Namgung Myung
Namgung Myung's uncle was known by the epithet Dok-Su-Rae-Geom (One-Armed Thunder Sword).
Although he had lost his left arm fighting against a demon, he could still swing his sword with lightning speed using only his right. Namgung Myung thought that such an epithet was very cool.
But that didn't mean he wanted to become one-armed.
Let alone losing an arm in battle against a demon like his uncle—if he were to lose it while sparring with some second-rate martial artist he met on a ship, that would be even worse.
Yet now, Namgung Myung was only a moment away from becoming a one-armed man.
With his wooden sword broken, he could neither block Tang Mujin's strikes nor find the room to employ his clan's inherited footwork techniques.
However, there was one body movement art he knew that could get him out of this: Naryeo-Tagon.
Namgung Myung hastily rolled across the floor, barely avoiding Tang Mujin's sword strike.
"Pfft."
A woman laughed from behind.
Veins bulged on Namgung Myung's forehead.
He had first met that woman aboard the ship, and for more than ten days had been trying to win her over, hoping to spend a passionate night together.
He thought he was so close to success—only to disgrace himself in an instant.
Sensing the awkward atmosphere, Tang Mujin spoke a little sheepishly.
"My apologies. It seems I swung too dangerously. I'm not used to sparring with real swords."
Namgung Myung's pride took another blow. That was something only a true novice should say to him.
He clenched his teeth and stood up.
"No, it's fine. It's my lack of skill. Besides, I think the wooden sword was already in poor condition."
Of course, his words emphasized the state of the wooden sword, not his own skill.
Tang Mujin quickly caught on and nodded.
"Yes, the wooden sword had been used far too long. It was already on the verge of breaking. My apologies."
Namgung Myung was relieved at Tang Mujin's tact and glanced back.
The woman's expression said only, Ah, so that's what happened?—which eased his mood a little.
"Since we don't have any spare wooden swords, perhaps we should stop for today."
Tang Mujin took a step back, but Namgung Myung had no intention of ending it here.
"No. Could you spare me a little more time?"
"Pardon?"
"Just now, I felt as though a moment of enlightenment brushed past me. I don't want to lose that thread."
Of course, there was no enlightenment. It was just an excuse—he couldn't allow the spar to end like this.
Tang Mujin hesitated.
"But Young Master Namgung, it seems you only have a real sword left. I'm not confident I can evade a true blade."
"It's fine. I won't channel inner strength into it, and I'll avoid dangerous sword paths."
"…If that's the case, then perhaps it'll be all right."
Tang Mujin reluctantly lifted his sword. With Namgung Myung pressing this stubbornly, refusing again would be difficult.
Namgung Myung drew his sword from its scabbard.
The Sam-Bong Sword ( Three-Phoenix Sword)—a famed blade, among the top five even within the Namgung Clan, which was renowned for sparing no expense on weaponry.
It was the masterpiece of a celebrated swordsmith.
Forged with no expense spared, its blade was made from an even mixture of rare Cloud-Steel and Black-Iron, and it was said to have taken over a year to complete.
The result was not only extraordinary strength and cutting power, but also unmatched beauty.
Its scabbard was embossed with two phoenixes entwined in flight, and its hilt bore the carving of a delicately perched phoenix.
Nor was it only the fittings that were ornate. On the graceful ash-gray blade itself, a poem embodying the true mindset of a martial artist was etched in elegant script.
Namgung Myung glanced at Tang Mujin's sword.
Unlike the Sam-Bong Sword, his was utterly plain—hilt, scabbard, and blade alike. No ornamentation, not even a craftsman's signature.
Even before swinging, Namgung Myung felt a strange sense of superiority.
I'll deflect his first strike smoothly, then press down with overwhelming force. Since I've drawn the Sam-Bong Sword, I'll make it a dazzling, decisive show.
Tang Mujin lifted his sword awkwardly.
"Then, I'll begin again."
"Please, show me a stroke."
Tang Mujin swung along the same trajectory as before. Not flashy, but clean and precise.
Namgung Myung angled the Sam-Bong Sword to receive it.
