Pung, having defeated Namgung Hwi, found himself among the final four, standing in the semifinals.
Once the bout on the other side of the bracket ended, two names hung side by side beneath the tournament chart.
Danpung versus Dangwol.
Dangwol, the young master of the Sacheon Dang clan, was a warrior who rarely closed distance first. When an opponent pressed in, he would retreat, cutting off their path with hidden weapons, and even revive the projectiles embedded in the arena floor with the tips of his feet and thin threads. Those who had faced him in earlier bouts survived the first few exchanges unharmed, only to be trapped and defeated by weapons they’d already believed dodged.
“That one is more frightening in the head than in the hand.”
At Hyeonheo’s words, Pung nodded. Dangwol’s hands were fast, but his true weapon was the patience of remembering exactly where he’d thrown what, and waiting for his opponent to forget.
A-yeong patched the torn right side of Pung’s clothing with new cloth, but left the left collar untouched.
“Moving the ledger now could actually draw attention. If he’s from the Dang clan, he may have already noticed that you guard your left side.”
Hidden inside the left collar was a scrap of ledger paper reading, ‘Sixth day, three carts of black water. Pass through the north gate, hand over to White Crane.’ It was only a single thin sheet, but to Pung it mattered more than his own skin. Still, if he stiffened his body to protect it, Dangwol would immediately spot the opening.
When Pung absently reached to touch the collar, Hyeonheo pressed down on his wrist.
“From now on, don’t check it. Your hand could give away where the secret is.”
“And if he’s already found out?”
“Knowing something exists and knowing what it is are two different things. That difference is what you must protect today.”
Before the semifinal, the law-enforcing officials mounted the arena, and because the Dang clan’s hidden weapons and poisons required a separate inspection, preparation time stretched long. Dangwol emptied the leather pouch at his waist and the weapons hidden in both sleeves, and even set the small powder pouch and antidote vial fastened behind his waist atop the white cloth.
The officials checked each item one by one with silver needles and testing solutions, then announced the rules loud enough for the crowd to hear.
“What coats the weapons is nothing more than a paralytic poison that wears off within two hours, and a marking agent to confirm whether a hit has landed. The powder pouch contains a numbing powder that, if inhaled, dulls the limbs briefly, and its use is permitted only once. None of these are lethal, but the moment a weapon touches skin or paralysis symptoms are confirmed, the bout will be stopped immediately and the antidote administered. All weapons used must be recovered in full.”
Dangwol bowed silently with clasped hands and gathered his belongings again. His pale face wore an expression so blank it was impossible to tell whether he’d even heard the crowd’s murmuring, but when a few people in the front row quietly stepped back, his fingers straightened one of the weapons with excessive precision.
Pung did not presume to judge Dangwol from that small gesture alone; there was no way to know whether he was simply accustomed to people fearing him, or whether he merely disliked disorder among his things. On the arena, flying weapons would give a far more accurate answer than words.
As the two mounted the platform facing each other, Dangwol glanced once at Pung’s left collar before turning his gaze away.
“I won’t tell you to forfeit. But if you’re struck, tell me at once. Even a weak poison is better dealt with quickly than left too long.”
“Understood.”
“I won’t hold back either.”
Pung answered with clasped hands.
“Nor will I.”
The referee’s hand dropped.
“Begin!”
Three streaks of silver light split from Dangwol’s right hand. One aimed for the throat, but the other two struck just in front of Pung’s feet, and as Pung stepped back half a pace, five more weapons scattered from the left hand. Pung twisted his upper body to let the first needle pass and dodged a dagger skimming the floor, but the fourth weapon, striking the stone floor, bounced up low.
From the very start, the move had targeted not the body but the floor.
The instant Pung bent his elbow, a weapon grazed the reinforced right sleeve, leaving a blue mark—it never touched skin, but had it been half an inch slower, the bout might have stopped right there. In that gap, Dangwol retreated three steps, and as Pung closed in, the weapons already embedded in the floor blocked his path forward.
When Dangwol’s toe brushed a small ring, a slender dagger shot up to waist height, and Pung, lowering his body, finally recognized the pattern Dangwol was drawing. His hidden weapons were not tools meant to fly once and be done. Where they landed and the direction they deflected became the starting points of the next attack, weaving an invisible path across the arena.
When Pung opened his meridian sight faintly, the flow of energy from Dangwol’s dantian toward his shoulder and elbow became visible. Seeing the force gathering into the right hand, Pung threw himself to the left, but the moment Dangwol’s wrist snapped, the two needles already released collided in midair.
Clang!
One needle deflected upward, the other sideways, and a silver glint that had strayed from the path Pung had read drove toward his left chest. Twisting his body sharply to the right would have avoided it, but the dagger following behind would likely tear his collar, and if the paper were exposed, a fight far more dangerous than this match would begin.
Pung pressed his left arm to his chest and arched back; the needle grazed just beneath his jaw, and as he twisted his waist to dodge the dagger, the side he’d bruised against Namgung Hwi throbbed. His heel had already touched the boundary stone.
