The Warriors of the Lee Family Estate
A group of martial artists climbed up toward where Sowoon sat.
They were warriors from Lee Family Estate (李家莊), sent as support from Lady Lee Sogun's natal household.
The bright fire and gathered figures made the place easy to spot even from afar.
They had never seen combat like the White Dragon Unit's formation battle.
It was entirely different from what they called martial arts.
It bore no resemblance to sparring in the jianghu, where techniques were exchanged, forms measured, names assigned, and movements imbued with layered meaning.
The martial arts they knew unfolded step by step—block, strike, evade, counter—each move flowing into the next with deliberate refinement.
Even the smallest gesture earned a name, and that name invited admiration and debate.
It was a world where martial skill could almost become a kind of cultivated art.
But there had been no such leisure on today's battlefield.
There was no time to name a movement.
No space to analyze a technique.
There was only cutting, pressing forward, and breaking the enemy line.
It was swordplay for slaughter.
And at the same time, it was desperate struggle to survive within that slaughter.
Shouts, pain, and tears erupted not by ones or twos but by the hundreds and thousands.
Chaos fused into a single roaring resonance.
Real combat ended quickly.
In formation battles, even more so.
Victory was decided within one or two exchanges.
There was almost no prolonged blocking and countering.
Those who blocked were driven back.
Those driven back fell.
One stroke was the conclusion.
The stronger prevailed.
Those who pushed forward prevailed.
A wound was not part of an ongoing exchange.
A single wound meant death.
They had never witnessed a battlefield where life and death were divided by a single stroke.
In martial sparring there was submission, acknowledgment, restraint.
On the battlefield there was none.
Fail to cut once, and you were cut.
When a formation pressed forward, individual brilliance meant nothing.
The cruelty defied words.
Even the infamous demonic masters shunned by the jianghu would seem of a different nature than this.
A demonic master's violence was personal madness.
The battlefield's violence was structural madness.
A military campaign, in its truest form, existed to protect the people.
To preserve the state.
That justification moved soldiers' bodies.
That meaning allowed them to endure death.
But this was civil war.
Kin struck down kin.
The righteousness that should have anchored the blade had grown faint.
The meaning of the fight had thinned.
Slaughter carried out upon diluted justification felt hollow.
And therefore, more cruel.
The formation battle alone would have shaken them.
But what unsettled them even more were the two sword strokes Sowoon had executed at the center.
It was not a matter of technique.
It was a matter of realm.
He had swung twice.
Both strokes were identical.
A single dividing line that cleaved space into upper and lower halves.
Everything along that line was severed.
Chests, waists, throats parted at once.
Dozens collapsed in a single instant.
The sword form was so simple it required no explanation.
There was not even the slightest ornamentation.
And because of that simplicity, it was incomprehensible.
It did not feel like something a human being should be capable of.
Curiosity burrowed into their chests.
How did one reach such a realm?
From where did that power arise?
Upon that question was layered another desire—
I wish to become like that.
Even knowing their boldness bordered on impropriety, they stepped forward.
Not fully understanding the difference in weight between sparring and war, they approached in awe of Sowoon's blade.
Yang Johwi moved to intercept them below.
He judged it unwise for them to approach now.
Time spent alone, lost in thought, belonged wholly to the individual.
For the moment, it was best to leave him undisturbed.
"It is not a good time. Please, not now. He has suffered a shock. Meet him later."
"Internal injury?"
Having witnessed Sowoon's martial display, they feared backlash from overexertion.
"Not that. It is more… mental. Ideological. Complicated. Leaving him alone is the best help."
"Could we not assist? We did not come solely for that. We are from the General's wife's family."
At the word "wife's family," Yang Johwi narrowed his eyes.
That meant Lee Sogun's natal house.
Lee Family Estate was no trivial presence in the jianghu.
"You are martial artists."
"Yes."
"What is it that you seek?"
"We wish to understand the child's condition. And the essence of that overwhelming sword art. It is sincere curiosity as martial artists."
Their conversation ended when Sowoon descended.
He had heard the word "natal house" and knew he must show proper courtesy.
Lee Sogun was like a mother to him now.
To live in this world meant following its customs.
To transcend one's realm yet ignore propriety would make one nothing more than strange.
Sowoon came down slowly and bowed.
"I am Yu Sowoon."
"Ah… the one they call Scholar Yu…"
"Yes. Thank you for your assistance."
He knew of their support.
They had aided the battle, provided intelligence, supplied provisions, sent men and funds.
There was no greater help than that.
Gratitude must be repaid.
Living itself was cultivation.
Once the thought was settled, action became simple.
"First, I thank you for your help. I heard you were curious. What is it you wish to know?"
"We too are martial artists. We wish to know the name of that sword form."
Of course.
Martial artists sought to grasp reality through naming it.
"What would you accomplish by naming it? It is a blade of ruthless slaughter. It has no name, nor deserves one. Outwardly, it resembles a single form of Sweeping a Thousand Armies. The essence lies in how breath and flow are layered upon it. Lay the sword upon the current, unravel the breath, and divide space. That is the principle. But it is impossible for you now."
"May we know its origin? Its root?"
They asked this scarcely after leaving the field of slaughter.
They did not understand Sowoon's fatigue.
"The Imperial Palace. But not anymore. It has returned to its original state."
"If there is internal injury, we could assist in recovery…"
They feared the backlash of excessive internal force.
Sowoon shook his head.
"It is not injury. I simply dislike slaughter. I dislike that I must do it. If there were a path where I need not…"
He made clear it was neither internal damage nor deviation.
Lee Sojin gestured toward the ground.
"Then may we sit for a moment?"
Sowoon reluctantly allowed it.
He wished for nothing.
But they were his aunt's kin.
So he sat with them.
To endure and remain together, even when one does not wish to—
that too may be part of living.