Defying the Heavens Scholar - Chapter 2

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Against Heaven’s Current: Episode 2

Episode 2. Struggling for Life.

When the examination ended, the winter sky over Chang’an City hung unusually low.
The partitions were taken down one by one, and scholars poured out. Some laughed with hollow relief; others trembled, clutching white papers against their chests. And so the night of Chang’an City hung suspended at the month’s edge.

The night after.

The lanterns in the Scoring Office never dimmed.
The sound of turning pages, the scratch of brush tips making marks, the measured murmur of voices in low conference—all blended together.
The examiners wore their usual expressions of detachment, but one answer sheet proved the exception.

“Have you seen this essay?”

That single question was where it began.
First, the answer on law circulated among them.
Not a single word wasted, yet the meaning was complete; it did not borrow the wisdom of the ancient sages, yet it cut sharp as a blade.
The sentence that asked first who held the hand that wielded the law, before asking of the crime itself.
That single line had transformed the very air of the Scoring Office.

“A mere boy wrote this?”
“Not the words of sages—this prose makes you see the man who wrote it.”

The second and third questions deepened the impression.
When discussing famine, the answer did not count the grain in the storehouse but found the holes through which it leaked away.
When discussing national defense, it did not measure the height of walls but first mended the heart within the city.

And then the final question.
The explanation of Martial Arts.
Most answers either pretended to knowledge they lacked or merely copied characters onto paper.
But Myo Jin’s answer alone stood out, as if written in a different world entirely.

-Martial Arts is also writing.

That sentence was the opening line.
Qi and spirit, breath and blood—he had ordered cause and effect in sequence, distinguished between taboo and symptom, and organized it all as “the art of endurance.” He had read Martial Arts not as “technique deployed” but as “structure unshaken.”
It was an answer that saw in Martial Arts not the flourishing of a skill, but the architecture of what could not collapse.

One of the examiners let out a laugh he could not suppress.

“At this level, he cannot help but pass.”

Another nodded.

“When this one enters the bureaucracy, he will one day become a great blade.”
“Not a blade—an eye that reads the board.”

Someone marked quietly with his brush.

Passed.

No words were spoken, yet the air in the Scoring Office seemed already decided.
Then it happened.
Footsteps sounded beyond the door.
A pace neither hurried nor slow.

The door of the Scoring Office opened, and a figure stepped in with the cold wind.
Black silk robes. Jade ornaments hung from the sash at his waist, and the cuffs of his sleeves were immaculate, free of even a speck of dust.
The moment the examiners caught sight of his face, several of them half-rose from their seats.

“……You come from the Imperial Palace.”

The man in question simply nodded his head.
His gaze seemed to appraise the worth of goods rather than regard a person.

“I’ve heard talk from the Scoring Office.”

Though his voice was quiet, it felt as though the lamplight in the Scoring Office had dimmed in that instant.

“One answer sheet, they say, shines far too brightly.”

One of the examiners spoke carefully.

“It is merely the work of someone of exceptional talent, nothing more.”
“I’ve come to verify just how exceptional that talent is.”

Without a word of courtesy, the man extended his hand.

“That answer sheet.”

After a brief hesitation, one of the examiners handed over the paper.
The moment the man received the answer sheet, every breath in the Scoring Office grew shallow.
He did not begin reading from the first line.
As though indifferent, his gaze fixed upon the final question.
The furrow between his brows deepened by degrees.

……

One of the examiners ventured a careful question.

“Is there a problem?”

The man pressed the paper down with a sharp gesture.
That brief sound fell like a blade.

“There is no problem.”

He lifted his head. And spoke with absolute composure.

“Failed.”

The air in the Scoring Office froze.

“……Pardon?”
“This answer sheet is to be marked as failed.”

One of the examiners could not restrain himself and spoke up.

“But with writing of this caliber, it should not merely pass—it would surely rank first. What is your reason for……”

A cold gaze cut short the examiner’s words.
Wordlessly, yet unmistakably. It was pressure enough to silence any protest.

