A Wandering Warrior's Survival Guide - Chapter 2

WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Asakusa

◈ A Wandering Warrior's Survival Guide ◈

Chapter 2: How a Third-Rate Wanderer's Son Lives

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Digging into the hard ground with an axe was not easy.

Thud! Thud!

The axe, made of cheap scrap metal, dulled with every strike. Along with flakes of metal from the axe, Cheon Hwi's sweat and the axe owner's blood fell to the ground.

Whenever he struck the ground, Cheon Hwi bent down and wiped away the dirt. He simply did not want to soil the place where his father would lie, but there were too many watching eyes.

Those eyes turned Cheon Hwi into an exceptionally filial son.

The people who had watched quietly came over one by one. Without a word, they took out whatever in their packs could be used for digging and helped him.

As he tended to his father's body, Cheon Hwi realized something. His father had never told him his own name.

Hardly anyone had called or asked for it, so perhaps it was only natural. Those who gave his father work and those he helped had all called him by nameless titles.

When he had finished laying his father to rest without shedding a single tear, the survivors gathered to offer their condolences. Cheon Hwi merely nodded and sent them away.

After gaining a moment alone, he spoke to the grave.

“Father. People asked for my name.”

The hand clutching the sword he had inherited trembled.

“Did I manage it?”

He spoke to himself, then shook his head.

Why talk about making a name for himself just because he had killed some thugs who were not even Green Forest bandits?

Instead, Cheon Hwi borrowed a small dagger and carved letters into a small wooden board.

- Father of Cheon Hwi.

A nameless third-rate martial artist, yet a martial artist with romance and chivalry.

Here he rests.

“...”

Cheon Hwi stared blankly at the board, then added a word before his name as though making up his mind.

- Father of Cheon Hwi, the Greatest Under Heaven.

At that moment, a desire for fame took firm root in Cheon Hwi's heart. He had to spread his name across the world.

* * *

Three merchants had survived the sudden attack by the bandits.

There had originally been fifteen of them traveling together along a relatively safe official road. Now only three remained, which was a disastrous loss.

“Shouldn't we return and report this to the authorities, then hand over the bodies?”

It was Cheon Hwi who spoke, but the other merchants looked strangely reluctant.

“W-Well, that would be...”

“...?”

They seemed to agree that returning was best, yet it felt as though they feared something else.

As they collected the bodies and packed their belongings, the survivors explained the situation.

Cheon Hwi found it easy enough to agree with their conclusion.

In short, government soldiers could be as frightening as bandits.

After seeing the bodies, the soldiers might threaten them and pin the blame on them for no reason.

“Then we'd have to pay more in bribes than the bandits stole from us.”

Only then did Cheon Hwi nod in understanding. He asked only two things of them.

“Handle what comes next as you see fit. But promise me two things.”

“Of course. What are they?”

“First, if you move the cargo that was meant to go to the lower reaches of the Black Dragon River, make sure I am included in the convoy. Second, I must be paid for protecting you.”

The head merchant, who had somehow survived, nodded vigorously.

“But do you really have to go to the Heilong River?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn't it be better to look for other work?”

“No. I want to finish what my father could not.”

Once he put it that way, the head merchant nodded as though he understood.

After setting down the others' packs, the head merchant handed Cheon Hwi one silver tael.

That was right. Only one silver tael. One thousand copper coins.

How much of it was the price of his father's life, and how much was payment for his help?

If he put those two things on a scale, which side would weigh more heavily?

“...”

Strangely enough, he felt as though he could hear his father's laughter.

It made him feel as though he had glimpsed the life of a true martial artist, the kind his father had spoken of so often.

“How do I become stronger?”

Again, he felt as though he could hear that familiar laughter.

The merchants invested more money after this incident and hired three additional martial artists. Among them was even one second-rate martial artist.

It was clear from the man's bearing that he was not merely calling himself second-rate.

As he walked between two third-rate martial artists, they naturally shifted aside.

