reckpr

Pain. The pain of broken bones.

The blow strikes him square in the chest. His final memories are of falling toward the bottom of the cliff, defiant even at death's door, and deeply humiliated.

Where is he? Is he dead, or...?

The ground at the bottom of this cliff is surprisingly soft...

Urk...

Where... am I?

(Looks down at his bandaged wound)

Someone rescued me.... I didn't die! Incredible!

The old man struggles out of bed and grabs his sword.

He looks around, wanting to thank the one who saved his life. Surveying the space, he finds it unadorned yet orderly, with books and scrolls neatly arranged—a sign of an exceptionally conscientious owner.

An open notebook lies on the table. The old man, drawn to the handwriting, starts flipping through the pages.

Such steady handwriting. Not a single unnecessary flourish. If the writer isn't a calligrapher, then they must be someone who's honed their craft for decades.

'On Martial Arts': 'Ten years gathering every style under Heaven, yet the true meaning seems ever more distant and elusive.'

The old man flips the page, the hairs on his white beard immediately stand up.

There are detailed drawings of a scene he immediately recognizes—the fight where his enemy knocked him off the cliff.

Annotations line the edges of the drawings. They point out his blunder—his failure to handle his enemy's underhanded trick. They even show a clever counter. The old man's face flushes hot, a breath pressing tight in his chest.

The old man steadies himself against the wall and hurries out. Outside, there's a narrow river with a hemp rope stretched across it. A young man walks toward him on the rope, which doesn't sway in the slightest.

The young man crosses the rope with one hand behind his back, the other holding vegetables, moving as if it's simply part of his daily training. When he spots the old man, he heads over to him. He's clearly the owner of the house.

You're awake, elder! How do you feel?

What is your relationship to that bastard?!

I think there's some misunderstanding. I don't know you at all. I was out for a walk when I saw you lying there, unconscious, clearly having fallen off that cliff, and I brought you back to my house.

You're lying! You were there when I fought him! You were watching!

Oh. You're referring to the sketches in my book? My apologies. I simply guessed what might have happened, based on my own intuition.

You guessed?!

The calluses on your hands, your sinewy arms, your strong calves, and the wear patterns on your sword gave me a rough idea of your fighting style. Factoring in your injuries, I was able to piece together what happened.

I spent some time in the army scribbling down other people's techniques—it's just a little thing I picked up.

Hmm...so maybe I was mistaken... it was a misunderstanding.

*cough* Sorry about that. I'm Chen Xiuqing, the owner of the sword hall up on the mountain. May I ask your name?

I'm Yun Qingping. I'm taking some time away from work to travel and reflect.

Cultivating the mind, hmm… But you know, if young people get too caught up in theory, it can get in the way of real practice. You should understand—the counters you've written only work on paper.

You know your sword well, elder—naturally you're right. When you deliver that strike, your balance is already off, and with the weight of the sword itself, it's impossible to reach the throat.

However, to make your blade land exactly on the sweet spot, you just need to make a small adjustment.

Oh! Tell me! What kind of adjustment?

Elder, the sword you use has an unusual shape, with a tip that's heavier than a typical blade. You might be used to it and not notice any issue, but why not try hooking your index finger around the guard.

Absurd! Do you think a sword grip is that easy to change?!

It takes years, even over a decade of practice. I'm only telling you it's possible—whether you choose to do it is up to you.

Chen Xiuqing looks skeptical but walks off, deep in thought. A moment later, the sounds of sword practice echo from behind the house.

The sound of sword practice halts, then resumes, then halts again, as if he's working through it carefully. Suddenly, he staggers back to Yun, sword in hand.

How did you know that would work?

Your sword's center of gravity is only slightly shifted, but in many battles, that tiny discrepancy makes all the difference.

At your age? You can't handle it... but you're going to accept it!

This bow is my thanks to you for saving my life!

Oh...?

And with this bow...

Chen Xiuqing stiffens his neck, as if forcing himself to bow. He struggles for a long moment, lets out a pained sigh, and finally lowers his head in another bow.

I ask you to take me as your apprentice in swordsmanship!

What...?

Elder, you don't need to follow me. The riverbank's damp—it's bad for your injury. And don't raise the idea of taking me as your teacher again. I've explained it so many times. I just record techniques; I couldn't possibly call myself a teacher.

