Chapter 21 – Recovery II
During the long days when his injuries left him unable to move, Yeong-woo recited the heart method again and again.
It took less than a moment to speak it once.
Still, he repeated it endlessly.
He did not fully understand it.
But he had been told to do it.
So he did.
He prayed that the mysterious principles hidden within those lines would lead him to a world he had never experienced before.
With the heart of one praying, he repeated it.
Again.
And again.
Until the meaning of each phrase entered his chest like beads on a rosary, settling one by one within him.
His days became filled with recitation.
Every passing moment was tied to those words.
It was prayer.
It was hope.
It was determination.
And above all, it was the stubborn will of a man who refused to collapse.
They said that sincere prayer would be answered.
Perhaps it was.
The memorization that had once been difficult gradually became easier.
The words began to seep naturally into the movements of his daily life.
A phrase surfaced in his mind.
Mind and breath become one.
The mind follows the mystery of intent.
Only then did he begin to understand why Baek In-gyeom had insisted he memorize it.
It was the power of language.
Words had the power to make things become real.
Even things that once seemed impossible.
During the hours he lay resting, he recited the heart method.
When he managed to stand for short periods, he practiced sword movements with incomplete motions.
He wanted to practice the spear.
But most warriors trained with the hwandoor straight sword.
If he were to learn properly one day, it would likely be the sword.
At least that was what he vaguely thought.
What he practiced now was the basic sword training taught in the army.
A system later known as the Joseon Sebeop.
Every morning soldiers gathered in the training yard.
First they performed formal exercises of Subak, the empty-hand discipline.
Then they took up wooden practice swords and drilled the Sebeop.
It was something like a military dance.
Sometimes dozens practiced together.
Sometimes hundreds.
When all moved in the same motion at once, it resembled a massive wave flowing across the earth.
Yeong-woo did not know how his current study differed from the original teachings.
So he simply repeated the Sebeop again and again.
The sword forms were sharp and decisive.
Cuts struck downward with strong, snapping force.
When the body turned and the blade descended, the movement felt powerful.
Now he tried to apply the newly memorized heart method to the Sebeop he already knew.
His body was far from healed.
His movements were incomplete.
His imitation of the proper forms looked awkward.
At times it appeared careless.
At other times it made him seem foolish.
He simply could not move his body properly.
The flow of his sword was slow.
Partly because he lacked strength.
Partly because he wanted to do it properly.
Yeong-woo's sword movements became so slow that they resembled a dance.
He was trying to imitate the movements of the Immortalshe had glimpsed once.
It looked painfully clumsy.
Of course it did.
If merely copying their movements were enough, anyone could become a master.
Real swordsmanship required more than motion.
It required breath.
It required the circulation of internal energy.
And it required the heart method that guided both.
Without those three things aligned, the movements were nothing but a dance.
Yeong-woo knew that.
Still he practiced.
When a cut should extend fully, he merely pointed the direction.
Because raising his arm too high felt like his ribs were shattering again.
When turning half a circle, he moved painfully slowly.
One foot refused to follow the other.
He adjusted the angle as best he could.
Then brought the sword down.
More than the movements, Yeong-woo focused on reciting the heart method.
Within those lines were instructions for the mind, the focus of attention, and even the breathing that accompanied each motion.
He did not know whether the heart method had originally been meant for this sword form.
But he practiced anyway.
To him the Sebeop had become little more than a way to train the newly memorized heart method.
Anyone watching would have laughed.
But Yeong-woo was sincere.
He did what he could.
Practicing incorrect technique could repeat the same errors.
Training without proper instruction could make things worse.
Still, Yeong-woo trusted the sword method taught in the army.
Perhaps it differed slightly from its ancient origins.
But it had been refined for soldiers.
Even in its simplified form it contained the essential principles.
Many techniques evolve through generations.
Yet the spiritual aspects often weaken.
Because of this, true masters had become increasingly rare.
In earlier times people traveled mountains and rivers seeking enlightenment.
Their martial studies possessed clarity of heart.
Later generations focused only on the outward forms of martial technique.
Without the prayers and seeking that once accompanied them, the depth faded.
As a result, only a few reached true mastery.
And such men became rarer with every age.
Yeong-woo's own training was no different.
He practiced martial movements stripped of everything else.
It should not have worked.
But there was one difference.
He respected deeply what he did not understand.
He believed that somewhere, somehow, the heart method he memorized and the sword movements he practiced would eventually meet.
He tried to unite the study of mind with the practice of action.
Even when a downward strike failed again and again, he poured his intent into it.
He added breath.
He repeated the heart method like a mantra.
Not once.
Not twice.
Hundreds of times each day.
In the small courtyard behind the physician's house he practiced endlessly.
Nearly a month passed.
He ate little.
He practiced constantly.
The memorization became effortless.
Not a single word escaped him.
And now he could even contemplate its meaning.
One day the physician looked into the yard and muttered,
"Strange fellow."
"With broken ribs he can barely move."
"Yet his sword practice continues without fail."
Yeong-woo stopped after several hundred swings and answered,
"I wonder the same myself."
"How can it be?"
"If you move too much the bones won't heal," the physician grumbled.
"I told you not to do this."
"Yet somehow you've made it this far."
"Thanks to you."
The physician stroked his goat-like beard thoughtfully.
"The medicine helped too."
"Did it?"
"That ginseng was real."
"And very old."
"Even a physician like me would envy it."
"Did you feel anything change after taking it?"
"What would change?"
"Some internal masters say it increases inner power."
Yeong-woo laughed weakly.
"I don't even know the first character of internal cultivation."
"How could I deserve such fortune?"
"It merely helped my body heal."
The physician nodded.
"And that strange chant you mutter every day?"
"It's a secret."
"A secret teaching."
"I must never tell anyone."
"Who asked you to?"
"I only meant there must be some reason behind that chant."
Yeong-woo shook his head.
"No."
"All of this is thanks to your care."
"Nonsense," the physician replied.
"The body heals itself."
"I merely assist."
"Still, thank you for saving my life."
The physician stepped closer and spoke casually.
"If you wished, I could say a word."
"You might even return home."
"What?"
"I could report your condition properly."
"A word here or there."
Yeong-woo's eyes narrowed.
Home.
A place that appeared whenever he closed his eyes.
Even after countless battles shattered his heart and mind,
it remained the most precious place he knew.
The physician continued.
"It's spring now."
"The Jurchens will not come again soon."
"Yes…"
"I would like to return."
"But even if I did…"
"What would change?"
"I'd only become another unemployed man."
"So you refuse?"
"If it were only a short leave…"
Yeong-woo stopped.
The words would not come.
Because long ago he had buried a dream deep within himself.