“It’s the Rain of Ten Thousand Flowers!”
Someone shouted.
Dangwol’s two hands folded together like a flower bud, then burst wide open. Weapons of varying size and weight scattered across the arena in high and low arcs, and though less than half of them targeted Pung from the start, once those striking the floor and boundary stones and bouncing back were added in, every gap vanished.
Pung drew more energy up into his eyes; because the flow branching from Dangwol’s dantian passed through both shoulders and stretched to all ten fingers, he could narrow the initial spread. But where the weapons would collide with one another after leaving his hands, or at what angle a needle striking a flaw in the stone floor would deflect—that he could not see.
Three streaks crossed before his face; Pung knocked one aside with the back of his hand and dodged another by ducking, but the last needle severed his hair tie. Wind slipped through his loosened hair, and by the time he leapt over the throwing blade that followed and landed, two daggers were already planted where he stood.
Advancing meant Dangwol would retreat and scatter more; retreating meant leaving the arena. Releasing the power of the golden ring could have knocked away every weapon, but revealing that power before the elders’ seats, and the risk of stray weapons flying toward the crowd, made it too dangerous.
Pung forced his body through the narrowest gap; blue marks spread across his sleeve and trouser hem, but none touched skin, and his left collar remained intact. Yet protecting it had tilted his balance, and Dangwol did not let the moment slip.
Three weapons flew at once toward his left shoulder, chest, and side.
He knew, after all.
This time, Pung didn’t shield his collar—he drove forward instead. He let the first dagger only graze the cloth at his shoulder, struck the second aside with the edge of his hand, and twisted his waist to dodge the last needle aimed at where the ledger was hidden. His breathing grew ragged, but Dangwol gave no ground; for every step Pung advanced, he retreated exactly one step, drawing weapon after weapon from his sleeve.
But at some point, instead of drawing fresh weapons, Dangwol began pulling those on the floor back with thread or kicking them up with his toe to reuse. It wasn’t only because his sleeves had grown light.
All weapons used must be recovered in full.
Though it looked as if Dangwol were scattering weapons at random, he was in fact plotting a path to ensure they eventually returned inside the arena—in particular, he’d sent almost no light needles toward the western boundary, and the wind brushing Pung’s cheek was blowing from west to east.
At that moment, Dangwol’s hand moved toward the small pouch behind his waist—the numbing powder permitted during inspection.
As the yellow powder spread among the weapons, Pung held his breath and dropped low. The powder drifted eastward on the wind, and two weapons that passed through it collided, one falling toward his left shoulder. Pung planted his palm on the floor and spun his body; the needle skimmed dangerously close over his head, but the boundary stone now loomed right before his eyes.
His chest tightened, demanding air, and even then Pung noticed that Dangwol did not immediately follow with his next move. Dangwol’s left hand was drawing back, by thread, the weapons caught within the numbing powder, while his right hand knocked aside with another dagger a needle that the wind was pushing out of the arena.
It was a brief gap.
Pung held his breath and dashed west; Dangwol immediately redirected his weapons, but the light needles, pushed against the wind, couldn’t fully seal the path. Pung sidestepped one low-flying dagger, and cupping the flat of the second in his palm, only redirected its course, closing the distance while enduring the stinging pain.
As Dangwol retreated, he kicked a throwing blade up with his toe. Just as Pung moved to clear it, a thin thread snapped taut at ankle height, but instead of jumping, Pung bent his knees and slid beneath the thread.
At last, the distance closed to within a single step.
Dangwol aimed an elbow at Pung’s throat as he closed in, while drawing a short needle with his other hand—no longer the movement of someone relying on hidden weapons alone. As Pung deflected the elbow toward his shoulder, the needle’s tip curved toward his chest, and Dangwol’s gaze once again shifted to the left collar.
Pung deliberately raised his left arm; as the needle’s path narrowed to follow it leftward, he released the arm guarding the collar and spun his body the other way. The needle’s tip left a small hole in the reinforced cloth, but failed to pierce through to the inside.
In that instant, Pung’s right foot slipped between Dangwol’s foot and the arena floor. Dangwol pulled his arm back, bracing against having his wrist seized, but Pung didn’t grab him—instead, he pressed the thin thread on the floor down with the top of his foot.
Dangwol’s retreat halted.
Five weapons being recovered were still connected to the end of that thread; retreating further would send them flying at both of them, and releasing the thread meant losing control over poisoned weapons. In the instant Dangwol hesitated over his choice, Pung circled to his outer side.
Pung’s fingertips stopped just before Dangwol’s chest.
Dangwol’s needle also stopped half an inch beneath Pung’s throat, but his heel already hung in the empty air beyond the arena’s edge—to regain his balance, he would first have to yield to Pung’s hand.
“Enough!”
Dangwol gazed at Pung for a moment, then lowered the needle.
“I’ve lost.”
