Because the White-Robed Scholar remained seated to the very end, I didn't exchange warm goodbyes with my subordinates, disciples, or sworn brothers, despite it being a long-overdue reunion.

I sent them off coldly and carelessly.

Some had come to bid farewell, but turned back at a wave of my hand. I don’t know if they understood how I felt.

In contrast, the White-Robed Scholar observed me with a calm demeanor.

His disciples stood in stiff postures, as if even breathing required permission, which only made his relaxed bearing more striking. Eventually, I sent the Cheolli Inn group off to the Sword Demon’s quarters. If our group clashed with the White-Robed Scholar’s, it would’ve become the Second Battle of Baek Eung.

As I approached the White-Robed Scholar, who had been watching me this whole time, he smiled and welcomed me.

“Master, you’re a very busy man.”

At that, the White-Robed Scholar brushed off his backside, stood up, and told his disciples:

“I’ll go for a walk with the Master.”

“Yes, Master.”

I walked alongside him under the night sky.

How should I describe this man?

He radiated neither hostility nor killing intent.

He was the kind of man who could approach a wild beast and casually slip a leash around its neck. But once leashed, the beast would be forced to run itself ragged—just like his disciples.

Sure enough, he nodded toward the path ahead and said to me, completely unprovoked:

“Have you ever taken a walk using light footwork?”

It wasn’t a threat or a suggestion. Just a natural utterance loaded with too much meaning to ignore.

I sighed and replied,

“Let’s go.”

It didn’t feel like a contest. More like I was a trainee being tested by an instructor of light footwork.

As soon as the White-Robed Scholar began, I had no choice but to follow using my own.

I didn’t know where we were going.

Despite not even warming up, he moved like a sudden gust of wind.

Was I already caught in his trap? Or was this just a simple test of footwork?

If it were truly a contest, I couldn’t lose, so I recalled all the training I’d done in my past life as the Crazy Demon and chased after him. But the moment I caught up, his speed increased again.

Eventually, I had to monitor my internal energy as I ran.

After I caught up three times, his posture shifted. Just like when I first met him at the Swift Party, he leaned his upper body forward and clasped his hands behind his back.

Naturally, his speed increased further.

Just like in my past life, I couldn’t keep up with that.

What kind of footwork was that?

I prided myself on being fast, but I couldn’t close the distance. The gap slowly widened.

This wasn’t an issue of internal energy.

It was purely a matter of light footwork and stepping technique. The White-Robed Scholar had evidently studied it deeply as a martial art in its own right. I couldn’t catch up to him in my past life, and I still couldn’t now.

Eventually, he returned and slowed down.

I steadied my breath from a distance, unsure of when he might attack. I had to be prepared, both physically and mentally.

When he returned, he spoke calmly.

“Master, you’ve never properly trained in light footwork, have you?”

“You think I could move this fast without training? You fly like a turtle shell caught in the wind. Impressive footwork.”

He smiled.

“You’re °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° a novice when it comes to light footwork. Let’s walk a bit.”

I followed him, looking around the unfamiliar town. We’d traveled so far in such a short time, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the sea appeared in front of us.

I said,

“If my footwork’s that pathetic, then teach me something before challenging me.”

He replied, sounding genuinely baffled.

“Unbelievable... You’re a real bandit, aren’t you? Master, how can you shamelessly ask someone to teach you something they worked hard to master and painstakingly understood?”

“Come on, Scholar. Not many people in Jianghu could even absorb what you teach. Got any disciples faster than me? That Butcher was a bit quick, but he wasn’t faster.”

“Ah, the Butcher… you killed him, didn’t you?”

“What? You planning to avenge him?”

The White-Robed Scholar burst out laughing and pointed at me.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Butcher was a hopeless scumbag.”

That’s when it clicked. In my past life, the rumors that he killed his own disciples and threw their heads at the Martial Alliance weren’t exaggerations. And the claims that he treated people like ants weren’t either.

He continued,

“But his skills weren’t bad. I wish I could’ve set him against some grandmasters and watched the show.”

“Planning to sketch the fight while you watched?”

“If I thought it worth it, yes. If not, I’d just spectate. Anyway, your footwork is terrible. You have talent, but it’s clear you’ve never seriously studied what light footwork truly is. Don’t overestimate your talent—it’ll slow your progress. Up until now, you probably thought you were a fast runner, didn’t you?”

“Hmm.”

This guy was seriously mocking me.

I replayed the way he moved in my mind. In my past life, I’d never observed it from so close. My view on martial arts had also evolved since then.

I thought hard about his posture—leaning forward, hands behind his back. It was probably an optimized form for rapid motion. Suddenly, the term “Ground-Compressing Technique” came to mind.

Could his understanding of footwork stem from a different way of perceiving it?

In theory, given my level of internal energy, I should be faster.

Maybe my posture wasn’t letting me fully draw on the energy in my dantian. Ignoring the White-Robed Scholar’s chatter, I began seriously contemplating light footwork and turned to him.

“…Scholar, let’s go again. Start running.”

He looked surprised.

“Master, did you realize something?”

“Shut up and start.”

He snorted and vanished in an instant. I took a deep breath and chased after him.

I began to question whether I’d misunderstood something fundamental about running.

There’s a clear difference between running using external strength and running infused with internal energy.

When you use internal energy—

You don’t need a fixed stride length.

Martial artists with deep internal energy can cover vast distances in a single leap.

After all, “light footwork” is the art of making the body “light.”

Specifically, it encompasses what’s known as the “Light Body Method,” and also includes stepping techniques. In theory, one lightens the body and then increases stepping speed to elevate overall light footwork ability.

