Naturally, I didn’t just leap into the waterfall once.

As I sprang up into the cascading stream over a dozen times, Cheonak, who had been watching from afar, suddenly jumped down and said to me,

“Master, that’s enough. Come out.”

I leapt from the waterfall without thinking much and landed beyond the plunge pool—but strangely, it felt like I had jumped farther than usual.

So this is what it feels like to move through a place without the current pushing against you.

It almost felt like I’d become a bird. Startled by the sensation, I looked up at the waterfall crashing down.

“...How fascinating.”

Of course, this was only possible because I had trained in both external and internal martial arts. It wasn’t that I couldn’t cut through the stream in one go—I still had enough strength to leap over a hundred more times.

Humans are so fickle. Just because I’d broken through the shackle called “the waterfall,” I already felt liberated.

Staring at the falls, I turned to Cheonak and said,

“Senior, I think I’ll have to come back again.”

“It’s better to raise your level and return occasionally. That way, the gap you’ve overcome will be visible to the eye...”

Cheonak broke off a long, sturdy tree branch, looked up at the waterfall, and threw it toward a mid-point in the stream. The branch shot forward like an arrow and embedded itself in a crevice by the falls.

Thwack!

“That’s the height you reached.”

Looking at it that way, it seemed fairly high. But considering the depth of my internal energy, it also felt a bit low.

Cheonak slung his top over one shoulder and said,

“Let’s go.”

I slung my own shirt over my shoulder and followed him.

From yesterday to now, Cheonak’s words and actions had carried a consistent message.

He had added pressure during power-exchange movements.

Pressed down on my thighs while I bore the weight of the twin iron rods.

Today, I had ascended the waterfall using a combination of internal and external energy.

And before breakfast, he had explained the harmony of internal and external energy through the Middle Finger Flicking Skill.

Honestly, with explanations that thorough—

I could probably continue the training on my own from here.

As we walked, Cheonak said,

“Remember the feeling of power surging vertically, in a straight line. When you hook each finger with your thumb, only the middle finger shoots out in a perfectly straight line. The index, ring, and pinky either twist or lose stability depending on the thumb’s position.”

Listening, I checked my Finger Flicking Form. Just as he said, only the middle finger extended in a clean, straight line, like a direct sword cutting forward.

Cheonak continued,

“When you practice a sect’s fist, sword, or palm techniques, the so-called forms are fixed structures.”

“They are.”

“But if someone fights in real combat, following those forms down to the inch—would you call him a master or a fool?”

“A fool, obviously.”

“Everyone adapts and improvises according to the situation and posture required in the moment. Isn’t that right?”

“It is.”

Cheonak stopped walking and looked at me.

“Then why do so many sects train and repeat those fixed forms every single day?”

I opened my eyes wide.

“Not for improvisation, but to internalize harmonious and ideal attacks through repetition? Like the Middle Finger Flicking Skill?”

Cheonak nodded.

“That may have been true at first. But is it still? They probably do it because their masters or seniors told them to—without grasping the true purpose. In the end, every part of the body must be trained to harmonize internal and external energy. Even meaningless kicks gain meaning once their execution reaches the level of the Flicking Skill.”

“......”

“Trying to beat others with the elegance of forms alone is foolishness. Even if a weakling performs some famous palm technique, if they’re caught by a brute two levels above them, all their limbs will end up broken. So what’s the point of elegance? That’s why internal energy was developed. Simply boosting impact power might make you seem strong—but that’s not perfection.”

I nodded in agreement.

Cheonak went on,

“Still, those who instinctively realize the futility of such actions often find meaning and purpose through training. You’re probably that type—someone who, while struggling through aimless training, eventually grasps the goal because of enlightenment born from the training itself. It may be late, but such people do become masters.”

“Agreed.”

“But they’ll never close the gap with those who understood the purpose from the beginning. Prestigious sects are prestigious not because of their manuals, but because of all the verbal teachings passed down. They don’t become weak easily.”

As we continued our conversation, we descended a mountain path and arrived at a gently flowing river—wide, deep, and majestic.

Cheonak approached the riverbank and said,

“As much time passes, martial arts will gradually fade or degenerate.”

“And why is that?”

“Because most people are lazy or hate hardship. Take Baekga, for instance. He has outstanding natural talent but avoids painful training, preferring to tinker with folding fans or other tools, dabbling in cheap tricks. His harmony plateaued long ago. He knows it, too.”

Still staring at the river, Cheonak asked me,

“Are you going to give up on harmony too?”

The question sounded like this:

Are you going to stop training once you’ve gotten just strong enough?

I’d never received such a piercing question before.

Maybe my answer to this question would shape the limits of my future.

Standing next to Cheonak, I gazed at the flowing river.

It was a simple question, but not one I could easily answer. Because even I had thought—if I become strong enough, I’d like to live a quiet, content life.

Which meant that’s exactly where my growth would stop.

Cheonak was warning me of that.

“Senior... do you plan to train until the day you die of old age?”

Cheonak crossed his arms and answered,

“I won’t die of old age. I’ll die chasing ‘Unrivaled.’”

“......”

“If your goal is clear, neither aging nor sickness can stop the journey.”

Becoming strong through training is only the result.

It felt like this kind of mindset was the true starting point of mastery.

There haven’t been many people in my life I thought I’d lose to in a contest of willpower. But now, Cheonak had joined that list.

How absurd...

A Calamity really is a Calamity.

I found Cheonak’s mindset even more terrifying than his martial arts.

Incredible.

After throwing that question at me, Cheonak didn’t demand an answer right away. He squatted down, picked up a small stone, and flicked it using the Middle Finger Flicking Skill.

With a pop, the stone shot out in a sharp arc, gliding across the river.

