Conditioned Counterattack (2)

A fierce technique conceals seven weaknesses.
-British Proverb-

“You are…”

I knew who he was.

Ivan Petrovich Pavlov, commonly called IPP.

A man whose name and photograph I could find in countless biology journals even in my former world.

In European Murim, he had the build of a gigantic Kamchatka brown bear.

He had become an army surgeon earlier than in the original history, and since he had even taken on the post of the Tsar’s close guard, I suspected he might be serving as his personal physician as well.

But unlike the last time I saw him, the way he now openly emanated killing intent was far removed from any physician.

A butcher who, by studying the human body, learned not how to save people, but how to destroy them efficiently.

“Where is Irene Adler?”

Yellowed whites of the eyes. Saliva streamed from the corner of his mouth.

The cold dignity of the Kung-Fu scholar I had encountered at Claridge’s Hotel was nowhere to be found on his face now.

The cruelty and violence he had hidden behind a thick mask while his master held the reins had slipped its control, turning into suffocatingly dense killing intent that overflowed from his body.

If Watson, who shared his army-surgeon background, leaned more toward physician than soldier, Pavlov was the opposite. He was the type in whom the soldier stood out far more.

A seasoned killer.

The Kung-Fuist of the highest realm among the four close guards the Tsar brought.

I had wondered why Alexander III, who had to remain in London with his identity concealed, would entrust protection to a man like this. Was it to cause trouble in London when the moment came?

“You intend to kill Irene Adler?”
“If you mean to interfere.”

It was a brief exchange, yet I could tell instinctively.

When a Kung-Fuist of this sort delves deeply into Kung-Fu study, the amount of blood flowing through martial world increases.

In his case, it was not ‘inquiry’ but ‘greedy pursuit.’

To my eyes, Pavlov was a Kung-Fuist twisted somewhere along the way by his desire to pursue strength.

That repulsive Qi Frequency was proof he had already taken no small number of lives.

Given that he had restrained himself until now so that his tainted Qi Frequency would not leak out, he must be a man with strong will and self-control.

Yet the fact that he carried such ferocious energy meant he had not chosen killing because someone pushed him into it, or because he got swept along by circumstance. Pavlov had chosen that road of his own will.

‘Mycroft… has already slipped away.’

I activated my eye technique and surveyed the surroundings without turning my head, and the sharp SIS spymaster and his agents had long since vanished, leaving only the jars behind.

They were likely concealed somewhere as usual, hiding their presence. That was the Butler Agency’s work.

In a way, it was fortunate.

Earlier, Mycroft had shown himself in person to lure the Tsar out.

If the fact that he was here leaked to Alexander III through Pavlov, the excuse that the British government used a formation to protect the Tsar from terrorists would collapse.

If Mycroft were seen here, it would become decisive evidence that the SIS intentionally trapped the Russian emperor and bound his feet. For the sake of preventing this incident from developing into an official diplomatic dispute between Britain and the Russian Empire and worsening relations further, he must have concealed himself.

As his younger brother, I felt slighted that he left me behind and slipped away so casually, yet at the same time, a corner of my heart felt relieved.

Mycroft was still maintaining rational judgment.

If he moved properly, then after we prevented the Vermilion Phoenix’s landing, we wouldn’t have to worry about Russia’s retaliation plan that would follow.

However.

“The solemn laws of Britain will not permit it.”

Irene Adler is the leader of a criminal underworld faction, the Afternoon Tea Party.

And Irene Adler’s address is Green Willow Manor on Serpentine Avenue in Westminster.

No matter that she was American-born and once a primadonna of the Warsaw Theatre, the place Irene Adler now planted her feet and lived was the proud capital of the British Empire, our great city of London.

To imprison her, to hang her from the gallows, all of it must proceed through Britain’s judicial system.

Conversely, even if we kept her alive and made her pay her crimes over time, that too must be done according to this nation’s laws.

No matter that European Murim was ruled by the unseen law of the strong, and that in many countries (chiefly Italy) an atmosphere that tacitly praised vendetta was widespread.

To carry out private punishment in London, something that only held currency in the border empires of Murim, was unforgivable for London’s one and only Consulting Kung-Fu Detective.

“Scotland Yard will be responsible for tracking Irene Adler and taking her into custody. I’m curious what authority a Russian Empire army surgeon has to declare, so brazenly, that he will open the precepts of murder. Do you not know the saying that in Rome, one must follow Rome’s laws?”
“Slavic soil has never been subject to Rome.”
“Barbaric. Is that your law?”
“Hm…”

Ivan Pavlov took out a handkerchief and wiped the corner of his mouth.

It was a simple motion, yet the sight of his massive muscles moving dynamically, as if they might tear through his clothes at any moment, was threatening enough that even a competent external-arts master would feel it.

“The Tsar’s wish is my command.”

In contrast to his bloodshot eyes filled with boiling killing intent, the army surgeon’s voice was calm, like a lakeside scene.

To slaughter his opponent efficiently, he was maintaining an image of extreme stillness.

As expected, he was a perfectly trained soldier.