But the instant the blades met, Namgung Myung felt something strange.
Instead of sliding off, Tang Mujin's blade seemed to dig into the Sam-Bong Sword, as though carving into it.
Huh?
It wasn't an illusion. Tang Mujin's plain sword was cutting into the Sam-Bong's edge as if peeling fruit.
At once, he remembered the wooden sword that had been cut in two. Reflexively, Namgung Myung channeled inner strength into his blade, and only then did Tang Mujin's sword halt.
Namgung Myung froze, looking at him. Tang Mujin was staring back with a deeply unsettled expression.
"…Did you not say you wouldn't use inner strength in the blade?"
Namgung Myung's face flushed red.
He had forced this spar, insisted on using real swords against his opponent's wooden one, and now he had broken even that promise.
Three disgraceful blunders in less than an hour.
Now, Namgung Myung had no choice but to apologize.
"My apologies. I have the habit of swinging as though it were a real fight. I did not realize. I was rude."
Namgung Myung's outward courtesy made Tang Mujin awkward as well.
It was difficult to press someone further when they were already apologizing, and being overly strict here could risk earning the resentment of a great martial clan.
"…On second thought, I was not blameless either. You'd already given me such an absurdly favorable condition from the start."
"Thank you for saying so."
"Ah, well. Somehow our spar has ended strangely. Still, at least no one was injured."
"Yes."
And so the duel fizzled out.
Namgung Myung hurried back to his cabin and lit a candle. The woman's opinion no longer concerned him.
He examined the Sam-Bong Sword closely.
If the blade had simply broken, he could have blamed bad luck. But instead, the Sam-Bong had been cleanly sliced along the exact trajectory of Tang Mujin's strike.
That sensation of another sword burrowing into his own had not been an illusion.
Can this really be possible?
The Sam-Bong Sword now looked as if it might snap at any moment. His heart sank.
Damaging the clan's treasured blade meant his father and the clan elders would surely scold him.
But after a moment, another thought arose in Namgung Myung's mind.
This might be an opportunity.
He had no idea how Tang Mujin had come by that sword, but it was unquestionably extraordinary—perhaps even greater than Heonwon Sword, the Namgung Clan's most prized heirloom.
If I could only get my hands on that sword…
This voyage was Namgung Myung's first journey into the martial world.
Like any newcomer, he had left the Namgung Clan full of dreams—defeating famed demons, besting renowned masters, and making a name for himself.
But reality had been far duller. Beating down minor bandits, killing a couple of insignificant demons—that was all. Not only had he failed to achieve greatness, he hadn't even met the average expectations.
But if he could obtain that sword, all problems would be solved.
His father, the elders, and even other clans would have no choice but to acknowledge him.
Look at Namgung Myung the Hero. On his very first journey, he returned with a divine sword. Why can't you be like him?
What use is slaying a few petty demons? Try to match even a fraction of Namgung Myung's greatness.
He could already imagine the other young heirs being scolded with his name.
Namgung Myung's hips twitched in excitement.
Tang Mujin, on the other hand, thought little of their spar. It hadn't been a real match anyway, and it hadn't ended with either of them storming off.
He only regarded it as the experience of crossing swords with someone from a famous clan.
So after the duel, his days went on as before. In the mornings and evenings, he practiced martial arts; by day, he tended patients aboard the ship with Goiyi, learning medicine.
The patients were sailors or passengers of the ship.
"My eyes keep tearing up, though I'm neither sad nor have anything in them. People think me odd, and I find it hard to be in public."
"Do you sleep well at night?"
"It takes long to fall asleep, and my hands and feet feel so hot that I wake easily."
"Do you often feel extreme thirst and suffer from diarrhea as well?"
"How did you know?"
"I suspect it may be Yuru Syndrome (excessive tearing). It tends to worsen when you catch a cold or are exposed to cold wind, doesn't it? Right now it's summer, so the symptoms are likely less severe."
"That's exactly right. Can it be cured?"
"I'll begin with acupuncture. Please close your eyes."
Tang Mujin laid the patient down and held his needles.