It wasn’t a skipping stone like I usually tossed.

The rock didn’t even touch the water’s surface—but its energy left a straight rippling crack across the water. In a flash, it reached the opposite shore and rolled across the ground.

It was a finger flick I couldn’t replicate just yet.

I picked up a stone and threw it like a skipping stone. It bounced low across the surface and reached the other side.

And that’s when I thought—

I can’t stay trapped in a place like this, training like some ascetic.

I’m not the kind of guy who can shut himself off from the world just to pursue harmony between internal and external energy.

Because I’m the Master of Haomun.

Not that I’m planning to slack off, either.

Cheonak had posed the question, and now it was my turn to answer.

I turned to him and said,

“I can’t live like you, Senior.”

“Is that so?”

“It might take ten years. Maybe more. But I’ll still pursue harmony. Not just between internal and external energy—also between extreme yin and extreme yang. Between my personal happiness and my duty to Im Sobaek. I have to protect Haomun and watch over the young disciples as they grow. I’m not the type to crawl into a cave and turn my back on the world. I’m too nosy for that... I’ll accept both your intensity and the beggar senior’s detachment. And if one day I hit my limit like ‘Unrivaled’ did, then I’ll pass on what I learned to my disciples. Among them—or among their disciples, or their friends—maybe at least one person will carry on what I taught and become the best under heaven.”

Cheonak looked at me once, then turned his gaze back to the river.

“......”

“The world will keep spinning. So the harmony you taught me should keep spinning too.”

Cheonak said,

“So that’s the ‘Thousand-Year Chivalry’ you told Baekga about?”

“That’s right.”

“Quite grand.”

He picked up another stone and tossed it just like I had. His movement was so natural—it was clear he had done it often.

The stone skimmed the surface, creating ripples.

Then, suddenly, Cheonak chuckled through his nose.

“...Admitting you can’t do something is also a path. Who knows who’ll become the best under heaven? One can’t get there on human strength alone. You’ll need heavenly fortune. I hope you have it. Let’s go.”

We headed back to the Iron Fortress Lodge.

Cheonak spoke casually, as if our riverside conversation had never happened.

“The fact that Baekga brought you here means you’re not an enemy of the scholars.”

“I’m not.”

“If you’re helping Im Sobaek, then you’re not an enemy of Baekdo either.”

“That’s true, but I’m always someone’s enemy. If we’re counting by kill count, I’ve probably killed more than you, Senior. I’m not a peaceful man.”

If I’d shut myself off from the world and focused solely on training, I would never have met Cheonak.

My foundation hasn’t changed.

In terms of mindset, Cheonak and the Cult Leader are probably more alike.

I don’t expect to surpass them using the same methods.

And I could never reach enlightenment by adopting the Beggar Senior’s empty-mind philosophy.

I’m the guy who wipes down tables with a rag while eavesdropping on guests, sometimes butting in, sometimes picking fights with thieving bastards when I lose my temper.

When we arrived at the training grounds—

The White-Robed Scholar was doing handstand push-ups while clutching a chunk of iron.

Cheonak said,

“What the hell are you doing, suddenly?”

The White-Robed Scholar answered mid-push-up,

“We’re here. We should train. It’s too hectic to train once you’re back outside.”

Cheonak began stretching like a prowling tiger, then picked up the twin iron rods.

I grabbed a chunk of iron that looked about right and started doing squats.

I figured I’d do this until Habok finished cooking lunch.

Taking a step back and objectively observing the three of us...

We really were insane.

Still, I had a clear goal before descending this mountain lodge: I would punch through that waterfall.

And to do that, no one had to tell me—I needed to lift more iron.

The White-Robed Scholar kept training while looking at the world upside down.

Cheonak began practicing staff forms with the twin rods.

And I... sat and stood, sat and stood again, weighed down like a wandering vagabond, trying to forget the world.

Because repetition will one day cause an explosion.

The Lecher returned to Baek Eung-ji after leaving the Sword Demon’s place.

He couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he’d last come home.

On the way back, he felt several unfamiliar gazes, so he circled his master’s house a few times before returning.

By then, the sun had already set.

It had been a while since he’d walked this road.

But nothing had changed.

He used to walk it drunk, at dawn or in the morning—and now he wondered if he was heading home too early.

Walking through the darkening path, the Lecher suddenly stopped and turned around.

“......”

Of all places—it was a spot flanked by alleys on both sides. The very path where he’d fought the third bastard.

He slowly moved his head left and right, then muttered,

“...Come out.”

“......”

“I said come out, you stupid bastards.”

No sooner had the curse left his lips than two identical old men walked out from both alleys.

The Lecher rubbed his nose and said,

“What the hell? Ghosts? Twins?”

Their clothes, appearance, expressions, even their gait—it was all the same. An extremely rare set of identical twins.

One of them spoke.

“Prince Mong, we heard you’ve learned Ice Arts.”

The Lecher answered,

“So what if I did?”

“So it’s true, then.”

He looked at the twins, then nodded.

“You two aren’t ghosts, huh. I’ve heard about some twin pair...”

He rummaged through his memories, then pointed at /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ them.

“Are you the Yin-Yang Clan Masters?”

The two old men smiled simultaneously. One of them spoke,

“Prince Mong, shall we have a match? If you’re scared, go call your master. Bring that Six Harmonies guy too. We’ll face the three of you.”

“Why’d you two come looking for me? Did you latch onto the Cult? Or...”

“Or what?”

“Or are you here to suck out my internal energy? If you want to learn Ice Arts, bow to me first. I’ll take you on as disciples, you rude old fucks.”

The twins’ faces flushed red at the same time—

And the Lecher grinned, baring his teeth.