* * *

Four days after the State Examination ended.
I waited for the roster of those who passed to be released, meanwhile occupying myself with the usual chores at the inn.
I would have been content to pass, but regardless of that, I needed to earn money to survive right now.

“Are you Hwang Myo Jin?”

My hand froze mid-sweep at the inn’s entrance.
The man standing in the doorway had the build of a mountain, and his expression was cold as stone.

“Yes, but——”

Before I could finish answering, he seized my wrist and dragged me forward.
I had no time to ask why before a blow struck the back of my head and consciousness fled.
When I came to, I was in a windowless room.
As an iron door clanged shut, the air grew thick and damp.

“From now on, you’ll live and work here.”

My eyes widened at this sudden turn of events.

“What exactly is this work——”

The man spoke curtly.

“Copying.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Copying? But I took the State Examination. The results should be coming out any day now——!”

In that instant, a blade’s edge whispered across my throat.
A sharp sting. A thin line of blood traced from my neck down across my chest.
I asked nothing more. The message was clear: write if you wish to live.

The man returned a short while later, dropping a brush, inkstone, and stacks of paper onto the floor with a dull thump.
The sound of the iron door being locked multiple times followed.

Click. Click. Click.

Through a narrow gap, an emotionless voice drifted out.

“You have one day. Finish before nightfall.”

The gap closed, and darkness settled in.

‘Calm yourself. Fear won’t help. First, I need to understand what this man wants from me.’

Despite steeling my mind, I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling.
I managed to pick up one of the books.

Elementary Learning.

It was an ordinary book.
Kidnap someone just to have them copy this?
As doubt flickered across my mind, my gaze caught on something at the corner of the desk—dried bloodstains.
There was blood on the chair too, beneath the table. Old stains mixed with fresh ones.
The moment I saw it, my breath caught. A cold wave of dread crashed down on me.

‘This isn’t copying.’

That’s right. This was unmistakably a test.
And if I failed, I would end up like that blood.
From that day forward, I was no longer copying characters—I was copying my own life.

The first few days brought mostly simple texts, beginning with the Elementary Learning.
Even so, my hands trembled, threatening to distort each stroke, and I steadied my breath as I worked.
Each mistake felt like an invitation for the blade to find my throat again.

Days later, the same man thrust a new book into my hands.

The Great Learning.

Several days after that,

the Analects.

Then came

the I Ching,
the Spring and Autumn Annals,
the Mencius,
the Doctrine of the Mean.

Only then did the reason for starting with the Elementary Learning become clear.
It had merely been a test—of my hands, my breath, my will.

I understood then.

‘Transcription was never the purpose.’

He was deliberately sending me the Four Books and Five Classics in order.
This meant I had not yet passed.
Once I finished copying all the Four Books and Three Classics, there would be no next text.
No next text meant my usefulness was exhausted—meant I would dissolve into a handful of blood.
So I began adding annotations.
Beneath obscure passages, I wrote explanations—brief, precise, clear enough that anyone could read them without stumbling.
From that day on, the work visibly increased.

Stacks of paper doubled. Multiple books arrived at once.
Now, alongside the Confucian texts, came miscellaneous writings as well.
I had passed their first test.
Sometimes chicken or pork was thrown in with the books.
The reason was obvious—they wanted me to write more.
I ate.
Starvation was worse, and survival came first.

After two months, my hand moved like habit.
The brush hesitated less; my annotations grew shorter.
The shorter they became, the sharper they grew.
Why that taciturn man did not kill me was simple.
Because I kept creating the next thing.

But as the third month began, cracks appeared.
One volume among twenty.
An unfamiliar title slipped in.

The Yang Family Sword Technique.

‘A martial arts manual…?’

The words were entirely foreign to me.
Yet the volume was thin, and by wracking my brain hard enough, I could parse it somehow.
The real problem came next.

