WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Oblivious

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◈ Murim in my Hometown ◈

Chapter 7: Training

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“Practice as if the place where you trip over your own feet is where you’ll be buried.”

“Yes, Great Hero!”

Having experienced the power of footwork for himself, Gusam eagerly absorbed every lesson.

“Don’t bend at the waist so much. Don’t put your weight on your front foot, either. You’ll be too slow to retreat. Why are you looking at the ground? No matter how tired you are, keep your eyes forward. Always keep your center of gravity in the middle of your body and maintain your balance. That way, you can move in and out quickly in any direction.”

Once his posture had taken shape, I showed him how to pivot on either his front or back foot to change direction.

“Wow, this is really amazing. What’s this footwork called?”

“It doesn’t have a name. Most decent masters move like this.”

No one had taught it to me. It was footwork I had learned by fighting in real battles. If I absolutely had to give it a name, it would probably be the Eight Directions Step.

It was not some extraordinary ultimate technique, but once it became second nature, there was little more useful in a real fight.

Whether one used fists or wielded a blade, quick feet let them move one or two beats ahead of their opponent.

In real combat, where life and death could be decided in half a beat, it was practically a life-saving technique.

“If you can properly use footwork to freely close and open the distance between yourself and your opponent, you’ll never lose.”

“Yes, Great Hero!”

Gusam answered spiritedly and diligently practiced his steps.

He had already learned the basic form. All that remained was practice. To keep his feet from freezing in a fight for his life and let them move like flowing water, he needed endless repetition.

The movements were simple, without a single flashy motion, so anyone would have found them tedious. Yet Gusam kept moving without rest, beads of sweat pouring down his face.

He never once asked how long he had to keep at it.

As I sat on the wooden porch, drinking cold tea and watching him, I felt strangely emotional.

Since leaving my hometown, the only people I had ever shared what I possessed with were young beggars and a few wandering martial artists I got along with. Even then, it had only been alcohol or food.

I had thoroughly concealed the martial arts I had learned and the hidden tricks up my sleeve.

Everyone did the same. We merely happened to share meals for a while, but they were immoral criminals who could stab you in the back once the job was done, or even in the middle of it. Of course I had to stay wary.

It was a peaceful afternoon. The sunlight was warm, and the wind descending from the mountains was gentle and cool.

Even as the blue sky turned crimson with sunset, Gusam did not stop.

“The sun’s setting. Aren’t you going back to the inn? You have evening business to handle.”

Only then did Gusam snap out of it. Startled, he ran into the room.

He wrapped the empty bamboo lunch box and water bottle in a cloth, carried them out, and hurriedly said goodbye.

“Um, M... no, Great Hero, may I come again tomorrow?”

“Come deliver food at the same time. Properly settle the bill with the innkeeper using the money I gave you earlier. If you get caught stealing food, I won’t have you back.”

“Yes! Don’t worry. The owner will be happy to have a regular customer, too.”

Hurrying away, Gusam turned at the front gate and bowed deeply.

“Great Hero, thank you!”

“Yeah. Get going.”

I sent Gusam off and shut the gate. The silent courtyard felt strangely empty. I was about to go inside when I paused.

Countless footprints had been pressed into the dirt.

After watching them for a while, I brought out my long saber and drew it beneath the sunset.

Staring at the blood-red sky burning beyond the wall, I slowly took my opening stance. Then, stepping through the footwork, I performed the Nameless Saber Art.

The eighteen forms flowed through cycles of release and gathering, matched to each exhale and inhale.

The saber that swept through every direction became raging waves battering a cliff, then clouds drifting leisurely across the sky.

Though it was an exceptionally practical and deadly saber art, the more I used it, the broader and deeper the martial principles within it became.

I still could not understand it all, but it felt like drawing water from an inexhaustible well to make a shallow stream.

I was certain I could make a great river, but for now, a stream was my limit.

The sunset faded into darkness, and somewhere, the moon rose.

Whoosh!

For an instant, moonlight settled on the blade cutting through the dark, then vanished like a flower of the night blooming and withering in a moment.

