Namgung Clan’s Great Sage, Heaven’s Equal

18. It Just Happens.

There’s a certain atmosphere unique to a martial family.

If even ordinary households have their own family traditions, how much more so for a martial clan like the Namgung Clan?

A free-spirited air, uncharacteristic of a prestigious family.

Yet beneath it all, the scent of sweat hung thick in the air.

The members of the Namgung Clan never neglect their training.

Even elders and retainers, who could easily rest on their laurels, devoted a set amount of time each day to honing themselves.

You might not be able to watch their martial arts training directly, but just from the shouts echoing through the grounds, you could feel the Namgung Clan’s burning intensity—like molten lava.

The true might of a martial family, felt from within the Number One Sword Family Under Heaven.

Wujing felt it in his bones and swallowed hard.

“Ugh.”

Life in the Namgung Clan was, quite literally, paradise for Wujing.

They gave him a place to sleep, fed him well.

He instantly understood why so many wanderers wanted to become retainers of the Namgung Clan.

Wujing muttered to himself.

“Man, I feel pathetic.”

He might have started as a bandit, but he was still a martial artist of the Murim. Even as a secular disciple of Shaolin, atoning for his sins, he’d learned many martial art skills. In his youth, he’d even dreamed of becoming the greatest martial master under heaven.

‘Back then, I wanted to be stronger than anyone.’

A faint, bitter smile crossed his lips.

He’d never really wanted to be a martial artist. He just had reasons he needed to become strong.

The atmosphere of the Namgung Clan brought back memories for Wujing.

He glanced down at his belly and licked his dry lips.

…It’s just age. Perfectly natural.

‘Come to think of it, even Sun Wukong’s been busy lately.’

Wujing felt strange. Even Sun Wukong, who seemed like he’d be the laziest of them all, wasn’t in his room.

He’d often spend time alone in the garden or the training hall attached to the residence.

Maybe he was training his martial art skills, too.

‘Well, a martial master of his level wouldn’t neglect his training.’

With a determined look, Wujing finally stood up and headed outside.

Just then, Sun Wukong happened to pass by and casually stopped him.

“What are you up to?”

“Going to train.”

“Oh.”

At Sun Wukong’s brief exclamation, Wujing felt a bit odd.

Was that mockery, or admiration?

To make someone feel both at once—now that’s a talent.

Trying to ignore it, Wujing headed for the training ground, but Sun Wukong trailed after him.

“Is there something you need?”

“I’m going to train too.”

“Martial art training?”

“Yeah.”

“…Um, is it alright if I watch?”

Wujing asked cautiously. Watching someone else’s training was usually only allowed among family or fellow disciples.

He recalled Sun Wukong’s usual disregard for convention.

Curious about the depths of Sun Wukong’s abilities, Wujing blurted out the question.

As expected, Sun Wukong didn’t care.

“Do as you like.”

Wujing’s eyes sparkled.

He’d get a glimpse of the martial art skill that had toyed with the Blood-Iron Fiend.

“Might as well get a closer look, right?”

“Closer?”

Wait, was he planning to teach him?

Wujing’s eyes lit up for a moment.

But his face twisted as if he’d bitten into something bitter at Sun Wukong’s next words.

“Draw your sword. Let’s have a spar.”

“Huh?”

“You’ll see more if you experience it yourself, right?”

“Uh, well…”

“It’s not like I’m going to kill you.”

“Ah, that sounds like foreshadowing…”

Wujing suddenly felt nervous.

*

For a martial artist, martial duels are inseparable from life.

Wujing had fought in countless duels.

During his days as a Shaolin secular disciple, and during his time as a bandit.

It was only after experiencing both worlds that Wujing realized there were different types of martial duels.

‘Back at Shaolin, things were civilized.’

The most orthodox kind of duel—testing each other’s skills, reviewing what you’d learned, exchanging lessons.

But among the bandits… they didn’t even call it a duel.

‘It was just settling the pecking order.’

If you had a problem, you beat someone down, stepped on their head, and climbed higher.

Brutally practical, it was really just a fight for dominance.

