Chapter 1

A faint smile appeared on the boy's lips, which gradually began to change into a broad grin.
After a long time of hardship and training, overcoming years of oppression and persecution that could not be spoken of without tears, the boy had finally done it.

---

The Beginning of the Reminiscence

"Sway, sway! Woong, woong!"
A weight was swinging from side to side. A swing that had started at some unknown time... Although no thread seemed to be attached, it repeated its precise movements at regular intervals. However, if one focused their inner energy into their eyes and looked closely, they could spot a single, transparent silver thread connecting the figure's arm to the weight. A silver thread so thin and transparent that an ordinary person's eyes could never detect it. What was connected to the end of that silver thread was not actually a weight, but a rectangular object shaped like the hilt of a dagger, engraved with delicate and beautiful patterns.

The being holding the thread as if playing was a boy of outstanding beauty. No, he was too tall to be called a boy, yet he still looked too young to be called an adult. Perhaps he was around 17 or 18 years old? Unusually, a pair of heavy, dull, ink-colored bracelets were on his wrists, and identical ornaments were on his ankles. The boy's eyes were now fixed on an old pine tree standing alone about 15 meters away. At the end of a forlornly stretched-out branch, a pinecone hung precariously.

At a certain moment, the boy's shoulders twitched and his hand shot forward. Simultaneously, the swinging weight flew at an unbelievably fast speed toward the pine tree that held the boy's gaze. The weight's target was the pinecone.

However, the weight missed the pinecone in question, veering off to the side. Frankly, considering the distance, it seemed more natural that it missed. But in that minuscule moment, a soft, wave-like movement was transmitted from the boy's fingers. The errant weight, as if controlled by the boy, circled once around the pinecone. Then, the single lifeline connecting the pinecone to the branch was cleanly severed, and the pinecone fell toward the ground. And this was just from a single circle around the pinecone. The initial miss was no miss at all. The silver thread, attached to the end of the weight like a meteor's tail, had sliced off the tip of the pinecone's stem with its sharpness. It was a moment that felt like magic.

Once again, the boy's index finger twitched. In that instant, from within the thin, rectangular weight, a pure white, silver blade revealed itself, drawing a semicircle. A sharp aura flowed along the edge of the blade. As the boy's index finger curled inward again, the silver blade of the dagger, as if drawn by an invisible force, pierced through the body of the pinecone like a flash of light before embedding itself in the ground.

"Phew, a success!"

Grin. A faint smile appeared on the boy's lips, which gradually began to change into a broad grin. After a long time of hardship and training, overcoming years of oppression and persecution that could not be spoken of without tears, the boy had finally done it.

Of course, it wasn't a perfect and complete success yet, but compared to his achievements so far, this success was an unparalleled leap forward. So how could he not be happy? But the boy's celebration of his success was brief, as a mocking sneer was heard from somewhere. It was right behind him.

"You're still far from it, far from it! To get so wildly happy over managing just one Flying Thunder Dagger. At this rate, when will you ever be able to control the other nine? Do you plan to live for a thousand, ten thousand years and do nothing but train day and night?!"

This time, his wrist and fingers moved together. Instantly, the dagger pulled out of the pinecone and was naturally retrieved into the boy's hand. When the boy, having recovered the dagger, looked back, there stood an old man holding a bottle of liquor in one hand, looking at him with squinted eyes. He was the owner of the gruff yet sharp voice from a moment ago.

"Master, that's too much! You could at least congratulate your disciple on his first success! For someone as old as you are, you're being so petty!"

The boy retorted with a sullen expression. But the old man, called Master, raised the corners of his eyes to the sky and roared.

"You brat, Ryu-yeon! There's nothing you won't say to your old master. Have you ever contributed anything to this master's troubles of getting old? And if your morning training is over, shouldn't you hurry up and get to work? Time is gold, gold!"

The word "gold" was emphasized twice.

'Tch! A master who just works his disciple to the bone... Is he really a master?'

The boy, with a sullen face, repeated these words countless times in his head but couldn't bring himself to say them out loud.

"Alright, alright. I'm going, I'm going!"

After letting out a deeply dissatisfied grumble, Bi Ryu-yeon used his lightness skill and ran down toward the foot of the mountain at high speed. His speed was tremendous, enough to draw admiration from any onlooker. Watching the boy, who had now become a dot on the ridge, the old man muttered softly to himself.