But when I ran next to the White-Robed Scholar, his steps weren’t particularly quick.

Rather, each step carried him an extraordinary distance—he didn’t need to scurry like I did.

That’s when the term “Ground-Compressing Technique” came to mind again.

But when I tried to mimic his posture, the internal energy I infused into each leap far exceeded my body weight, causing me to rise too high. In other words, I lost speed.

That’s what was strange.

The White-Robed Scholar didn’t consistently make himself lighter, yet he was fast.

It seemed he had mastered alternating between lightness and heaviness mid-stride. Simply put, his technique couldn’t even be called just “light footwork.”

It was something else entirely—a martial art of weight manipulation. I called out impulsively:

“Scholar! Scholar! White-Robed Scholar!”

He returned from far ahead and said,

“Master, I thought you realized something, but you’ve only slowed down.”

I replied bluntly,

“I’m just hungry, that’s all.”

“After all you ate earlier, you’re already hungry again?”

“I said I’m hungry again. Got a problem with that?”

I veered into a bustling district and entered a shabby noodle shop. The White-Robed Scholar followed, asking:

“Did you figure something out?”

As I sat at the table, I said,

“I run using just light footwork. You run using some kind of ever-shifting heavy-light technique. I can’t catch up right now.”

At that, his face brightened.

“Ah, you figured out that much? ‘Heavy-Light Technique,’ huh?”

He nodded.

“Well, yes. You could call it that.”

I ordered two bowls of noodles and shot him a sour look.

Is this bastard treating me like an ant too? Damn it.

I finished one bowl, but it wasn’t enough. I was about to order another, then stopped. If we raced again, a full stomach would only slow me down.

“Damn it, I can’t even enjoy noodles in peace. Now I’m pissed. This is infuriating.”

The noodle shop owner, who’d been quietly listening, cautiously said,

“Would you like more?”

“No, I’m fine.”

I deliberately pointed to the White-Robed Scholar and asked the owner:

“What do you think of this man’s appearance?”

The owner looked at him and said with a smile:

“He has a very good impression—handsome and scholarly. Looks like someone who’s read a lot.”

I nodded.

“Good eye.”

I shot the White-Robed Scholar a warning glare, just in case he got any ideas about harming the owner. After sipping the broth, he crossed his arms and addressed the owner:

“Next time, add just a bit more salt. It’s too bland.”

The owner bowed slightly.

“Understood.”

I paid for the meal and sent the White-Robed Scholar out first. Then I said to the owner:

“If this guy comes alone next time, add a little more salt. He’s not right in the head.”

The owner looked at me with wide eyes.

“Got it.”

The White-Robed Scholar sighed outside.

“I can hear everything you’re saying, you know.”

I turned back to the owner and nodded.

“See his attitude? You get it, right? A bit more salt.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I thought it was perfect. Broth noodles are meant to be subtle. Thanks for the meal.”

“Please come again.”

As soon as I stepped outside, I looked up at the signboard and applauded.

“A damn fine noodle shop. Or maybe it just tasted better because I ran so hard. Either way, my stomach feels full.”

The White-Robed Scholar laughed and said,

“Master, do I look like someone who would casually kill people like that? Stop worrying about nonsense.”

I walked slowly, hands behind my back, and replied,

“Scholar, how would I know what’s in your heart? People’s hearts are unknowable. You know why?”

“What kind of nonsense is this?”

“Because people change. And I’ve decided to take back the term ‘Heavy-Light Technique.’”

“Oh? Why?”

“It’s too crude a name for a footwork art that belongs in the annals of Jianghu. We should give it a proper name.”

He stopped walking and looked at me.

“Like what?”

Still with my hands behind my back, I faced him.

“That posture of yours, hands behind the back, isn’t exactly ideal for running. From a technical standpoint, it looks like climbing a ladder, not moving horizontally. You don’t need that stance to run across flat ground. But if you get used to it, you could probably scale cliffs in the same posture. So it looks like ascending imaginary stairs. Let’s add the character for ‘ladder’—je.”

The White-Robed Scholar asked seriously,

“And the next character?”

“From up close, it looks like you’re climbing a ladder, but from afar, your movement looks like drifting clouds. So let’s add the character for ‘cloud’—un.”

“Jeun Shenbeop? Jeun Gong?”

I thought about it.

“Still missing something. As I chased you, I tried naming your technique. Your steps were so far ahead that I couldn’t keep up. Doesn’t quite capture that feeling yet.”

The White-Robed Scholar nodded like it was easy and offered a name:

“Call it Jeunjong.”

The character jong has connotations of stretching out, trailing, or leaving tracks—and hidden within it, the character for “to follow” (jong), subtly implies that the Master of Haomun is following behind. It perfectly summarized our current situation.

I nodded with a calm expression.

“Jeunjong… There may be no better name.”

The White-Robed Scholar looked surprised.

“Oh? You understood my intent completely?”

“I understood most of it. Your footwork stands among the finest in Jianghu. It deserves the name Jeunjong. I wonder if there’s another footwork art in the world that surpasses it. Searching for that might be worthwhile.”

He offered,

“Why don’t you try creating one yourself?”

I shook my head.

“My skills aren’t there yet. Getting stronger and creating something that didn’t exist before are two very different things. I’ll think about it—but not yet.”

I walked alongside him, hands clasped behind my back.

The Scholar, lost in thought, didn’t suggest another race. I let him be, remaining silent.

Even to me…

The fact that the White-Robed Scholar possessed a footwork art so unparalleled that it had no name until now—it gave me chills.

To sum it up, this man had no one around him who could understand or exchange martial knowledge at his level.