Namgoong Seolhwa, exchanging blows with Namgoong Woong, deliberately left an opening.
And in that mont—she found it.
The flaw in Namgoong Woong's swordsmanship.
Smack!
“!”
The instant Seolhwa swung her sword, Woong’s wooden blade flew from his grip like it was nothing.
He stared at his hand and the airborne sword in stunned disbelief.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Seolhwa’s rebuke ca cold and sharp.
Woong hastily clasped his fists in a martial salute.
“I lost.”
“You said you'd give it your all. Was that really your best?”
“...Pardon?”
Woong looked at her, baffled.
He thought she was angry because he refused to admit defeat, but her tone was off. There was sothing else.
Seolhwa raised her wooden sword, placing the tip right before his eyes.
“You saw the opening. So why didn’t you strike?”
“Ah...”
“And that final blow—you held back, didn’t you?”
Woong blinked, wide-eyed, staring at the tip of the blade hovering in front of him.
“Are you making a mockery of the spar?”
“O-of course not!”
“Then why hesitate?”
“B-because... I was afraid you might get hurt, sister...”
“That’s really the only reason? No, it’s not.”
“...What?”
“That’s not why you stopped.”
The reason Namgoong Woong held back was because he was kind.
Because he was young. He feared that if he landed a hit on his elder sister, it might hurt her pride.
If you wanted to be generous, you could call it compassion.
But to Seolhwa, it was hypocrisy.
And hypocrisy leads to death.
Hypocrisy is rooted in arrogance—and arrogance is a poison to any martial artist.
You don’t let poisonous weeds take root.
You rip them out before they grow. And you crush them.
“Pick up your sword.”
Seolhwa stepped back a few paces as she spoke, and Woong retrieved his wooden blade from the ground.
“You want to keep going?”
“I’m going to beat you senseless.”
“...What?”
“I won’t be holding back.”
Seolhwa raised her sword toward him.
Woong assud a stance—more from instinct than intent. He still didn’t believe she was serious.
“I’m not stopping until your sword touches . If you don’t want to get hit, then fight with everything you’ve got. If you want to stop—do sothing about it.”
“Uhm...”
Was he supposed to say sothing? What was the right response?
But # Nоvеlight # any attempt to think it through was pointless.
Before Woong could answer, Seolhwa was already on him.
“!”
Clang!
Woong reflexively blocked her strike. The force made him gasp—it was far more powerful than anything he’d expected.
The sound was brutal. Far too sharp and threatening for wooden swords.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
“Sister...?!”
Thwack!
“Agh!”
In a blink, Seolhwa’s blade slamd into his ribs.
Only now did Woong realize she hadn’t been joking.
“W-wait...!”
But by the ti he understood, it was already too late.
There was no room to block the blows flying at him from all sides.
Thwack! Thump!
Her strikes ca in a relentless storm.
He managed to parry a few, but before he could even recover his stance, another hit would co crashing in.
Honestly—Woong felt humiliated.
He’d pulled back out of respect for her, tried to preserve her pride.
But to be punished for that? Of course it hurt.
And yet... how foolish that pride had been.
Crack! Thwack!
“Ugh! Agh!”
It hit him like lightning.
I... I have to do sothing!
The pain was unbearable. He wanted to cry, to scream, but no amount of tears would save him.
There was only one way to end this rciless beating.
He had to fight back.
Crack! Thump!
Caught in the whirlwind of her attacks, Woong wildly swung his arms and sword, doing everything he could to follow her movents.
Just once.
He only needed to land a single hit.
If he could find one opening... just one—
Now!
Woong thrust his wooden sword with all his might. But just as he thought he’d found a gap—
Seolhwa’s body vanished before his eyes.
“!”
And then—ca another brutal wave of strikes.
Crack! Thwack!
“Hhh...”
Without realizing it, tears welled in his eyes.
He swung again and again, trying to catch an opening—but not once did his blade reach her.
“Sister! Sniff It hurts! It really hurts!”
“Focus. Planning to stay up all night like this?”
At this rate, she was going to beat him to death.
His ears were ringing. His mind barely coherent.
I’m going to die. She’s really going to kill !
At so point, Namgoong Woong had started crying—loudly, ssily, from deep in his chest.
