200 Mile

We imagine following intent, and we are always looking at something.
Humans live dreaming only so they will not stop seeing.
Someday, when inner radiance lights the Hundred Meetings acupoint, no other light will be needed.
-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, <Yin-Yang Affinity Internal Energy>-

How long had it been?

Henry Fawcett was still running over the sea, using as a compass the grief-laden crying heard from afar and the Yang Qi burning like a sun that had descended upon the waves.

No matter how much of a master of movement arts he was, two hundred miles was never a short distance.

Before London’s final sunset, the empire where the sun never set’s second setting sun, crossed the sea and came ashore.

He had to return the egg in his arms to the Vermilion Phoenix.

Postman Myers, who had covered one hundred thirty miles in under two hours before collapsing, had shown fighting spirit and chivalry that made his near-seventy age seem meaningless.

The Postmaster General, who had likewise sprinted over a hundred miles in an instant at beyond-the-limit speed, recalled the old postman and offered respect that rose from deep within his heart.

An old man who quietly fulfilled his duty even without anyone to praise him, and asked for no reward.

He said.

As always, he had merely done what a postman ought to do.

Not to dress it up with a grand word like chivalry.

“Indeed. A great cause….”

Across all of British Murim, there was only one person who could unfold movement arts over the sea and run two hundred miles at top speed. That was none other than Henry Fawcett.

But to run from London to the coast of Norwich, one hundred thirty, no, nearly one hundred fifty miles, then sprint two hundred miles atop the North Sea’s waves, was impossible.

That was why Fawcett needed Myers.

A master of movement arts who could deliver the Vermilion Phoenix’s egg to him most stably, and most quickly.

Yet even with his help, Fawcett finally ran into his limit.

“Kkh….”

His palms were sweaty.
His knees were weak.
His arms were heavy.

He had tried to preserve his internal energy as much as possible and had even received help from elixirs, yet Fawcett was already feeling an unbearable thirst.

No matter how profound one’s attainment in Kung-Fu was, it was not an easy thing for a human to face nature with a bare body and defy the universe’s order.

A human running while stepping on earth touched the principles under heaven.

A Kung-Fuist is born upon the land, and returns to the earth.

As recorded in the Genesis Sutra, the land was cursed because of man, and humankind was fated to toil all its life to take its yield.

A child of man must, from birth, cut through thorns and thistles and sweat.

To eat those plants and finally return to dust, that was human life.

A life made to be born from dust and return to dust.

For such a being to run the sea with a bare body was an act that defied heaven’s law.

-Kwaaak!

Sprays of water that burst violently each time he kicked off the waves and stepped.

Pure, organic internal energy flowing from Fawcett’s elixir field dyed the white foam a sea-like blue as it scattered.

Defying heavenly principles required a price.

On land, a human can move forward just by moving two legs and the body.

But what if what you stepped on was not firm earth, but water.

And not still water, but the North Sea, where waves surged from ceaseless winds and currents.

-Pababatt!!

Water-Walking Flight, executed with the minimum internal energy.

If this were land, Henry Fawcett the Blue Bat could be said to be performing Fancy Flight, able to fly anywhere he wished to go, but.

Running over water required a quantity of Essence incomparable to running on land.

What was needed for the fast forward was the rebound force created when striking a solid surface.

What was needed to create that rebound was friction.

But what Fawcett was stepping on now was saltwater.

To advance without borrowing a mount’s power, he had to create footholds that didn’t exist, by himself.

No matter that movement arts were a study of Kung-Fu that lightened the body, what supported a human’s weight was the two legs.

There was no way to stand straight with nowhere to plant one’s feet.

It wasn’t as extreme as walking on air, whose density was lower than water, yet circulating Essence for a long time to create rebound still caused severe fatigue.

What was required was tireless focus.

But even if one gathered focus, if the internal energy built up steadily over a long time was insufficient, the sea would swallow the body without mercy.

His figure crossing the boundless sea was a Crossing-the-Sea Immortal itself.

Yet unlike the immortals in old ink paintings who rode a donkey, an ox, or the wind blowing over the sea, Henry Fawcett faced the sea relying only on his own two legs.

The waves are clamorous, and the sea’s swell is 6,361.67 nautical miles.
Waves in turmoil, sea-water 6,361.67 nautical miles.
Under bright sunlight, bubbles pop.
In bright day, flying feet under foam.

“Is this… the limit…?”

His internal energy was beginning to show bottom.

Sir Fawcett had to draw even on his Innate Essence.

