Chapter 81. Youngwoo's Training – Attainment
Gyeongtaek darted off like a squirrel and came back with Youngwoo's belt, the one with his sword hanging from it.
"Try a form. It'll be different."
"Alright."
Youngwoo took the sword and unfolded his stance.
A sequence he had practiced every day—so familiar it had long since grown dull—flowed lightly from him.
It was deep into the night, when every breath had settled.
The tent cloth held the darkness within it, sinking into stillness, while outside a faint wind brushed past, nudging the tip of the blade ever so slightly.
He caught that passing movement with his senses.
Unbelievable.
The embers had long died, yet a trace of warmth lingered thinly in the air.
In that quiet, Youngwoo's eyes opened softly.
There was no hesitation in the way he rose.
Caught between sleep and waking, he stood following the rhythm of his own breath.
His feet touched the ground without leaving the slightest trace, and he took up the sword.
The feel of the hilt in his hand connected naturally, like a habit etched over years.
The blade lifted.
In the darkness, only its trajectory lived, a thin line drawn through the air.
He turned.
His body flowed first, the sword following, tracing a circle.
Without breaking, that flow dropped diagonally.
The sound of air parting split faintly.
He raised and received.
There was no thought of "blocking."
It simply rose and held.
Above that, his feet crossed, and his body advanced.
He cut again.
Thrust, withdraw, continue.
No pause.
Only continuation.
The form continued, but its order vanished.
The learned structure dissolved, leaving only the path his body knew.
There was no obstruction in moving forward and gathering it back.
The motion was light, clear.
The sword flowed, the body followed.
The body flowed, the sword followed.
Then—
From the tip of the blade, a silver light spilled out like threads.
Not points, but a stream.
Not stars, but strands.
Fine lines unraveled from the tip, weaving into the air.
One strand, then another.
They unwound like skeins of thread and fell.
They followed half a beat behind the sword's path,
as if light, awakening late, chased after the blade.
Between the silver, streaks of gold flashed.
A breaking light.
Shattering into fragments, scattering, then gathering into ripples.
In the darkness, those ripples moved slowly.
The quiet night deepened as it received that light.
Youngwoo did not know.
His awareness remained only within the form.
To complete one motion fully, and then the next—
that alone held him.
To finish the path the blade drew, completely.
That was all.
Yet his body had already reached somewhere else.
His feet left the ground.
Lightly, yet undeniably.
He crossed the air.
In a single movement, he traversed space.
He cleared a long span in an instant.
Where his body landed, the sword continued again.
No break.
No halt.
He repeated.
The same form—yet never the same flow.
Little by little, he drifted farther away.
From the edge of the tent, from the breath of the camp.
Deeper into the darkness.
The night had grown so still even breathing faded.
Only the path of the sword remained.
His eyes were open, yet saw nothing.
His ears were open, yet heard nothing.
A dream wrapped around his body, and his body unfolded that dream 그대로.
The night held him, asking nothing.
How much time had passed?
Only then did Youngwoo realize—
he had achieved it.
He had no idea how far he had come.
The movements of his practice had grown large, carrying him far from the tent.
His comrades had followed, all mounted.
"How long has it been?"
So Cheolryong muttered.
"About one watch."
Youngwoo looked east.
It was still too early for dawn.
"Ah… I must've disturbed your sleep."
So Cheolun shouted back.
"If a comrade is training, can we not even watch?"
"Still… I shouldn't be a nuisance…"
So Cheolryong said quietly,
"The word will spread."
Youngwoo bit his lip hard.
This was not something that should spread.
He turned to Gyeongtaek.
"Go to Wanyan Zonghan and ask him to keep this quiet. Tell everyone—let no word spread for now. Please."
"Alright… but why always Wanyan Zonghan?"
"From what I see, he's the one fit to command everything."
"Fit? Fit?"
"I think it's best to speak to him."
"Last time you went to Wanyan Eunga."
"He's a good man, but he's handling tribal integration. For that, I went to him. But overall command rests with Zonghan. Go. Ask him."
"Wouldn't it be better if you went yourself?"
"I should… but there are still things I need to gather up…"
Before Gyeongtaek could keep talking, Cheolryong shoved him in the back.
Gyeongtaek kicked his horse and rushed off.
They had come so far that the main camp—once crowded with men—was no longer in sight.
Youngwoo let out a long breath, and Cheolryong placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Congratulations. You've become the master you always wanted to be."
"No. This is only the beginning."
"There you go again."
"I mean it. If only my master were here…"
"You should've asked him to come."
"How could I bring him to a battlefield?"
"Then let's finish this quickly and go back."
Youngwoo nodded.
"I mean—"
Cheolun handed him the reins.
"Let's go."
The twenty-five returned to the camp.
Nearly all the commanders of the Wanyan clan were waiting inside Youngwoo's tent.
Gyeongtaek was explaining things earnestly to Wanyan Zonghan, though it didn't seem to be working very well.
When Youngwoo and the others arrived, everyone shifted their seats.
In the cold winter air, the white breath of the horses vanished quickly into the air.
All eyes turned toward Youngwoo.
"As you know, I have been training diligently to become a master. Along the way, I achieved a small result—but it is nothing remarkable. It is simply the method taught by the sages of Goryeo, which you all know well. They are all highly skilled. I am nothing by comparison. Yet you regard it as something significant, and I find myself at a loss."
He continued,
"I ask you—since I am still a student in training, I hope this does not spread elsewhere. If anyone and everyone comes forward challenging me, I may fail to accomplish anything in this crucial time. It will not help our work, and it will hinder us in battle. I will continue my training quietly in a secluded place. Please, let this be as if it never happened."
Murmurs rose from the camp.
Some spoke as if this were nothing unusual.
Others sounded envious of his attainment.
Surely, those were men who trained themselves.
Grumbling voices called the guest commander strange.
No matter how capable he was, to them he remained an outsider.
There was no need to try too hard.
Between lower-ranked warriors and commanding officers lay a gap that could not easily be bridged.
They did not approach lightly.
Their cultures were different, their lives different, their desires different.
In the end, it was not something easily resolved.
There was no need to pretend closeness.
Such things required time.
When two people meet as human beings, why should one bow and seek the other's favor?
Each time murmurs rose, Aguda shot them a sharp look.
It seemed to silence even the thoughts forming in their minds.
Youngwoo's words were always like this.
Disordered.
He would say one thing, then another, and in the end only what he needed—but without a clear structure, his persuasion faltered.
He should explain why, what he feared—yet he simply asked for help.
Ogulmae stepped forward and spoke.
"Our Joseon has long respected those who pursue learning. This man strives with all his strength to attain mastery. There is no reason we should not help him. He asks sincerely—so let us treat this as though nothing happened. Let us keep it secret."
At that, Aguda nodded in agreement, and all voiced their assent.
"Please ensure your men keep this quiet. I ask this of you."
Ogulmae replied,
"Of course. Still… I am curious how far your training will go."
"I'm curious as well."
Unable to bear the answer, Cheolryong jabbed Youngwoo in the side.
"Ah!"
"If you say nothing, you'll at least seem halfway decent."
Youngwoo's face flushed red.
As if that would ever make him stay silent.