TSBIRBV Ch 226

Chapter 226 Star Instructor of the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains (3)

It went without saying—Haryang was an excellent teacher.

“The Thunder Spirit Fist is a style that drives the opponent back using both hands, a fist technique of extreme swiftness. The deeper one grasps its essence, the faster the movements become. Each punch that tears through the air is said to carry golden qi and resound with thunderous sound.”

Surely he had not had much time to study that manual, yet Haryang seemed to understand the Thunder Spirit Fist as though he had mastered it completely.

“We are not truly going to cultivate this martial art. But knowing its intent and characteristics will make imitating it far easier.”

Explaining its principles and key formulas in brief, Haryang unfolded the sequence of the Thunder Spirit Fist slowly.

His hand stretched forward in a deliberate extension, announcing the beginning of the form. At once, a weighty force rippled outward through the silence.

Yegyeol felt invisible waves spread through the air. Was this what it would feel like to draw water from a deep well and pour it into the void?

Haryang’s movements were as light as if he were floating. Even as he moved slowly, his feet barely seemed to brush the ground, gliding with ethereal grace. The sweep of his hands was important, but equally so were the motions of his feet beneath his robes. He traversed the entire martial arena with such ease that it was clear—anyone who stepped into his reach would be within striking distance.

Yegyeol knew little of martial arts, but he knew beauty when he saw it. The flow of Haryang’s body was beautiful. His hair rustled softly, scattering behind him like dark silk in the wind.

Even after Haryang came to a stop, Yegyeol could not collect his wits, staring at him blankly.

“Because I moved slowly, the thunderous sound does not arise.”

Perhaps embarrassed under Yegyeol’s gaze, Haryang muttered as if in regret.

“…Can you show me at full speed?”

“Of course. But if I did here, the dust would rise terribly.”

Indeed, the training yard floor was nothing but packed dirt.

“Was it always dirt? It looks like… there are outlines, as though something was removed?”

Yegyeol tilted his head. Sure enough, the ground bore marks as if an intact floor had been ripped away.

“No. It had been sealed to prevent dust from rising. But I had it torn up for your training.”

“…Pardon?”

“It’s faster to learn footwork if it’s marked on the ground.”

At this, Yegyeol’s eyelids twitched.

The disciple destroyed entire halls of the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains, while the Senior Brother went so far as to rip out the entire training yard floor used by the sect’s masters for drills.

‘Well… all of this does belong to Senior Brother anyway, so it should be fine, right?’

The Demonic Sect’s powerholders would hardly dare confront Je Haryang over something so trivial as a training yard.

‘No, no… If I count everything I’ve broken—Qilguae Hall, Jinmyeong Hall, Yanghwa Pavilion, Gimyeong Hall, Yeonggil Pavilion—and most recently Qinghyeong Hall that I struck with lightning… it might be dangerous.’

Resolving that he had to treat his Senior Brother very, very well, Yegyeol nodded solemnly.

“Now. Why don’t you try imitating it?”

Whether he knew his disciple’s earnest resolve or not, Haryang invited him kindly.

“Yes.”

Yegyeol answered bravely, though inwardly he was uneasy. Could he truly manage?

He was confident in physical matters thanks to his Esper body, but when it came to martial arts, in his past life he had been called a dunce so often it had drilled into his bones. Compared to the movements Haryang had just shown… could he possibly recreate them?

“Let’s start with the first form.”

Haryang broke the technique into small segments and demonstrated.

“Curl your left hand into a fist and extend it forward. Place your right hand near your chest. The first to strike forward is the left, but the true power lies hidden in the right, which follows to strike the opponent.”

Any anxiety Yegyeol had was swept away—Haryang’s teaching was practically spoon-feeding him.

“Ah. So the very first form is already subtle.”

“More precisely, it is due to the limits of fist techniques. If a swordsman and a pugilist of equal level clash, the sword’s reach is greater. The sword must be forced aside before the fist can strike the body.”

“Ohh.”

With each detail explained, Yegyeol’s imitation became more precise.

“The reason you turn the body here is to gain greater rotational force when the arm swings around after the step. But during that short leap, an opening is created. For now, we will train to imitate the Thunder Spirit Fist as faithfully as possible. Later, I’ll teach you how to handle counters that exploit such flaws.”

He even prepared measures for variations. A cram instructor could hardly do better.

Never mind stealing another man’s martial art—if the Thunder Spirit Master himself rose from the dead, even he could not teach it better than Je Haryang.

‘They say geniuses cannot teach others.’

That was true only of ordinary geniuses, clearly.

Having imprinted every form demonstrated in his mind, Yegyeol began to follow, step by step, as guided.

Watching him, Haryang could not help but be impressed.

To display martial arts without cultivating inner qi was nearly impossible.

