“I do not want you to imitate my sword exactly.”

Seop Mugwang slid his sword back into its scabbard.

The aura surrounding him gradually began to fade.

“I am prepared to pass everything I have on to you—but that does not mean you need to follow every step I took, nor copy everything I’ve done.”

“...”

Seolhwa understood what it meant for a swordsman to say such words. She knew it was not something one could say with a smile.

Martial artists take disciples because they do not wish for the martial arts they’ve forged over a lifetime to vanish with them.

Even if their body perishes, the techniques born of their life’s work and spirit remain. If those arts are transmitted to future generations, studied further, and developed, what could be more meaningful?

Through martial arts, a martial artist achieves a form of immortality. They remain as a mark upon the history of Murim.

That is what many martial artists long for.

But Seop Mugwang was not imposing that desire upon Seolhwa.

“You said it yourself. Learn the Namgoong sword arts and mine, and craft your own path.”

“...”

“And then, one day, if you run into some promising rascal, maybe teach him my martial arts.”

To pass it on. Not to preserve it—but to transmit it.

“...Do you trust my judgment that much?”

“If I cannot trust the judgment of someone like you, then who in the world can I trust?”

It was a statement filled with absolute faith in her.

Seolhwa clenched her fists tightly.

She was the one who had insisted on walking her own path. So why did it not feel entirely satisfying?

Was it because she had witnessed Seop Mugwang’s sword—and the life embedded within it?

She did not want his martial arts to fade into obscurity, like they had in her previous life.

“If I study your swordsmanship and create new techniques from it, then that would still be a form of evolution, would it not? Even if I am influenced by you?”

“One could see it that way.”

“And I have no intention of simply using your sword art in that way, either.”

To exploit and discard it for her own benefit—Seop Mugwang’s Thunder and Wind arts were on par with the Namgoong Clan’s techniques. They were no ordinary skills to treat lightly.

“I do not approach training with you with such a mindset. I respect your martial discipline. I want to carry its spirit in my sword.”

“...”

“So please... accept me as your disciple.”

Seolhwa knelt before him.

Seop Mugwang’s eyebrows twitched and wavered.

He had taught her his footwork, movement arts, internal cultivation, and swordsmanship—everything—but never once had he formally acknowledged her as his disciple.

She had received his instruction, so to her, he was already her master. But to him, she had yet to be recognized as a disciple.

Beneath that decision was likely the very reason he had just spoken of.

Because she would learn from him—but not follow him.

Even if unintentionally, somewhere deep down, he must have known that.

“You really are the type to tie things off cleanly, huh, little brat.”

Seop Mugwang burst into incredulous laughter.

“Then I shall become your successor.”

“...”

His gaze turned serious.

From the start, she had said she wanted to find her own path.

He had refrained from calling her his disciple precisely because he had not wanted to confine her within the limits of being a successor to his techniques.

Yet as if she understood all of that, she was choosing to honor the life he had dedicated to his martial art.

She did not treat lightly the martial path that bore the weight of his long, grueling life.

“...Very well.”

How could he possibly refuse the words of a child who asked to become his disciple?

“I shall accept you as my disciple.”

Seolhwa’s expression lit up in an instant. She sprang to her feet.

As she brought her hands together with composure, Seop Mugwang raised an eyebrow.

“What are you trying to do?”

“When a disciple forms a bond with a master, they perform the Nine Bows of Respect ritual. That is what I was taught.”

“Hmph...”

“Please accept my formal bows.”

“No, no, hold on.”

Seop Mugwang halted her just as she was about to bow. A crooked grin spread across his lips.

“If we’re going to do this, then let’s do it properly.”

****

Saying he would receive the ritual properly, Seop Mugwang brought Seolhwa to a dumpling shop.

She had been hungry anyway, and now he ordered dumplings, wheat noodles, and even Dongpo pork. Seolhwa began shoveling the food into her mouth with abandon.

And as she ate, a sense of oddity crept up on her.

“I thought you said we were doing the proper Nine Bows of Respect?”

Arms folded across his chest, Seop Mugwang watched her devour her food with a satisfied expression and nodded.

“I did.”

“Then why...?”

Why was she here like this?

“Why else? It’s mealtime. A kid your age who still needs to grow cannot skip meals. Just look at you—tsk. You barely look ten years old.”

Tsk...?

As her brow sank in a deadpan frown, Seop Mugwang let out a chuckle. But soon after, his expression grew solemn.

