He had clearly died in the Investigation Hall.
Yesterday's duel he had taken as a chance to release his resentment, but today's training made no sense at all.
Why am I training?
Once again, he was in the form of a youth, practicing martial arts. Looking down at his seventeen-year-old limbs, fresh and unseasoned, and at fists not yet hardened by decades of discipline, he doubted whether this body could truly be his own.
It was strange, but since everyone around him was engaged in qigong exercises, he held his tongue and simply observed.
Even Martial Uncle Cheong-gwang looks young again.
The sight of Cheong-gwang, who had died more than thirty years ago, was exactly as he remembered. That stern face scolding disciples was not frightening now—it was unspeakably precious.
They are all just as they were in my memories.
Of those faces, only a handful had survived into the future he remembered.
Even his senior brother Hyeon-cheon, poking out his accursed backside in the practice yard, was no more than twenty years old here.
Am I dreaming the butterfly dream that Zhuangzi once spoke of? Or is this truly the Immortal Realm?
He could not tell. And he did not dare ask anyone else. If he named it a dream, he feared he might wake.
What did it matter if it was a dream? He wanted to linger here, to savor it.
If only this dream had been of the time when Master Cheong-san was still alive.
But Master had died when he was only twelve. Had he known such a dream was possible, he would have begged the heavens to let him relive those days.
Hyeon-jin shook his head, yet a smile crept to his lips. Even this was enough.
The disciples of Wudang finished their dawn training and went together to take their morning meal. Hyeon-jin followed silently, without mistake. The routine was so familiar his actions were effortless, even perfect.
But the reactions of his brothers were strangely intense.
"Hyeon-jin, are you sick?"
"I'm half-dead with fatigue, but why do you keep grinning?"
"Damn it, stop smiling already!"
They were unsettled by the way he laughed so easily at small things, unlike his usual self. Yet their scolding did not wipe the joy from his face. He only smiled more.
Thus the morning passed swiftly into afternoon.
In the afternoon came a different training, study of the classics. A two-hour session in the scriptures, essential for deepening Taoist martial cultivation.
So the day went by without trouble, and Hyeon-jin found himself happier than he had been in decades. To be surrounded once again by those he had longed for was priceless.
Amitabha… to grant such a gift to this unworthy disciple who failed to protect Wudang, how merciful you are.
Let me enjoy this a while longer. When you summon me, I will go.
Ding. Ding. Ding!
The bell that roused dawn stirred Hyeon-jin awake. He felt light, well-rested.
Yet, as the morning before, a faint ache stirred in his chest, the place where the sword had pierced him. Was it real pain, or only memory? Whichever it was, the ache vanished once he rose.
Nothing else had changed. The same day flowed as before.
On the third day too, he lived in gratitude.
Time with his brothers was so precious it burned.
How shameful that I once lived without gratitude for even the smallest things.
The bittersweet memories, made real, stabbed at his heart.
Had I cherished this feeling in youth, I would not have grown lax in training.
Then perhaps Wudang would not have fallen so easily in the Third Great War of Demons.
Perhaps because of that, he trained in the practice yard with fierce devotion.
To know with the mind yet not keep pace with the body, how frustrating this is.
He knew every form, yet this body could not yet unfold them fully. Movements he had practiced countless times were difficult even to imitate now.
Was I truly this poor at seventeen?
Some techniques flowed smoothly, but others lacked strength; some demanded flexibility he had not yet gained. His young body was supple, yes, but lacked the power of maturity.
That he had defeated Jegal-hyeon was only because Jegal-hyeon's cultivation was not high.
When night came again, he excused himself from night watch and slipped outside.
From a quiet spot overlooking Mount Wudang, he gazed about.
Strange. I definitely died… No matter how vivid a dream, this should not be possible.
The memory of the sword piercing his heart was sharp as steel. He had died defending the Investigation Hall, that was certain.
Yet for three days he had lived again, repeating the days of youth.
If this was not a dream… if the legends were true…
Could it be… that I have returned to the past?
The thought was absurd. But what other explanation could there be? The days were too real, too tangible to be dream.
He had asked his brothers casually, but they only mocked him for asking if he dreamt.
At moments, he even wondered: Was my life as Sect Leader, watching Wudang burn, the dream instead?