* * *

Perhaps he practiced whenever he found time at the inn, because Gusam’s footwork grew more skillful by the day. Even so, he still could not lay a hand on me.

“Haaah... Why can’t I do it?”

Gusam collapsed in exhaustion and lamented with a hollow expression.

“Because your moves are too obvious.”

“My moves? Ah, feints and real attacks! That’s it, right?”

“If you gathered up everything you’ve only heard about, you could put together a secret manual.”

“I’ll try again!”

On the ninth day of having food delivered and making him practice footwork, Gusam’s hand finally touched my shirt.

“Pant, pant... Now... I learn... fist-and-kick techniques, right?”

After charging at me like mad for half an hour without rest and barely passing the test, Gusam flopped straight onto the ground.

Even while gasping for breath, he smiled with satisfaction. His face, filthy with sweat and dust, was filled with the accomplishment of having done it and overwhelming joy.

It was not an achievement earned entirely through his own skill. It seemed like he would never manage it even after years at this rate, so I deliberately slowed down at the end and let him catch me.

Still, it was true that Gusam had become more agile than before. His footwork had not fallen apart even at the end.

“Get up. We need to work on fist-and-kick techniques.”

“Yes... Ngh.”

The basics of using one’s fists were simple.

From the basic Eight Directions Step stance, with the left foot one step forward, turn the upper body slightly to the right and raise both hands.

The left hand faced forward along with the left foot, while the right hand rested naturally below the chin.

Then, move in step with the footwork, evade or block the opponent’s attacks, and drive your fist into an opening.

It was as simple as the footwork and easy to learn, but properly using it still required endless repeated practice.

Gusam, who had been throwing punches while moving hard in every direction and kicking up dust, stopped and looked back.

“But Great Hero, what kind of fist art is this?”

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“What? Even the fist art? There’s no such thing as something without a name!”

It was a question that caught me oddly off guard. Still, I had no desire to give it a name now.

“Instead of worrying about that, practice.”

“Yes!”

A few days later, Gusam arrived with food and more injuries on his face.

“The damn bastard from the cloth shop picked a fight, so we had a go.”

“Did you win?”

“No. But I hit him a few times. Hehe.”

Gusam gently rubbed his bruised eyelid with regret, but his expression was not bad. There was life in his eyes, too.

Until now, his days had been bleak, filled with nothing but getting beaten one-sidedly. Now, every day was filled with heart-pounding hope as he grew stronger than before.

Apparently, even after returning to the inn, he had been cutting into his sleep to practice footwork and punching.

The day he would knock down his longtime nemesis and release the suppressed resentment built up within him was not far off.

Gusam advanced without rest toward the glorious moment when he would rule the alleys of Seochon.

After eating, I went out into the courtyard and stood facing him.

“Try kicking once.”

“Like this?”

Gusam awkwardly raised one foot. It looked utterly ridiculous.

“You haven’t even finished growing yet. Why are your joints so stiff? Even a drunk kicking at a barking dog could raise their foot higher than that.”

“Hehe, is that so? I’ve been busy making a living...”

“Let’s start by doing the splits.”

“What? My legs? Ah, Great Hero, now that I think about it, there’s no real need to learn kicking tech... Aaaah!”

I pinned the fleeing Gusam to the wall, then pressed down from above and forced him into the splits.

Fortunately, his bones had not fully hardened yet, so it only took a few attempts to get his legs fully extended.

After teaching him for about half a day, even his kicks had begun to look decent.

Having learned footwork, punches, and kicks, Gusam strutted around as if he had acquired some peerless art that would shake the world.

“Wow, I think I could even beat a bandit with a sword.”

“You couldn’t.”

“Then what should I do when fighting someone with a sword?”

“You should hold something, too. Preferably a long blade.”

“What if I have nothing?”

“Run.”

Faced with such realistic and unglamorous advice, Gusam could only blink with a speechless expression.

“Great Hero, I once heard this from a customer... They say there’s a sect in Kaifeng called the Ironblood Sect that’s famous for its fist-and-kick arts. They say its sect leader smashed the Shaolin Temple abbot’s monk’s staff with his fists and even broke blades.”