Using killing moves in the process was expected. If you couldn’t defend against dirty tricks, you were the fool. Getting caught off guard was the real disgrace.

So what kind of duel would Sun Wukong fight?

Wujing eyed him warily.

Sun Wukong stood with his arms crossed, looking relaxed.

‘Arms crossed? For a duel?’

Wujing’s face twitched slightly.

The ready stance was supposed to let you attack at any moment.

If you wanted a textbook example of what not to do, it was Sun Wukong right now.

Arms crossed in front of his chest. That was the last thing you should do in a fight.

Wujing sighed inwardly. Even so, knowing Sun Wukong’s strangeness, he couldn’t let his guard down.

Wujing slowly moved his hands and feet into a ready stance.

Nothing special—just the most basic posture. The foundation for any martial art skill.

From there, it would adapt to personal habits and the characteristics of the martial art.

‘Huh?’

Wujing’s eyes flickered.

The relaxed Sun Wukong suddenly took up a ready stance.

‘Is it the same as mine?’

Wujing’s brow furrowed. He was a swordsman.

Sun Wukong, on the other hand, fought barehanded.

Their stances should have been different. Sun Wukong should have looked different. But it was exactly the same—the posture, the position of the hands, even the spread of the legs.

And yet…

‘It’s sloppy.’

It was so sloppy, it was strange. Even Wujing, who was definitely the inferior martial artist, could see the openings.

Wujing’s mind grew more tangled.

He spoke, tense.

“Great Hero, you’re the superior martial master, so please give me three moves.”

In the Murim, a single martial form can decide victory or defeat.

Giving three moves was something you’d only see in a duel between master and disciple. Wujing knew it was a lot to ask. But otherwise, he wouldn’t last even a single move.

Sun Wukong nodded nonchalantly.

“I’ll give you ten.”

“I won’t refuse, but you might regret that.”

Stung in his pride, Wujing closed the distance in an instant.

With nimble footwork, his sword shot forward in a straight line.

Sun Wukong simply twisted his body on a diagonal and dodged.

‘One move!’

Riding the momentum, Wujing pressed the attack.

A flurry of bold strikes followed.

Sun Wukong never deviated from the basic ready stance he’d shown earlier.

There were openings everywhere. Wujing struck and slashed at every visible gap.

‘Wait, I might actually land a hit!’

Confidence surged in Wujing’s face. He could do this.

Sun Wukong seemed barely able to dodge. Wujing felt he was clearly driving him into a corner.

But as the third, fifth, and then more moves flowed like water—

“…Hup!”

Wujing suddenly realized his breathing was ragged. His body felt heavy, as if his muscles were being wrung out.

A chill ran through his chest. Something strange was coming from Sun Wukong. The sloppiness of his initial stance had vanished. Wujing, who had been relentlessly attacking, was now gasping for breath, and finally, he hit a wall.

When the ten moves he’d been given were up—

‘Huh?’

Wujing suddenly realized there was no space left to strike or cut.

He stepped back and stared at Sun Wukong.

He had the urge to rub his eyes.

‘No openings. None at all.’

The stance that had looked so sloppy and full of holes had transformed astonishingly.

It was hard to call it simply perfect.

Wujing felt a powerful sense of déjà vu.

‘Master…?’

Long ago.

The ready stance he’d seen when first learning martial art skills from his master.

The perfected posture he’d always longed for.

‘How?’

At first, when Sun Wukong copied his stance, it looked awkward and sloppy.

After a few attacks, it became skilled and natural.

By the end of ten moves, it was even closer to perfection than his own.

…So he mastered the stance in just ten moves?

Goosebumps ran over Wujing’s entire body.

When Wujing hesitated, Sun Wukong shrugged.

“Ten moves are up.”

“…”

“Guess I’ll warm up now.”

Wujing tensed. He recalled the scene when Sun Wukong had overwhelmed the Blood-Iron Fiend.

Relaxed steps, lightning-fast fists.

He tried to follow the flow, to predict the most likely path. He prepared to dodge or block. But as Sun Wukong closed the distance, his movement was different from before.

