completely.

But Ma Bul felt

the important thing in human relations is not whether the crack breaks or not, but the fact that the crack exists itself is the problem.

If the other person wasn’t Geom Mu-yang, this relationship might already have been resolved somehow. But it couldn’t be. Geom Mu-yang chose this path. He put his life on the line for it.

Geom Mu-yang said to Ma Bul,

“Please meet the Fist Master and find out what he thinks.”

“Yes, I will meet him.”

Ma Bul readily accepted the request.

As Ma Bul rose, he looked back at Geom Mu-yang. He wanted to say: It’s okay to show your anxiety. You can tell me everything. Your younger brother is too strong and hard to handle. Once you say all that, your heart will be a little lighter.

But those words stuck in his throat.

“Is something wrong? Do you want to say something?”

“No, I’ll be back.”

Leaving the office, Ma Bul blamed himself.

If the Great Successor can’t do it, then at least he should be open and sincere... but it’s not Geom Mu-yang’s fault.

The next day, Ma Bul’s steps paused as he entered East Fist Gate.

He saw Geom Mu-guk training with the Red Fists.

“Widen your stance. Lower your arms.”

Geom Mu-guk was watching their movements. I knew he wasn’t an ordinary person, but had he already been pretending to be close with the Red Fists in just a few days?

Then Ma Bul saw Geom Mu-guk’s eyes and expression. He was passionately discussing fist techniques with the Red Fists as if he was truly immersed in it.

Yes, that’s it. That’s how people get caught up in it. If one isn’t careful, they could be fooled by that strange passion.

Then Geom Mu-guk noticed Ma Bul and ran up, greeting him.

“Long time no see. How have you been?”

Geom Mu-guk smiled brightly. How nice it would be if Geom Mu-yang smiled that brightly?

‘No, don’t think that way. He’s smiling like that because he’s an enemy.’

People smile broadly to strangers but scowl at their own. Don’t be fooled by that smile. The Great Successor is on our side, so he’s annoyed; the Eegongja is the enemy, so he smiles.

“I heard you’ve been deeply absorbed in fist techniques lately.”

“After dealing with the Yellow Heaven Pavilion’s leader, there are too many people I want to pummel with my fists.”

“Come now, don’t pretend with us. Aren’t you trying to make the Fist Master your ally?”

“Sounds nice when you say ‘with us.’”

I keep melting at those sweet words clearly meant to flatter.

“Stop pretending, go and swing those soft fists.”

After feigning coldness, Ma Bul headed to the Fist Master’s office. From behind came Geom Mu-guk’s shout:

“The Fist Master said your hands were like baby hands, but Ma Bul, yours are like soft fists?”

“He’s busy, so I’ll get straight to the point. I came today because of the Eegongja.”

As if he expected it, the Fist Master silently waited for Ma Bul’s next words. The contrast between the tall, burly Fist Master and the much smaller Ma Bul was striking.

“The Eegongja wanting to learn fist techniques is a ploy to pull you to his side.”

Actually, Ma Bul hadn’t been close with the Fist Master until now but felt a private affinity. He saw his small stature and that fearsome face as equal weaknesses. Since others frowned, he thought they shared the same physical shortcomings.

Of course, he never showed this thought to anyone.

“So? You came because you feared I’d switch to the Eegongja?”

“That’s right. I was worried. Blood Heaven Butcher switched, Ilhwa Sword Immortal switched. Even Geukak Soma and Drunken Demon.”

Ma Bul spoke frankly. It could have been a disaster to beat around the bush. He had to say this to him.

“The Eegongja is a fox. A fox with a hundred tails. His tongue is sweeter than a traitor’s. If you let your guard down, you’ll find yourself taking the Eegongja as your disciple before you know it.”

The Fist Master looked Ma Bul up and down and suddenly asked,

“Did you almost switch, too?”

Ma Bul flinched inside but answered boldly,

“I have been on the Great Successor’s side from the start, now, and always will be.”

“The Eegongja said, protect the Great Successor.”

Ma Bul was startled. He himself had heard that before.

“He said he will end the successor fight without shedding blood.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Do you?”

Ma Bul said nothing. It was a moment to say he didn’t believe, but the words didn’t come. He had come to reassure the Fist Master but was only confirming that he himself wavered toward Geom Mu-guk.

“Go tell the Great Successor that your support for him remains unchanged.”

Ma Bul thought it was enough just to raise the alert.

“The Great Successor will be greatly pleased.”

Ma Bul left the office.

On the way back, he saw Geom Mu-guk again. Far away at the training ground, he was still practicing fist techniques with the Red Fists. One could feel from afar that he was truly immersed in training, like when he was young and obsessed with martial arts.

I had thought many times before that Geom Mu-guk was remarkable, but today felt different.

It was because of the Red Fists training with him. Have you already trusted them? How long have you known them? What’s so good that you’re throwing punches together?

Ma Bul suddenly became afraid of Geom Mu-guk.

A surge of suspicion like the Dark Horse’s. What if that strategy that shakes hearts is real? What if I’m the fool or the schemer? What if I chose the wrong side?

But Ma Bul shook his head. The more confused and pushed down he was, the more he had to be strong. Radiating golden light, he strode forward. Though confused, defeated, and cracked,

Great Successor, let’s be strong.