Murim School Record - Chapter 2

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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 2: The Axe of Songshan (2)

Yi Mobaek’s forehead creased slightly.
“It’s all about form. The form must be right for there to be power, for there to be stability. Your woodcutting stance—it’s exactly as it should be, Shipjeon Mujwa, flawless down to the last detail. It might well be called the finest in all the land.”
A genius at chopping wood.
The greatest woodcutter under heaven.
Not expressions that brought any joy.

‘I have to endure this.’

The old monk with yellowed teeth was called Gwangseung.
His formal monastic name was Gwangseung.
He held the highest generational rank among the current monks at Shaolin Temple—the Cheongja Hangryeol—and was the elder brother of the sect master, Cheongak Seonsa.
Since Yi Mobaek had entered Shaolin, Gwangseung had always been known as a mad monk.
But because he was the sect master’s elder brother, no one dared treat him carelessly.
Gwangseung, meanwhile, being the senior to the sect master, had no restraint whatsoever.
Everything was as he wished it to be.
Many theories circulated about why Gwangseung had gone mad.
The most prominent was that he had fallen into Juhwa Ipma.
He had been the most gifted among the monks of the Cheongja Hangryeol.
Excess avails nothing.
Isn’t that what they say—that going too far is worse than not going far enough?
His advancement in martial cultivation had been so swift that it created a vast gap between him and his fellow disciples.
He had earned the highest praise—that since Bodhidharma, no one had possessed such talent—when suddenly one day he changed.
He began showing signs of mental fracture: failing to recognize people, unable to perceive himself.

‘He had fallen into a state of deviation.’

So said his master, the previous sect leader, Cheonwu Seongseung.
Though Juhwa Ipma was known to be a calamity arising from inner cultivation rather than a matter of the mind.

‘It happens to roughly one in a thousand.’

He had heard that very rarely a person might return to clarity, but he had never witnessed such a thing.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Just go, please!”
Yi Mobaek spoke with obvious discomfort.
“Such impudence. What’s your name?”
“Please leave.”
Yi Mobaek’s voice rose sharply.
“I don’t want to.”
Gwangseung’s eyes lowered.
Hack!
Yi Mobaek spat with evident disgust and swung the axe again.
Crack!
The massive log split in two under the force of the blow, fury fueling each strike.
Splinter!
“Yi Milbok raised one fine son, at least.”
Yi Milbok was his dead father’s name.
When they first met and Yi Mobaek had mentioned being Yi Milbok’s son, the old monk had looked him up and down before saying it.
“Let’s be close friends. Your father and I shared a deep bond.”
After that, he kept coming back, interrupting the work.
Had he married yet?
Why had his mother died so young?
Did he have no other siblings?
Sometimes he even mocked him—the boy looked healthy enough, so why was a young man like him laboring as a temple woodcutter instead of doing something proper?
And now here he was again, needling him relentlessly.

‘Go to Shaolin Temple and chop firewood. Carrying buckets for the latrines is fine too, but remember one thing. Do you know what kind of place Shaolin is?’

My father’s words.
Yi Mobaek asked.

‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘You’re small for your size, but I’ve never seen you come home beaten. Even your old man can tell you were born for fighting. Learn to fight properly.’
‘You want me to become a Shaolin disciple?’
‘Just because you enter a rich man’s house doesn’t mean everyone becomes a servant. Learn what you can, use your wits to pick things up. A temple is a place where martial arts are as common as dirt.’

My father was a devoted believer.
When it came to Shaolin Temple, he set everything else aside and led the way.
Naturally, the eminent monks of Shaolin would take notice of such a diligent man.
And so I came to be there.
Shaolin Temple was the place that descendants of noble families first sought to enter.
Becoming a lay disciple of Shaolin was, in every sense, heaven-sent fortune.
“Hey, if you’re bored, come visit my room.”
By nature, I wanted to shout that I’d gone mad to visit his room, but he was the eldest—even the head abbot couldn’t treat him carelessly—so I answered meekly.
“Yes, understood, sir.”

‘Round and round, pig-faced, evil demon monk Ususan.’