"Heh heh, that kid. To handle the Flying Thunder Dagger with such precision already... It should be impossible with his current level of internal energy, how strange is that? Anyway, has it already been seven years! Time sure flies, heh heh, my my."

The old man raised the liquor bottle and pleasantly wet his throat. An enigmatic smile spread across his face.

---

The first thing my master taught me was how to cook rice.

(Master's First Lesson: Housework)

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

It was a beautiful shower of sparks.

As the hammer and the heated iron collided, fantastic and rare sparks burst out like fireworks. The beauty of the sparks, which vanished in an instant, held a mysterious power capable of sucking in a person's soul.

On the wrist of the boy striking with the sledgehammer was a pair of dark, ink-colored bracelets. It was Bi Ryu-yeon.

The boy's skill with the hammer, striking the red-hot iron, was very proficient and natural. It was clear he had been doing this for a long time. But for some reason, his hammering was gradually becoming rough and violent. As if reflecting his heart.

'Damn it, why is Master like that every day, ugh!'

The more he thought about what happened in the morning, the more his insides boiled.

'Who does he think is the one feeding him?!'

The more he thought this, the faster his hammering became. He was taking out his anger on the innocent, pitiful lump of iron. It felt as if each strike of the hammer was aimed at his master. In the sparks that bloomed for a fleeting moment, the boy was seized by a strange feeling that his soul was being sucked in.

The work I'm doing now, sweating profusely, is making a sword.

Forging iron to make a sword required considerable skill and precision, so only a few trusted artisans in the blacksmith shop were allowed to make swords. They were given the title of Swordsmith, which was a great honor for a blacksmith. I am the youngest swordsmith here, but no one dares to look down on me. Not only do they fully acknowledge my ability, but they also fear me. I'll leave it to your imagination why they're afraid. Anyway, it has already been six years since I started this blacksmithing job.

The problem is that this has become my full-time profession. My master and I live off the money I earn here. Ah, of course, my master was a hopeless freeloader. Naturally, earning money became my main job and primary duty, and practicing martial arts became a part-time job for fun, or perhaps like some kind of hobby. A perfect example of putting the cart before the horse.

And yet, my pathetic master says.

"We're human too, so shouldn't we eat first before we can even think about practicing martial arts?"

It's enough to make you snort so hard that snot comes out.

I met my master seven years ago, when I was ten. At that time, I was the son of an ordinary sculptor. My father was a man who carved and sold small ornaments and little Buddha statues. My mother had already passed away when I was five. I remember her as being quite beautiful. But I have almost no memories of her, so I don't try to think about her often.

My father was a kind man and taught me how to carve whenever he had time. Thanks to him, by the time I was ten, I could do a considerable level of work myself. But alas, misfortune struck. That misfortune was both terrible and indiscriminate: a plague suddenly swept through the village, and most of the villagers died. And among them was my father. I suddenly became an orphan. I had no relatives whatsoever.

As I was the only exception to the indiscriminate death in our village, I dug my father's grave by myself and buried him, however clumsily. My hands were scraped and bleeding, but I didn't care. Instead of a tombstone, I carved my father's likeness onto a fairly large log and placed it in front of the grave. My artistic talent was so outstanding that I was able to complete a masterpiece that could be called the greatest work of my ten-year life.

But after setting it up, something felt empty. I soon began to carve my mother's likeness onto a log of the same size. I thought my father would be lonely by himself. Fortunately, my mother's grave was next to my father's. I had just finished carving my mother's likeness, placed it next to my father's, and turned around. Since when had he been there? An old man was standing there.

The old man pointed to my father's grave and asked, "Did you make this grave?" I answered honestly and politely, "Yes." At that time, I was still a good child who practiced respect for the elderly.

The old man asked again, "Did you do these wood carvings too?" Those two carvings were the best masterpieces I had ever carved, so I answered without hesitation, "Yes, I did," politely.

The old man thought for a moment with a grimaced face, then held out his hand to me and asked, "Will you come with me?" I politely asked back, "What do I get if I follow you?"

Hearing my polite question, the old man chuckled and said he would teach me the greatest martial arts in the world. But I couldn't believe him at face value. How could I, no longer a snot-nosed kid, rashly believe the words of a man I had just met? So I had to ask.

"How can I believe that?"

I demanded clear proof. The old man then turned his head toward the forest on the left and asked, 'What do you see over there?' I answered honestly, 'A forest.' Then the old man waved his hand once. In that instant, though it wasn't clear, something like a white flash of light flickered. Then he asked, 'Do you still see a forest?' I shook my head. 'I don't see it anymore.' The pine forest that had been spread out just 30 meters away a moment ago was gone, with only the stumps remaining.

