Fist Demon of Mount Hua - Chapter 1

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 1. Spring Comes to Huashan—Part 1
A boy who appeared barely sixteen or seventeen winters old was struggling up the mountain. The thick brows bound tight beneath the cloth wrapped around his forehead, and beneath them a pair of cold, keen eyes and lips pressed firmly shut—all spoke to a stubborn nature.
The boy suddenly lifted his gaze toward the mountain’s summit.
Craggy peaks jutted skyward as if inverted swords had been thrust into the earth. Stone formations arrayed like lotus blossoms in full bloom. It was this appearance that had earned the highest peak its name: Yeonhwa Peak.
Yeonhwa Peak—where the Huashan Sect, one of the nine great martial schools, had established itself. To be precise, only the inner sanctum and the upper palace existed there, symbols of the sect itself, yet the world had come to see Yeonhwa Peak and the Huashan Sect as one and the same.
Unlike the Wudang Sect, which concentrated its power at the summit of Wudang Mountain, the Huashan Sect was dispersed across the entire range.
Jinmusung, which symbolized the martial might of the Huashan Sect, sat at the crown of Undae Peak, while secondary halls like Geumcheonggung, Bohyeongung, and Yeongbogung nestled in places invisible from the outside world.
The places most widely known to the world were merely Okcheonwon at the base of Huashan and Taepyeonggung halfway up. Even Okcheonwon marked the limit of what ordinary people could reach. Thus the world never glimpsed the true face of the Huashan Sect.
“Haah!”
Ragged breathing escaped the boy’s lips.
The stairs he was now climbing were small stone steps carved between cliffs known as Baekcheokhyeop. Narrow enough that only one adult could pass through, the cliff passage was nearly vertical and exceedingly treacherous. The path stretched for nearly a hundred feet, which was how it had earned its name.
Before one could reach Baekcheokhyeop, three hundred seventy stone steps had to be climbed first. This nearly vertical path, called Cheoncheocdang, was infamous throughout the world for its harshness and danger.
Even warriors who had devoted themselves to martial arts found it difficult to ascend, yet the boy gritted his teeth and climbed. His legs felt as heavy as if weighted with iron.
Sweat poured from his entire body like rain, and his complexion had long since turned ashen. His heart thundered against his ribs as though it might burst from his chest.
Climbing a single step felt more agonizing than death itself. Yet the boy never complained or rested.
As he stubbornly climbed, his left leg suddenly convulsed.
The boy paused and looked down at his left leg. It was thinner than his right and bent slightly outward. Twisted below the knee, it couldn’t bear proper weight, and walking normally was difficult.
So the boy had no choice but to limp. He was what people commonly called club-footed.
While it posed no great problem in daily life, for a martial artist it was a fatal flaw.
Day after day, the boy traveled back and forth between Okcheonwon at the base of Huashan and its summit, bearing this flaw.
A path that even accomplished masters of martial arts struggled to traverse.
‘I can do this. I can.’
The boy gritted his teeth and climbed on.
His body was exhausted and his legs trembled ceaselessly, yet his gaze remained fixed upon the mountain’s peak.
Step by step, the boy pressed forward toward Huashan’s summit. Gradually, without quite realizing it, he had passed beyond Baekcheokhyeop.
Passing Baekcheokhyeop was not the same as reaching Huashan’s summit. He had only come halfway to his destination.
The boy paused to catch his breath and surveyed his surroundings. Beyond Poryongryeong, Yeonhwa Peak lay visible in the distance—the inner sanctum and upper palace of the Huashan Sect, its very symbol. But it was not his destination.
The boy turned toward Undae Peak, which lay in the opposite direction. Seobong, called Yeonhwa Peak, stood with Joyangtae, the eastern peak, and Raganbbong, the southern peak, all clustered together, but Undae Peak stood alone, isolated. Something about it felt forlorn.
Thick droplets of sweat fell ceaselessly down the boy’s brow. Both legs felt impossibly heavy. His defective left leg ached especially.
His waist and leg muscles swelled as though about to burst, his joints screaming as though being chiseled. His lungs expanded to their limit, drawing in every bit of air they could, while his heart pounded wildly to feed them fresh blood.
How long had he walked like this? The boy entered the brush near Undae Peak. Beyond it lay a narrow path, so hidden that one viewing it from outside would never suspect its existence.
After following the path for some time, a small hall appeared, perched at the edge of a dizzying cliff. Before the weathered hall sat a small platform, and on the platform sat a middle-aged Daoist.
The Daoist wore what had once been a lined robe, now reduced to tatters from repeated patching.
The Daoist, who had been gazing at Huashan’s landscape for some time, sensed a presence and turned toward where the boy stood.
Deep furrows creased the Daoist’s brow.
“You’ve made the journey down the mountain again?”
“Yes, Master.”