200 Miles.
The distance that decided London’s fate.

Though both eyes were blind, a clear path was reflected in Fawcett’s eyes.

The remaining distance until reaching the living sun was about 50 miles.

If Fawcett succeeded in completing it, London, Britain’s land, would be able to escape the divine beast’s wrath.

But despite knowing it, a heart-demon’s whisper was circling in Fawcett’s mind as he reached his limit.

This is enough. Haven’t you already done your best?

You have already covered 150 miles.

It was true old Myers sprinted over 130 miles from London to Norwich, but running 150 miles over the sea was an even more chivalrous act than that.

Aren’t you a blind man who cannot see an inch ahead?

Sweet temptation kept trying to bind Fawcett’s legs.

It was natural.

With the wave sounds echoing from all directions making it impossible to unfold Kung-Fu Echolocation, Fawcett was the same as being trapped in darkness where he could not see an inch ahead.

Even if he raised his voice, what returned was only the endless sea and surging waves.

Nothing guided the way except the intense Yang Qi emitted by the Vermilion Phoenix.

What Fawcett had to face was nature, and the darkness that covered his eyes.

Like Icarus’s wing-cloak melting in sunlight, approaching the Vermilion Phoenix was no different from reaching toward death.

If clinging to life was human nature, then Fawcett’s resolve to advance toward the flame that would burn him like a moth was, like running over the sea, an act that defied heaven’s order.

-Splash!

“Kuaaah!!”

The North Sea’s cold waves trying to swallow him moment by moment.

Each time he pushed through them, the blind Kung-Fuist’s body screamed.

He had no internal energy to spare for Defense Essence.

Fawcett was running while enduring, with his bare body, both the wind blowing head-on and the raging waves’ impacts.

Of the upper garment he wore, the only thing left intact was the wide sleeves needed to execute Ocho Dragones Nubes.

On his torn-open chest, large bruises etched by waves were stamped, and from ripped skin, red fresh blood was flowing.

The pain of Innate Essence leaking out.
And the vivid pain he felt each time he took the sea’s pummel, striking him in the form of waves without any protection, steadily wore down Fawcett’s will.

When bodily fatigue and pain reach their peak, the mind collapses easily.

Unconsciously, Fawcett was recalling the day he lost the light.

A Fingertip grazed past, and both eyes went blind.

He saved his life, but in Fawcett’s life as a blind man, all colors disappeared.

Though before long he trained echolocation and regained daily life, now, isolated alone in a vast blue sea, Fawcett had no choice but to revisit the fear and loneliness he once tasted, whether he wished to or not.

How long had it been since he was trapped in darkness this complete?

Henry Fawcett lifted the pitch-black curtain spread behind his eyelids, and faced it.

Himself in childhood, frail beyond measure, before he earned the title Alcanzador and received the admiration of countless people.

‘….’

The boy was crying.

His heart broken by despair that he could no longer see ahead, he crouched alone and shed tears.

The child who loved running more than anyone had fallen.

A disability he never wanted took many things from the boy.

Those eyes could no longer see the bright sunlight, nor a brilliant rainbow.

The street scenery that used to shoot across his vision whenever he unfolded movement arts had turned black, as if painted with ink.

The shapes of everything he loved were erased.

He tried to recall and remember, but as his optic nerves withered, the beautiful memories carved into his chest faded day by day.

The will sunk inside a blackened image tightly binding the boy.

No matter where he ran, pitch-darkness and thick walls blocked his way.

Now, let go of life and be at ease.

A young soul swept up in a heaven-calamity that arrived one step late had lost himself in the heart of Murim’s forest.

‘Was I this wretched? My former self.’

Facing his past self in the image, head bowed and not moving an inch, Fawcett slowly approached him.

He thought he had overcome it.
He thought he had defeated the fear of the day he lost the light and become a better person.

But it was an illusion.

Now that he was trapped in darkness where he could not rely on sound and could not see an inch ahead, he understood.

What had grown strong were his two fists.
He had only grown older, his head larger, and the internal energy filling his elixir field had swollen.

He had only found a way to replace his lost eyes with hearing.

The essential fear still remained deep in Fawcett’s chest, binding his ankles.

What Fawcett faced was not his past self.
Its identity was the fear he had long turned his back on and avoided.

It was the frailty he had buried after despairing that he would never see light again, and it was Henry Fawcett here and now, being swept up by the heart-demon’s temptation.

A bat that feared the sun it could never look up at again, living hanging in a cave with eyes long gone.

What kept grabbing his ankle and trying to stop him even as he ran toward the Vermilion Phoenix was not survival instinct.

