Six months passed on Jongnam.
The mountain did not change.
Jin Jae-kyung did.
Before dawn, he ran.
The stone paths carved into the mountain were as cruel as ever—uneven, narrow, and unforgiving. Mist clung low to the slopes, and the cold air cut into his lungs with every breath. His footing adjusted instinctively now, his balance recovering faster with each misstep.
Not because it was easy.
Because he had forced it to be.
He slipped once—
Caught himself—
Kept moving.
He always kept moving.
By the time he reached the pavilion of the Wind King, his body was already drenched in sweat, muscles tight, breath heavy but controlled.
He didn't rest.
He picked up the wooden sword.
"Begin."
Yun Cheon-wu stood where he always did—still as the mountain itself.
Jae-kyung stepped forward.
The Sixteen Directional Sword began.
The first motion was clean. The second followed without pause. By the third, his breathing had aligned with Flowing Meridian Breathing, qi circulating in steady, controlled streams.
To anyone watching—
It was the performance of a capable second-rate disciple refining his basics.
Nothing more.
That was the illusion.
Because beneath that steady flow—
Something denser was coiled.
He had already stepped into the First Rate realm weeks ago.
And since then—
He had done nothing but suppress it.
His qi remained compressed deep within his dantian, controlled to the point that not a single fluctuation escaped into his movements.
No coating.
No excess.
No sign.
Only what he chose to show.
"Again."
The fourth transition—
"Late."
Corrected.
"Too rigid."
Adjusted.
"Again."
He repeated.
Again.
And again.
Until thought faded and only motion remained.
—
By midday, his body was nearing collapse.
That was when Yun Cheon-wu changed the training.
"Up."
Jae-kyung followed.
The path behind the pavilion was harsher—steep inclines, jagged stone, narrow climbs that demanded full control of body and balance.
"Climb."
He climbed.
Hands gripping rough rock. Feet searching for purchase.
Halfway up—
His hand slipped.
His body dropped—
He caught himself with one arm, muscles screaming as he forced himself back up.
No hesitation.
No pause.
Just movement.
At the top, his breathing broke for a moment.
"Again."
He went down.
Climbed again.
And again.
By the end, his arms trembled, his legs barely holding his weight.
Only then—
"Eat."
He sat.
Rice.
Broth.
Meat.
A lot of it.
He ate everything without pause.
His body demanded it.
Rebuilt itself through it.
Across from him, Yun Cheon-wu watched silently.
Said nothing.
But did not look away.
—
Eat.
Train.
Sleep.
Repeat.
The days blurred into one another.
No variation.
No rest.
—
Night was different.
The mountain quieted.
And Jin Jae-kyung began again.
Seated alone, his breathing slowed.
Then shifted.
The smooth rhythm of Flowing Meridian Breathing disappeared.
In its place—
Structure.
Qi aligned into precise pathways, forming an intricate internal grid.
The Great Heavenly Meridian Circulation Art.
The moment it activated—
Qi surged.
Fast.
Violently fast.
The surrounding energy was drawn into his body and refined instantly into something dense, pure, and overwhelming.
Even for a first-rate master—
It was excessive.
His meridians strained.
His dantian filled too quickly.
Pressure built.
Jae-kyung exhaled slowly.
Still not enough.
Not the method.
The body.
He compressed the flow. Slowed it. Refined what he could and forced the rest into stillness.
Again.
And again.
He had already mastered this method.
But his body hadn't caught up.
Not yet.
One year… maybe two.
Until then—
Control.
Always control.
The qi settled.
Silence returned.
—
He stood.
Picked up the wooden sword.
And moved.
Not the Sixteen Directions.
Not even thirty-two.
The first step alone would have exposed him.
Angles shifted unnaturally. Movements overlapped. Transitions compressed into something far beyond what a disciple should know.
The One Hundred Twenty-Eight Directional Sword.
Incomplete in execution.
Perfect in understanding.
His body strained to keep up.
He stopped before it broke.
Always before.
Always hidden.
No one could know.
—
"…You're still alive?"
The voice came from behind.
Jae-kyung didn't turn immediately.
"…Barely."
Jin So-yeong stood nearby, arms crossed, her gaze scanning him with open disapproval.
"You look terrible."
"…You look proud."
She blinked.
"…What?"
"You're glowing."
Her chin lifted instinctively.
"I broke through."
"Second rate?"
"…Third."
He tilted his head slightly.
"…Slow."
Silence.
"…Say that again."
"You're slow."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I train every day."
"So have I."
"That's not the same."
"…Why not?"
She hesitated.
Jae-kyung smiled faintly.
"You could've reached second rate by now."
"…You're unbelievable."
"You don't push hard enough."
"I do."
"You don't."
Her grip tightened.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
That only made it worse.
"You think you're better than me?"
"…Right now?"
A glance.
"…Yeah."
"…You're insufferable."
"You're slow."
"Shut up."
But she didn't leave.
Didn't walk away.
Instead—
She stayed.
Thinking.
That stubborn spark flickered in her eyes.
Jae-kyung watched quietly.
Good.
In his previous life, she had trained—
But not like this.
Not consistently.
Because of him.
Because they had wasted time.
Snuck away.
Chosen ease over growth.
Not this time.
"…Then train more," he said.
She scoffed.
"I will."
"Good."
"…Don't sound like you're testing me."
"I am."
"…I'll surpass you."
He smiled.
"…Try."
A pause.
"…You're overdoing it," she muttered.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I've been worse."
"…That's not comforting."
He stepped forward.
"Come on."
"…What?"
"You're here."
"…So?"
"Train."
She blinked.
"…Now?"
"Yes."
"…You don't rest, do you?"
"No."
"…Idiot."
But she picked up a wooden sword anyway.
"…Don't cry when you lose."
"I won't."
They stepped onto the training ground.
A short distance.
A breath.
Then—
They moved.
Her strike came fast.
Cleaner than before.
Sharper.
He deflected.
Not easily.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
Always just enough.
They exchanged blows.
Wood met wood.
Step.
Turn.
Flow.
He matched her pace.
Guided without showing it.
Pushed without overwhelming.
She improved with each exchange.
Her movements steadier.
Her focus sharper.
Finally—
She stepped back, breathing slightly heavier.
"…You're annoying."
"You're improving."
"…Barely."
"Still slow."
"…I hate you."
"…No, you don't."
She turned away.
"…Idiot."
But she didn't leave immediately.
And her grip on the sword—
Didn't loosen.
—
The mountain remained unchanged.
The wind remained the same.
But this time—
They wouldn't waste it.