Chapter 8. Feeling Good Despite Being Beaten
‘Bumong was right. Damn it, why do I feel so good?’
Yun lay on the bed, suppressing a smile.
Even after being thoroughly beaten, his eldest brother’s words kept surfacing in his mind, drawing an involuntary grin.
Of course, some things still felt unreal.
He never imagined being pummeled by his eldest brother, who had been in a vegetative state.
‘Why couldn’t I dodge any of it?’
Yun had mastered two martial arts:
Hweelunsoo (回輪手).
Paokkwon (破玉拳).
Hweelunsoo was a joint-locking technique using the Golden Thread Method.
The moment an opponent’s hand, arm, or even collar was grasped, it could twist and shatter bones. Paokkwon, a fist technique, typically required only one strike to incapacitate.
He’d been confident against street thugs and even low-tier martial artists.
‘Is this the talent of the eldest brother—the so-called genius among geniuses?’
Since childhood, his eldest brother had been hailed as Cheonhwaseogo’s greatest prodigy. He never needed to read anything twice.
Whether it was mechanisms, formations, poetry, or painting, understanding one concept allowed him to master ten others. He’d carried the clan’s expectations effortlessly.
But martial arts…?
As Yun oscillated between awe and confusion—
“Brother.”
Bumong entered.
“Come in.”
Yun tilted his head.
Bumong was crying as he approached.
His eyes were swollen, tears streaming relentlessly.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Brother, forgive me. Please pardon this foolish younger brother.”
“Why…? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Though wincing, Yun smiled and clasped his brother’s hand.
“Don’t say that. You’re better than me.”
“No, Brother. I was ignorant. Immature. I resented you without understanding your deeper intentions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t feign humility. I saw everything.”
Yun frowned.
The conversation was veering oddly.
The motion tugged his bruises, deepening his grimace.
Bumong wiped his tears with a sleeve.
“I know you deliberately took those hits to encourage our eldest brother. His stick swings were child’s play—you could’ve dodged them blindfolded! Yet you endured every strike!”
“……?”
Yun stared blankly.
Bumong pressed on:
“You threw yourself into the stick’s path each time! Hit after hit, even in the same spots… Sob sob sob. And then—!”
His voice hitched.
“At the end, you let him strike your groin! Any man knows that pain! One wrong move and you’d have become a eunuch! Who offers their groin to a stick? Sob sob sob…”
“…….”
Yun’s confusion deepened.
This had to be a joke—but Bumong’s grief seemed genuine.
Though Yun himself didn’t fully grasp what had happened, he needed to clarify: he hadn’t taken hits intentionally. He’d simply failed to evade them.
“Wait—you think I let him hit me on purpose?”
“Of course!”
“That’s how it looked?”
“Brother! How can you—!”
“Enough! Answer plainly: Is that what you saw?”
“Yes! Even Guard Dan-kyung gaped in shock! He said he never realized how profound you were!”
“…….”
Yun was speechless.
What madness was this?
His head throbbed.
The truth was, his eldest brother’s strikes had been no joke.
Every movement had been flawlessly precise.
Each time Yun twisted or sidestepped, the stick materialized before him as if predestined. It struck joints with unnatural accuracy, making his body creak from the first blow.
When he tried deflecting it with Hweelunsoo, the stick slipped through like an eel—hard wood moving like liquid. It coiled around wrists, ankles, and calves, battering tender inner thighs and armpits until they swelled.
His final plan—take one hit to land a counter—failed. No openings came.
Every strike targeted vital points. Retreating only invited more blows, often on already bruised areas.
The worst part? A mundane stick shouldn’t drain energy so fiercely—yet each hit sapped his strength.
Then came the groin strike.
The world whited out. Bells rang in his skull.
‘Yet others saw it as clumsy?’
The realization made his hair stand on end.
This wasn’t a skill gap—it was a dimensional chasm. His eldest brother operated on another level entirely.
‘Why do I feel… cold?’
Yun shuddered suddenly, hunching his shoulders.
Was this the awakening of Cheonhwaseogo’s true genius?
Unaware of these thoughts, Bumong wept harder.
