Chapter 687: A Martial Artist Must Strengthen Himself — A Martial Artist Must Be Strong (6)

The noisy dinner finally wound down.

It was a clear night where the bright moon cast a truly soft light.

In this age when human civilization had yet to conquer the night, the quiet hush held only the gentle CRACKLE of sparks rising from the brazier.

And there, a woman stood all of a sudden.

The Central Plain had always prized the moonlit beauty—under moonlight a face took on a pale-blue, aching radiance; even an ordinary woman could be transfigured by that light.

All the more, if it were the bearing of a peerless beauty famed under heaven—shaming the moon and shrinking the flowers—a painted Peach-Blossom Vale that made even the moon avert her face in modesty.

It would have been so—if she hadn’t opened her mouth.

“I’ve thought about it, and the Oro Sword Formula is, as is, completely beyond the level of these baton-carriers; they’re basically at ape level. Like they don’t even know how to hold a sword yet? Calling them third-rate—no, that would be insulting to actual third-rates. You can’t teach newborns who can’t even crawl how to sprint.”

“Th-that... still seems a bit harsh......”

Dragooned by the scruff of the neck, Changbin cautiously submitted his opinion.

“What?”

“Ah, well, conduct follows mind. I know you’re speaking in jest, but perhaps, just a little, it might be good to, er, moderate your words and actions ever so slightly......”

Changbin, a would-be Daoist, did love his literary phrasing.

Qing sniffed.

“What’s this? Who gave a ‘peak expert’ permission to speak? Sword-Friend, was it you?”

“As if I would? Brother Changbin, would you step aside? Stand too close and I fear your ‘peak’ may be contagious.”

“Why are you getting stranger by the day......”

Grumbling, Changbin still did not leave Namgung Sinjae’s side.

Of course he would stay by Namgung Sinjae; it wasn’t as if he could stand by Qing or Moyong Juhee.

Truth be told, even merely sharing a space with women turned Changbin into the meekest of lambs.

“Anyway, the Oro Sword Formula is too hard. First off, Illusion and Change. Watching from the judge’s stone, what are ‘illusion’ and ‘change’ to second- and first-raters? It’s begging them to go bananas and get changed out. Therefore, we drop those two.”

Ximen Surin had once set four basics—Fleet, Heavy, Illusory, Changing—but the “subtleties” martial scholars touted were usually slapped on after the fact.

Speaking in the grammar of swordplay research, the Oro Sword Formula itself contained Gentle and Changing, Gentle Sword and Changing Sword; and beyond that you could stick on Strong Sword, Heavy Sword, Thrusting Sword, Severing Sword, Shearing Sword, Chopping Sword—attach anything and it was “there.”

Ximen Surin simply took four axes—fast and slow, light and heavy—as indices to form Fleet–Heavy–Illusory–Changing, then placed other principles in the gaps.

For example, gentleness exists between slowness and heaviness; change exists between speed and lightness.

Most agreed the countless subtleties could be grouped by difficulty to some degree.

Easiest came Strong (driving), Heavy, Fleet (fast), and Form-True. Gentle, the subtlety of You, was said to be about a half-step harder.

For the difficult subtleties, they named Illusion and Change, which in the first place presuppose a body so practiced at inner circulation it can be perfectly controlled.

“So I’m going to rewrite the Oro Sword Formula as three—Heavy–Quick–Gentle. I’ve thought out First Form. Watch once.”

Qing drew and raised her sword.

The stance of First Form of the Oro Sword Formula.

The forward foot steps and plants on the earth—THUD!

The knee bends in compliance.

The torso sinks, the spine bows, and at each vertebra she adds weight—one step’s stride falls onto the shoulders with a thousand-catty press.

In that instant, the sword flows.

All the muscles contract in unison—she chops down from the high guard—a single stroke—VMMMM!

A weighty sound of steel cleaving the world.

A dull tremor breaks the quiet night.

What seems a crash that could shatter the ground shifts at the end into change.

The rear foot, risen naturally by the shift of center, sets one pace to the outside. The bent torso twists.

Steel that had faced the ground—hilt and blade in their master’s grip—swings like a weight on a cord, round and wide, arcing far outside and behind the leg.

A lowered stance and a waist twisted to its limit—

Like a bow drawn to the end, the shape is precarious; in that instant of arrest at the limit, it’s dizzying, danger grazing the heart.

Then separation—VMMMM!

From low and slanting up high, right to left, the world splits.

But the sword does not yet stop.

The forward foot skims, scraping the ground with a long GRAAAZE.

Over the shoulder, the blade wheels once more, large as a weight on a rope—left to right—

The last, a third strike—VMMMM!

The Heavy Sword is a weighted sword.

It is so because you add weight to the blade.

Thus the swordsman’s center of mass lies outside the body; and a thing whose center lies outside naturally topples.

Like a great tree hewn low to the ground, the body takes on a falling shape.

At that moment, you swing—raising the collapsing balance and body—so all the weight transfers fully into the blade; hence Heavy Sword.

Therefore the Heavy Sword’s footwork is broad and wide and scarcely knows how to stop.

The body pitches and twists violently; the sword, for all its weight, is swift as a line of light.

