46 — I Don’t Understand Any Of This. (1)

“Great… Mount Hua Sect?” Jwa Go‑Hak narrowed his eyes and looked at him.

“…Will that do?”

“Of course.” Chung Myung answered firmly, as if there could be no doubt.

“Hmm.”

Jwa Go‑Hak’s gaze sharpened further at that calm, composed attitude. Even under that look, Chung Myung merely smiled serenely.

What is he thinking? he wondered. He’d expected some trick. If they fought fair and square, they couldn’t win. But “Great Mount Hua Sect”? What could he possibly gain by choosing that phrase?

Jwa Go‑Hak glanced sideways at the other Mount Hua disciples, just in case.

They wore expressions of bafflement too—no, perhaps they were even more flustered than Jwa Go‑Hak.

“Great Mount Hua Sect?”

“What on earth is that man thinking?”

“Exactly.”

At that moment Tang Soso, who had been pondering, clapped her hands.

“I think I know.”

“Huh?”

“Could he be aiming for something else? We’re going to lose anyway, but we could at least take that ‘Great Mount Hua Sect’ inscription—the phrase the disciples poured their hearts into writing.”

“…Does it mean anything to take that?”

Jo Gul answered for him. “Hmm. It might be quite a spectacle to see those scholars, who regard the Taoists like flea dirt, write the sect’s name with all their might.”

“Now that you mention it…”

Jwa Go‑Hak’s face contorted as he listened to the Mount Hua disciples’ conversation.

“What kind of nonsense is that…”

He felt uneasy, but that was a small matter—winning the match was the important thing. Who would willingly accept defeat just because the Taoists were distasteful?

In any case, it was clear even his own Taoists didn’t understand Chung Myung’s actions. Then there was no need to worry.

“We’ll accept it.”

Pensive, Jwa Go‑Hak nodded. He was a little bothered that the phrase was short; in calligraphy the more characters one writes, the clearer the difference in skill becomes. But given their opponents, that wasn’t something to worry about.

“Dan Ja‑yeong.”

“Yes, sahyung!”

At Jwa Go‑Hak’s words, one of the students stepped forward—a pale young man notable for his large eyes. He glanced around once, then spoke, “Please prepare the paper, brushes, ink, and inkstone.”

As soon as he finished, the other students brought out a huge floor scroll large enough to lie on, spread it on the floor, poured water into a large inkstone, and with practiced hands began to grind the ink. Soon a giant brush the size of a forearm was set beside the inkstone.

Perhaps because they had been writing their whole lives, the students completed the preparations in a flash, smooth as flowing water. Dan Ja‑yeong watched, nodded slowly, and looked at Jwa Go‑Hak.

“Shall I go first? Or at the same time?”

“Proceeding simultaneously would be fairest, but is that really necessary? If you’re ready, begin.”

“Understood.”

Dan Ja‑yeong strode forward, sat upright at the front of the scroll, and, with practiced hands, took hold of the large brush. He dipped it deeply into the ink, shaped its tip on the inkstone, and let out a short breath as he looked at the paper before him.

Sshhhhhhh.

Dan Ja‑yeong’s brush roamed the paper like a dancer—sometimes strong, sometimes leisurely, sometimes teasing.

Though the phrase was short, his brief movements were worthy of the expression “one‑stroke flourish.”

“Oh.”

“Wonderful.”

The elder calligraphers watching couldn’t help but marvel. It was calligraphy so beautiful it verged on intoxicating.

“That young junior has already reached the state of completing his own brush technique.”

“Splendid. At this rate he’ll become a celebrated calligrapher who leaves his name in history.”

“He is certainly unparalleled among the youngsters. No, even across the world, there would be few who could show such a hand.”

The elder calligraphers continuously nodded in admiration. Even while tasked with judging objectively, they couldn’t stop praising him—he borrowed from historical scripts yet walked his own path; truly the image a scholar should aspire to.

“We may have underestimated these children too much.”

“I was thinking the same. I’m ashamed before the juniors.”

From the elders’ perspective, younger scholars always seemed lacking, but by writing four characters Dan Ja‑yeong proved his learning was by no means deficient.

“If it’s that level…”

“I suppose that little Taoist has no chance of victory.”

“It’s regrettable, but that’s the reality.”

That sentiment was no different among the Mount Hua disciples.

“Wow…”

“He really writes well. The characters are dancing, aren’t they?”

“…Amazing.”

Even they had no choice but to acknowledge it. They lacked the knowledge to explain why the script was great, but they could feel it was extraordinary.

“He nailed it.”

“Let’s just wrap this up quickly.”

“I hope we won’t be humiliated…”

They looked at Chung Myung with uneasy eyes. Considering Dan Ja‑yeong’s calligraphy, winning the contest had been impossible from the start.

“It might be for the best that sahyung Chung Myung went out. If he tried to do well half‑heartedly, he might just be ridiculed.”

“True. If he completely botched it, people could laugh it off. Maybe that’s why Chung Myung went out?”

“Maybe.”

The Mount Hua disciples murmured and nodded. But only Baek Cheon did not move hastily. The sajils’ words made sense; judged by the situation, it seemed plausible. But…

That bastard.

Ridiculous. Baek Cheon knew that the concept of a ‘good loss’ didn’t exist for Chung Myung. Even if the contest were to see which bird flew higher, Chung Myung would be the sort to jump off a cliff determined to win. Such a man wouldn’t step forward just to lose with a little less embarrassment.

But then what is it? What method could he be thinking of?