He was mobilizing every resource he had built as a physician, knowledge, intellect, professionalism, for one purpose alone.

“And my military law will be enforced solely through these two fists.”
“Interesting. Then I shall tell you what you must do first.”

His mad posture, beyond claiming fists were closer than law, to declaring he would enforce law with fists, nearly robbed me of words, yet for the first time in a while, fighting spirit boiled up from the bottom of my elixir field.

“Break me, then. The gatekeeper who safeguards Britain’s laws.”

I cannot give Irene Adler up.

This was not merely because I could not leave Pavlov alone as he sought to violate Britain’s laws and commit murder.

To learn information about Moriarty, who led the Church of Asteroid, her cooperation was indispensable.

Since I had already confirmed at Westminster Palace that Moriarty had formed some sort of relationship with the Afternoon Tea Party Leader, Irene Adler dying as the Tsar wished meant my plan would be wrecked.

I had seen Moriarty’s transcendent power, so to defeat him, I had to identify his weaknesses.

So, no matter what, I could not let this man achieve his goal.

With my hands feeling empty without the Heavenly Demon Cane, I clenched my fists and took my stance.

“…Interesting.”

Pavlov stood still, yet like a spirit-bear, his hulking frame was exuding a monstrous aura.

What realm was he?

He looked to be just past thirty, and judging by the aura alone, he seemed to have already stepped into the Transcendent Realm.

Considering that Alfred Nobel, who fought at the royal ballroom, was forty-eight, it was rather astonishing that Pavlov, born only a little earlier than I, had reached such a realm.

To gain that kind of power at an age that could still barely be classed as a Super Junior was not easy, even with fortuitous encounters.

Either he was born with that much talent, or he had the help of elixirs, or else—

‘Don’t tell me…’

The moment one possibility occurred to me, Pavlov’s body blurred without warning.

-Pabat!

The dirt flipped up as a giant came flying in at a speed that did not match his size.

Unleashing movement arts that were difficult to track even with an eye technique, the army surgeon surged in. His right arm and fist arced like a whip and shot toward my middle elixir field.

-Kwaang!!

The instant I crossed my arms to defend, a violent shock pierced through my body.

“Arm Boxing…?”

No. It was on an entirely different level from ordinary Arm Boxing.

The release of energy that began from Pavlov’s back flew like an arrow through his arm and fist and pierced my Defense Essence.

He had fired a long needle of Essence, honed sharp and hard like a pin, straight from his fist.

“Your reaction’s not bad.”

If I hadn’t twisted in time, that invisible needle would have pierced straight through my heart.

Still, even if the blow that pierced my Defense Essence left no external wound, internal injury remained where that alien energy passed.

“Kuhuk.”

I spat a mouthful of blood and retreated.

“You’ve learned all sorts of things.”

I had wondered how he reached such a realm at barely past thirty, but of course, the secret was a shortcut.

The reason my Defense Essence broke so easily before the energy the surgeon fired was simple.

I had adjusted density for efficiency, but the energy Pavlov fired unmistakably carried the nature of demonic arts.

If you reverse the mnemonic verses through Paradox, the art gains a wicked efficacy that gnaws at normal Essence.

In other words, when someone who has learned demonic arts enters a life-and-death duel with a Kung-Fuist trained in orthodox arts, they can pierce Defense Essence easily even without a difference in internal energy density.

Of course, having learned the Renewal Lionheart Method, I was relatively free from its influence, yet the moment I touched demonic qi, I could not avoid the locks in my Memory Palace loosening.

“So, ‘to win, you spare no means,’ is it. A very Russian way of thinking.”

Beyond learning demonic arts, Pavlov’s basic frame and the sheer quantity of internal energy he possessed surpassed the ordinary by a vast margin.

I had often heard that Russian Murim people, the intelligentia, endured Siberia’s brutal cold and threw their bodies into nature.

It was only natural that those who routinely fought spirit-bears on snow mountains developed the ability to release overwhelming impact to survive.

I had left my beloved weapon behind, and I didn’t even have bespoke Kung-Fu suit made by Henry Poole. To fight while blocking Pavlov head-on carried great risk.

Then what path remained for me.

“…The answer won’t arrive if I fight passively.”

The answer lay not in defense, but in offense.

It was true that I had suffered slight internal injury because I hadn’t expected speed that didn’t match his bulk, nor a strike carrying demonic qi.

And I couldn’t deny that I had expended no small amount of internal energy, whether waiting while disguised with face-changing tricks and bone-folding, or dealing with the Afternoon Tea Party elders.

I had not brought my preferred weapon, and I had to admit Pavlov’s realm was slightly higher than mine.

But if victory and defeat were decided solely by realm, by differences in internal energy, and by whether one had a weapon, there would be no reason for the many Kung-Fuists of the martial world to exist.

“My turn.”

Since I was bearing unfavorable conditions, the longer I dragged out the fight, the worse it was for me.

If Pavlov unfolded a technique difficult to defend against, I would respond with the same method.

The time had come to unfold, in real combat for the first time, the Avatamsaka principle I grasped while treating Watson.

-Koong!

A giant approaching leisurely, shaking the ground.