This was only natural: no matter how many formulas or movements one memorized, without qi, they could not be executed. It was like an untrained man attempting high-level acrobatics. One might not even attempt—but if one forced it, serious injury often followed.

Yet despite such a disadvantage, Yegyeol managed to sketch out the form using only physical strength. The finer details needed work, but the outline was accurate.

‘…He did say he was reborn in another place, as another being.’

There was no need to pry for clues—Yegyeol proved it at every moment.

“You learn quickly. Your balance is good too.”

“Truly?”

Yegyeol flushed at the praise. It was only because Haryang taught him with such care that his mimicry looked decent at all.

It seemed Haryang had no awareness of what a fine teacher he was. He was too busy praising his unworthy disciple.

Praise may make even whales dance, and Yegyeol could not deny the swell of pride. It was not true martial arts—only mimicry of forms—yet it felt good.

As Yegyeol moved from the fifth to the sixth form, Haryang, who had been observing from a distance, stepped forward. Yegyeol tensed instinctively, glancing for his reaction. Confidence he had in many matters, but not in martial arts. In his past life, even his sole master had deemed him a dullard.

“…Hold a moment.”

A hand reached from behind, tugging his left arm further forward. Haryang’s right foot slid between Yegyeol’s, pressing gently until his legs spread wider.

Though he knew it was mere correction, Yegyeol felt his shoulders stiffen.

As though teasing his imagination, Haryang’s knee brushed his thigh, bending it slightly, shifting his weight. Then, as if that were all, he released him.

“If you move like this, it will flow more smoothly.”

“…Mm.”

“And relax your shoulders. The essence of Thunder Spirit Fist is not sheer force. You need not be as supple as a willow, but if you are too rigid, the flow will break.”

As a stern teacher, Haryang swiftly noticed the tension in his disciple’s shoulders.

At first Yegyeol felt aggrieved—but then, oddly, he found Haryang endearing, dulled by martial seriousness. He stifled a smile.

“Like this?”

Not wishing to invite questions, Yegyeol immediately repeated the form, adjusting according to Haryang’s feedback.

Indeed, though it placed more burden on his knees, his transition from the first to the second move became quicker. Simply widening his stance and bending his knees a little produced a palpable difference.

“Good. Try again.”

Haryang marked the spot of his heel with a light scratch. Yegyeol, seeing him step back, replayed the sequence once more.

A little faster, a little smoother.

His body felt light, almost airborne. He thought, if only this had been possible in my past life. But for now, he was grateful his body obeyed his will.

When he landed with a sharp tak, Haryang tilted his chin toward the ground. Yegyeol, glancing, saw how far the mark had shifted, and his lips parted.

“How is it?”

“It’s amazing. The moves aren’t much different, the steps are the same… but the result is completely changed.”

He could not help wagging like a pleased pup. Haryang smiled, asking,

“Isn’t it fun?”

He looked genuinely delighted. Any lingering resentment in Yegyeol’s chest dissolved.

For a moment, he glimpsed the youth of twenty years past.

That early spring dawn, when frost still rimmed the pond, Je Haryang had drilled thrusts and slashes endlessly, sweat beading on his brow. In those sharp, shining eyes, anyone could see his obsession with the sword.

Two long decades had passed, yet his gaze toward martial arts was unchanged. For some reason, that fact filled Yegyeol with excitement, even joy.

His chest heaved wildly.

This first love, found again after so many turns of fate, was unbearably beautiful.

“Yes!”

Yegyeol answered, face flushed. Excited, he blurted without thinking,

“Senior Brother, you truly are good at teaching martial arts.”

“Am I? Or is it not that you are a good disciple?”

“Mmm. Hardly.”

Senior Brother’s eyes might be clouded by affection, but that much was certainly not the case.

“Truthfully, I am of a constitution that cannot even cultivate martial arts. If I seem able to display the forms, it is entirely thanks to the privilege of your instruction.”

The sincerity laced through his words made Haryang blink in surprise.

“Do not speak of me so grandly. This is my first time teaching anyone.”

Yegyeol gaped. To be such a fine teacher, and yet never have taught before?

“Truly?”

The more he thought on it, the more Haryang’s talent dazzled—almost to the point of fear.

Yegyeol began to suspect Je Haryang might be the unofficial number one under heaven. More than that, he had hinted at creating a martial art tailored precisely to Yegyeol’s needs. And now, he revealed himself to be a masterful teacher?

He was no mere prodigy. He was a genius beyond genius.

“Were you simply born with it?”

Outwardly Yegyeol spoke in awe, but inwardly he cursed furiously.

The orthodox sects deserved to weep blood. Because the morals of the martial world had fallen to ruin, they had lost such a talent wholly to the Demonic Sect.

Had Je Haryang remained in Kunlun and smoothly become the next sect leader, the martial world might have known a century of peace.

Fools.