I've been watching you here all this time. What are you up to?

Fincatching, and observing. The fins and the water are one. Let your eyes see and your heart understand...

Wha—

Wow!

You should have told me this earlier! They all floated to the surface! I'll go scoop them up for you... Young on.... master, how many fins do you need?

Elder...what happened to all the weeds in this field? How are your injuries?

Hahaha! Young people really do have a lazy streak. No need to thank me—I cleared the weeds and brought the water. These old bones are still strong! If there's anything else that needs doing, just say the word!

Good sir, sit down. Let us chat for a bit.

Yun Qingping quietly lowers his rolled-up sleeves, forced to abandon his plan to exercise by weeding the field. He sits in the bare field with a sigh, finally asking the question he'd been deliberately avoiding.

Elder, why do you wish to become my apprentice?

Sigh... tsk... sigh! All right, I'll be honest with you. A man can be killed but not humiliated. I have a score to settle.

My trusted disciple has betrayed me. I taught that bastard everything I knew, but he sold his honor for a pittance. He destroyed my sword hall's reputation just to make me sell him that plot of land.

If I was 20 years younger, no, 10 years younger, that scoundrel would never have dared to engage me in combat!

Even if you improve your swordsmanship, elder, what will that change?

Whether he used dirty tricks or not, losing to him just means my skills weren't good enough. I accept that!

But if I don't settle this grudge, how can I bear this humiliation? How can I hold my head up high among the other fighters?

But you want to learn 'revenge swordplay' from me, elder. I'm afraid that...

Ugh...

Come here, child. I added some painkillers to this medicine. After you drink it, your pain will go away.

Also, I'm usually the only person in this clinic. You don't have to grit your teeth and stifle your groans.

(Drinks the medicine)

You are really a brave child. Go to sleep. Get your rest. That's the only way you'll heal.

Doctor... my parents were killed by criminals. Ever since then, I've been on my own...

I heard you tried to save your parents with a sword, but those men knocked you down into the fields. You held on until the Grandmaster found you. You're a strong boy.

From now on, I'll have to take care of myself... About my injuries, could you be honest with me? Can I really get better?

Of course... there's a high probability that you'll recover.

Uhuh... And after I get better? What then?

Umm... well. Rest assured, your wounds are not fatal. After you recover, you should be able to stand again.

Alright.

But even if you're able to walk, your body will be weaker than most people's. From now on, you need to treat it like a sandcastle in the rain. Movements or impacts that wouldn't harm others could cause you to collapse.

Okay. Thank you for your honesty.

(Bites down to conceal the pain) (Begins to sob silently)

...in the beginning, I was fine. Before they arrived, everything was fine...

The child pounds the bed with his feeble fists, venting his anger again and again. The bandages soak with blood once more, yet he seems not to feel the pain.

The medic says nothing. Faced with someone in such tragic circumstances, anything he might say feels pointless.

Ah, listen to the sounds outside—that's the Grandmaster returning with his men. I heard they captured the whole gang that attacked your family.

Yun Qingping immediately struggles to sit up. Seeing the anger in his eyes, the medic instinctively steps forward to steady him. He wants to help him see his enemies brought to justice with his own eyes.

However, when he finally manages to sit up, he seems to think of something. After hesitating for a long moment, he slowly turns his head away, towards the wall.

No. I don't want to look… If this pain is going to last my whole life… I don't want to see their faces every time it hurts.

I'm not letting go of my hatred for them—I'm just freeing myself.

Young Master?

Elder, did I disturb you by talking in my sleep?

We all have stuff we'd rather not talk about. Don't worry—I didn't hear anything.

We can't change the past, but we can still shape our future.

What are you mumbling about? If you don't need anything, I'd like to go back to sleep.

Dear elder, since you actually called me, 'master,' I suppose I must accept your request. I have only one thing to ask of you in return—

What is it? Tell me!

While you're studying swordsmanship with me, you may not unsheathe your sword.

What? You want me to study swordsmanship without wielding my sword?! I've taught swordsmanship my whole life, I—

Starting now, at least for the time being, you are my student.

Ngh—

First day of practice