“He must have been wearing fist gauntlets. Ones made from Hundred-Forged Refined Steel or Cold Iron.”

“Things like that exist?”

“They do. Rumors are only rumors. Don’t believe anything you haven’t seen with your own eyes. Practice.”

“Yes!”

Gusam diligently stepped through the Eight Directions Step, unleashing punches and kicks.

After several days of correcting his posture and teaching him simple but effective combinations, we began sparring.

“Come at me.”

With a deeply tense expression, Gusam clenched his small fists tightly and took his stance.

“Here I come.”

When I nodded, Gusam kicked off the ground, surged forward, and thrust out his left arm as though stabbing.

I tilted my body slightly to evade it, and his right fist immediately came flying in. He had not practiced long, but his fists were already fairly sharp.

When I redirected it aside, Gusam stepped through his footwork, twisted his body, and closed the distance in an instant.

It was a bold movement to the point of recklessness. Perhaps because he trusted that I would not counterattack as I had during our footwork sparring, his defense was sloppy.

Half a beat faster, I reached for the opening. When I flicked his forehead, Gusam flinched and hurriedly retreated.

His efforts had not been wasted. His feet did not tangle and send him falling.

Rubbing his forehead, Gusam carefully moved from side to side. He raised both hands to face level, took a proper defensive stance, and charged again.

This time, I did not evade. I blocked his punch with my hand.

Though attack after attack came to nothing, Gusam did not give up and gritted his teeth.

His fighting spirit was good, but his movements were too large and his field of vision too narrow. Focused solely on landing a hit, he could not control his own movements and was being drawn along wherever I moved.

When I knocked aside a straight punch thrown deeply in, Gusam lost his balance for an instant and staggered. I threw a punch, and he cried out in alarm as he crossed both arms to block it.

“Ow!”

After receiving a sharp flick to the forehead, he stumbled. I hooked his foot and knocked him down.

Gusam sprang back up, dusted himself off, and huffed.

“Who suddenly trips someone like that? That’s underhanded!”

“Would you say that in a real fight, too? You worked so hard to spread your legs. Use your feet as well.”

Annoyed, Gusam rushed at me while noisily stepping in every direction, babbling something about shifting forms and changing positions.

His face glistened with sweat, and his breathing was rough. He looked a little tired, but his eyes were more intense than ever.

I blocked his punches, redirected his kicks, struck at his openings, and tripped him as the sparring continued.

As I gradually became more engrossed, a faint smile found its way onto my lips.

This kid. He definitely had talent.

His perseverance in getting back up no matter how many times he fell was good, and his fighting spirit in pursuing his goal was quite impressive.

I liked that about him, so I kept making time for him instead of ending it after a day or two. But that was as far as my teaching went.

If he polished these skills for a month or two, he would have a hard time finding an equal among the local kids.

From the next day onward, I let Gusam practice on his own while I took care of my own work.

After eating slowly and drinking tea, I went outside to watch his posture for a while. Then I went to the bamboo grove, cut some bamboo, and brought it back.

Sitting on the wooden porch, I split the bamboo with a short knife, folded the long leaves diagonally, and drove a pin through them.

I was not particularly handy with this kind of thing, so I completely ruined the first few.

I held up the pinwheel I had barely finished and blew on it. Something was wrong, because it would not spin properly.

After scratching my head and thinking it over for a long time, then failing with several more, I finally managed to finish one.

When the pinwheel began spinning cheerfully, Gusam wiped the sweat from his forehead and came running over.

“Wow, did you make this, Great Hero?”

“Can’t you tell by looking?”

“Can I have one, too?”

“If you win.”

“Really?”

“Have you spent your whole life getting tricked?”

“No.”

Gusam turned serious. I looked at him anew, then snorted with laughter.

Right. It was a world where you could survive getting beaten, but not getting tricked.

With effort added to his talent, results soon followed.

Exactly seven days later, Gusam finally achieved the accomplishment of his lifetime.

Footnotes:

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