When a villain discovers the virtue of diligence, the world suffers the consequences.
To master martial arts, one must wake at the same hour, perform the same exercises, and strike the same rock with the same fist, day after unyielding day. Naturally, once they reach a certain level, even those walking the Unorthodox Path become industrious. In this Murim, where both the Orthodox and Unorthodox factions strove for their own brands of twisted productivity, it seemed only the physicians were caught in the crossfire, worked to the bone by everyone else’s ambition.
“One Light—!”
The voice, heavily imbued with internal energy, resonated through the Crimson Wine Gang’s territory like a thunderclap.
“Oh, nice lungs. He’s got a talent for Sound Arts,” Jin Cheon-hee remarked casually.
At his comment, both Cheon Woo and Man Seon snickered, despite the grim atmosphere.
“One Light! I heard you intend to crush us, the Unorthodox Factions! You may be one of the Ten Greatest Masters under the Heavens, but do you think we will retreat so easily!”
“How should I answer this? Hmm.”
While Jin Cheon-hee hesitated, weighing his words, the Gang Leader lost his patience.
“What are you waiting for! Everyone, attack—!”
A thousand martial artists surged forward at the command. With such numbers, they could wage a proper war; indeed, the way they clumsily formed ranks and unleashed a rain of arrows mimicked the chaos of a battlefield.
However, can I let that happen?
“Everyone, cover your ears.”
At Jin Cheon-hee’s low command, Man Seon cursed under her breath, clamped her hands over her ears, and sprinted in the opposite direction. Cheon Woo followed suit, retreating several steps while wrapping his ears in a protective layer of internal energy.
Jin Cheon-hee dashed toward the oncoming tide. He pressed his front teeth together, channeling air and energy through his vocal cords to produce a sound that defied nature.
Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—!
It was a horrific, high-pitched metallic screech—the sonic equivalent of fingernails dragging down a chalkboard, amplified a thousand times.
The Sound Art struck before the arrows could even land. The third-rate warriors were the first to fall, clutching their heads as their cochleas were battered by the frequency. Some tumbled down the stone stairs; others bled from their eyes and ears or writhed on the ground like caterpillars, their internal energy thrown into chaotic deviation.
Seeing two-thirds of the enemy force incapacitated in a single breath, Cheon Woo and Man Seon looked on, appalled.
“…I questioned why you would do such a thing with a human vocal cord… but the power is truly terrifying, Young Pavilion Master!”
“Man Seon, your words are becoming increasingly candid.”
“It’s a compliment!”
“I trust you? Man Seon.”
Cheon Woo shook his head, looking dizzy himself. “Both of you, run further away.”
“What other crazy thing are you planning to do?”
“Crazy thing? This is a scientific strike method,” Jin Cheon-hee retorted, clasping his hands behind his back. “Isn’t a lifetime of tinnitus better than a swift death? They’ll thank me later.”
“No, that’s…”
“Small fry like them can still reflect on their actions and find a new life.”
With that, he sprinted forward again, opening his mouth to mimic a sound he had heard countless times in his past life—a sound that signaled urgency and rescue in a modern world.
Weoo-weoo—!! Weoo-weoo-weoo—t!
It was the wail of a siren.
“Aaaagh! One Light… That madman is using Sound Arts!”
Jin Cheon-hee ran while projecting the noise, his expression calm and devoid of laughter. This was the Art of Saving Lives.
Gathering a thousand small fries was merely annoying. He wouldn’t lose even if he fought them with steel, but the mental and physical toll of a non-lethal brawl against such numbers was immense. That was the terrifying weight of a mob, and exactly why he had trained in Sound Arts.
Besides, I don’t trust swords anyway.
Martial artists trusted their blades like parents, but they would be shocked to know what percentage of patients came to him stabbed by their own weapons. Treating such warriors had only solidified Jin Cheon-hee’s resolve: the only thing to trust was science.
To be effective, I must maintain at least 120 decibels—the threshold of pain—and mimic frequencies between 2000 to 5000 Hz. I must recreate the sensation of a drill boring into the skull using only my vocal cords.
That was the true Sound Art.
He had agonized over whether human physiology could handle it, training every day against the howling winds of the bamboo forest. Now, that effort was shining through.
Feel the nausea, the headache, the vertigo!
The sonic cannons of the US military were based on this theory. While this was a fraction of that power, for these gangsters used to knife fights, the agony of vibrating eardrums was a fresh and terrifying hell.
“Disperse! Put down your swords and disperse! Weeeee—ooooooo—!”
“You crazy bastard—!”
“You madman—!”
As they swung their swords in desperation, he flicked his fingers, using the Finger Flicking Art to deflect their blades. Then, he responded with the screech of a prehistoric predator.
Kiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—!!
If you swing wildly like that, you’ll stab your friend next to you, he thought. Who’s going to stitch that up? Friends, I wish you’d think about the logistics.
Many warriors collapsed, coughing up blood. Now, only about fifty remained—the elite group of First-Rate, Peak, and Supreme Peak Realm masters.
The survivors simultaneously threw hidden weapons at him.
Pababababak!
Jin Cheon-hee stopped his assault. If I scream any more, the unconscious ones might actually die. Best to avoid permanent brain damage.