Shin Family Spear Technique
Young Family Fist Technique
Hyuk Sung Blade Technique

Once martial arts texts began slipping into the pile one at a time, anxiety bloomed nightly within me.
Ordinary books I could transcribe with confidence surpassing anyone’s, and I could even append my own interpretations.
But when it came to martial arts texts, there was almost nothing I understood.

Movements rendered in words, how to gather one’s inner force, where to shift one’s stance—I could barely sketch these out in my mind, yet without having experienced them through my body, the words rang hollow and wouldn’t take root.
A man ignorant of martial arts explaining a martial arts text was, in the end, a laughable business.

‘If I just transcribe it as it is and hand it over, he’ll surely feel let down.’

What else would occupy his thoughts? Whether to kill me, or let me linger a little longer—that was the only question.
To keep my life, I had to produce a transcription worthy of that expressionless man’s approval.
And beyond that, I’ve remained alive until now because of my annotations. Without commentary, if I merely handed over the transcription, my usefulness—and thus my life—would be spent.

‘To explain it more perfectly, I have to experience it myself.’

So I changed my approach. I read the text, grasped its meaning, and followed the postures described.
Why this movement? Why this sequence of steps?
At first my arms trembled and my legs gave way. My entire body ached just from holding a single posture.
But after several days, the text began to reveal itself differently to me.
An inexplicable sense developed, and that sense filled the gaps in the sentences.

I added my annotations.
Not in the same manner as before, but in language closer to ‘application’—how to actually wield it.
Then one day, a thicker book arrived.

Cloud-Form Sword Technique

It was filled with Daoist language.
I actually found that reassuring.
Words, at least, I could grasp.
When I opened the first page, the sentences seemed to mock me with their obscurity.

I clenched my teeth.

‘Chasing clouds in the mist, like those Daoist charlatans…’

But I had no luxury of anger.
I repeated the passage dozens of times, hundreds of times.
Eyes closed, I summoned the image of the sky. Clouds, wind, gentleness, silence.
Then suddenly, a line from a Daoist philosophy text I’d once transcribed returned to me.
A passage where “cloud” was interpreted not as the character for cloud, but as the character for ripple.

‘If clouds… are ripples…’

In my mind’s eye, clouds descended upon the river’s surface.
Clouds reflected on water tremble, yet they make no sound.
In that instant, something in my mind clicked into place.
That night, I did not rest—my brush danced without ceasing.

* * *

The day after I finished the Cloud-Form Sword Technique.
The iron door swung open, and the man stepped inside.

“What did you copy from?”
“I beg your pardon? What do you mean……?”
“I’m asking about the Cloud-Form Sword Technique.”

I swallowed hard and spoke.

“I thought it through and worked out the commentary myself.”

The man’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Did you truly work through it and think on it yourself?”
“Who else could there be in this room besides me?”

The man swept his gaze across the chamber, checking even the iron door and its lock.
Finding nothing amiss, he finally looked at me directly.

“Have you cultivated martial arts?”
“If I had cultivated martial arts, would I be imprisoned here?”

He regarded me in silence for a moment, then spoke.

“Show me your hands.”

I extended my left hand.
He pressed his fingers to my pulse and closed his eyes, then examined my right hand the same way.
After studying me for some time, the man rose to his feet.

“I knew of your talent. But I never expected it to reach this level.”

He walked toward the iron door and added quietly,

“Rest today. I’ll entrust the remaining work to someone else.”

Once the door closed, it wasn’t long before boiled pork arrived.
And two bottles of liquor.
I nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.

‘So…… I’ve proven my usefulness, then.’

That night, for the first time, I felt like I had survived.
And it tasted bitter.
I had thought that if even a common laborer had his purpose, then so would I.
But this—sitting before a lamp, writing annotations in this cursed place—was that my purpose?

“Mother, Master Hwang…….”

That night I lay awake longer than usual, my heart aching.
But I did not yet understand.
That surviving in this place did not mean escape—it meant sinking deeper still.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————