A Night at the Manor — The Enemy of My Enemy
The place where Sowoon was staying was an independent structure within the manor, connected to the inner compound by only a single passage.
At the center stood a small projecting pavilion, and along the surrounding wall were dozens of small rooms lined up tightly side by side.
Those rooms faced the outer western wall of Surim Manor.
With nothing to do while waiting for food, Sowoon wandered along the wall, peeking into the rooms.
With his hands clasped behind his back and a slight waddle to his steps, he looked exactly like a child searching for friends.
Every room was empty.
Though night had fallen, the courtyard was bright.
Two black iron braziers had been set out, each holding a steady flame.
This place is unusual… And those questions earlier were not casual. My weapons, my hometown… What was she trying to confirm? It couldn't have been that she feared I might attack her.
No matter how he turned it over in his mind, he could not grasp the core of her inquiry.
He did not wash.
It felt wrong to wash alone while his comrades were still out there together.
He waited for Surim to return, but she did not come even after a long while.
He paced the spacious courtyard back and forth until boredom stilled him.
Two shichen had passed since early evening, yet midnight had not arrived.
This could be a house of the martial world he had only heard of in stories.
It might belong to a wandering hero, or to a retired power broker.
Perhaps even the lord of this mountain.
Yet it was far too orderly and structured to be a bandit stronghold.
The few people he had seen resembled servants of a noble household more than brigands.
Questions rose endlessly, but there was no one to ask until Surim returned.
He was restless, yet it would be improper to practice martial arts in another's courtyard.
Sowoon took out the compendium he carried against his chest.
A single sheet of martial teaching given by Lee Hui—
a fusion of mental discipline and blade technique, an imperial martial art.
Though he had already memorized it, he read it again, chewing over each line and forming the images in his mind.
It was the only thing he could do alone.
He read it once.
It matched what he remembered.
He read it again.
Still the same.
They said that when one's realm advanced, even familiar words would reveal new meanings.
Had his realm not changed after all?
The old saying that the same scripture appears different to different eyes—
did it apply only to Confucian texts and not to martial ones?
If literary principles could unfold, could martial principles not do the same?
He felt he had changed, yet the words remained unchanged.
In truth, Sowoon's martial skill had already stepped into the threshold of mastery.
Countless people trained in fist techniques, leg techniques, sword forms, blade forms, spear forms—
yet true masters were rare.
Most of the martial world was filled with those only slightly stronger, slightly faster, slightly deeper in inner power.
Thus factions clashed endlessly without decisive victory.
Those called "masters" were often no more than that—close in level.
A true master was one who cultivated inner discipline, could circulate inner energy, and infuse it into weapon or limb.
Though martial tales overflowed with masters, in any given era one could count fewer than ten who truly qualified.
Sometimes only one.
Mastery required enlightenment.
Inner power alone was not enough.
Even harmony of body and energy was not enough.
One had to transcend that state entirely.
Legends of miraculous elixirs creating masters were exaggerations.
The myths of pills and panaceas had long since been exposed.
The Daoist alchemical secrets of ancient sects—
even if they once existed, they were lost.
Those who achieved transcendence left the world behind.
Sowoon practiced the breathing and blade forms of the compendium alone.
He had tempered them in battle, guided briefly by seniors rather than formal masters, edging beyond conventional limits.
His mindset in study was different.
His gaze upon the world was upright.
His acceptance was sincere.
Thus he focused on deepening breath and refining foundational energy.
He strayed nowhere.
He followed only what he had, and through that, breath aligned.
When he moved in battle through that breath, it became a dance—
it became combat—
and he became a youth-general.
If that was destiny, then so be it.
For a boy who had lost his parents and had no refuge,
the Baekryong Unit had been heaven-sent.
As he read, he forgot time.
When absorbed in the compendium, he forgot all else.
The stubborn simplicity that might appear dull was quietly shaping him.
Advancing a realm was not merely strengthening muscle.
It was thinking and thinking again, feeling, contemplating deeply.
Perhaps it resembled the path of spiritual seeking.
His honest, simple nature suited the concise yet layered text of the compendium.
Martial skill was something forged through discipline.
His contemplation did not cease—
not in war, not on the road, not even now in uncertain exile.
He did not hoard energy to unleash it.
He breathed with it.
When reciting the verses and moving with breath, a faint blue aura would rise like waves.
Reading the text, breathing, stirring the current of energy—
he forgot time and self.
When Surim returned, she saw him seated, lost in deep thought.
She did not wake him.
For some, such moments were the very threshold of awakening.
Time dragged for Surim.
For Sowoon, time held no meaning.
When he finished reading and folded the page carefully, he noticed Surim standing before him.
"You have returned."
"Yes. You seemed deep in thought, so I waited."
Ah…
He realized he had been sitting there blankly again and flushed.
"It was nothing. I tend to drift off lately."
"Does that happen often?"
"Sometimes. I apologize if I kept you waiting."
Surim rose.
"The meal is ready. I would like to speak with you while we dine. Shall we?"
"Thank you. Then I will accept your hospitality."