It had been a long time since Cheon Hwi had seen someone who truly looked like a martial artist. The man wore a bamboo rain hat, and though his martial clothes were yellowed with dust and mud, he wore them properly. A pudao hung at his waist.

Many third-rate martial artists could not even afford a proper set of martial clothes, so he could only be second-rate.

“Hmm. Is that him?”

The second-rate martial artist introduced himself as Yi Mu-gwang. Saying that he had heard Cheon Hwi's story from the merchants, he patted Cheon Hwi on the shoulder.

“You did well! Very well!”

He praised Cheon Hwi for rising bravely, taking up a sword, and cutting down thugs even with his father's death before his eyes.

At the same time, Yi Mu-gwang was also a blunt man.

“How old are you?”

“I'm fifteen this year.”

“Fifteen, the age of learning. Too late. Throw away the sword and carry packs.”

“...?”

“I mean exactly that. Throw away the sword and carry packs. That may be the way to live longer, perhaps even happier.”

Cheon Hwi could not help being flustered. It sounded as though Yi Mu-gwang was saying he lacked the talent to become a martial artist.

However, as they traveled together, Cheon Hwi persistently stuck close to him.

At first, he watched from afar as Yi Mu-gwang polished and sharpened his sword.

On the second day, he secretly watched Yi Mu-gwang sit on a rock beneath the rising sun and circulate his qi. Then Cheon Hwi himself began accumulating qi according to the principles of the breathing technique.

He did not know a method of qi circulation like Yi Mu-gwang's, but he focused on expelling turbid energy and taking in pure energy.

It felt as though a tiny spark, no larger than a grain of millet, had ignited deep in his lower abdomen.

At some point, Yi Mu-gwang approached without Cheon Hwi noticing.

“You have good concentration.”

That was all.

Yi Mu-gwang had clearly noticed that Cheon Hwi was accumulating qi, but he said nothing else.

The next day, Cheon Hwi carried the pack of a merchant who had sprained an ankle.

“What a pointless thing to do. It won't raise your pay.”

The third-rate wanderers around him clicked their tongues at Cheon Hwi, but Yi Mu-gwang merely shrugged and took the lead.

The following day, just as they left the rough road and began following a mountain path, another group of bandits blocked their way.

Yi Mu-gwang drew the pudao at his waist in an instant, put an end to the needless trouble, and continued on.

Watching Yi Mu-gwang draw his blade, Cheon Hwi knew it was a realm his father's swordsmanship could never reach.

He thought Yi Mu-gwang might be considered strong even among second-rate martial artists.

Though Yi Mu-gwang's draw had shocked him, Cheon Hwi's daily routine did not change.

Every day, from before dawn until morning, Cheon Hwi openly copied Yi Mu-gwang's routine. Then Yi Mu-gwang's shadow fell over him.

“What are you doing all this for? If it was revenge for your father, didn't you already have it?”

Yi Mu-gwang sounded genuinely curious.

Cheon Hwi did not answer right away. It was not because he had no reason, but because there were too many.

Yi Mu-gwang did not press him for an answer.

In the distance, the sound of a tributary of the Black Dragon River seemed to draw closer.

“I am a martial artist.”

“If learning the Three Powers Sword and a breathing technique makes someone a martial artist, then I will soon stand shoulder to shoulder with Bodhidharma and Zhang Sanfeng.”

“I wasn't joking.”

“Neither was I.”

Yi Mu-gwang looked at him as though he were hopeless.

“You are fifteen. Your bones and muscles have not fully set yet, but without any background or sect, the best you can become is a second-rate wanderer like me. At your age, disciples of prestigious sects would have already made a name for themselves.”

“...”

“I need not tell you how harsh the life of a second-rate martial artist who fails to reach first-rate is. You know better than I do what a third-rate life is like.”

Cheon Hwi had nothing to say. Yi Mu-gwang's words struck at reality too accurately.

“Even if you train for the rest of your life, you might not become second-rate by the time you die.”