While Baek Cheon was lost in thought, Dan Ja‑yeong finished writing the four characters “Great Mount Hua Sect” and set his brush down.

“Wow…”

“Beautiful.”

“Can we take that? If the sect leader sees it, he’ll be so pleased his mouth will stretch to his ears.”

“…Is it appropriate to be admiring the opponent like this now?”

Though their competitor, his hand was handsome enough that they couldn’t stop admiring it.

Dan Ja‑yeong glanced carefully over the phrase he had written and nodded with satisfaction. “I’m finished. There are lacking parts, but I can say I’ve done my best at this moment.”

“Hmm.”

“So, should we wait longer?” His voice betrayed unmistakable pride—a firm belief in the skills he had honed over many years.

Noticing this, Chung Myung snorted a laugh. “You write well.”

“Thank you.” Dan Ja‑yeong bowed his head in thanks.

Chung Myung didn’t dislike such a person. Humility was good, but excessive humility belittled one’s own effort.

I’m too kind for my own good, he thought. When you see a sprout growing well, don’t you want to softly step on it once? That way it’ll grow even stronger.

“Alright. Then watch closely. You might have your eyes opened.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Sounds like a joke?”

“…Yes?”

Chung Myung gave a strange smile. “When you climb a mountain, you realize how high the sky is. The reason I feel impressive is because I haven’t finished climbing the mountain yet. You understand what I mean?”

“Is that the teaching of the Tao?”

“No? It’s the teaching of an elder.”

Chung Myung smiled wryly and picked up the brush. Then, just as Dan Ja‑yeong had done, he dipped the brush into the ink and shaped its tip on the inkstone.

The motions looked plausible enough, but they couldn’t fool Dan Ja‑yeong’s eyes.

No matter how you look at it, he seems like a beginner, Dan Ja‑yeong thought. It wasn’t that Chung Myung had never written before, but he clearly hadn’t learned proper technique; it showed in how he ground the ink and held the brush.

Then what is that confidence? Mere arrogance? Or the baseless ignorance of someone who doesn’t know his place?

“I admit you’re impressive. You write well.”

“……”

“But even so, at best you’re among the better scholars of today.”

“…What do you mean by that?”

“Looking back to the past, there are countless people who wrote better than you. It’s the way of all fields.”

At that moment Chung Myung’s brush began to move.

“He’s writing?”

“He’s actually writing.”

Baek Cheon, who was about to speak, stopped in mid‑breath.

What’s this?

Something emanated from Chung Myung. Even though they were quite far apart, an unbelievable focus flowed outward from him.

That guy.

Chung Myung, as if drawing a sword before a life‑or‑death foe, radiated enormous momentum while holding the brush.

What on earth is he trying to do?

His brush touched the paper and moved—very slowly, so slowly it took the viewers’ breath away. The tip crawled across the pure white paper, engraving each stroke with painstaking care.

Th‑that…

Baek Cheon suddenly realized. No—by then all the Mount Hua disciples understood what Chung Myung was doing.

It wasn’t just the phrase Chung Myung was writing; it was the script style he was using that felt so familiar.

One character. Another. And another.

Chung Myung wrote slowly. The students who had watched with mocking faces found their smiles gone.

“How could that be.”

“How could a Taoist…”

They watched the inscription develop with faces struck dumb.

Great Mount Hua Sect.

The four characters appeared on the paper in a majestic, towering hand—characters brimming with surging power yet composed, as if above the clouds.

It wasn’t merely a matter of splendor or elegant technique. One couldn’t take their eyes off the characters. The more skilled one was in calligraphy, the more speechless they became at Chung Myung’s work.

Thud.

Finally finishing the last character, Chung Myung set the brush on the inkstone and lifted the floor scroll.

Whooooosh!

On the scroll Chung Myung raised, the four characters “Great Mount Hua Sect” were perfectly written.

The students stared at the inscription, speechless.

“Th‑then that…”

In the strange silence, the Mount Hua disciples tilted their heads.

“That looks awfully familiar… doesn’t it?”

“It’s the plaque script. The same hand engraved on Mount Hua’s plaque.”

“Ah, as I thought. No wonder it felt familiar. That bastard—what a trick.”

“Still, it’s probably just handwriting well‑known in a Shaanxi backwater. Will that be enough to face us? He did think a bit, at least.”

While the Mount Hua disciples gave looks meaning “you did well anyway,” Yu Han‑bin stared at them in incredulity. “What are you talking about right now?”

“Huh?”

“A Shaanxi backwater! Can’t you see that handwriting? A world‑famous master!”

“…Huh?”

The Mount Hua disciples exchanged puzzled glances.

“I’ve never seen such forceful writing in my life. My goodness, who on earth has such an astonishing hand…”

“…”

They quickly exchanged glances again.

“Ah, that’s because you play too much and don’t study. From their perspective…”

It was then.

“It can’t be…”

“Huh?”

The students who had been staring blankly at the calligraphy opened their mouths as if bewitched.

“H‑how could a Taoist write like that…”

“In my life I’ve never seen such a grand hand.”

“Could it be… truly a divine hand?”

“…”

The Mount Hua disciples exchanged glances once more, then nodded contentedly as if nothing had happened.

“It’s the handwriting of Mount Hua’s elder.”

“Truly, Mount Hua is a remarkable sect. To think there was someone with such a hand.”

“Yes, yes. Indeed.”

They grinned and nodded.

Do you understand what’s so remarkable?

Not at all.

Hahaha. Right?

Everyone’s laughter deepened.

I don’t understand any of this.

I’ll just nod my head.