His personality was absolutely rotten, but that wasn't even the real problem.
Actually—saying it that way might cause some confusion.
To be precise, yes, his personality was truly awful, but the bigger issue was that it got overshadowed by something even worse.
What?
You heard that the Radiant Martial Saint had a reputation for fairness and righteousness?
Bullshit.
Use your brain.
That guy ended a national crisis and became a figure who'd be talked about for generations to come.
But would you tell your kid:
"That guy was a real piece of work, a total scumbag—but he still became a legendary hero! So follow his example and become a great piece of trash too!"?
Could you say that?
Of course not.
Exactly.
So what do you do?
You make stuff up.
You just invent stories about how amazing and virtuous he was and spread them around!
Did Wi Yeonho just let that happen?
Well, he didn't have much choice.
That's just the kind of person he was.
He didn't care.
What's that?
No, not that he didn't care about that.
He didn't care about anything.
I'm telling you, he just didn't give a damn.
Ugh, are you even listening?
Reputation, honor, none of that mattered to him.
Because that guy…
---
Everyone lives with a dream.
Sometimes, life pushes us around so much that we forget our dreams, or we try to hide them away.
But deep inside, everyone carries a big dream in their heart.
So then, what kind of dream would a boy born into a martial family have?
Obviously—to become the greatest martial artist under heaven.
To walk the path of the hero with unmatched skill, uphold justice, and earn a name known throughout the world—that is the proper dream for a child of the martial world.
And there was such a boy.
Born into a martial family, raised learning the way of martial heroes.
He, too, carried the dream of becoming the greatest under heaven.
And he knew the fastest way to achieve that dream:
Relentless effort.
Even someone born with incredible talent cannot become the best without effort.
A hardworking fool can always surpass a lazy genius.
This boy knew better than anyone that only constant training, day after day, would elevate him to the top.
Of course, he also had the willpower to endure backbreaking hardship.
But… there was a problem.
Not a big problem, to be fair.
If you looked at it objectively, it was a very minor issue.
But that tiny issue was enough to test him.
"It's too late today…"
He looked out the window and saw the setting sun.
What a pity!
Today was supposed to be the day he laid the foundation—sweating blood to become tomorrow's top martial artist.
But now it was too late.
The sun was going down.
You're thinking he could still train at night?
Shows how little you know!
If he trained late, he wouldn't get proper rest.
And without rest, training becomes inefficient.
So clearly, the better choice was to get a full night's sleep and start fresh tomorrow morning.
"I'll get a good night's sleep and train first thing tomorrow."
The boy made up his mind.
Effort isn't just about physical exertion.
True effort comes from understanding your training and having a well-thought-out plan for maximum efficiency!
He pulled the blanket over himself.
"If I want to wake up early, I need to go to bed early. I'll start at dawn tomorrow."
A firm resolve settled in his heart.
But life never goes as planned.
His grand ambition was about to be hit by a major interruption.
SLAM!
The door burst open.
The peaceful sanctuary that was his room—his only refuge—was suddenly invaded by a heartless force from the outside.
How was he supposed to handle such a tragic, outrageous turn of events?
The boy didn't move.
This was not a time for rash action.
His priority was to analyze the intruder entering his room.
Step.
Step.
Footsteps approached.
His ears perked up.
Based on the heavy, deliberate footsteps, he began to assess the situation.
'These heavy, solid steps…'
It could only be—
"Get up."
It was his father.
Still, the boy didn't move.
'If I pretend to be asleep, maybe he'll just go away. Even if not, maybe I can at least stay lying down a little longer…'
FWIP!
The blanket covering him flew into the air.
"Ah…"
He felt an unspeakable emptiness as he lifted his head slightly.
That blanket had been with him for nearly 300 out of 365 days a year—and now it was drifting out of reach.
Through the flapping fabric, the face of a middle-aged man came into view.
A familiar face.
Of course—it was his father.
But something looked different about him today.
'Is he having a stroke?'
His father's cheek was trembling uncontrollably.
"Get up."
The boy sluggishly sat up.
"Yeonho."
"Yes?"
"The sun is setting."
"I saw that."
"And you're still in bed."
"Because the sun is setting."
His father, Wi Jeonghan, smiled.
"Do you know how long you've been holed up in this room?"
Yeonho tilted his head.
'Was it three days ago? Or four?'
He wasn't sure.
"Three days?"
Wi Jeonghan exploded.
"Four days! Four! You miserable brat! You've been rotting in here under a blanket for four whole days! Doesn't your back hurt?! Even a bear would roll over if it laid on its back for three days straight!"