“We'll only know if I try.”

“Tch. You are foolish beyond measure.”

“I'll take that as praise.”

Cheon Hwi did not beg Yi Mu-gwang to teach him martial arts or spar with him.

That would only have made him look more immature, and the martial knowledge a martial artist had built up was not something to be casually passed on to another.

Even as the son of a third-rate martial artist, Cheon Hwi knew that much.

By then, Cheon Hwi was sitting cross-legged before dawn, calming his breathing in meditation through the breathing technique.

To Yi Mu-gwang, it looked rather pitiful.

‘He may not know how to circulate qi, but has he planted the seed for accumulating it?’

His surname was Cheon, was it not?

Perhaps his father had wanted to fulfill through his son the dream of becoming second-rate that he had failed to achieve himself.

Was it because he understood the father's feelings? Without realizing it, Yi Mu-gwang spoke to Cheon Hwi as he accumulated qi.

“If you have learned the most basic way of inhaling through the breathing technique, the next step is the breath-regulation method.”

Over their journey of roughly fifteen days, Yi Mu-gwang taught Cheon Hwi the breath-regulation method.

Cheon Hwi was quick-witted. Whatever Yi Mu-gwang said, he understood at once, and Yi Mu-gwang found teaching him enjoyable.

At first, Yi Mu-gwang thought Cheon Hwi simply learned quickly, but he soon had to change his mind.

He had explained only the most basic foundations. There was the breath-regulation method, which calmed the breath and stabilized the qi and blood, and the qi-accumulation method, which combined the breathing technique and breath-regulation method to build qi.

Yet Cheon Hwi greedily advanced even into things he had not been taught, like a dry cloth soaking up water.

Cheon Hwi's understanding was naturally different from that of third-rate martial artists who could barely manage ordinary addition.

Yi Mu-gwang, who had lived among both third-rate and second-rate martial artists, had to withdraw his assessment that Cheon Hwi was merely someone who learned quickly.

‘...What extraordinary talent.’

“Make a choice. You would do well if you studied. Even if you cannot become a clerk at a government office, you could study and become a head clerk at some escort agency or merchant company.”

As a wanderer who had traveled far and seen much, Yi Mu-gwang was certain of one thing.

Scholars who quietly took advantage of illiterate people lived far more comfortably than third-rate wanderers.

Not only that, they rarely died from being stabbed.

But Cheon Hwi's answer was simple.

“I refuse.”

“...You fool. Do you know what people in the martial world call a man who wanders the rivers and lakes with a sword, unable to enter a proper sect and without a sect lineage?”

“A wanderer?”

“Black Path rabble.”

For two days after that, Yi Mu-gwang taught Cheon Hwi nothing more.

He hoped Cheon Hwi would lose heart and give up the path of a martial artist on his own.

Only later did Yi Mu-gwang admit to himself that he had seen something of his thirteen-year-old self in the boy, back when he had entered an unknown sword sect as a lay disciple.

Whether it was foolishness or obsession, it was difficult to say. Still, Yi Mu-gwang knew that once such a feeling came into being, like the inner qi beginning to sprout within Cheon Hwi, it could not easily be removed.

“Come on, everyone. Come get your fish porridge!”

Yi Mu-gwang took a bowl of fish porridge made with fish caught from a tributary of the Black Dragon River, then asked the peddlers.

“That boy traveled the martial world with his father, did he not?”

“That is what we understand.”

“What was his father's name?”

He wondered if the man had been a martial artist Yi Mu-gwang did not know.

“We do not know his name. We only called him Cheon.”

“His epithet?”

“Come on. What third-rate martial artist has an epithet?”

It was Yi Mu-gwang, not Cheon Hwi, who flared up at that.

“Even third-rate martial artists have epithets of their own. How can you decide otherwise so casually?”

After rebuking them, Yi Mu-gwang drank his fish porridge and absently chewed a fish bone. Then he realized something.