Fragments of a Teaching Method
Small tents began to rise one by one on Namsan.
Thin threads of smoke curled between the flapping canvas.
The smell of rice cooking drifted through the air.
From somewhere came the sound of wood being chopped and hammers striking.
Few people visited the place,
so it did not disturb the daily life of the capital's citizens.
Instead, the alleys below Namsan grew livelier.
They frequently came down to purchase supplies.
Customers who were not overly sensitive to prices passed through often.
The narrow marketplace gained a new pulse of life.
The Namsan faction began by stretching awnings.
Soon they erected four pillars and raised a simple roofed structure.
The idea began when those practicing forms were told to cut wood.
One of them felled a thick trunk in a single stroke.
That tree was trimmed and shaped into a pillar.
Rough timber gradually took form.
Lunch was simple.
Yet meals for one hundred and fifty were no small matter.
Several cauldrons hung over fire.
Water ran as rice was washed.
When mealtime came, the place no longer resembled a training ground but a living settlement.
Most of the tuition money went toward food.
A considerable amount was spent on tents and bedding.
They occasionally visited the Cheonhwa Inn, but most days were spent on Namsan.
If one lived, there were duties to fulfill—so Sowoon believed.
He intended to shoulder them one by one.
Guiding the people on Namsan was one of those duties.
He regarded it as his place to bear.
Yet he was not without questions.
He had driven back the invaders.
He had torn down unnecessary power centered on the Emperor.
He was teaching those who admired his martial art.
And then…
What came next?
Is living in the world merely the succession of such acts?
To block what must be blocked, to mend what must be mended, to lead those who follow.
What lies at the end of that road?
What must be done now?
The questions circled in his chest.
They did not fade easily.
Life after reaching a realm was another matter.
To gain power and to live with power are different things.
How should one who has touched Hwagyeong live?
Sowoon stood before that question.
When he fell into thought, no one approached him.
His body was small, yet the moment he sat, the atmosphere shifted.
His back straightened, his breathing stilled, and the air around him settled.
When he entered meditation, there was no tremor.
He seemed rooted to the earth.
At times it appeared as though a faint halo formed behind him.
There was no actual light, yet it felt so.
Those who watched experienced a quiet awe difficult to describe.
It was a place both beautiful to behold and impossible to approach.
Sowoon alone did not know this.
So he often sank into thought.
And when thought deepened, meditation followed naturally.
Then the sense of time blurred.
Even as the sun tilted and the wind shifted, he remained.
Several times a day he descended into such stillness.
Those around him quietly withdrew.
He did not notice.
The ground was leveled and divided.
Spaces were assigned according to stages of training.
Beginners trained on the flat lower ground.
Intermediates stood near sloping rock.
Advanced students practiced in a clearing within the forest.
The divisions were clear.
If one could not cross a boundary, one could not rise to the next stage.
That boundary felt almost like fate.
Fail to cross it, and one remained where one stood.
None yet handled internal energy with clarity.
None read the flow of earth and nature and manifested it in form.
Most stopped at channeling force into the weapon in their hand.
A heavier blade tip.
A firmer spear point.
Different beginnings brought old habits.
Clinging to earlier methods slowed new development.
Life comes but once—how fine it would be to begin anew.
If one could not break the mold, progress would always lag.
Sowoon took his place at the farthest end of the divisions, beside those practicing forms.
Only those who had crossed earlier stages could stand there.
Cross the line, and a new task awaited.
He told them to cut wood.
He did not place axes in their hands.
The trunk required dozens of strikes even with an axe.
He ordered them to pierce it in a single stroke of the sword.
It was no easy task.
Still, they obeyed.
Someone had once walked that path.
If another had done it, they believed they could too.
They repeated the attempt with near brutish persistence.
Blades dulled from being driven down with force.
Hands swelled thick.
Some struck like chopping wood—cutting from above, lifting from below, carving grooves.
But that was not the way.
Sowoon shook his head.
Failed.
A dozen White Dragon soldiers came to assist.
The lower ranks were handed over to them.
The White Dragon Unit already stood at a high level.
They possessed strength sufficient to face most martial masters without yielding.
It was not merely individual prowess.
Their coordination and progression were precise.
More striking than their martial skill was their method of instruction.
They knew exactly how far to push each movement.
Their training was harsh.
Methods forged for survival on the battlefield were applied.
Mercy was difficult to expect.
When a movement faltered, correction came immediately—
not in words, but in punishment.
Fear of that punishment sharpened focus.
Those who imitated lazily could not endure.
When the White Dragon soldiers entered, the air of the training ground changed.
Laxity vanished.
Communal life began anew.
They ate, slept, and trained together.
Their origins differed.
Their sects differed.
Their foundations differed.
Quarrels would have been natural.
Raised voices over trifles could have erupted.
Yet there was no discord.
It was astonishingly quiet.
Partly because martial training consumed most of the day.
But there was a deeper reason.
Sowoon's teaching had begun to take root.
His question remained in their hearts:
For what do you wield strength?
They began to consider why they trained at all.
Petty disputes felt small.
Pride and rivalry lost their force.
Training and study concerned the body.
But in the end, they were matters of the mind.