As the referee declared victory, the training ground erupted, and only then did Pung finally release the breath he’d been holding, pressing strength into his toes to hide the weakness in his legs. The officials examined both fighters’ skin and clothing, confirmed that Pung had not inhaled the numbing powder, and began counting the weapons scattered across the arena one by one.
Dangwol soon joined the recovery as well. He gathered what was caught on the thread first, then searched the cracks in the stone and beneath the boundary stones; when one dagger Pung had struck away couldn’t be found, he retraced its trajectory. When Pung pointed to where he remembered it landing, the dagger was found just beneath the eastern edge.
Only after the last weapon had been placed on the white cloth did Dangwol turn to face Pung.
“You weren’t aiming for my hands—you were aiming for the path of recovery.”
“I noticed you’d stopped throwing new ones. And you used fewer light needles on the windward side.”
“And targeting your collar?”
Pung answered, still catching his breath.
“Because you saw me guarding that side.”
Dangwol didn’t deny it, nor did he ask what was hidden there.
“That cost you three delays. Next time, I’ll go after it more relentlessly.”
“Then I’ll find another way.”
Dangwol looked at Pung for a moment, then clasped his hands in a bow.
“I’m pleased you didn’t scatter the Rain of Ten Thousand Flowers by force. If you’d struck it aside carelessly, it would have flown all the way to the stands.”
“Young Master Dang, you also stopped your last needle.”
“Planting a poisoned needle after losing wouldn’t be restraint—it would be disgraceful.”
His tone remained as blunt as ever, but Dangwol did not turn his back until Pung had descended from the arena. They weren’t close enough to call each other friends, but each knew what the other had calculated, and at what moment he had stopped. For now, that was enough.
Below the arena, A-yeong checked Pung’s left collar first. Only a small hole had been made; the ledger fragment inside remained untouched, and only after confirming the red mark on his palm and his breathing did the tension in her eyes finally ease.
Watching Dangwol, who was still counting his weapons, Hyeonheo spoke.
“You haven’t forgotten that seeing the origin doesn’t mean knowing the whole outcome.”
“There was no room to forget. Once they left his hands and started colliding with each other, I truly couldn’t see it anymore.”
“One who knows what he cannot see survives. The moment you believe you see everything is the moment you die.”
From Namgung Hwi’s sword, he had learned where power begins; before Dangwol’s hidden weapons, he realized that even knowing that beginning did not mean he could govern every change that followed. Meridian sight was not an eye that revealed answers—it was an eye that forced him to choose what to see and what to let go.
“So you’ve made it to the final.”
Looking up, Pung found Namgung Hwi standing nearby; he swept his gaze over Pung’s torn sleeve and the weapons scattered across the arena, then lifted his chin slightly.
“You’ve proven my defeat wasn’t some trivial coincidence.”
“Have you come to cheer for me?”
At A-yeong’s question, Namgung Hwi’s brow furrowed.
“I’ve come to confirm something. I’ll be watching the final too—to see how far the one who beat me will go.”
After Namgung Hwi turned away, Pung noticed Jegal Soso, on the far side of the stands, pointing her closed fan toward the elders’ seats. The same aged figure who had cast a chilling glance the day before sat in the same place, and beside him, the clerk who managed the registration documents was giving instructions to a subordinate holding a thin file.
Songjin approached Hyeonheo’s side and spoke in a low voice.
“Hahoo Gang.”
“The man from yesterday?”
“That’s him. A copy of the registry was passed to his side on the very day you underwent the registration inspection. Today, I hear he ordered a check of the inn records for all the participants. And just now, the official who examined your clothes was summoned as well.”
Hahoo Gang was already speaking calmly with another elder; whether he meant to recruit Pung, was wary of Hyeonheo’s disciple, or was searching for something connected to the ledger, there was no way to know. What was certain was only this: with every step Pung advanced on the arena, the watching gaze drew closer as well.
“Should we move the ledger?”
Hyeonheo glanced toward Hahoo Gang for a moment, then shook his head.
“Moving it now would only tell them we’ve noticed the surveillance. Leave it as it is until tonight, but don’t move alone.”
A-yeong stepped half a pace closer to Pung without a word. The crowd was cheering for the nameless youth who had broken through the Dang clan’s Rain of Ten Thousand Flowers to reach the final, but in Pung’s eyes, the passage into which Hahoo Gang’s subordinate had disappeared looked unusually dark.
His remaining opponent now was Jinhyeon, the Plum Blossom Swordsman of the Hwasan sect.
Yet even after every last weapon had been recovered, one gaze from the elders’ seats did not withdraw. Hahoo Gang, his expression calm, was still looking at Pung’s left collar, and beside him, the subordinate received the file from the clerk who had vanished moments before and disappeared down the inner passage.
Pung did not touch his collar, turning his gaze instead to the final bracket. A single night remained before the greatest match awaited—but it seemed unlikely that Hahoo Gang’s side would let that night pass untouched.
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