The Forbidden Martial Art

If one ran half an hour east from Xi’an, Mount Li appeared. On that mountain lay the Huaqing Pool, a hot spring long favored by successive emperors for rest.

The Chief and his son, having hastily readied for travel, slipped unseen out of Famen Temple and sped toward Mount Li.

‘So the hot spring really is on Mount Li. Surely it can’t be the Huaqing Pool, right?’

He could not imagine retired assassins—and the Assassin Pavilion Lord—using a spring managed by the imperial household. If so, the emperor’s and the imperial clan’s lives would practically rest in the Pavilion’s hands.

But expectations were made to be broken. The Chief and his son went straight to the Huaqing Pool.

They stopped before the imperial detached palace built at the springs. No soldiers stood guard. When no imperial or high officials were in residence, it was merely a bath; lax discipline mattered little.

They walked openly into the palace. Someone appeared at once—evidently a caretaker—and bowed respectfully to the Chief.

“Where is the Pavilion Lord…?”

“In the training chamber.”

“We’ll go there.”

‘If I told the Eastern Depot or the Brocade Guard, I’d get a royal bounty. At this rate they’d even pardon treason and breaking out of the Forbidden Demon Prison, wouldn’t they?’

Neung Je-gang was dumbfounded. Everyone they passed inside the palace bowed to the Chief.

At times, the Chief bowed first and called someone “senior”—gardeners trimming trees, sweepers, assorted odd-job men. The palace’s menials were all retired assassins of the Pavilion.

‘Now I’m embarrassed I ever served in the Eastern Depot.’

Even the vaunted Depot knew nothing of this.

Assassins were masters of concealment; retired ones who had lived to leave the life were beyond formidable. Neung Je-gang felt tension coil within him.

The Chief descended by a secret stair into the palace’s underground. As at Famen Temple, a private space lay below—where they hid whenever guests came to “rest.”

“The Chief has arrived.”

“Enter.”

A young man’s voice.

The door opened, and milky steam billowed out like fog. The Chief and his son went in; Neung Je-gang slipped after them like a shadow.

Inside was a bath so lavish the emperor’s pool above seemed shabby. Upon a small dais at the center sat a young man in lotus posture.

“We greet the Pavilion Lord.”

“It’s been a while, Chief Byeon. What brings you?”

“Yes, in truth…”

The Chief reported the situation regarding Neung Je-gang and introduced his son as his successor.

“So that happened. Secret Shadow, hmm… Good. I needed a live target to practice assassinations on once my training ended.”

“Oh? Does that mean… you have finally achieved Grand Completion?”

“Grand Completion? Heh. That art cannot be fully mastered by any human—that much is clear. I have trained over ten years and only now approach five stars.* Even so, I can claim to be unrivaled under heaven. When the real operation against Secret Shadow begins, summon me. My training should finish by then.”

“To be world’s best at five stars! Incredible, my Lord.”

The Chief fawned, voice trembling with awe.

“Since you’re here, enjoy the baths. They let one feel like an emperor.”

“Thank you. Truth be told, that’s why I came. Hahaha!”

“Haha!”

‘Madmen.’

Their laughter rang through the subterranean baths.

Tak-tang, tak, tak—

In a place where the sun rose and set to the racket of hammers.

Neung Je-gang sought out Xi’an’s great forging district. In the martial world it was called the Heavenly Forge, counted with Hanam’s Danya Workshop, Hunan’s Cheonghwa Workshop, and the Tang Clan of Sichuan as the Four Great artifact forges.

“What are you looking for?”

An old smith who had spent his life at the Heavenly Forge—Pyeon Mujang—approached the obvious martial-world novice.

The youth wore black martial garb and a black outer robe, as if such clothes alone made one a jianghu man. Handsome, yes—but reeking of greenhorn.

“Just browsing…”

Pyeon Mujang had seen many such novices—the kind who splashed fortunes seeking famed swords or divine weapons to make a name: in short, easy marks.

Buddha be thanked.

He thanked his luck for spotting such a mark first; one gullible youth could feed descendants for generations. Worry about blowback? He was old—he could pay with his life.

Many like him—old hands too frail to lift iron—lingered along the Heavenly Forge’s northern street.

“Ah, you seek a divine piece? As it happens, I have some rare items…”

The youth’s eyes slid over him, then he shook his head and walked away. The shabby look did not inspire trust.

‘Damn it. Picky little brat…’

Pyeon Mujang panicked. Who knew when another mark would stroll into Xi’an? He could not lose this one.

“Sir, would you at least look at this?”

He produced a silver dagger and a painted copper dagger, then struck the copper with the silver.

Clang!

The copper snapped cleanly. It was no ordinary trick for an old man with no martial arts to sheer a blade with a single blow.

Yet the youth turned away.

Pyeon Mujang hurried after him.

“Not to your taste? You won’t often see work like this.”

The youth halted.

“You’re persistent. Let me see that dagger.”

Pyeon Mujang handed it over.