Yeonho nodded.
As a son, wasn't it proper to respond when your father made a valid point?
"I did get up from time to time."
Grit.
Wi Jeonghan's teeth ground together.
"So while I was away for four days, you just rolled around in your room eating food your sister brought in?"
Yeonho felt wronged.
"I was going to train."
"And?"
"But every time I opened my eyes, the sun was already down."
"So?"
Yeonho scratched the back of his head.
"If the sun's down, I should sleep. That way, I can wake up early and train to—"
"GRAAAAAAGH!"
Wi Jeonghan grabbed the edge of the bed and flipped it.
As the frame tilted, poor Yeonho lost balance and tumbled to the floor.
"Oww!"
Wi Jeonghan grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck and lifted him up.
Now Yeonho was dangling in the air.
"Today, I'm going to beat that laziness out of you—and fix that damn mouth while I'm at it!"
Yeonho pulled a pained face.
Clearly, the invader had no intention of showing mercy.
Looks like today was just not his day.
---
"Hold it straight!"
"Urgh…"
Yeonho gritted his teeth as he took the horse stance, a yoke of water buckets over his shoulders.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and stung his eyes.
His legs trembled beneath him.
"You're gasping after just a single incense stick's worth of mabo?! And you call yourself the son of a martial family?!"
Yeonho's lips jutted out.
"So, children of martial families aren't human? It's perfectly normal for something heavy to feel... heavy."
"That damn mouth of yours!"
Yeonho immediately shut it.
What an obedient son he was.
But despite Yeonho's compliance, Wi Jeonghan didn't seem the least bit pleased.
He shouted, eyes burning.
"Martial skill is born from effort! No matter how much talent Heaven gives, if you don't train every day and push forward, you'll never reach true mastery! Do you really not understand that?!"
"I understand."
"Then why—?!"
Yeonho paused, then said carefully:
"Well… there are already lots of people working hard. Does everyone need to be a master?"
Wi Jeonghan's eye twitched.
"If everyone pursued the same goal, the world would be a suffocating place. Masters need support from those below them. If everyone's a master, then being a master loses its meaning."
Snap.
The bamboo rod in Wi Jeonghan's hand broke from his grip.
"This world should value diversity—"
Yeonho trailed off, tilting his head.
"Are you feeling okay?"
Clenching his fists, Wi Jeonghan trembled.
Then, at Yeonho's words, he sighed deeply.
"Diversity… sure. That's a nice word."
"Hehe. Right?"
Yeonho grinned.
Finally, it seemed like they were on the same page.
"In that case, let's explore that diversity… by rolling around a lot today."
Yeonho's face fell.
"That's not what I meant."
"Silence! No rest until midnight!"
Wi Jeonghan tossed him a wooden practice sword.
"Catch!"
"Like this?"
"Put the yoke down!"
Yeonho quietly set down the buckets and grabbed the sword.
"Heaven-Split Slash!"
He pouted and raised the sword overhead.
"A thousand downward strikes."
"Don't you think that number's a little extreme?"
"A. Thousand. Strikes."
There was no room for negotiation.
"I'm serious. Until you hit a thousand, no food. Not even water!"
"Not even water?!"
"Not even water!"
Yeonho's lips jutted out again like a duck's bill.
"Begin!"
This was child abuse!
A totally unfair punishment!
A thousand downward slashes—ridiculous!
Even lifting the sword overhead a few times was exhausting, and he had to do it a thousand times?
It was tyranny!
But what could he do?
With a heavy sigh, the pitiful Yeonho began his strikes.
After a few sluggish swings, his father barked:
"Stop."
Yeonho brightened and looked over.
Honestly, a thousand was overkill.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"…Huh?"
"I asked what you're doing."
"I'm doing downward strikes…"
"That's what you call that?"
"Is something wrong with it?"
"What do you think a downward strike is?"
"Striking downward with the sword. Literally."
"Then what the hell are you doing?"
Yeonho gave a cheeky grin.
"Downward strikes!"
"GRAAAAAAH!"
Wi Jeonghan hurled the broken rod at his son.
Yeonho, suddenly agile, dodged with ease.
"Why are you like this?!"
"An old man swatting flies has more strength and precision than your so-called strikes!"
"I was doing what you said!"
Wi Jeonghan's face turned red.
His resolve to never use violence in parenting was crumbling like paper.
He stomped toward Yeonho.
And then—
"What do you think you're doing?"