Working in the Gangho was inherently worse for one’s health than smoking or drugs, but as long as they weren’t from the Blood Immortal Cult, he decided to show mercy.
To a modern person, martial arts were like dynamite. Used well, one could tunnel through cliffs and move mountains; used in war, it became a weapon of mass destruction. Physicians knew this better than anyone. There were far more productive things in this world than stabbing organs. If these masters used their formidable power to build bridges or plow fields, they would outperform any ox.
Remaining numbers… roughly fifty.
“D-Damn it. The rumors weren’t lies!”
“He must be exhausted too! There’s no way he has strength left after such a massive Sound Art!”
The Crimson Wine Gang Leader shouted, desperate to rally his men. “His internal energy isn’t infinite! If we all join forces…!”
Jin Cheon-hee didn’t wait for him to finish. He closed the distance instantly, trapping the lead enemy’s blade with his axe and smacking the man’s spine with his poker. He followed up with a sharp kick to the kneecap.
“Aaaagh!”
The man rolled down the stairs, clutching his leg.
“Attack! Attaaaaack!”
Startled, the masters thrust their swords, maintaining a semblance of order that was admirable, yet futile.
“Oh, you’ve got some guts?”
As his axe shattered a sword, the poker in his other hand struck home. It was wielded not like a deadly weapon, but like a disciplinarian’s cane.
Smack, smack-smack-smack!
“Go home! Wash your feet and sleep! You must have parents, too. They didn’t raise you to become Unorthodox thugs.”
The iron cane lashed out with terrifying elasticity. He didn’t use internal energy, but the pure kinetic force stung like fire.
“Kill him! Kill hiiiiim!”
Facing dozens of blades dripping with killing intent, Jin Cheon-hee grinned without a trace of fear.
“As expected, words don’t work. Yeah. I know.”
Swing, stab, deflect, cut. Those who brushed past Jin Cheon-hee were either broken or sent rolling down the stairs by the thrashing cane. As Man Seon had said, it was truly a Madman’s Dance.
Yet, strangely enough, amidst that dance, no one died.
“Haha, what a beautiful moon. Seeing the round full moon makes me think of round hotteok.”
Wasn’t the full moon meant for eating round, delicious things? The weather was getting colder, making it perfect for sweet pancakes.
“I should be frying hotteok on a day like this, so I don’t know why I’m doing this.”
It felt like such a counterproductive activity.
“If we bought one hotteok and shared it among the four of us, it would be a good memory.”
Chwaaak!
Blood sprayed across the steps.
“It’s a much better use of time than breaking kids’ limbs.”
“Crazy… Blue-Eyed…”
“Damn it, One Light—!”
“The morals of the Gangho have fallen to the ground,” Jin Cheon-hee sighed, dodging a blade. “I preach the deliciousness of hotteok, and they call me One Light. Cheon Woo, what do you think?”
Cheon Woo, guarding Jin Cheon-hee’s back, replied dutifully. “I think it’s because they don’t know the taste of the hotteok you make, Hyung.”
“Right. If they knew, would they be beating civilians in the middle of the night? They would be lining up at a hotteok stall.”
Paaak!
Jin Cheon-hee’s knee smashed directly into a swordsman’s face, sending several teeth scattering across the pavement.
“Speaking of pancakes, I should end this quickly. It’s getting cold. Cheon Woo. Shoulder.”
“Yes, Hyung.”
Cheon Woo lowered his massive frame. Jin Cheon-hee stepped on his shoulder and launched himself high into the air.
Tang!
His billowing sleeves slid through the night, drawing an arc like a crescent moon. The young man soared with the grace of a rabbit leaping across the lunar surface, drawing a beautiful parabola toward the Crimson Wine Gang Leader.
The Gang Leader hurriedly drew his sword, pouring all his internal energy into the blade for a desperate counter.
Jin Cheon-hee crossed his axe and poker, seemingly preparing to strike—but at the moment of collision, he abandoned the weapons and twisted his body in mid-air.
Filling the leader’s vision were not blades, but long, powerful legs.
Jin Cheon-hee’s thighs clamped around the Gang Leader’s neck. He landed on his palms as if doing a handstand, and then, utilizing the torque of his waist and the sheer elasticity of his muscles, he executed a wrestling takedown.
“Ho-it-cha!”
Crash—!
The leader was slammed into the ground with bone-rattling force.
“Patient. Please go to sleep right there. If you wake up, your wounds might get infected.”
That was the last voice the fainting Gang Leader heard before darkness took him.
Behind him, Man Seon grumbled. “Young Pavilion Master. We should have brought more subordinates. When are we going to clean all this up?”
“I know, right. Hahaha.”
“You’re really going to fry hotteok, right?”
Crack—
Jin Cheon-hee stepped on a pressure point to ensure the leader stayed unconscious and replied brightly.
“I have to. It’s gotten so cold lately. In times like this, freshly fried hotteok is the best.”
Hotteok, hotteok, hotteok~ Ho-ho-ho~ Hotteok~
Singing a strange, cheerful song, Jin Cheon-hee hoisted the unconscious Gang Leader onto his shoulder and walked away into the moonlight.