Flinch!
Yi Mobaek, raising his axe, started.
A song Gwangseung was singing.
A song only he knew.
He’d made it secretly, finding Monk Ususan unbearable to look at.
Gwangseung knew this song that he only sang while chopping wood, a song that must never reach the ears of outsiders.

‘Round and round, ugly pig, evil monk Ususan.’

Damn it.
If Monk Ususan overheard and asked where Mobaek had learned that song, Gwangseung would surely be quick to throw him under the cart.
“Damn, really.”
His mood darkened.
Crash!
Yi Mobaek brought the axe down irritably.

The young monk, who appeared to be in his late twenties, carried himself with confidence.
Fierce eyes, a nose that jutted out thickly like a mountain range, and lips below it pressed tight as the waves of the Yangtze.
Gongsan.
The very Gongsan who had entered this year’s martial tournament and placed third without hesitation.
A disciple of the current sect leader, Cheongak Seonsa.
“I am ashamed to have brought such honor to my teacher.”
“Go back and rest now.”
The sect leader Cheongak Seonsa was playing go with Cheongo Seonsa, the hall master of Nahan Hall and his dharma brother.
“Then I shall take my leave!”
Gongsan rose carefully and walked toward the door.
“Gongsan!”
“Yes, Master!”
Gongsan straightened and turned back.
“How strong were the first and second place finishers?”
Gongsan’s eyes narrowed.
The master who had asked the question, Cheongak Seonsa, stared intently at the go board.
“May I take back one move?”
Cheongak Seonsa spoke to Cheongo Seonsa, the master of Nahan Hall.
“Did we not agree never to take back a move?”
“Even so, just one move.”
Cheongak Seonsa’s eyes gleamed.
“It cannot be done!”
Cheongo Seonsa refused flatly.
“Master.”
Cheongo Seonsa turned away, avoiding the gaze of Cheongak Seonsa who was watching him.
“I was merely third, that is all.”
Then Gongsan spoke.
“Third means the third one, does it not?”
“I was only third.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“This disciple defeated the fourth-ranker in thirty-two seconds. Yet he fell to his knees before the second-ranker in merely eight seconds. The second and first fought for fifty seconds.”
“Ah, so you rank third outwardly, but the gap between you and the second is so vast that calling yourself third feels shameful?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Third place is not a poor showing in appearance, but if the difference in strength between you and the second-ranker is truly so great, then you must feel more like thirtieth than third. Now, go on your way.”
“Your disciple withdraws.”
Gongsan left the room.
“So you truly will not back down?”
Cheongak Seonsa’s white eyebrows twitched.
But Cheongo Seonsa clenched his teeth and made no reply whatsoever.
“You’ve lost.”
Crack!
Cheongak Seonsa hurled a stone.
“Amitabha… while our disciples’ martial skill stagnates, their mastery of the game board grows by leaps and bounds — the house is managed well indeed.”
A barb aimed at Cheongo Seonsa, the abbot of Nahan Hall.
“Day after day, clutching nothing but a go board, Shaolin has fallen to the rank of a third-rate sect… Amitabha, what sorrow.”
Whisk!
Cheongak Seonsa turned to the side, as if uncomfortable.
“Are you going? Will you finally leave?”
The seated Cheongo Seonsa spoke loudly, as if he found the sight disgusting.
“Amitabha! Then your junior takes his leave.”
Cheongo Seonsa departed with a satisfied smile, turning his body away.
Thud!
Cheongak Seonsa stared at the closed door and exhaled long and slow.
‘Third.’
He closed his eyes tightly.
His expression darkened, and his shut brows trembled faintly.

Decline.
Some even called it collapse.
Shaolin was no longer what it once had been.
That was true.
Shaolin had become a punching bag at some point.
It had placed third in three consecutive Martial Realm Tournaments, and the crucial matter was that this was not a temporary phenomenon.
A year ago, two disciples belonging to Jigaekdang had been attacked by five bandits on a martial circuit journey and suffered grave wounds.
Half a year ago, one of eighteen Nahan Arhats was found beheaded at Payang Lake.
Shaolin once held dominion over the realm with nothing but its name — it held supreme authority over all under heaven.
But now no one feared Shaolin.
This was a serious matter.
Power produces authority.
When authority crumbles, one becomes a mockery to all around.
‘A kingdom in chaos.’
Cheongak Seonsa sighed deeply.

