"If Chunbong Cries, You Die by My Hands?"
It was a chilling statement. It didn’t sound like an empty threat, either. A primal fear gripped Bi-yeon, freezing his entire body.
Chunbong was equally startled. In response, she launched a corrective dropkick at Lee Seo-jun.
Then—ah, crap!
‘Right, the heart demon!’
Midair, Chunbong twisted her body in a sharp motion and clamped her small hands tightly over Seo-jun’s lips.
“Hey, you bastard! There are things you can and can’t say to a kid!”
“Was about to say that~.”
“Ugh, seriously!”
After giving Seo-jun a few solid smacks, Chunbong let out a deep sigh and landed on the ground.
Was it because of his heart demon? Maybe—but then again, he was always like this. It was hard to tell the difference.
With her hands planted firmly on her hips, Chunbong turned to Namgung {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} Sua.
“You too, unnie. When he says something like that, you should stop him.”
“Eh, Seo-jun probably has a reason.”
A nonchalant response. Judging by her bright, beaming smile, she genuinely believed that.
‘Sigh... I guess I’ll have to handle it myself.’
The Guardian of Zhongyuan, Geum Chunbong, felt the weight of enormous responsibility. She couldn't even begin to imagine how the world would spin without her.
Finally, after another deep sigh, Chunbong turned to Seo-jun and asked:
“So, how exactly do you plan to replace aptitude?”
“Nothing complicated.”
Talent and aptitude were similar yet distinct. In some ways, aptitude could be considered a component within the broader concept of talent.
The term aptitude itself referred to intelligence and cognitive ability. But in martial arts, it specifically meant the ability to perceive, understand, and grasp the essence of martial techniques—essentially, one's capacity for learning and insight.
“People like to say there’s no correct way to wield a sword, but at his level, there actually is.”
For martial artists above a certain level, there was no singular “correct” way to swing a sword.
It wasn’t about right or wrong, but rather which direction one chose to take.
But Bi-yeon was different. At his level, there was a right answer.
“If he swings his sword according to that answer, his body will slowly start engraving the experience.”
The process of learning the sword could be summarized simply:
And in that second step, aptitude was crucial.
A person with high aptitude could recognize the right path the moment they swung their sword.
‘Ah! This is the right way!’
If they could recognize and grasp that sensation, all that remained was to engrave it into their body.
That was how one truly mastered a sword path.
“That’s why having a master is important.”
Chunbong crossed her arms and pursed her lips.
“They can tell you if you're right, or if you’re wrong, where you’re wrong.”
“As expected of my Chunbongie~.”
Seo-jun lifted Chunbong off the ground and swung her around.
“But in this case, a master won’t be much help. Even if I guide him down the correct sword path, the moment he tries again, he won’t be able to tell if it’s right or wrong.”
With Bi-yeon’s atrocious talent, that was certain. Even if a master corrected him, the second he turned around, he’d forget.
So, Seo-jun made something.
A martial art for correcting martial arts.
If Bi-yeon swung his sword in the correct path, his body would gradually engrave that sensation.
Even the slightest deviation would render it meaningless. Precision in posture and force was essential.
In other words, since he lacked the aptitude to understand martial arts, Seo-jun would substitute that deficiency with precise input values, embedding the sensation into his body like a coded function.
“...The hell is he talking about?”
It wasn’t even difficult to create. This was a domain closely linked to the Profound Mysteries of the Pupil.
If executed correctly, the body itself would record the moment’s sensation in place of internal energy.
“With enough time, Bi-yeon could technically do this himself—but that would take sixty years.”
Which meant Bi-yeon’s task was simple.
He needed to swing his sword a hundred, a thousand times— over and over again—until he accidentally stumbled upon the correct path.
If he had no talent, then he had to make up for it with his body.
“Well, then. Let me give you a preview.”
Seo-jun’s eyes flickered, taking in Bi-yeon’s form.
Bi-yeon’s body froze. The moment his gaze met Seo-jun’s, his breath caught in his throat. His mind blanked out, bleached white. His body started moving on its own.
Seo-jun’s Elemental Manipulation had seized control of his muscles, down to the smallest fiber.
“A...!”
Bi-yeon swung his sword three times.
A vertical slash.
A horizontal cut.
A piercing thrust.
The Three Fundamental Strikes.
They were absurdly, almost unnaturally perfect.
But this was merely a demonstration. Even if Seo-jun guided Bi-yeon’s body to execute the perfect sword path, it didn’t mean he had mastered martial arts.
Still, the experience of executing a correct sword path with his own body would serve as a foundation.
Leaving Bi-yeon frozen in shock, Seo-jun casually manipulated the air to summon a brush and paper—most likely taken from Geumjundang’s general manager.
In mere moments, he had written a martial arts manual.
Sensory Engraving Art
The art of engraving what one experiences into their body.
At first glance, it sounded like an absurdly overpowered technique.
...but in truth, it wasn’t that impressive.
In reality, it was a useless martial art—a mere leftover scrap. It was created solely to replace an almost nonexistent aptitude.
For anyone with even slightly above-average aptitude, this technique would be meaningless.
It could, of course, be developed further...
‘But this is as far as I’ll take it.’
Seo-jun quietly gazed at the Sensory Engraving Art manual.
A martial art for the talentless. How many could actually achieve something with it?
It would undoubtedly be a difficult path. Compared to the gifted, they would have to exert far more effort and endure much greater hardship.
But...
If someone could truly master this technique—
They could stand on equal footing with those born with talent.
“...Should I distribute this in Anhui?”
“Huh?”
