People on the Cliff
Pyo Chung relayed the cliffside conversation to the others without delay. Since it was merely confirmation of something that was bound to come eventually, he saw no reason to keep it hidden.
The news unsettled the villagers, but there was no alternative.
The decision had already been made, and each person had only to carry out their part.
Whether from unease or determination, the work sped up even more.
Thick ropes crossed the gorge several times.
The first three became the foundation where planks would be laid; the ropes that followed became handholds.
The next task was the most dangerous and the most crucial: laying the planks.
"Slowness is fine. Even one plank a day is fine. But if anything feels wrong, retreat at once."
Depending only on the trembling ropes, the villagers lay flat on their stomachs as they fixed the planks.
After setting a plank across, they tied its ends, then fastened it tightly by lashing it to the handropes and support lines.
One slip meant death. And it was a task no one else could help with.
Tang Mujin, watching, felt the absence of Dan seol-yeong keenly.
It would have been better if Seolyung were here.
Even doing the same task, she always found safer and more efficient methods.
But she wasn't there, and the villagers, along with Tang Mujin, could think of no better way.
At best, Tang Mujin tied strong safety loops around the workers' bodies so that, if they fell, they might hang suspended instead of plummeting.
"I thought I was done for the moment the ropes swayed, but suddenly my body just stopped in midair! Then I dangled and swung, and beneath me there was just nothing…"
"Do you know how shocked the rest of us were watching? It's a miracle you lived."
"If not for Physician Tang, I'd be gone. Truly…"
It seemed small, but thanks to those loops, three who fell beneath the planks survived. It was no small thing.
Slowly, the work neared completion. And still, no saboteurs appeared.
Hope began to grow—that perhaps this time, the bridge would be finished without interference.
It was then that Namgung Myeong, who had been in hiding in Nakseong Village, returned.
"They're coming. Be ready."
No one asked who.
***
Nogun Samgeom, Tang Mujin, and Namgung Myeong left the cliff and went to the predetermined pass.
Tang Mujin asked Namgung Myeong:
"How many do you think?"
"More than twenty, fewer than thirty. Hard to say who's a villager and who belongs to the Taeui Sword Sect's master."
"Hmm."
At least a four-to-one disadvantage, possibly six-to-one.
"We'll fight too!"
Several quick-witted young villagers followed, eager to join. They were those too young to be allowed in the bridgework.
But Danglang and Sanjeo refused firmly.
"Even if you come, you won't help. Against foes like these, an untrained swing won't land."
"At least we add numbers!"
"This is Nogunsan. Numbers mean nothing."
Nogunsan's peaks were linked by narrow ledges, no wider than a man's shoulders. No matter how many enemies came, only a few could cross at once.
That was why Nogun Samgeom had agreed to stand with Tang Mujin against the master of the Taeui Sword Sect. The terrain gave them a chance.
But the village youths would not retreat easily. With Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong—both younger than themselves—heading into battle, their pride balked at being left behind.
"Still, isn't something better than nothing?"
"If you truly wish to help, then watch from afar. If it looks like we'll lose, guide the others to safety. That would help most. In fact, it would be best if you led them away right now."
The Sword Sect's master wanted the villagers alive; he would not kill those who did not resist. But other hot-headed fighters might. To prevent disaster, it was wisest to evacuate in advance.
Reluctantly, the youths withdrew. With a role assigned, their burden eased.
***
The five took position at the pass leading to Nogun Village, waiting for the Sword Sect's men to come.
The weather in Nogunsan was always capricious. In a single day, anything could happen.
This morning, the sky had been clear. Now it was filled with heavy, gray clouds.
Still, rain was not certain. In Nogunsan, darker clouds often passed without incident, and lightning sometimes struck from a clear sky.
Namgung Myeong looked more tense than usual, fingers fidgeting at his right hip where his sword should be. The absence unsettled him.
Tang Mujin grinned.
"What's wrong, nervous?"
Namgung Myeong nodded.
"Of course I am. This is my first time fighting for my life against other men."
"…What?"
Tang Mujin stared, thinking he had misheard. But Namgung Myeong wasn't joking.
"Truly?"
"Never had a life-and-death duel. As a boy, I trained sword forms in the family manor. My first wanderings ended clumsily. After that, I left home and worked as a guard. Oh—dispatching a few clumsy bandits doesn't count."
"…Unusual."
"Unusual? Hardly. How many men ever truly face a death duel in their lives?"
True enough, Tang Mujin thought.
He counted his own brushes with death.
In Jueul Village, once against the twin killers Ja-yang. In Junggyeong, once against the former sect master Jang Sang-chae.
He had fought Green Forest bandits handling blackstone, battled the man in black, slain Baek Choo-seo, and killed more than a few assassins of the Killing Veil.
…It makes me sound like some monstrous killer.
He had never thought about it before, but the number of lives he had taken was higher than expected.
In fact, Tang Mujin had little experience with simple sparring. A few bouts with wooden swords against Hong Geolgae or branch-matches with Namgung Myeong—that was all.
Every other time had been life or death. Each time he drew his blade, someone had died. And one day, it might be his turn.
Nogun Samgeom listened with interest, especially when Namgung Myeong mentioned the word family clan.
"So Young Hero Myeong is from a great clan? To be called a clan, it must be no ordinary family."
"Which clans have we visited before? I can't recall well—it was long ago."
"We saw the Jegal Clan and the Namgung Clan, I think."
At the mention of the Namgung Clan, Namgung Myeong flinched. Luckily, Nogun Samgeom didn't notice.
"Visit? We never even stepped past their gates."