If it misses and cuts empty air, the twisted body returns to the start of another heavy cleave; if weapons clash, its mass enforces one-sided superiority—a violent temperament.

“Huuu......”

Qing resheathed, then took stance again.

As at first, the sword raised high; as at first, one foot extended to touch down.

Again, a steep diagonal drops like lightning—

SHRAAK!

This time a razorlike air-rending shriek rang out.

What was different?

The difference was the center of mass—and its travel.

Her foot set down, yet it made no sound; it was only a placement to close distance—her weight still firmly on the rear foot, spine-line centered.

The mass not loaded into the sword stayed entirely in the body.

Thus, with no need to fling the arms for balance, everything beneath the shoulder was free.

The shoulders drew a larger circle.

The elbows flowed gracefully toward the torso, drawing in the circle traced by the blade.

And the crucial core—she powered the wrist to add speed to the blade, so the air—unable to evade—split with a SHRAAAK, a shrill scream.

The separating step, too, was light.

The center scarcely moved; it was merely a planting step to turn the body’s angle.

Unwinding the arms curved around the torso, she swept—separation.

At the same time, the lead foot slid forward without a sound; without delay the third cut followed so the sound went SHRAAK-SHWIP—no gap between second and third—one continuous tearing as the sword twice parted the void.

The Quick Sword is a fast sword.

Waist–shoulder–elbow–wrist—four circles for a single aim: to cut faster, the total art of skill.

Even without added weight, speed itself is another word for force.

Granted, the people of this primeval age have not yet precisely defined the engine of the world as force equals mass times acceleration.

But everyone knows—if you’re hit by a faster blade, a faster fist, a faster stone or arrow—it hurts far more than the slow one.

Humanity noticed this marvelous, subtle phenomenon thousands of years ago!

To have grasped so abstruse a secret so early—one might say it proved humanity worthy to be master of the world.

At any rate.

The Quick Sword’s center is me.

With the center on me, the footwork need not always drive toward the foe; it is free to shoot wherever I desire, in every direction.

And if the foe evades or clashes, the impact is light; the cost to me is small.

Thus the Quick Sword runs on and on—next and next—like a rough gale with breathless continuity.

“Hm.”

Qing took stance once more.

Three cuts in the same shape—but this time, soundless and calm.

No joint locked to the end; the very wrist hung loose.

Thus the sword did not stand square but leaned toward the forearm; its speed was slow and unhurried, the edge seeming to swim through the air.

It looked as if, having twice exerted herself, she were loosening the body with calisthenics.

“Right. Saw that? Sword-Friend. Come in. Give me pressure.”

“Ha! Excellent!”

Namgung Sinjae bounded up onto the practice floor.

Truly huffing and puffing—what was the rush, what was so delightful—grinning ear to ear, shouting “Wonderful!” as if Qing had announced first-come, first-served, he fairly flew to make his entrance.

Then—CLACK, CLACK, CLACK—three collisions.

What looked like slow calisthenics in the third demonstration, on meeting an enemy, became firm defense—receiving and shedding the foe’s attacks.

This is the Gentle Sword, the essence of softness.

Less force than the opponent, smaller movement, slower speed—seeking steady advantage.

Less force means less rebound; smaller motion gives freer pathways; slower speed preserves power and stamina.

Thus you meet the foe with active defense, taking the reception while ever preparing the instant to slip into a weakness.

It was a demonstration of First Form in three kinds—Heavy–Quick–Gentle.

Where once the Oro Sword Formula was a mixed rice bowl of subtleties, she unified each into a single temperament—no longer a hodge-podge, but, say, pork-stir-fry rice / sashimi-rice / spicy grilled chicken rice—land, sea, and air set apart.

Mm. Now I want to eat all three......

“Indeed, so that’s the way!”

With the subtilties unified, it’s easier to teach and easier to learn—and power is even amplified.

Only—

“Isn’t it a touch wasteful? Having finally found such an entertaining sword art, splitting it apart like this throws away its special flavor, does it not?”

“So the long-term aim is to make them learn all three. But time isn’t generous enough for even one, so for now I’ll teach what suits their hopes or aptitudes. They can swap among themselves for the rest.”

“All three of them? Hoo, oooh...!”

Stars lit Namgung Sinjae’s eyes.

“I see. That’s why you kept the three sword routines as alike as possible? If each detail—each single cut—of the forms is learned, then depending on the moment they can be mixed flexibly! Am I right?”

“Mm. That seems closer to what the Oro Sword Formula seeks. If you want to mix subtleties, the change has to happen inside the form—so even non-masters like me can do it.”

If there’s a downside, it’s simply that the teacher’s workload explodes.

Taking a perfectly fine sword art, remaking it into three, and preparing each separately—that’s a magnificent hassle.

But isn’t that what a teacher is?

Since I took it on, I can’t do it halfway.

Change and Illusion are on hold for now; I’ll study them when I have time.

It was originally a five-subtlety sword art; once the baton-carriers complete the three paths, I’ll pass the rest on.

At this point I had already more than fulfilled my duty as an instructor of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy—overflowing beyond full.

No doubt it was the influence of a warped standard for martial arts—one that slighted even red-border manuals—because my bar for “martial arts” was too high.

Still, this was surely something one could call responsibility. It’s just that Qing showed responsibility in... peculiar places.