Seo-jun wanted to witness it firsthand.
The moment someone completely overcame what they were born without.
The moment they cast off the shackles of fate as a mere human.
The moment a miracle was born.
****
The distribution of Sensory Engraving Art was instantaneous.
It was an order from the Grand Preceptor of the Namgung Clan. With a single command, all Namgung branches across Anhui followed without question.
Ideally, distributing martial manuals would be the easiest method. However, the majority of commoners were illiterate. Naturally, handing out manuals alone would be meaningless.
Even so, the manuals were released to the public, but it was obvious that this alone wouldn’t yield significant results.
Thus, countless followers of Namgung’s will established free daily classes.
Engraving Sensory Engraving Art into one's body required no ability to sense qi—it could be completed in just a single day.
All one needed was to memorize the incantation and have a guide to lead them through it.
Most importantly, it was entirely free of charge—and so, Sensory Engraving Art spread like wildfire.
“Is this really okay...?”
Chunbong watched in a daze as the art proliferated.
Releasing a martial art to the public? As far as she knew, this was unprecedented.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What if someone copies it and incorporates it into their own martial art?”
“...That?”
Seo-jun scoffed. But Chunbong was serious.
“Yeah. They could still extract some principles from it.”
Engraving sensations into the body? That was absurd.
Even as the technique was being distributed, it sparked controversy.
“Replacing talent with an artificial substitute?
That’s impossible.”
“Even if this is the Grand Preceptor’s order, will it really work?”
But, of course, such disrespectful doubts were swiftly crushed.
“Are you questioning the Young Lord? What are you, a spy?”
“Oi, this bastard’s got impure thoughts.”
“Beat his ass!”
Led primarily by Cheonyakdang, the issue was resolved in no time.
“Engraving sensations into the body would drastically accelerate martial arts mastery.”
“...Not really.”
“...Huh?”
Seo-jun flashed Chunbong a mischievous grin at her confusion.
“Do I seem like the type of person to be that kind?”
“...Not really.”
“...Damn.”
Chunbong was clearly thinking, "Wouldn’t this be insane if you combined it with innate aptitude?"
But Sensory Engraving Art wasn’t designed for that.
It wouldn’t be impossible to create a technique like what she imagined.
But that would hinder long-term growth.
And more importantly, Seo-jun’s goal wasn’t simply to help the talentless grow.
What he truly wanted to see was a moment where someone completely surpassed the limits of talent.
A moment when a fundamentally inadequate human broke through their limits.
And above all else, Sensory Engraving Art was created by Lee Seo-jun.
Seo-jun’s ability to manipulate qi had long since surpassed the realm of humans.
His unique intuition disregarded all established martial conventions.
Every structure of Sensory Engraving Art was beyond mere artistry—it was a realm incomprehensible to anyone but its creator.
Every seemingly unrelated component was tightly interconnected. Even the slightest alteration would render everything meaningless.
And yet, some fools thought they could integrate it into their own martial arts?
“It’s probably more dangerous than most demonic arts. And useless, too.”
Due to its gradual engraving process, by the time they realized something was wrong, it would be too late.
Just in case, Seo-jun had left a warning at the start of the manual:
“Do not attempt to extract or modify this technique. It will end badly.”
“Well, I did warn them. If something happens, that’s on them.”
****
“Ohh, so this is the Sensory Engraving Art?”
“Yes, obtaining a copy wasn’t difficult.”
“This will surely be useful for our sect’s martial arts, right?”
“...There is a warning, though.”
The man holding the manual scoffed.
“Just a formality. Of course, they wouldn’t want others stealing their insights.”
Whether morally acceptable or not, it was common practice to examine any martial arts they managed to obtain.
And this was no ordinary martial art—it was personally created by the Grand Preceptor of Namgung, the Heavenly Lord, Lee Seo-jun.
If someone felt no temptation toward a martial art like this, they might as well shave their head and become a monk.
“If we can incorporate this, we might finally elevate our sect into the ranks of the great clans.”
A satisfied smile formed on the man’s lips.
He envisioned his sect rising to power across Zhongyuan.
Completely oblivious to the weight of what he had just done.
****
Seo-jun spent the next few days staying quietly at Namgung Manor, listening to various reports.
“No major reactions yet.”
Sensory Engraving Art had been distributed to commoners, but the reality was—commoners had no time to practice martial arts.
They were too busy struggling to survive.
Seo-jun hadn’t expected much.
He had released the technique in hopes that perhaps, somewhere, a truly motivated, talentless individual would emerge.
And there was one excellent example.
Bi-yeon.
His hands had barely dried from blood due to his insane training.
And it was already showing results.
Bi-yeon himself admitted that, unlike before, he could now feel actual progress—making training enjoyable.
In the past, no matter how much he trained, he saw no improvement.
But now, simply swinging his sword was fun.
Seeing Chunbong proud of her efforts filled Seo-jun with a strange sense of satisfaction.
But at the moment, something more pressing demanded his attention.
“So, they’re finally wrapping up the war...”
Seo-jun held a letter in his hands.
To summarize: "All Hwagyeong-level warriors, gather at the Martial Alliance."
Naturally, this wasn’t something that lunatic Jegal Tong sent of his own volition.
The letter bore the Emperor’s imperial seal.
How many Hwagyeong warriors would actually respond remained uncertain.
But Seo-jun had already made his decision.
He would attend.
He had been meaning to meet the Martial Alliance Leader anyway.
“Might as well take care of things while I’m at it.”
At last, the time had come.
The moment to finally stand before a Xuanjing-level being—
A god who had transcended the mortal realm.