Chapter 24: When Will Last Night's Gyoryung Come?
For several days afterward, Hugong devoted himself to meditation under the guise of spiritual practice—conserving sleep, minimizing movement, and focusing entirely on his energy cultivation.
His primary focus was the application of "Gyoryung."
To confront the Seomun family, Gyoryung was indispensable.
But the level he’d displayed against Cheon Gyuin, captain of the guards, would be insufficient. He needed to grasp substance within emptiness. To strike seven pressure points so naturally that his opponent wouldn’t even realize they’d been touched—like kneading dough. A mere graze.
On the fourth night, Hugong tested his mastery of Gyoryung.
Crick-crack. Pop.
The clamor of joints echoed as his body shrank instantaneously. His muscles and bones contracted so rapidly that the transformation was invisible to the eye. His arms, legs, and torso all reduced to a third of their original size. The mirror reflected a figure no taller than a toddler.
‘Hoho. Not bad.’
Hugong nodded, satisfied. His current form was absurd, but the speed of transformation measured the depth of his skill. At this level, a simple touch would suffice to strike another’s seven pressure points.
He further combined this with his secret art: the Eunoebeop (Hidden Subtlety Method). To Hugong, it was Eunoebeop—but the martial world vaguely knew it as "Huheol," an ancient pressure-point technique.
The so-called "reservation strike" Yun had asked Bangyo about at Pungwajeong.
Back then, Hugong had nearly gaped, wondering how much this brat knew.
The reason Huheol remained obscure was simple: victims couldn’t pinpoint when they’d been struck. A day, half a day, or even a meal’s time might pass before realization dawned—all depending on the user’s skill or intent.
Crick-crack.
Hugong returned to his original size in a breath.
‘Now, then.’
That night, Hugong left his quarters for the prisoner’s cell. Despite the late hour, Songhwa—self-proclaimed shadow—sprang forward to follow. Hugong’s face instinctively twisted.
‘Does this runt ever sleep?’
The prisoner sat bound to a chair, ropes digging into his flesh. Barely conscious, he slumped like a corpse, head lolling.
“Untie him.”
“Yes, Lord.”
At the Great Lord’s command, two guards swiftly loosened the ropes. The prisoner’s body sagged sideways, caught by the guards.
“Shall we retie him upside down, Lord?”
Songhwa smiled knowingly, as if privy to every thought.
Hugong scowled. “You should be asleep! Must you trail me in pajamas, yapping like a lapdog?”
“I am your shadow, Lord.”
“Hmph! Since when do shadows bat their pretty lashes and talk back?”
Songhwa’s eyes fluttered shut, lips sealing.
Hugong snorted. His hands brushed the prisoner’s shoulders, arms, and sides before gripping his spine and neck—seven pressure points in total.
Songhwa and the guards exchanged baffled glances. Why was the Great Lord tenderly examining this wretch they’d gladly kill? None dared ask.
As speculation swirled—would he free him? Heal him?—Hugong turned sharply.
“Retie the ropes.”
The next morning.
“Brothers.”
“Yes, Elder Brother.”
Yun and Bumong answered deferentially. Yun held a brush, Bumong ground ink. Their elder brother had summoned them to draft a letter.
They still didn’t know its contents or recipient.
“Last night, I dreamed.” Hugong’s voice was solemn. “I met an immortal sage.”
“An auspicious omen, Brother!”
“Elder Brother! An immortal! Our Cheonhwa Library must be blessed! What did he say?”
Certain it was prophetic, the brothers squirmed with excitement.
Hugong lowered his voice.
“Run.”
“What?”
“He shouted that single word before departing on a cloud.”
“R-run? From what?”
“The Seomun family.”
Yun and Bumong stared at their brushes and inkstone.
Then their eyes bulged.
“Have you gone mad? You’d send a peace missive over a dream?”
“Elder Brother! After their atrocities, you’d roll over? All that meditation led to this?”
“It’s unavoidable.”
Hugong’s resigned tone ignited their fury.
“Unacceptable! They tried to exterminate our clan!”
“We must face reality.”
“Reality? Pfah!”
Yun snapped his brush. Bumong hurled his inkstone, blackening the floor.
“Do you cling to life so desperately?!”
“Are you that afraid to die?!”
Hugong knew how to silence them.
A single steady gaze sufficed.
As expected, the brothers’ rage dissolved into stupefied silence.
“Uh…”
“Er…”
Their outbursts evaporated under the weight of the man before them—
The root of their clan’s darkness.
One who lived when death refused him.
Holder of over two hundred suicide attempts.
This elder brother now feigned fear of death.
Gulp.
As they swallowed dryly, Hugong furrowed his brow.
“Can’t I live a little?”
“N-no! You must!”
“Live long, Elder Brother!”
Hmph. Hugong snorted. “Impudent brats. Dare question me? We do this to survive. Songhwa!”
“Here, Lord.”
Songhwa materialized, offering a cudgel.
Hugong narrowed his eyes. “Clean this mess!”
“Y-yes!”
Bumong fetched fresh ink. Yun prepared parchment.
As Hugong dictated the conciliatory letter to the Seomun patriarch, his eyes drifted to the window.
“It’s time…”
“Brother, should I include that line?”
“No.”
The brothers wondered if he awaited something—but their own despondency made them hesitate to ask.
Then—
“Great Lord!”
A panicked voice echoed outside.
Hugong smiled inwardly.
‘Success.’
“What’s the commotion?”
“The prisoner—his bones suddenly contorted! Legs bent backward over his waist! Horrific! We swear we didn’t touch him!”
Hugong swelled with satisfaction.
Huheol? No—to him, it was Eunoebeop.
Gyoryung had manifested.
Last night’s "examination" had been its application, timed perfectly.
But he feigned outrage.
“Nonsense! Should he die from your incompetence, I’ll have your heads!”
Seomun Family Patriarch’s Office.
“I grew complacent.”
The bald elder bowed, veins bulging under sunlight. Nicknamed "Hundred Brains" for his tactical genius, he served as chief strategist.
Patriarch Seomun Chu shook his head, smile warm.
“Nonsense. Not even I foresaw Cheonhwa Library’s first son changing. A natural disaster, truly. Let the matter rest.”
“Yes.”
“Summon my eldest.”
Soon, Seomun Ung entered.
“You called, Father?”
“Cheonhwa seeks to apologize. Handle this. Press them enough to deter future schemes—but leave room for dependence. Also, invite their first son here. I wish to see his transformation. Include neighboring nobles—host a banquet to flaunt our dominance.”
“Yes, Father.”
Seomun Ung kowtowed deeply.
Three days later, the Seomun reply arrived.
Hugong beamed.
His request for an external meeting had become an invitation to their stronghold—with nobles attending. Perfect for Gyoryung’s display.
But Cheonhwa Library erupted in outrage.
The elder raged: “How dare these beasts feign ignorance in polite script!”
Yun and Bumong snarled: “Grandfather! They’re animals! Even the letter’s from the son, not the patriarch!”
“Might makes right? They distort truth with power!”
Even the convalescing uncle coughed furiously.
Hugong ranted about divine retribution—until the gathering devolved into tearful consolation.
Slipping away, he muttered, “I need air.”
Songhwa and four guards trailed like shadows.
