Suddenly barging into the Sect Leader's quarters and delivering that outrageous request and declaration.
Gwang-il's utterly out-of-the-blue words and actions spread like wildfire throughout the entire Point Cang Sword Sect in the blink of an eye, carried by the Second-Generation Disciples standing guard outside the Sect Leader's room.
And naturally, Tong-cheon—the eldest senior brother to every Second-Generation Disciple and the man already designated as the next Sect Leader—heard every detail of the mad stunt his own chief disciple had pulled off.
The result?
Thwack! Thwack! Pow!
"How dare you! How dare you spew such lunacy at the Sect Leader—you, of all people!"
Pow! Pow! Thwack!
"..."
On his way back to his quarters after finally wringing the permission he wanted from the Sect Leader.
Running smack into his master right outside the door had turned what should have been a joyful reunion into this brutal flogging.
"Gwang-il, you! How could you do this to me?!"
Pow! Pow! Thwack!
A person who was always kind turns terrifying when angered.
Tong-cheon's fury, usually so warm and gentle toward everyone, crashed down on Gwang-il like an unstoppable tidal wave.
Under the relentless barrage of the staff, his buttocks were already shredded to ribbons, mangled beyond recognition.
Peeking through the tatters of his worn training robes, his skin was bruised black and oozing blood in spots.
"..."
Yet even so, Gwang-il lay there silently, not uttering so much as a whimper.
Though this first meeting with his master since his regression had gone disastrously awry.
Just the fact that he could face his master again filled him with gratitude enough.
'I absolutely, absolutely won't let you leave this world so pointlessly this time. Never!'
Ignoring his master's shouts as he rained down the blows, one ear in and one ear out.
Gwang-il recalled the final conversation he'd shared with his master in his previous life.
"Gwang-il! You must live! As long as you survive, the history of our Point Cang will never end!"
"M-Master! How can you say such desperate things? Don't worry—your disciple will slaughter every last one of those Beast Palace bastards, tear them apart...!"
"You fool! Get a grip on yourself!"
"M-Master!"
"The tide has fully turned against us! Can't you see that?! It's time to accept defeat and plan for the future!"
"Th-Then come with me! How can you tell your worthless disciple to flee alone?!"
"Everyone is dead. The elders of the previous generation, my fellow disciples—all gone. I'm the only one left."
"All the more reason...!"
"Hah, you fool. Where would the Sect Leader of Grand Point Cang go, abandoning his sect?"
"Master!"
"Go. I firmly believe you'll restore our Point Cang's name to its rightful place atop the jade pedestal... ."
"You brat! Aren't you going to beg forgiveness for your crimes?!"
"Ah...!"
Drip. Drop.
A booming shout shattered the memory from his past life, and the few tears gathered at the corners of Gwang-il's eyes soaked warmly into the sandy floor.
'D-Damn it!'
How old was he now, to make such a pathetic display?!
Tears, of all things!
And while getting his ass beaten by his master, no less?
Worried it might lead to some embarrassing misunderstanding, Gwang-il hurriedly wiped the floor clean.
But...
"...What a foolish boy. If it hurts, just say so—why lie there like you're dead, squeezing out tears?"
"..."
It was already far too late.
"Th-That's not it, Master!"
"Don't lie. Tsk, tsk, tsk!"
"I-It really isn't...!"
The moment he instinctively protested his innocence.
Tong-cheon softened his disciple's heated tone with gentle words, reciting in a much milder voice.
"Get up."
"...It really wasn't from the pain. I swear."
"Fine. I'll take your word for it."
"..."
'Argh! What humiliation is this?!'
Look at that faint, knowing smile—like he could see right through Gwang-il's heart and was humoring him!
If it had been anyone but his master flashing that grin, Gwang-il would've decapitated them on the spot.
As Gwang-il floundered between shame, joy, and awkwardness.
Tong-cheon tossed the staff aside and approached slowly, sighing as he asked.
"Gwang-il. Do you want the Narrow Tip Sword that badly? Enough to cry over it?"
"...It's not just that I want the Narrow Tip Sword—it's the only way to truly bring out our Point Cang's sword arts... ."
"So you'd toss out more than half our sect's martial arts— all those slashing techniques, right up to the recommended foundational arts?"
"A single strike, guaranteed kill—that qualification alone is enough. Empty carts rattle loudest, and inns with too many dishes taste the worst."
"Fine words, flowing like a mountain stream. But fool! Does that mean Shaolin—with its seventy-two supreme ultimate techniques—is an empty cart and a tasteless inn?"
He snorted as if to say, try answering that.
But the moment Tong-cheon heard his disciple's sharp retort without hesitation, his jaw dropped.
"No different at all, really. Master, have you ever seen a master swordsman laden with dozens of famed blades jingling around?"
"...What?"
"A swordsman needs just one sword. The same for our sect, and for Shaolin. They just have a long history, so more famed swords to choose from."
"Hah! This brat, really?"
Who in the world would dare slander mighty Mount Tai, the North Star of the world, Shaolin, like that?
Tong-cheon was so stunned by the unimaginable response that he even worried his disciple might've injured his head during training.
Gwang-il had never been the type to argue back at his master like this.
'But then again, those eyes are so clear and pure... .'
So transparently clear it was burdensome to meet them head-on.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, after all.
Even if he'd regressed to his weak twenties, barely first-rate.
The heart of the supreme master who'd once roamed the pinnacle as the Dark Heaven Emperor remained unchanged from before.