Seeing that she had eaten enough, he spoke, all hints of amusement gone from his face.

“Have you given any thought to what I asked you?”

What he asked?

Thinking for a moment, Seolhwa recalled the question Seop Mugwang had posed some time ago.

‘Why do you draw your sword?’

Why do you draw the sword?

To answer that, she first had to understand herself.

But Seolhwa still did not know who she was—or what kind of person she truly was.

There was one thing Seolhwa had come to understand clearly over the past few days of training with Seop Mugwang.

“I like the sword.”

A faint smile curved at the corners of Seop Mugwang’s mouth.

“You like the sword?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you like it?”

“When I’m wielding a sword... all other thoughts disappear. I like that I can focus only on the sword.”

When she was swinging her blade, there was no room to worry about the Blood Demon Cult or reforming the Namgoong Clan. There was only the sword.

How to make it faster. Sharper.

How to strike more cleanly, more powerfully.

How to seize the advantage, how to dodge more efficiently, how to pierce through an enemy’s weak points.

What if she stepped in first? What if she waited just one breath? What if she thrust at a diagonal, or drew the blade across, or skewered, or simply let the strike glide past?

“I think it’s amazing... how simple movements combine into complex forms, and those forms come together to create a complete method.”

What begins as mere sword swings eventually becomes a perfected martial art—one that conceals the hidden secrets of a swordsman.

“And it’s fun, too. Understanding the thoughts and philosophies, the questions and dilemmas embedded in the forms that were created that way.”

A sword art is like a martial scripture. It distills the mindset and struggles of the one who first created and refined it.

The way the feet move when striking. How the body turns. Even a fleeting breath—none of it is done without meaning.

To complete their sword arts, swordsmen created their own footwork, internal arts, breathing methods. ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ The techniques born of that refinement wove together into the long lineage of the sword.

“It makes me happy to learn about the fierce histories that our predecessors carved out like that... and even happier that I can learn a sword art from someone like that.”

Seop Mugwang’s martial arts were a living history.

Not an art preserved in books—but a legacy he himself had carved into being.

“I think... I like those kinds of things.”

He looked at the girl as she stared down at her small hands, speaking such earnest words, and the warmth in his gaze deepened.

He had known for some time that the child enjoyed training.

There were moments when, in the midst of sword practice, her long-lost childhood smile would flicker across her face.

He had hoped she would come to realize it herself—and in such a short time, she had done exactly that.

How could he not be proud?

“Then... what about before?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, before you returned to the clan—what was in your heart when you wielded a sword back then?”

“...”

Seolhwa was struck silent.

She did not answer for a long time. But it was not because she did not know the answer.

Seop Mugwang waited for a moment, then gave a nod.

“You can answer when you are ready.”

“...To kill.”

“Hmm?”

“...To kill.”

Seolhwa slowly set her utensils down and gripped the edge of the table with both hands.

It was not a hard thing to say in the past. But now... now the words caught on her tongue, unable to leave her mouth.

“Before I came here...”

Her throat clenched tight. She forced the words out.

“The only reason I drew a sword... was to kill.”

If the Blood Demon commanded it—if someone stood in the way of the cult’s great cause.

What Seolhwa called “death” was the mountain of karma from her previous life.

It was the grudge of all those who had died by her hand.

“I...”

A strange heat crept into the corners of her eyes.

No—it was not just her eyes. Her entire face felt like it was burning.

Her vision blurred, her sight dimmed.

“I...”

Her throat was dry and cracked, unable to produce sound. Her grip tightened on the table.

She could not raise her head. She bowed it low.

And then—between her small hands—something wet dropped onto the wood with a soft plop.

“I was... a bad child...”

The light brown table darkened where the drops fell.

One drop of that deepened color, then another—and slowly, they spread.

Seolhwa hated the sight of it.

She knew she was crying. But she did not want to cry.

She could not understand why she was crying over words like these.

She had not said anything special. Nothing admirable.

Emotions... were cumbersome things. Change that could not be controlled was frightening.

In her past life, when those emotions had disappeared, things had been easier.

Better that, than to show herself like this.

Seolhwa bit down hard on her lower lip.

She did not know how to stop the tears. That was all she could do.

Plop.

“...?”

Seolhwa blinked at the soft object that suddenly bumped into her lips.

It was a dumpling—the size of her fist.