Tuk.

With hardly any effort, the youth snapped the blade in two.

“Tch. You call this good work? I came for the Heavenly Forge’s reputation. Disappointing.”

He tossed the broken dagger aside and walked on.

Pyeon Mujang trembled. For all that he now hunted marks in his twilight years, the Heavenly Forge had been his pride. And this upstart had scorned it.

“You there—what do you actually want?”

“Daggers that sit exactly right in the hand. And one sword.”

“Fine. Come with me. If nothing pleases you, I won’t take a coin.”

The old man straightened and strode off.

The youth chuckled and followed.

Neung Je-gang followed the old man, noting his hands—those of a lifetime smith.

But he deliberately slighted him. Stubborn craftsmen revealed their true treasures only when pride and ego were prodded.

So he had snapped a fairly well-made dagger.

The effect was immediate; he could feel the old man’s temper flare. He planned to repay the cost—with interest—if he found something worthy.

Clack.

The door opened.

“Here.”

The old man led him into a small, disused forge.

“It looks like this now, but when I worked, I supplied the Heavenly Forge from here.”

As if fearing Neung Je-gang might turn up his nose, the old man offered a preemptive excuse.

Instead of a furnace, a broad wooden display case filled the room.

“What’s this…?”

Neung Je-gang picked up several weapons from the shelves, then set them down carelessly.

“Trash.”

“Mmm. I misjudged you. I approached you as a novice… You’re right. Those are trash to round out the shelves. What you want is here.”

Creak—

He shoved the case aside and swept the floor, revealing a stairway down.

He descended and brought up two small chests.

Thump, thump.

Arms shaking, he set them down—they were heavy.

“These are pieces I made on commission for various sects that turned out better than expected. Too good to sell cheap—so I kept them back, to be sold by my descendants if times grew hard.”

He opened one chest.

Rrrrr—

So much for “too good to sell”—he poured them out in a heap.

Inside lay swords and sabers of all lengths—clearly fine work.

The problem: each bore a sect’s emblem.

“These will get me accused of theft.”

“That’s why I couldn’t sell them. Still, if we file off the emblems—”

“No. You may think emblems are all that mark a sect, but commissioned pieces match each sect’s unique forms—lengths, widths, thicknesses. Even with the emblem gone, any expert can tell at a glance. Members of the sect, doubly so.”

Neung Je-gang examined them one by one—until his hand stopped on a single sword. No emblem was etched there.

“I’ve never seen a sword of this form.”

The blade was unusually long—about three and a half feet—yet a little narrower and thinner than most. Its silhouette resembled a saber, though it was double-edged.

“I tucked that away too, did I? That wasn’t a commission. I made it when I was young, letting my hands move as they would. So it came out… odd. A failure. I never even tried to sell it. I’d forgotten it was here.”

The old man sounded rueful—ashamed to be a craftsman who kept his failures.

Odd it was—but Neung Je-gang felt not its shape, but its intent.

“You say you made it with no thought?”

No-mind.

No desire to impress, to fetch a high price, to craft a famed piece—just hands and heart moving together. No sharpness flaunted, no killing aura—an unassuming blade of no-mind.

That was the feeling it held.

“This, truly, suits an assassin. Elder, is there no scabbard?”

“No…”

He looked dazed. A failure had no scabbard; and in this worn-out forge he had no materials or tools left to make one.

“The sword is settled… Now, the daggers?”

“Truly that one…?”

“It pleases me. I acknowledge your skill.”

“Ah… thank you.”

His anger melted away. For a craftsman, recognition was the greatest gift.

Rattle—

He poured out the second chest. Inside were hidden weapons: throwing blades, knives, flying swords of every kind.

Another problem: no pairs—each design existed only once, as if he had set aside only the sharpest from commissioned sets.

“No matched daggers. All finely made, but useless to me. I’ll buy only the sword.”

What he wanted were matched golden-bell style throwing daggers; for rough work, he had plenty already. The sword alone would suffice.

“Even unmatched, pieces that keen are rare…”

The old man sounded regretful. He had bared his secret hoard in a pique, only to sell a “failure.” He doubted himself as a craftsman.

“How much for the sword?”

“Ah… pay whatever you like. Just the cost of materials…”

“Will this do?”

Neung Je-gang handed him a pouch and left the forge.

The old man opened it—and his hands shook.

“Ten taels of gold…”

Ten in gold—ten thousand in silver. Enough for his children to live in comfort.

Walking with the sword, Neung Je-gang felt people glancing and snickering.

He smirked.

The reason was the sword—its odd form. They took him for a fool who’d been swindled into buying a botched blade.

“I could use a scabbard… but I’m out of money.”

He had given the master’s gift money entirely for the sword. To outsiders it might look mad, but he had acted as his heart moved.

“In any case, I have my weapon. Time to pass judgment on the Assassin Pavilion.”

Fssh—

Neung Je-gang’s figure vanished as if snuffed out—the Illusion Art of Hidden Shadows at work.