There was no sword technique left in him. He just sobbed and swung wildly.
“HhhhhhhaaaaAAAAAH!!”
And then, once again, he saw it—an opening in her form.
Seolhwa’s wooden blade was coming in low, aiming for his side.
Instinct took over. Woong trapped her sword under his arm.
And then—
Crack!
His own blade slamd into her forearm.
In that mont, Namgoong Woong smiled.
It was over.
Relief crashed over him—relief, and sothing else.
A thrill, sharp and electric, surged through him. The shock of touching soone who had once seed untouchable.
But the joy didn’t last long.
He looked up—and froze.
“S-sister. I... I didn’t an for it to go like that...”
“How does it feel to die?”
Woong’s eyes flew wide open.
He hadn’t died, but... it had felt close.
It had hurt—badly. And it was terrifying.
He had been too afraid to stop. That’s what frightened him the most.
If this had been real combat, he wouldn’t have even left a body behind.
And that thought made him feel bitter.
“I understand your intention, Sister! But... but still...! You went too far...! It really hurt!”
Who sparred like this?
Even if one side was overwhelmingly stronger, wasn’t there still such a thing as restraint?
Just because he’d hesitated for a mont—she had beaten him like a dog!
“If that had been a real fight, I wouldn’t have hesitated to strike!”
His ribs still ached. Tears welled up again.
His voice was full of wounded pride.
“You really believe that?”
“...Yes!”
“Well, I don’t.”
He claid it only happened because it was a spar? That he wouldn’t hesitate in real combat?
Ridiculous.
“Swords don’t lie,” Seolhwa said coldly. “Whether it’s a match or a battlefield—every swing, every thrust, every breath will co out exactly the way you trained it. That’s why we train until we bleed.”
“B-because we want to beco stronger...?”
“Training,”
Seolhwa pressed a finger to his shoulder, firm and unyielding,
“is about engraving those movents into your body. Burning them into your instincts. So that when fear freezes your mind, your feet still step into the proper form, your breath flows without pause—and your sword keeps moving. Cuts the enemy down.”
Even the simplest motion must be repeated tens of thousands of tis.
Because in that one decisive mont—
it must not be your mind that moves.
It must be your body.
“Don’t get used to hesitation. One mont of doubt, and you’re dead.”
Namgoong Woong pressed his lips into a hard line.
He had never fought an enemy outside his own clan.
He had never drawn his blade for anything more than a controlled spar. And those matches were always with his brother, Soryong.
‘Brother always got angry if I won.’
And so, without realizing it, he had started holding back.
Letting his brother save face.
Pretending not to see the openings.
That was how he’d co to see respect: pulling his strikes, softening his blade.
‘But Sister’s right.’
Even in this match—even though he hadn’t ant to—he hesitated the mont he saw her opening.
And if he did that in sparring, how could he be so sure real combat would be any different?
No.
She was right.
Swords don’t lie.
‘He’s figured it out.’
Seolhwa let out a quiet breath as she watched his face grow solemn.
She had worried he might be too young to understand, but the boy was sharp. For now, that was enough.
“Don’t forget the strike you just landed.”
Woong looked up at her. His eyes were a little lost.
“That... that was a cheap shot. I only landed it because I trapped your sword. It wasn’t sothing a proper martial artist should do...”
He knew now that hesitation would kill him—but that kind of attack felt beneath him.
“As if that matters.”
“...Huh?”
“Whether you trap the sword, smash it into the ground, or break it in half—what does it matter how you win? What matters is that you win.”
Woong blinked, round-eyed.
Seolhwa smirked at the look on his face.
“No one rembers the process. All that survives is the result. You win first—and then insist you won honorably.”
Woong’s innocent face froze in stunned disbelief. His little mouth opened in a perfect "O."
“...Wha?”
Watching that expression, Seolhwa hesitated.
Should I really be telling him this?
Namgoong Woong was more Namgoong than anyone.
What if she was corrupting that?
But...
When she rembered his past life... maybe it was okay to stain him a little.
After all, it was his righteousness that had dragged him down.
Yeah. Just a little should be fine.
With a soft smile, Seolhwa reached out and tousled his hair.
“Don’t forget this—”
“In a real fight, staying alive is winning.”
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