“Brother, your groin! You risked becoming a eunuch for his sake! How deep your loyalty runs! Now I resent Eldest Brother himself! How could he strike you there after all you endured? Even while being beaten elsewhere, the shock to your groin—!”
“Bumong.”
“Yes, Brother?”
“Leave.”
“Huh?”
“Get out!”
“Huh?”
“Get out, you brat! Groin this, groin that—you’ll compose a ballad about it next! Disappear!”
“…….”
Songhwa had been buzzing since dawn.
“Young Master, last night was incredible!”
“Huff… huff… huff…”
Houng continued his push-ups, indifferent.
“One brother attacking, the other enduring desperately!”
“Huff… huff… huff…”
He focused solely on his exercise.
Last night’s beating had exposed a problem.
Despite sufficient stamina, he’d executed only 30% of his intended technique—proof his consciousness hadn’t fully synced with Fan-hang’s body.
Pushing his physical limits was now urgent.
“It was so magnificent, so overwhelming—like tidal waves of emotion! Especially Second Young Master! How did he do it? Throwing himself at the stick, determined to take every hit! I never realized how profound he was! I feel ashamed for misjudging him!”
Though Houng had orchestrated that perception, only Fan-yun knew the truth. Songhwa’s praises flowed endlessly.
“Huff… You’ve taken a liking, huh?”
“Huh?”
“To Yun?”
“Eh? No way!”
“Then to Bumong?”
“Not at all!”
“Really? Then why keep glancing at the door?”
For ten days now, Bumong had visited every morning—bow formal, face shyly averted—to watch Houng train before slipping away.
“Third Young Master is… endearing.”
“Endearing?”
“Not romantically! More like… a maternal instinct? You understand—his clear eyes, gentle face, shy smile. It’s strangely addictive.”
Songhwa wore a motherly smile.
“Heh. That boy does have charm.”
“But he won’t come today, right?”
“He’ll be late.”
“No—he’s surely upset after yesterday! His brother was beaten so badly!”
“You misread people.”
“Why else would he skip?”
“He’ll come. Bumong’s inherently upright. Among all I’ve met, none have eyes as clear as his.”
“When have you ‘met’ anyone?”
Songhwa tilted her head. Her master rarely left seclusion.
“From books.”
“Haha! Books can’t teach that! You’re just boasting!”
“Regardless, Bumong’s different. He’ll be grateful for yesterday.”
“Huh?”
Songhwa’s startled expression melted into laughter.
“Third Young Master approaches! I hear footsteps!”
Houng chuckled.
“See? I told you. Bumong’s fundamentally different from Yun. His virtuous nature makes him appreciate—”
CRASH!
The door exploded inward.
Bumong stood in the wreckage, face crimson with rage.
“…….”
“…….”
Houng and Songhwa froze.
‘The discerning, virtuous Bumong…?’
Houng forced a smile.
“You’ve come, Bumong.”
“Damn right I have!”
Bumong stormed in, making Songhwa’s eyes widen.
“Fan-hang! Are you human?! How could you, as eldest brother, do that?! Anyone could see Yun-hyung took those hits willingly! But aiming for his groin?! With a stick?! What if his balls shattered?! He’d never father children, you monster!”
“Calm yourself, Bumong.”
“I won’t! You’re not the only one who’s trained! I’ll make you regret this—tenfold! A hundredfold!”
Bumong drew weapons from his back—chains gleaming.
Houng frowned.
‘Nunchaku?’
Two wooden rods linked by chain—close-combat tools. Houng had only heard of them; seeing Bumong wield them was unexpected.
Swish-swish-swish!
Bumong spun them violently, creating afterimages.
“Aooooo! Aooaooao!”
He chicken-danced while striking his shoulders, waist, and armpits—until—
THUD!
Fan-yun kicked Bumong’s rear, sending him face-first into the floor.
“Move, idiot!”
“Ugh!”
Fan-yun clicked his tongue at the sprawled Bumong.
“Nunchaku? Those went extinct when their users got sworded to death. How many times must I explain?”
Leaning on a crutch, Fan-yun stepped over Bumong and bowed to Houng.