But I closed my eyes and etched into my image the Buddhist teaching William Blake recorded in Auguries of Innocence.

To do such a thing with an enemy before my very nose was no different from suicide, yet I needed this power now.

To see a world in a grain of sand.

To glimpse heaven in a wild flower.

To hold infinity in the palm of the hand.

To take eternity in an hour.

Time did not slow.

Because the intent I drew was not to enter Faust Moment.

-Uwoong!

The sound of internal energy vibrating began circling my ears.

That’s right.

I was applying the same verses for an entirely different purpose.

To see the world in a grain of sand.

To glimpse heaven in a wild flower.

The small composes the great, and the great is part of something even greater.

One and ten are the same, and ten is not different from one.

There is no difference between one step and a hundred.

Hearing and touch were cut off, and only perception remained, catching the existence of me and my enemy.

There, I erased the enemy, and only I remained.

The accelerating flow of intent.

In the darkness, my existence shrank like a mustard seed, then blended into the surroundings and vanished.

Though my enlightenment was still lacking and I had not reached great completion, the total unity contained in the Avatamsaka Sutra allowed me to embody, at least in part, the essential secret hidden in Wangrim’s divine arts and ultimate learning, which inherited Buddhist teachings.

“1200 Inch Punch.”

I opened my eyes, passed through a blink of darkness, and drove a straight punch toward Pavlov, who had come within arm’s reach.

He quickly wrapped Defense Essence around both arms and protected his vital points, but no fist wind sprang out.

Because my fist did not fire internal energy in the first place.

Instead.

-Kwaang!

A heavy sound rang out behind Pavlov’s back.

“Keok!”

The army surgeon’s hulking body reeled from the unexpected pain.

I didn’t miss the opportunity and drove my fist again and again along the same trajectory.

Each time the impact landed, thunderous sounds burst from places wholly unrelated to where my straight punch was aimed, be it behind his knee, at his side abdomen, or at his shoulder blade.

“1200 Inch Punch…?! Wasn’t it a Kung-Fu that releases fist blasts?”
“It seems everyone is under that misconception.”

Pavlov, flustered, flashed the whites of his eyes, now even redder than before, as he asked.

Just as those gathered at the Debutante Ball had marveled when I demonstrated it to help understanding during the process of exposing the murderer’s trick, back when I had not yet fully grasped the profundity of the 1200 Inch Punch, this man too seemed not to understand at all what the true 1200 Inch Punch was.

Well, perhaps it was only natural. The Phantom Fist who arrogantly called his trick the Telephone Punch, and Moriarty who taught him demonic arts, neither of them knew what the true 1200 Inch Punch was.

“1200 Inch Punch is not some low-grade art that fires fist blasts to subdue a distant opponent. That is merely something you can do by forcing out stronger fist blasts.”

All of Kingswood’s Kung-Fus were created to convey the Buddha’s teachings, teachings that cannot be rendered in letters, to those who do not know characters, or who know them yet lack wisdom.

Unlike the many Kung-Fu studies of the martial world, they did not take killing as their purpose, and so their profundity had no comparison.

The essence of Buddhist Kung-Fu is not to learn the art by comprehending its principles.

Shaolin’s Kung-Fu study is a signpost used by those already enlightened to guide those who have not yet reached that place.

Among them, 1200 Inch Punch defines the relationship between all things and the universe.

Kingswood’s fist, bearing the teaching that one is all and all is one, is a single punch that enlightens foolish sentient beings by showing the unobstructed nature of distance.

That mysterious strike is impossible to predict where it will land, and it transcends all obstacles.

The key is not to strike, but to push.

To cast one’s body into the Essence that circulates between all things, and to interfere with that flow by the fist, that is the profundity of the 1200 Inch Punch.

Trying to block the punch is useless.

The enemy and I are connected through Natural Qi.

The weakness he tries to hide is no different from being laid bare before my eyes.

-Kwaang!

Pavlov flailed his limbs and tried to defend, but my fist was identifying where his Defense Essence was thin and striking with precision.

To an onlooker it might look as if I were punching empty air, yet the shock my fist released flowed along Natural Qi, selecting only the enemy’s critical points and inflicting internal injury.

With the Vermilion Phoenix’s influence having multiplied the density of Yang Qi in the air severalfold, the 1200 Inch Punch’s power was being delivered to Pavlov far more efficiently than usual.

Kingswood’s ultimate art. Unlike fist blasts, its trajectory cannot be read, and it cannot even be defended against.

No matter that his realm was slightly higher, there could be no contest between him and me while he was being beaten one-sidedly.

“Give up, and return to your master.”

At last, unable to endure the punches falling like a squall, Pavlov dropped to his knees.

“You cannot defeat me.”

I urged surrender to the army surgeon who still glared at me with murderous eyes.

But.

“…An interesting Kung-Fu. It took a little time to ‘adapt to.’”

What came out of his mouth was an unexpected answer.

“Conditioning complete. The 1200 Inch Punch no longer works on me.”

Saliva began to flow from the Russian Kung-Fuist’s mouth as it opened wide.