“As if tramping down the mountain would somehow heal your leg whole. Why must you be so stubborn? Then again, words mean nothing to you—if they did, you’d have quit long ago.”
For five years, the boy had climbed and descended Huashan without missing a single day. A healthy person needed half a day just to reach the summit.
How much more difficult for the boy, with his afflicted leg. He was forced to move far more slowly than ordinary people.
Everyone said he was mad. Yet still he climbed.
On his first attempt, it had taken the boy three days to ascend Huashan. His mind had already reached the summit, but his legs could not obey his will.
Especially the twisted left leg, its muscles damaged, tormented him. Yet not once did he speak of pain or rest.
Step by step, without stopping once, he climbed slowly. When he finally reached the summit, he was nearly at death’s door.
Had the Daoist not administered immediate aid, the boy would have lost his life; his condition was that grave.
An ordinary person would have stopped there. But the boy resumed climbing the moment his body recovered. His will was so unshakeable that the Daoist had no choice but to watch and observe.
As the boy climbed, his vigor returned. Muscle formed on his once-gaunt frame. Five years later, he had gained the strength and lung capacity to ascend Huashan at a respectable pace.
“Come here.”
“Master, I’m fine now.”
“I’m not fine. Come.”
At the Daoist’s insistence, the boy sat on the platform with a helpless expression. The Daoist stretched out his gaunt hands and began to massage the boy’s legs.
“Mm!”
A small grunt escaped the boy’s lips despite himself.
The Daoist’s hands moved without hesitation. Beneath his rough touch, the legs throbbed.
But the pain soon faded. In its place came a soothing sensation.
“Why are you so reckless? Do you truly wish to attain such superior martial arts?”
“I’m sorry, Master.”
“Amitabha Buddha! You have nothing to apologize for. It is I, your useless master, who must ask your forgiveness.”
“No, Master.”
At the Daoist’s self-reproachful words, the boy hastily shook his head.
To the boy, his Master was a lifesaver. He had pulled Dam Ho back from the brink of death, nursed him back to health, and taken him on as a disciple. Without his Master, Dam Ho would not exist today.
“Ho!”
“Yes, Master!”
“You are……. Never mind.”
The Taoist trailed off.
The Taoist’s name was Hyeon So, one of the elders of the Huashan Sect. And the boy whose legs he was massaging was Dam Ho—the sole survivor pulled from a village that had been raided by bandits five years ago.
Everyone had given up when they saw Dam Ho’s wounds. But one man—the True Master Hyeon So—was different.
He never abandoned Dam Ho, even when the boy’s limbs lay shattered and his breath hung by a thread. Though no physician himself, Hyeon So did everything in his power to save him.
Whether by heaven’s grace or sheer will, Dam Ho survived. But the injuries left him with a lasting wound: his left leg was forever crippled. No amount of effort on Hyeon So’s part could undo that.
‘My poor Ho—what am I to do?’
A flicker of sorrow crossed Hyeon So’s eyes as he worked the boy’s leg.
Dam Ho’s talent, as Hyeon So had come to see, was extraordinary. But what moved him even more was the boy’s will.
Perhaps because he had endured such hardship so young, Dam Ho possessed a steadiness of spirit far beyond his years.
Had his body been whole, he surely would have become a great martial artist.
But Dam Ho’s left leg was compromised. It posed no obstacle to daily life, yet for a martial practitioner, it was a fatal weakness.
As with any sect, footwork was paramount in Huashan Sect martial arts. Once a disciple of the main lineage received the transmission of the Socheongsimgyeol, they were required to master the Gugungbo—the Nine Palace Steps.
The Gugungbo was a supreme-level footwork technique of dazzling complexity, so intricate that even the most gifted disciples struggled to learn it. For Dam Ho, with his injured leg, it seemed impossibly difficult. Yet rather than surrender, he climbed and descended the mountain each day, strengthening his leg’s sinews.
Whether such effort would ever let him master the Gugungbo remained uncertain, but Dam Ho trained himself without fail, day after day. Witnessing such devotion in his disciple, Hyeon So could not help but weep.
“Master, it’s enough now. You can stop.”
“Let me continue a little longer.”
“But——”
“I wish to do this. A little longer, please.”
“Master.”
Dam Ho lowered his eyes.
For five years, Hyeon So had been unwavering. He cared for Dam Ho with boundless devotion, eager to give him whatever he could.
Without Hyeon So’s tender care, Dam Ho would not be here. As Hyeon So massaged his foot with loving care, he spoke.
“What a man truly needs is a steadfast heart alone. If your will remains firm and unshaken, heaven itself will open the way. So do not be impatient, Ho.”
It was a sentiment befitting Hyeon So—a Taoist through and through.
‘Master, I do not trust in heaven.’
Dam Ho’s answer echoed only within his own mind.

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