"Well? Don't you want to learn?"

At that time, to be honest, judging by the old man's appearance, I didn't believe he would teach me the greatest martial arts in the world, but I thought he might teach me some level of martial arts. I was an orphan with nowhere to go, and I also held a vague admiration for the martial world, so I came to the foolish conclusion that there would be no loss in following the old man. Once the cost-benefit analysis was complete, I shrewdly said, "Alright!" and took the old man's hand. That was my first meeting with my master, and the beginning of this damn fate.

It didn't take long to realize that the quick calculation of that moment was a horrendous miscalculation. My master was the person who introduced the first and most fatal error into my cost-benefit analysis. I still regret that decision to this day.

My master took me into the mountains located next to a certain village. The village was quite large. The mountain was also connected to a large range, so it was very high and deep. The eccentric masters who appear in storybooks or in the tales of storytellers almost all teach their disciples in such deep mountains, separated from the secular world. I started to see my master as more and more plausible.

The place my master took me to was a shabby hut with two rooms and a small kitchen. Next to the hut, a lot of firewood was piled up, but strangely, there was no iron axe to be seen where one would chop firewood. My master said this was the house where he lived. And also the place where I would have to live from now on...

I was inwardly disappointed that it wasn't a wondrous place like the Peach Blossom Spring, fully equipped and with rare flowers in full bloom, but I didn't show it. I thought my master might be disappointed. I was indeed a kind-hearted, good child. Anyway, judging by the residence and living environment, it seemed my master wasn't such a high-level eccentric master. But I thought, 'It could be,' and understood with a magnanimity as wide as the sea. What a beautiful and heartwarming tale, like a pearl!
However, my master betrayed me in the most blatant way. He brutally trampled on my wide magnanimity and my beautiful, kind, and gentle heart. My master tore my brilliantly shining blueprint for the future to shreds, piece by piece. And he threw it all into the trash can. My hardships had already begun from that moment.

The first thing my master taught me was how to cook rice.

I was warned never to wash the rice more than three times. Something about losing nutrients if you wash it more than three times... And when cooking rice, he taught me that it's best to place your hand on top and let the water come up to the back of your hand. And I was urged to keep the pot lid tightly closed. He said that the seal of the pot and the completion of the rice were very closely related. And when cooking rice on a high mountain like this, placing a stone on top of the pot lid was a secret technique, my master proudly passed on this knowledge that everyone already knew. He was truly a wonderful master.

But cooking rice was just the beginning. The next thing my master taught me was how to make side dishes. Since my master was not an immortal-level, high-class eccentric master, he couldn't survive on raw food alone. He had to eat meat to get ample nutrition and had to drink alcohol from time to time—no, all the time. I also didn't want to live chewing on raw rice and pine needles, so I had no choice but to learn how to cook.

First, I learned how to make simple side dishes like stir-fried vegetables, stir-fried meat, and braised tofu, as well as how to make soup. He said that when stir-frying vegetables, you should coat them with oil once and stir-fry them in an instant. Coating with oil was a measure to prevent the aroma and taste of the vegetables from escaping during cooking. In particular, my master repeatedly emphasized that the heart is important in cooking. He said incomprehensible things, like how the heart is revealed in the taste, and only when the heart maintains its calm can the Five Flavors achieve harmony, just as the Five Elements do, causing a great explosion of taste in the universe of the mouth, like the flapping of a Peng bird's wings. I began to suspect my master's former profession. No, I even thought he might still be an active chef.
Well, according to my master, the martial art I was going to learn, 'Flying Thunder Dagger', required considerable, or rather, tremendous dexterity and a delicate sense. In that respect, cooking was the pinnacle of art where dexterity, that is, skill and sense, come together in harmony. Listening to my master's praise of cooking, I couldn't help but snort, and eventually, snot came out.

"Hmph! Pfft, pshhh!"

Everything sounded like an excuse. The only excuse that sounded decent was that the name of the martial art I was going to learn sounded quite plausible. There were all sorts of troubles and accidents (like melting a couple of pots, burning a cauldron, or blowing a month's worth of food in the name of practice), but now I had acquired enough skill to create a basic menu. It was an astonishing, great leap forward.

In fact, it didn't take that long to learn how to cook rice and make side dishes. The heartbreaking part was that after I became a decent cook, setting the table also became my job. When I suggested that we should divide the work equally, such as taking turns for meals on different days, I was soundly beaten a few times.