First, he placed them in Indang ( between the brows), Icheom (ear tip), and Dangyang ( forehead). Through the needles he channeled his internal energy, probing the flow of blood and qi.
As expected, in the Guhu ( behind the eye) and Jeongmyeong ( inner corner of the eye) points, stagnant qi was clumped, irritating the tear glands.
In the past, he would simply have applied acupuncture and prescribed herbal medicine. But ever since receiving Goiyi's teachings, he had gained another method: guiding fine streams of internal energy through the acupuncture points, treating illness by the art of Jingi-Do-In.
Tang Mujin carefully threaded inner qi through the needles, dispersing the turbid blockage in the blood channels, then withdrew them.
"You may open your eyes now."
"Already?"
"Yes. Please check your condition."
The patient opened his eyes and looked around. Moments ago, even shielding his face with his hands couldn't stop the tears from streaming. But now, the tearing had ceased as if by miracle.
He fanned his eyes with his hand, turned his face toward the breeze—yet felt only refreshing clarity.
"Heavens…"
Ordinarily, treatment by a physician would take at least half a month, often a full month, and sometimes over a year.
But with Goiyi's method, any ailment caused by blocked qi and blood flow could be treated in an instant. Truly, it was a treatment that shattered common sense.
Even Tang Mujin himself, as the physician, was astonished. How much more so the patients, who widened their eyes in disbelief and wonder each time they were healed.
"How did you do this? The physician I went to before told me it was difficult to cure and that I should just live with it."
"Yuru Syndrome isn't a condition one often encounters, so it's no wonder your doctor didn't know the treatment. It also takes a certain… knack to cure it quickly."
"A mere knack? You are far too modest."
"It's really nothing much. In any case, remember the acupuncture points I treated. Press them from time to time. And should the condition recur, ask a physician to prescribe Wolbi-Gachul-Tang ."
"Wolbi… what soup?"
"Wolbi-Gachul-Tang. Decoction of gypsum, ephedra, atractylodes, licorice, dried ginger, and jujube. Simmer thoroughly and drink. None of the ingredients are rare or expensive; you should be able to obtain them cheaply anywhere. If need be, you can even prepare it yourself."
When Tang Mujin wrote down the recipe for Wolbi-Gachul-Tang, the patient bent in a deep bow of thanks.
Tang Mujin rose and glanced around. There were few patients today, so his consultations ended quickly.
But aside from medicine, there was someone waiting for him that day: Namgung Myung.
Since their duel a few days earlier, Namgung Myung had grown surprisingly friendly toward Tang Mujin, striking up conversations now and then.
"Remarkable. You're a martial artist, yet how is it you've also mastered medicine?"
"The order is the other way around. I'm not a warrior who learned medicine, but a physician who happened to learn martial arts."
"Eh?"
"The Sichuan Tang Clan is not a martial family—it's a physician's household. I was studying medicine, but by some twist of fate, I stepped onto the martial path."
"…That makes it even more impressive. The physician who was with you—is he your father, then?"
This was perhaps the most outrageous thing Tang Mujin had ever heard in his life.
He forced down his rising fury.
"No. My father is in Chengdu, Sichuan. That old man is merely my traveling companion."
Namgung Myung nodded.
So, Tang Mujin was nothing more than a physician with some martial ability, possessing a great sword but only at second-rate skill. His companions too seemed unremarkable.
None of them posed any threat to the authority of the Namgung Clan.
"Master Tang, may I ask something."
"Yes?"
"That sword of yours… would you consider selling it?"
Tang Mujin paused, then shook his head.
"I cannot. That sword is special to me."
If Namgung Myung had asked him to forge a new one, perhaps he might have agreed.
But the Dan-Hon Sword was out of the question. It was the first sword he had named, the first he had bonded with.
"I see. Understood."
Namgung Myung nodded and withdrew.
That evening, the ship docked at Wuhan in Hubei.
Goiyi, craving a drink after so long, disembarked for a tavern. Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae finished their sparring on deck and went to sleep.
The next morning, Tang Mujin awoke to the realization that both the Dan-Hon Sword—and Namgung Myung—were gone.
…That bastard.