Whoosh!
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh!
Fists, somewhat unrefined, lashed through the darkness.
The punches extended with explosive force, and the footwork supporting them was remarkably steady.

the Paewang Geojung
the Tantoe Sagwon

Spilling out each Gwonshik, the speed and angle of his fists shifted accordingly.
Whoosh!
Crack!
Short, rapid punches poured forth in succession.
“Haaaaaah!”
After a long, deep breath, he relaxed his stance.
“Hmm.”
Yi Mobaek exhaled slowly, as if dissatisfied with something.

‘Something’s off.’

What Yi Mobaek was practicing now was the Baekbo Ssingyeong, the signature technique of Shaolin.
If one were to summarize the essence of the Baekbo Ssingyeong in a single phrase, it was this: any formidable opponent must be defeated within one hundred paces.
Some claimed it should be within one hundred heartbeats, but after investigating since arriving at Shaolin, he’d confirmed that one hundred paces—literally a hundred steps—was correct.
He’d watched Shaolin disciples training in secret and tried mimicking their movements, but it wasn’t working.
Many had fallen into ruin by stealing poorly and studying others’ martial arts incorrectly, their vital channels flowing backward.

‘Have you ever seen the Baekbo Ssingyeong, brother?’

One day he’d asked Dang Duchun in the kitchen.
Dang Duchun had entered the temple before him and thus knew Shaolin’s affairs reasonably well.

‘Yeah, I have.’
‘What’s it like? Is it really that strong?’
‘I don’t know much about martial arts, so I can’t say for certain. But I did see Ususan display it once.’

The kitchen was an annex of Nahan Hall, and Ususan was its chief supervisor.

‘He split a rock in a single blow.’
‘A…a single blow?’
‘If you go to the eastern corner of the kitchen, there’s a rock split in half. It used to be whole, but Ususan cleaved it in two.’

When he went to see it himself, the rock appeared to weigh well over a hundred catties.
The stories about the Baekbo Ssingyeong didn’t end there.
His father had also hinted that he should learn the Baekbo Ssingyeong if he could.

‘Shaolin possesses seventy-two martial arts divided between the Yeokgeun Gyeong and the Sesu Gyeong—what we call the Darma Yeokgeun Sesu Gyeong.’
‘Seventy-two techniques!’
‘From what I understand, even high monks with profound strength haven’t mastered them all. Don’t concern yourself with quantity—focus on quality.’
‘You mean it’s difficult.’
‘In the jianghu, versatility is worthless. Master one thing alone, and you’ll make a name for yourself. Look at your father—because he excels at cleaning, he’s never gone hungry. Master just one thing. Then you’ll gain renown.’

So he’d made his choice: the Baekbo Ssingyeong.
In the jianghu, there were no shortage of fist-masters who’d earned their fame through unarmed combat.
Yet no matter how far their reputation spread across the four seas and eight directions, it could never match the sheer intensity of the name Baekbo Ssingyeong.

‘They say he mastered the Baekbo Ssingyeong and still got beaten to death.’

His fellow workers in the kitchen had whispered when they saw him training hard, questioning why he bothered learning such an insignificant fist technique.
In doing so, they revealed that they, too, no longer regarded Shaolin as Shaolin.

Swish!
Whoooosh!
Though Shaolin’s prestige had waned from what it once was, if one had to name the most brilliant fists in the history of the martial world, most would still speak the Baekbo Ssingyeong.
That much remained unchanged.

‘Mobaek.’

Yi Mobaek summoned deeper reserves of strength, extending his fist with renewed force.

‘Do not envy those who possess ten skills. Polish one skill, and polish it again.’

His father spoke with conviction.

‘Fear not the master of a thousand techniques—fear the man who has perfected a single one. Do you understand what I mean?’

His father was no martial master.
Yet having lived long and worked in Shaolin Temple, a martial school, he had come to grasp such profound truths.
“Mmm!”
Yi Mobaek grew solemn.
A fierce blue light blazed in his eyes, which burned with determination.
He would become the finest under heaven with the Baekbo Ssingyeong—of that he was certain.

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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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