Tong-cheon, stuck at the peak realm, could never perceive it.
'Master... .'
Unlike his master, Gwang-il had already seen through Tong-cheon's clear achievements with his keen insight, making his heart burn even more urgently.
Even if his master broke through to transcendent at sixty, like before.
That level alone could never stand against the Beast Palace's savage warriors and spirit beasts.
'I have to overhaul everything, and fast!'
The first-generation elders, their sword paths ossified past seventy—nothing to be done there.
But if he pushed harder, he could fix his master and senior uncles at least.
Not to mention his junior brothers among the third-generation disciples.
'I need to hurry, every second counts.'
A year in secluded training.
Reach the peak realm or higher within it, prove his claims right.
Only then could he dedicate the remaining nine years to completely remaking the sect for war.
'No words from me now will sway hearts at my current level.'
Hell, he'd have slapped a cheeky third-gen disciple spouting this nonsense himself.
But switch weapons and training methods now, hit peak or beyond in just a year?
And defeat even the second-gen disciples, his master's peers?
Then everyone would listen.
'So the year's seclusion is essential.'
How much of his past achievements he recovered in that time would decide their fates.
His, and Point Cang's.
As Gwang-il steeled his resolve once more.
'What in the world are you thinking, Gwang-il...?!'
Tong-cheon was equally baffled by his disciple's incomprehensible behavior.
Anxiety impossible to hide, mixed with grim resolve like facing a mortal enemy—so intricately tangled.
He'd always prided himself on knowing his disciple better than anyone.
Yet today, Gwang-il felt strangely alien.
Especially those eyes—meeting them felt like facing a distant sect elder, a heavy pressure crushing his shoulders.
'Incomprehensible. Truly. What happened to this child?'
He'd only been away for seven days on sect business.
Whatever happened in that short time, the distance felt like facing a stranger.
'No choice but to give him what he wants for now.'
The Sect Leader—his own master—had already permitted it.
Interfering further would be like defying an elder's decree.
Tong-cheon decided this flogging covered his disciple's sins.
'Even the enraged junior brothers won't complain after this.'
He'd delivered over a hundred solid strokes.
Right in front of the third-gen disciples' quarters, in plain view.
No one could demand more punishment after witnessing this.
Time to grant the year he wanted.
"I never knew you could be this stubborn."
"My apologies. But..."
"I get it. No more excuses—or I might start dreaming of that Narrow Tip Sword and wake up terrified."
"..."
Slipping a jar of golden wound salve into his disciple's hand with a faint smile.
Tong-cheon let out a sigh-mingled question.
"There are no more Narrow Tip Swords in the sect—where do you plan to get one? If you're heading to the Iron Sword Gang down the mountain, I'll give you some silver."
"No need. Your disciple has a plan, so don't worry, Master."
Forgetting the pain in the warmth of his master's gesture, Gwang-il smiled and shook his head firmly.
"A plan? The sect doesn't have one, and I've never given you a penny—how...?"
"I'll explain everything when I see you again in a year. Please trust your disciple and wait just a little."
"Hah...! What a sly fox you are."
He had no idea what gave the boy such confidence.
But Tong-cheon decided not to hold him back.
This wasn't something staves or words could fix.
'Better to let him have his year than let regrets fester into heart demons.'
He wasn't asking to do anything reckless—just train in martial arts.
In seclusion, no less.
Probably why the Sect Leader approved.
The chief disciple who would succeed him as Sect Leader couldn't afford mental scars.
What choice was there?
"Stubborn as a mule. Fine. Give it your best. You said you'd surpass this master, right?"
"...My apologies, Master."
"No need, kid. You'll have to get thrashed by your senior uncles before you even face me."
"..."
Not that it would happen, but Gwang-il didn't poke at the senior uncles eavesdropping from afar.
He'd prove it with results later.
For now, he yearned to reach the secret chamber whose location burned in his mind.
Did his master sense it?
Gazing at him with complex eyes, Tong-cheon pouted and waved him off.
"Go on. If there's no progress in a year, I'll punish you severely—brace yourself."
"I'll engrave it on my bones. Farewell, and stay well."
His battered rear made his legs tremble.
Still, he defiantly offered a deep bow.
Then, without looking back, plunged into the mountains toward the cliffside seclusion cave.
To him—who'd survived every gruesome wound from long wars—this ass pain was nothing.
"Haaah! That heartless brat."
Tsk, tsk, tsk!
Leaving his master's worried, reluctant voice behind, Gwang-il limped onward, focusing solely on his new goal.
'If my memory serves, there's a path from the end of the seventh seclusion cave to the secret chamber.'
A place discovered only after the sect lay in ruins from the Beast Palace massacre—even then, a full decade later.
Before founding the Evil Path Alliance, he'd come secretly, unable to bear the aching longing, and gained fateful fortune there.
Shattering his stagnant cultivation, entering the true Point Cang sword arts—an unforgettable moment.
Gwang-il aimed to claim that fortune once more.
'If I gain the founding ancestor's arrangement, I can grow far faster than my previous life.'
Overpowering his peak-realm master and seniors? A single year of training would suffice.
'This time, I absolutely won't hand our headquarters to you bastards. Never!'
Climbing rugged paths with blazing resolve.
Finally reaching the seventh seclusion cave, Gwang-il plunged into the dim depths without hesitation, vanishing in search of the secret chamber.
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