He advanced rapidly with precise footwork.

“…!”

Wujing’s eyes widened.

It was exactly the same as what had just happened. Only now, the attacker was Sun Wukong instead of Wujing.

Instead of a sword thrust, Sun Wukong extended his arm.

It was just like Wujing’s first move.

As if he’d copied it exactly.

Wujing dodged naturally. Maybe because the move was so familiar.

Second move—again, identical.

Third move—a diagonal slash. The only difference was that it was a hand instead of a sword.

Whoosh!

‘What the—?’

No, it was subtly different. When a streak of blood from the wind pressure traced his cheek, Wujing realized something was wrong.

His footwork faltered on the fourth move.

He rolled messily on the ground on the fifth.

He couldn’t dodge the sixth, blocked it, and his wrist went numb from the impact.

On the seventh, eighth, and ninth, he took three consecutive hits.

Chest, abdomen, thigh.

Too fast and powerful to dodge or block.

Shock spread across Wujing’s face.

‘What’s different? What is it?’

He couldn’t understand.

Same routine, same speed, same direction, same method. Sun Wukong was copying him exactly.

But with each move, Wujing was pushed further and further into a corner.

‘It’s being perfected.’

Perfected.

The process of completion was unfolding before his eyes.

The moment he realized it, a jolt like lightning ran through Wujing.

When he took the tenth strike to his abdomen, he could only clutch his belly and double over.

“Argh!”

A groan escaped. It wasn’t the pain in his gut—it was the heavy shock pounding his mind. In just ten moves, Sun Wukong had grasped the core of his martial art skill, learned it, and mastered it.

In just ten moves.

So then, what would Sun Wukong do next?

Wujing was desperate to find out. He clung to consciousness and endured.

Eleventh move.

Sun Wukong’s hand shot out. The speed changed, surpassing even the rapid attacks before.

The eleventh move wasn’t Wujing’s martial art skill.

It was a new martial form, executed in Sun Wukong’s own way.

Wind split at his fingertips. A flawless, singular path.

A lower body as steady as Mount Tai, an upper body that moved with fluid grace, and fingertips unwavering in their path.

It was as if his body moved on its own, the air vanishing along the straight line traced by his hand. The air split and scattered at the tip of his finger, completing the move.

True Emptiness.

All friction vanished, the speed surpassing even the fastest of strikes.

‘Ah…’

Sun Wukong’s fingertip stopped just in front of Wujing’s throat.

Gulp.

Even swallowing felt dangerous, afraid his Adam’s apple might get sliced by the killing intent.

It wasn’t a sword, but a bare hand—yet sharper than any blade.

Only when Sun Wukong withdrew his hand did Wujing collapse, gasping for breath.

Sun Wukong nodded in satisfaction.

“Hm. I get it now.”

Wujing, still dazed and panting, scrambled over to Sun Wukong.

“Uh, Great Hero.”

“Yeah?”

“You copied my martial art skill, didn’t you? That’s what you did, right?”

“Yeah.”

Wujing fell silent.

At the end, Sun Wukong had reached the level Wujing most longed for, and with the eleventh move…

‘Could I ever reach that level?’

It was as if his eyes had been opened.

The hardest part of learning martial art skills is not knowing which direction to go.

Knowledge is enlightenment.

In the eleventh move, Wujing saw his destination and his ideal.

Watching Sun Wukong’s martial forms become more refined and powerful with each move, he even saw the flaws he needed to overcome.

Knowing the path ahead—

It was a flash of insight.

Wujing sprang to his feet, though his legs trembled.

“How, how did you do that?”

He’d copied, mastered, and even surpassed Wujing’s martial art skill in just ten moves.

Was this what a martial master looked like?

No, in all his years, Wujing had never seen or heard of anyone like this in the Murim. With burning eyes, he stared at Sun Wukong, who just chuckled.

“What do you mean, how?”

“How did you copy my martial art skill just by watching, master it, and even go beyond it? How did you do that? How did you take it further in the end?”

Sun Wukong snickered.

“It just happens.”

“…”

Is he kidding me? This guy…