"Who said anything about stepping inside? Just reaching the grounds counts as a visit."
"Does it? Anyway, which clan are you from, Young Hero Myeong?"
"…Even if I told you, you wouldn't know."
"Bah, trying to keep it secret?"
Namgung Myeong gave an awkward smile. Nogun Samgeom chuckled.
"Since things have come this far, I'll ask. What is the level of your martial arts, the two of you?"
He suspected Tang Mujin and Namgung Myeong had reached the threshold of mastery, but knew no more.
Tang Mujin shrugged. Whether he counted his poison arts or not made the answer very different.
"I find it difficult to say exactly. I walk a somewhat unusual path, and even I don't know my own level with precision."
"And you, Young Hero Myeong?"
"I was recognized as a first-class martial artist at seventeen."
"…Truly?"
Nogun Samgeom's expression grew subtle.
In the great sects or clans, even entering the first-class realm at twenty was considered a sign of remarkable talent.
Nogun Samgeom himself was a first-class martial artist now, but when he had first ventured into the martial world at twenty, he had only been second-class, just reaching toward the threshold.
Even that much was not something the Wudang Sect would be scorned for.
But to reach first-class at seventeen—that was not mere talent, but the realm of genius.
Nogun Samgeom thought Namgung Myeong's claim might be embellished, but he didn't press him on it.
"To reach first-class at seventeen by mastering the Internal Energy Method… that would have placed you at the forefront of the young elites."
"I wasn't foremost. There was one person whose martial ability surpassed mine."
That meant: across all of Central Plains, among the young elites, he had been second best.
Namgung Myeong's words held immense pride, yet because of the way he phrased them, they strangely sounded humble.
"…Oh? And who was this extraordinary figure?"
"Wudang Sect's Rising Dragon Sword, Hyeongong. He was a year older than me, but before he turned twenty-two, he had already crossed the wall of perfection."
"…Hmm."
Nogun Samgeom's expression twisted faintly.
They themselves had committed a shameful act and could not return to Wudang for decades. Yet their identity as Wudang martial artists remained.
Hearing of such a prodigy emerging from their sect filled them with pride, but at the same time, they felt a sting of envy toward someone who had surpassed their level at such a young age.
Fortunately, pride outweighed the envy, so it did not turn into self-reproach.
"But tell me—how did you end up working as a caravan guard with such skill?"
"Well… it just sort of happened."
"I am very curious how one simply happens to become a caravan guard…"
Since Namgung Myeong could not tell the truth, sweat formed on his brow as he spun wild tales.
That he had dreamed of being a caravan guard since childhood, and had trained martial arts to become the very best of them—nonsense like that. Nogun Samgeom pretended to be swept along, responding with exaggerated nods.
Facing a fight to the death, such banter might have seemed frivolous. But it had its purpose: lighthearted chatter eased the suffocating tension tightening around their bodies.
Time passed, until Namgung Myeong's improvisations reached the limits of imagination. Then, a group ascending the mountain path came into sight.
The five stopped talking and fixed their gazes on the new arrivals.
"Let's see… twenty-three."
"The man at the front—he's the master of the Taeui Sword Sect, isn't he?"
"Yes. That fellow's aged quite a bit."
The sect master wore white robes, and seemed well past sixty. Yet his face showed none of the lethargy or dullness of old age.
He was undoubtedly advanced in years, but to call him an old man felt wrong. That, Tang Mujin thought, was surely the aura of one who had reached perfection.
The realm of perfection carried special meaning. It was a tier utterly distinct from all below first-class.
Martial artists used many expressions to describe progress: one had attained second-class achievement, or entered the first-class realm. But no one ever said surpassed the wall of first-class.
That phrase was reserved solely for those who had reached perfection or beyond.
If there was a barrier between second-class and first-class, then perfection began with a wall.
That wall was towering and immense. And how to move beyond it—whether to pierce through, go around, or climb over—no one could say. Nor was there any guarantee of crossing, even with a lifetime of effort.
The region one suddenly arrived at in old age, after reaching first-class late in life—that was perfection. Yet the region a youthful prodigy who attained first-class at eighteen could still fail to reach even at seventy—that, too, was perfection.
Did one break through, go around, or leap over the wall? No one knew. Some even doubted the very existence of what lay beyond.
Because the wall was so vast and solid, people simply said: there is a wall on the path to perfection.
Goiyi had spoken much the same. He had told Tang Mujin that ranks like third-class, second-class, and first-class were trifles, not worth fussing over.
A third-class thrust into a first-class's throat still killed. Goiyi used to say it all the time.
But the realm of perfection was different. Goiyi, who treated all things in the world with a casual "such things happen," never once claimed that a first-class martial artist could defeat one who had reached perfection.
At first, Tang Mujin had thought that was just Goiyi boasting, since he himself was a master of perfection.
But the Shaolin monks he had met had said much the same: the path to perfection was unlike anything else, and between first-class and perfection stood a wall.
Yet no one, not even Goiyi who saw the world so clearly, could explain precisely what that "something" was.
And among the five gathered here, none knew it either.
Breaking the silence, Pyo Chung murmured:
"Let's proceed as planned."
Their strategy was simple.
Among the enemy, only the sect master was a master of perfection.
Tang Mujin would block the narrow path with his poison arts, while the other four attacked the sect master together.
Simple and clear—but the best tactic they could devise.
They steadied their breathing and blocked the path ahead.
Twenty-three ascended the trail, while five barred the way. Their gazes crossed, sharp and restless.
Then Tang Mujin, with his keener senses, noticed something amiss.
"…Wait. Why are there two masters of perfection?"
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