Chapter 13: A Martial Artist Shouldn't Just Talk the Talk
I expected it. Not once in my life have I ever doubted my senses.
Overconfidence in one’s senses is an essential virtue for a master. That’s why people of the martial world despise things like illusions or poisons that toy with the five senses.
A regressor.
Those who turn back time. Even now, there were quite a few people I suspected of being regressors. One must never underestimate the upper dantian of a Heavenly Martial Body.
Beomcheon’s aura changed completely. From someone who at least seemed courteous, he transformed into a peerless master radiating overwhelming pressure from his entire body.
The incense stick had long burned out, yet its deep fragrance still lingered.
It was the Dharmic power of Buddhism. An energy whose strength depends on one’s understanding of Buddhist teachings. The warrior monks of Shaolin likely all cultivate this power.
My mind, which had been unstable from Qi deviation, gradually calmed. One of the functions of Dharmic power was precisely that—stabilizing the body and mind.
Honestly, I almost wanted to carry Beomcheon around like a talisman.
I still couldn't believe it. I'd returned to the past? Did that even make sense?
And apparently, there wasn't just one or two regressors. I couldn't be the only one with the advantage of regression, so was there even a point to it…?
No—actually, there were countless advantages. Even now, I could recall the locations of numerous elixirs. The thought of consuming them all myself made me happy… until I remembered Seolsam, and my chest tightened.
That was when Beomcheon spoke.
"Either be gloomy or laugh. Pick one. There’s no one here who doesn’t know you’re insane."
“Me? Insane? Hearing that from a monk who drinks alcohol and eats meat is ridiculous. That’s why you’re still stuck regressing, you incompetent fool.”
"For fuck—no, Namu Amitabha."
Hearing him mention alcohol made me want a drink.
“Is this how you treat a guest? Not even offering alcohol? The host has no manners. You must be an orphan.”
"I really don’t have any."
“…Sorry.”
Beomcheon sighed, then split open the belly of the Buddha statue behind him and pulled out two bottles of liquor.
Du Kang wine. A famous drink from Henan.
Does he always hide alcohol like that?
He set the drinks down and pressed his palms together. His expression was more solemn than when he revealed he was a regressor.
Notably, the table was filled only with meat.
“Today as well, I give thanks to that damn Sage of the Shakya Clan for providing food. Amitabha.”
“…Amitabha.”
I ended up following along without thinking. Then I grinned and drank straight from the bottle.
As expected, humans can’t live without alcohol.
Call it living for drink, dying for drink. This was my way of life. Even my mother couldn’t stop me.
…Wait, I’m a beggar. I don’t even have parents.
My thoughts tangled together like that in my head—a strange harmony. A kind of small universe.
Drinking alcohol in front of the Buddha… oddly thrilling.
Beomcheon, sipping from his cup, finally spoke again.
"The backlash from entering Sun and Moon Heavenly Art so early must be severe. Even if you forced your way in, you can only use the basic Strong Sword and Quick Sword forms. At night, inner demons will consume you, and your moon-like eyes will feel as if pierced by needles… Why did you force your entry?"
“I had my reasons. Some annoying bastard wouldn’t leave me alone. Be careful of ugly fish.”
"Sun and Moon Heavenly Art… alongside the Demonic Divine Art of the Sun Moon Cult, it was called the greatest divine art of all time. The Heavenly Martial Body is like a vessel—capable of containing Buddhist power, Daoist immortal energy, demonic Qi, even extreme yin and yang. Sun and Moon Heavenly Art draws upon all of these."
“What are you trying to say?”
A flash of golden light flickered in Beomcheon’s eye.
Upper dantian insight.
"What is it that you seek? I know you no longer harbor hatred toward the Sect Leader."
No hatred…?
Maybe that was true.
In the end, the only one who understood me was Baek Cheon. Even if we were completely different.
"Do not abuse your body. You know you don’t have much time left. It’s because of Sun and Moon Heavenly Art."
“We have regression, don’t we?”
In that instant, Beomcheon’s aura exploded like a mountain, crushing down on me. The force of his technique pressed me like the palm of Buddha itself.
"Regression is not infinite. The one sending us back is not a god."
“…Then who is it?”
"The one closest to a god."
The sound of his cup touching the table echoed softly.
He looked into my eyes and said,
“He has long been called the Invincible One. Even regression itself is nothing more than a trick of his.”
I fell silent.
Then why should I cooperate with them?
He gave me another chance, didn’t he?
Beomcheon shook his head.
"Regression cannot be stopped."
“…What?”
"No matter what we do, it cannot be stopped."
I stared at him for a long time.
For some reason… I saw my future self in him.
---
I lay in the guest quarters of Shaolin, replaying our conversation.
Beside me, a foolish gambler snored peacefully.
The Abbot’s residence was protected by eight halls at all times. Beomcheon was probably sleeping soundly.
The rest of our conversation lingered in my mind.
A new participant joining the martial tournament.
His offer to teach me the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Art.
His request that I oversee the monks’ training.
And…
That Peach Blossom Spring would come to kill me.
That last part was the most important.
But something else disturbed me more.
“The world you knew… will be different now.”
Just how powerful were these hidden masterminds?
My head throbbed.
There was too much to do.
As my thoughts spiraled, the cold night air brushed against me.
At some point…
I fell asleep.
---
When I opened my eyes again—
A field of bald heads lay sprawled across the training ground.
The blazing earth heated their heads, sweat pouring down like rain.
This was Shaolin’s Thirty-Six Training Grounds.
Even compared to the Beggars’ Sect, it was massive.
Just how much money did they spend on this place?
Built halfway up Mount Song…
Unbelievable.
I kicked a trembling octopus lying nearby.
“Well cooked. I’d take a bite… but I might catch baldness. Haha.”
“….”
“Not funny?”
Instantly, dozens of monks burst into laughter.
Satisfied, I rang a small bell.
The Laughter Bell.
Laughter brings fortune.
My own disciples ran away, but Shaolin’s monks should at least understand this much.
And even if they didn’t—what could they do?
The Abbot had given me full authority.
“It seems the Abbot isn’t pleased with your training. The Martial Pavilion Master is on vacation. So for the next few months, I’ll be in charge. Anyone got a problem?”
One monk raised his hand.
“Speak.”
He stood up.
“This humble monk asks… are you Wangcho, the Drunken Sword of the Beggars’ Sect? If so, you are no older than us. Are you truly qualified to teach us?”
I smirked.
“So you’re saying you don’t like someone your age acting as your master.”
“That’s not—”
“Shut up. If I say it is, then it is. You doubt the Abbot’s decision? You’ve confessed your crime. You get special hell training.”
The monk panicked, chanting Amitabha.
I looked over the rest.
Shaolin monks in yellow robes. Mostly second-generation disciples.
And here I was… teaching them.
Life really is strange.
I drew my iron sword and spun it.
“What I’ll teach you isn’t anything special. Just raising your physical limits. Sounds simple, but it’s the hardest thing.”
“We already train external arts. Horse stance, laps—”
I shook my head.
“You underestimate your limits. When training ends, you shouldn’t feel refreshed. You should feel like you’re about to die.”
Truthfully, I couldn’t defeat all of them right now.
But I was once the strongest under heaven.
Experience would make up the difference.
They still looked doubtful.
“A martial artist shouldn’t just talk.”
I pointed my sword at them.
“Come at me all at once.”
“I’ll take on every one of you.”
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