Fawcett realized it.

Having grown used to darkness, he feared the light.

He had used the sound of all things, the beautiful sounds the world gave him, as markers in place of light.

So he didn’t want to accept it.

That the scenery he “saw” through his ears was different from others.
He didn’t want to face the truth that he was still trapped in darkness.

“Ah…”

Footsteps that were gradually slowing.

Frailty trying to flee the Vermilion Phoenix’s light, a being like an avatar of the sun, tightened around Fawcett’s body.

The blind man’s consciousness, squeezing out all will and strength, began sinking into darkness.

His two legs too were slowly sinking beneath the North Sea’s surface, as if falling into a swamp.

Fawcett’s body had long since reached its limit.

From the start, running 200 miles at full speed, and not on land but over the sea, was impossible for a human.

Even among all movement-art masters in the martial world, there would be no one who could achieve such a feat.

Even if he stopped running, the Vermilion Phoenix would fly here and retrieve its egg.

As a result, Britain’s land might be exposed to that energy and burn, but what of it.

He had already tried beyond enough.

Anyone would say he was worthy to be called a chivalrous hero.

And so, as the sweet whisper circled his ear.

-Hwaryeok.

A single, tiny spark blossomed within the dark.

‘Your chivalry, I will remember it.’
‘Chivalry, how grand. For a mere postman.’

The brief exchange he had shared with the old postman revived in his mind.

Fawcett asked himself again.

Did such a thing as “enough chivalry” exist?

If he wanted to save London, Myers could have run to the Butler Agency’s ship moored on the Thames.

Even if there was interference, considering how exceptional his movement arts were, it wasn’t impossible.

But the old man chose the path of running to Norwich without sparing his body.

And Myers said.

That his choice had been only natural.

Then what had Fawcett been waiting in Norwich for?

Was it not to save not just a single city they lived in, but all the common folk and Kung-Fuists who dwelled on Britain’s land.

With only a few dozen miles more, he could save them all from the Vermilion Phoenix’s fierce flames, yet could he truly call it chivalry to stop his steps here just to spare his own body.

No.

Before discussing chivalry, a postman’s work was to carry the entrusted item to its destination.

Stopping in a place like this meant he could not be called a proper postman, let alone a chivalrous hero.

An Alcanzador of the Kunlun Cathedral.
Ridiculous.

As he was now, he was no different from an old blind bat hiding in the dark, afraid of the sun.

Even if he approached the living sun and this body turned to ash.

He could not make meaningless the choice of the subordinate who risked his life to protect London, to protect Britain.

“Guaaaaaah!!!!”

Fawcett embraced.

His younger self in the form of a boy.

Then he lifted his head and faced it proudly.

The sun’s radiance he once turned away from, bound by complacency and fear.

-Hwaryeok!

The spark that began burning inside the blind man who had remained under shadows, turning away from his weak self, instantly transformed into bright light and began illuminating him.

For a moment, the refracting sounds confused his ears.

Behind Fawcett, a halo burning more fiercely than ever was shining.

The radiantly blazing light of great enlightenment.

Kung-Fu Echolocation was not needed.

A single beam of light illuminating his chest, illuminating the road he had to take, was driving away fear.

Movement that grew faster.

His sinking legs kicked the seawater and leapt into the air.

Numbed senses revived.

As if resonating with his pounding heart, the Vermilion Phoenix’s chick pecked at the shell.

Then, suddenly.

-Tuk.

Breaking the shell, a tiny beak poked out.

“Ah. Only now can I see.”

Forgotten colors began returning within the blackened Image.

The sea was blue, and over it, crimson light was cast. The color of a clear sky, the shape of clouds.

What had been covering his vision was not eyelids, but fear.

Now that he had drawn back the curtain of fear like ink was smeared across it, Fawcett’s vision was clearer than ever.

-Pabatt!

His steps were light.

Fawcett lost himself in the light.

The moment, he owned it, and he would never let it go.

Fawcett’s face as he rose into the sky wore a gentle smile.

The avatar of Yang Qi that had come within arm’s reach.

Fawcett realized it.

Everything was fate.

Losing the light, and being here now, all of it.

Even before heat that would scorch an ordinary person’s eyes, he could smile with ease.

Henry Fawcett had escaped the long, dark night.

Because he could see nothing, he could be bold even before radiance that would burn the body away.

“Right.”

To the sun he finally faced, Fawcett offered a greeting.

“It’s been a while.”

The sunset over the sea lit the blind man’s morning.