Perhaps I have only now awoken from a long dream?
He searched his memory. There were no great differences in the days, just the same repetitions. Only one thing was certain: he had beaten Jegal-hyeon.
Perhaps the life of Sect Leader had not been the butterfly dream after all.
If… if I truly have returned to the past?
His heart pounded. If he had come back, if such a miracle had occurred, then perhaps he could save Wudang from the flames.
If I have returned… I cannot waste this time.
Training and mingling with his brothers was not enough. If he let things flow as before, he would one day stand as Sect Leader again and watch helplessly as Wudang burned.
Never! I will not let it happen!
He clenched his fists.
What must I do first?
His mind grew clear. The answer was obvious.
I must become strong. First, my inner strength…
Though his body was young again, something was different. In training he had felt it, his qi slumbered in the dantian.
The cultivation of sixty years, an entire lifetime's worth of inner strength, remained within him.
Why… why has my inner power followed me back?
The question gnawed at him. After long thought, one hypothesis formed.
"The cultivation of a Taoist is the training of body and spirit. Could it be that my inner strength clung to my soul, and returned with me?"
He could not be sure, but it was the most reasonable explanation.
Yet why it remained mattered less than making it his own again.
But time was short. He did not recall every detail of the future, but he remembered the great events. And one such event was near at hand.
Is there no way to draw out this power quickly, without side effects?
At once, a memory surfaced.
Hyeon-jin recalled, and a faint smile touched his lips.
From the next day, he changed. Whether this was rebirth or dream, he could not remain idle.
But he kept his return a secret. Who would believe such words? At best, they would laugh; at worst, call him mad.
Yes, he could predict future events, wait, and prove it. But would that not be stranger still? They would say he was possessed, that ghosts whispered to him. Such men were called spirit-touched, and expelled.
No. He would keep silent.
Instead, he began with what he could control, training.
His Master Cheong-san had died of illness when he was twelve, leaving him the only disciple at Wudang without a teacher. No wonder he had grown lax, no wonder Jegal-hyeon had mocked him.
Now, it would not be so.
After only a few days of hard training, change showed.
A few days' effort, and already the movements are smoother.
He was seventeen, not yet hardened, yet that very incompleteness carried limitless possibility.
Every drop of sweat shed now may one day save the life of a disciple.
Shush! Shush!
His sword strokes cut sharp through the air. Though he used no inner strength, the wind of his blade swept in all directions.
Unsatisfied, he repeated one form again and again, his eyes clouded with thought. It was not like the Hyeon-jin they knew.
His brothers stared, entranced.
"Whoa!"
"Oooh!"
"He's awakened!"
Exclamations rang out, as even the older disciples forgot their own training, absorbed in his sword dance.
The elders too were astonished.
"Incredible!"
"What he showed in the duel was no accident, then."
"If only Senior Brother Cheong-san were alive to see this…"
They knew his abilities better than anyone, for they had taught him. But in mere days his skill had leapt beyond recognition.
Yet for Hyeon-jin, it was not enough.
This is still far from sufficient.
The Demonic Sect was too strong. Even if he regained the power he once held as Sect Leader, it would add only one more supreme master to Wudang's ranks. Even if three or four more such masters arose, it would not be enough.
There must be a way. A way to grow incomparably stronger.
He knew it would not be easy. If such a path had existed, Wudang would never have fallen.
Damn it!
Perhaps that was why his eyes burned when he saw certain brothers lazily swinging their wooden swords.
At last, he snapped.
"Senior brother! Waving your sword like that, you'll barely cut a scarecrow!"
"You must thrust it straight and fast!"
"Why does your tip tremble? Have you not eaten?"
His rebukes drew angry shouts.
"What do you know to lecture us?"
"You beat one boy of the Jegal clan and now think yourself mighty?"
"Arrogant brat!"
"Puffed-up child!"
"Masterless wretch!"
Yet none dared truly fight him, for losing would shame them. So they contented themselves with words.
Hyeon-jin's blood boiled at their blindness, but he turned away. No one likes to be corrected, least of all seniors. To push further would only backfire.
Still… before the Second Great War of Demons, I must find a way.
At that thought, his eyes lit.
A memory, long buried, suddenly returned.
---
End of Chapter 3
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