The Compendium – Gathering the Breath (畜氣)
As the night deepened, the training yard gradually fell silent.
At first it had been filled with grunts, labored breathing, and the sharp crack of pebbles striking foreheads.
But now those sounds thinned out.
Those who had crossed into a steadier rhythm sank inward, focusing.
Those whose legs trembled and nearly buckled refused to stand upright.
If they swayed, they swayed in place.
They would rather faint than be the first to quit.
Soun moved quietly among them.
His role had changed without announcement.
He was no longer merely the boy who could read old texts.
He had become their guide.
Earlier, he had been sitting cross-legged in his room when General Lee called him.
Now he walked barefoot across the packed earth, careful not to disturb the others.
The yard was so still that even breath sounded loud.
The men who had been muttering passages earlier no longer spoke aloud.
They had realized something important.
The text was not meant to be shouted.
It was meant to be breathed.
The method required inhalation and exhalation exactly as written.
Reciting with the mouth alone wasted strength.
The breath had to follow the cadence of the verse.
The second and third groups—the ones who had failed to memorize—were the most desperate.
Their pride had been wounded.
Some believed they lagged behind because they were slow with words.
But slowness with letters did not mean slowness with the body.
Some men are born for ink.
Some for numbers.
Some for steel.
Those who struggled with characters now clenched their jaws and tried with a different kind of stubbornness.
If they could not conquer the text with the mind, they would seize it with the body.
They finally understood: the true assignment was not memorization.
It was Qi awareness.
And that was not simple.
General Lee hoped they would find it at the edge of exhaustion.
At the boundary where muscle failed and something else rose to take its place.
The yard grew quiet.
Not empty—quiet.
Breathing synchronized.
A faint heat seemed to gather in the air, not from the torches but from the men themselves.
They had never lacked hunger for martial skill.
They had lacked teachers.
Soun leaned close to one soldier and whispered gently, but in the stillness his voice carried clearly to many.
"Imagine there's a round wind inside your belly. When you breathe in, it grows. When you breathe out, it shrinks. Keep it round… yes, like that. Don't open your mouth."
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only encouragement.
He did not command.
He invited.
One of the older men, Dong-il—the same man who had once greeted Soun at the gate of the farming outpost—stood stiffly in horse stance, face tight with frustration.
Soun stopped in front of him.
"Uncle Dong-il, narrow your eyes just a little. If you close them fully, you'll fall asleep standing. Keep them half open. Stay awake."
Dong-il obeyed.
The pain in his legs was sharp.
But the deeper pain was failing while a child succeeded.
Soun suddenly grinned and pumped his fist softly.
"That's it. You've got it."
Dong-il swallowed hard.
Thank you, Soun.
Sometimes a man endures because someone is watching him.
He inhaled again.
This time he felt something different.
A widening below the navel.
A hollow space that was not empty.
He followed the verse carefully:
Draw the night air into the lungs.
Guide it downward.
Let it sink.
The doubt came first.
Is this it?
He tried again.
And again.
The trembling in his hands steadied.
His stance locked into place like a mountain post.
General Lee struck Soun lightly on the head.
"You passed him."
Lee stepped before Dong-il, placed his palm near the man's lower abdomen, and listened—not with ears, but with presence.
"Do you feel it?"
Dong-il nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Yoo Gun-myeong."
"Good. Continue for one more hour. Then rest."
Gun-myeong had been lucky enough to receive a shorter text, but more than that, he had watched Soun grow.
He believed this could work.
More hands slowly rose.
Some were uncertain.
Soun sometimes lifted their hands for them.
When Lee examined them, Soun was almost always correct.
His own cultivation had been sincere.
He recognized the pattern.
Night dew began to settle on shoulders and sleeves.
Those who were dismissed did not truly leave.
They sat nearby and tried to rediscover the sensation.
"It worked earlier… why not now?" Gun-myeong muttered.
Lee gathered them.
"That's enough for tonight. At dawn we begin Qi accumulation."
"What's accumulation?" someone asked foolishly.
Lee's stick tapped the man's head.
"If you don't know, ask tomorrow. Be here at the hour of the Tiger."
Qi awareness, accumulation, circulation—these could not happen all at once.
Lee would advance those who could advance.
Those ahead would eventually teach those behind.
At first, instructors had been scarce.
Now they were multiplying.
One by one, more men rose from the circles and withdrew.
Nearly three-quarters succeeded in sensing something.
In truth, that number bordered on miraculous.
Twenty-five remained.
They were slower, softer around the waist, prone to appetite and laziness.
But also gentle by nature.
Lee looked at them with something close to pity.
"Stand straight."
Their knees shook as they rose.
He returned to his commander's voice.
"Touch the far pillar and run ten laps."
Their exhausted bodies stumbled into motion.
Even they had reasons to learn.
If they were to live by the sword, they had to earn it.
After ten laps, he dismissed them.
Only Lee and Soun remained.
"Well done, Scholar."
"Hehe… it was nothing. But General… how did you know I could do that?"
Lee snorted. "There are ways to know. You don't know me, do you?"
Soun blinked. "I… think I understand."
Lee could read another's Qi.
A master of internal force sees what others cannot.
"Go sleep. Tomorrow will be harder."
Lee stared into the dying fire.
Half a month… perhaps a month. Is that enough to start them properly? Do we even have that much time?
If time allowed, he might turn soldiers into martial artists.
If time allowed.