At that time, I learned the hard way that the fist is faster than words. My bones really ached. My master's fists knew no moderation. That day, I learned that one could control reason and emotion with fists, and this fact had a great impact on the formation of my personality. I engraved that day's lesson deep into my instincts.

The next thing my master made me do was chop firewood. He said we needed firewood to make a fire for cooking and took me to where the wood was piled up. On the right, split firewood was stacked, and on the left, wood just brought from the mountain was stacked. But no matter how much I looked around, the iron axe used for chopping wood was still nowhere to be seen.

"Master, where is the iron axe? Don't we need an axe to chop wood?"

I politely requested my master to explain the reason for the missing iron axe.

"We don't need such a thing!"

That was my master's answer.

"Then what do we chop the wood with? Do we just beat it like a dog?"

The word 'paeda' has the meaning of 'to chop' wood with an axe, but also 'to beat mercilessly,' so my question was the result of a natural logical thought process. Then, my master said, seemingly annoyed, that he would show me a demonstration. It was definitely 'annoyance.'
'Hmm, his mental cultivation is still lacking. Severely lacking!'

I evaluated my master in my own way. The man called Master seemed to be an incomplete human being. My master picked up a log about the size of an adult's forearm from the pile of wood on the left and placed it on a tree stump. Then, he took out a small dagger from his sleeve. It was an ordinary dagger with a blade the length of a child's palm, the kind you could see anywhere. The kind of cheap dagger a shop owner would hand you saying, "Here you go!" if you went to some nameless hardware store, general store, or small weapon shop and said, "Hey, mister! Give me one dagger."

Holding the dagger, my master squatted in front of the log. Soon, he lightly held the dagger with his fingertips and tok! hit the exact center of the upright log. No, tok! was just my expression; my master simply flicked his wrist, and the dagger traced a fantastic semicircle as if cutting through a cloud, grazing past the shape of the wood.

What happened next was astonishing. The upright log split into exactly two pieces. I was so surprised my jaw dropped open like the split wood. I had never seen such a trick before. Seeing me standing there with my mouth agape in surprise, my master smirked and said,
"This much should be possible with skill alone, without the power of internal energy. The secret is speed, and the trick is the flexible use of the wrist."

My master threw out this annoying remark and told me to try it. I set up a log just like my master and, in the same posture, flicked my wrist and struck the dagger toward the wood.

"Tok!"

The dagger I struck merely left a scratch the size of a fingernail on the wood and stopped. I felt my face grow hot with shame.
"Try swinging in a large semicircle using not just your wrist, but your elbow too!"

My master said in a rather solemn voice. There was a second attempt. But it was also a failure. Perhaps because I used my elbow, I inflicted a larger wound on the wood than before, but it was six of one and half a dozen of the other; it was all the same.

"This time, try swinging very wide, using your shoulder as well!"

Another order from the master came down.

I made a third attempt. But the result was a failure. Moreover, this time, the log that had been placed on the stump was gone. Had it turned to dust? Not a chance! With a thwack, it had flown off into the distance.

"It's because you lack speed. You can do it with just the knack, even without strength."

My master kindly analyzed the reason for the log flying away and my failure, but I was ten years old at the time. No matter how outstanding my ability, how powerful my talent, and how promising my future, there was no way I could succeed. Even if you strike with a high-performance iron axe, if you lack strength or the knack, you often just get the blade stuck in the wood, let alone split it in two. So how on earth was I supposed to chop firewood with this tiny dagger? Unless that dagger was a divine artifact of the heavens... But my master had demonstrated the impossible right before my eyes, so I couldn't argue that it was completely impossible... But! Wasn't my master a high-level eccentric master!
So the conclusion I reached was the brilliant deduction that 'I failed simply because I am a beginner.' Then, I explained this fact to my master in a polite and logical manner.

"Master! I am still a tender, young, beautiful boy of ten, and also a beginner, so I cannot yet chop firewood with this small dagger. Please devise a measure so that I can chop firewood by other means until I gain strength and skill. Otherwise, we will have no firewood to make a fire and will probably have to starve."

I persuaded my master in a truly logical and rational tone. My master thought deeply about something for a moment, then went into the storage shed located on one side of the hut. Soon, a series of sounds like rustle, rustle, clang, bang, crash! came from inside the shed. For some reason, I felt strange, and an ominous premonition ran down my spine.