Chapter 8
Following his conversation with Chae Geonuk, Go Taemin fell into deep contemplation over the transparent lines filling his field of vision.
If the mana Geonuk spoke of truly was an existing form of energy, there was a high probability these bizarre lines before his eyes were its actual manifestation.
Taemin sprang into action at once.
He reached out frantically to grab the white threads drifting through the air, and when that failed, he tried shoving them into his mouth or even inhaling them sharply through his nose.
Yet his efforts yielded nothing.
The white threads simply hovered in empty space like phantoms, drifting unbothered through every attempt he made.
Not a single physical interaction occurred.
“What is this, playing hard to get?”
After days of persistent trials, Taemin finally gave up. Wasting time fixated on white lines he couldn’t touch was bad business.
Instead, he headed for a nearby kendo dojo to prepare for his upcoming debut in the pro league. Having swung a blade with his own hands, he found it surprisingly fun. But that was all. To strike faster and more accurately, he needed proper fundamentals.
Yet opening the dojo doors and stepping inside, Taemin had to doubt his ears.
“A million and a half won a month?”
Seated behind the consultation desk, the manager nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Yes. That is our base tuition. Equipment rental is separate, bogu maintenance is separate, and our specialized Nova Arena curriculum incurs an additional fee.”
The world had gone mad. With Nova Arena igniting a global craze, the perceived value of cold-weapon martial arts had exploded. Now that a modern Colosseum stood as the ultimate symbol of wealth and prestige, unprecedented inflation had struck the weapon-training market.
1.5 million won.
For those looking to make a living in Nova Arena, it might have been an investment well worth making — especially considering pro league fight purses.
Taemin, however, could not bring himself to touch the application form. Etched into his mind was the image of his mother, who had spent her life working as a building cleaner, laboring an entire month to bring home that very million and a half won. To burn that hard-earned blood money on a single month’s lessons felt like nothing short of a sin to someone who had lived like a weed.
“…I’ll come back another time.”
“Very well. Please reach out whenever you’ve made up your mind. We have a long waitlist these days, so spots fill up fast.”
The manager gave a nod, flashing the effortless smile typical of sales reps peddling luxury goods.
As Taemin turned to leave the dojo, sharp battle cries pierced his ears.
“Damn robbers.”
The moment he walked out of the building, Taemin snapped the promotional pamphlet shut and shoved it into his back pocket, intending to use it as a coaster for hot ramen pots later.
“Does gold dust fall from the tip of their swords or something? A million and a half? How many burgers does that buy?”
In the end, Taemin headed for a quiet hillside behind the neighborhood.
Standing in a deserted clearing, a cool mountain breeze grazed his cheek. He had never formally learned swordsmanship, but Taemin understood the essence of a sword better than anyone. A sword was merely an elongated piece of steel — the most primitive tool designed to kill an enemy from beyond arm’s reach. Thrust first and live; miss and die. Learned not in sport but on the battlefield, his definition of the blade was that simple and unforgiving.
Taemin pulled out his smartphone and skimmed through a video on basic kendo fundamentals.
[Swordsmanship begins with grip and footwork. Now, when holding the hilt, grip it gently, as if holding an egg…]
“Egg my ass. If someone takes your weapon, you’re dead. You grip it tight.”
Grumbling all the while, he watched the YouTuber’s hand positioning closely. During his covert agent days, holding a dagger or machete had been about one thing: never letting go and driving it in deep. But a sword with extended reach was different. Minute variations in wrist angle and grip strength completely altered the path of the tip.
Taemin gripped the hilt, mirroring the YouTuber’s movements down to the letter. His left hand supported the pommel, his right resting lightly below the handguard. Then, matching the YouTuber’s steps on screen, he moved his feet.
“Oof, this really pulls on the calves.”
Though it looked like simple forward-and-backward footwork, lowering his center of gravity and maintaining a consistent distance burned through stamina faster than expected. Still, he didn’t stop. Beyond the pride of saving a fortune of 1.5 million won, the mere thought of how devastating his swordcraft would become once these fundamentals were carved into place brought a twitch to the corners of his mouth.
[Next is the vertical slash. Raise the tip of the blade above your crown, then drive it straight down through the shortest distance.]
The sound of parting air tore across the silent hillside. Once, ten times, a hundred times.
“Haa, haa…”
Sweat rolled down his chin, dripping onto the dirt.
[Keep breathing. Exhale briefly the moment you strike down, relax your shoulders, and let your body’s weight follow the blade.]
Fixated on the YouTuber’s explanation, Taemin swung his sword in a trance. Shaking off all unnecessary tension from his shoulders, he focused entirely on drawing the straightest line possible.
After swinging for what felt like ages, the wild drift of the blade’s tip began tracing a consistent arc. The whistling of the air sharpened considerably. But Taemin was not satisfied. No matter how clean the arc became, this was ultimately just playing with air. The crucial question was whether that precision would hold upon impacting a solid object.
“…Gotta hit something to know for sure.”
For a practical fighter like him, confirmation was essential. Taemin glanced around, grabbed a thick wooden log rolling nearby, set it atop a suitable boulder, and adjusted his grip on the hilt. It was time to verify whether the fruits of this self-study — saved at the cost of 1.5 million won — would actually work in real combat.
Exhaling a short breath, Taemin drove the blade straight down into the exact center of the log.
Two clashing sounds burst out in near-instant succession, echoing through the tranquil mountain. A sensation that something had gone wrong surged through his wrist before his brain could register it — a tingling, numbing vibration so violent that his hands shook.
“…Huh?”
A bewildered sound slipped from Taemin’s lips as he looked down at his hands. He was still gripping the hilt tightly, but the blade that should have been attached was snapped clean in half.
Looking down, the situation became clear at a glance. The log set upon the boulder lay severed in two as if measured with a ruler, rolling across the ground. The problem was that his skills had improved far too fast — to the point where comparing him to the YouTuber was an insult. The blade slicing through the wood had failed to withstand its own momentum, crashing head-on into the solid boulder beneath it.
A dark shard kicked up into the air and clattered onto the stone.
Taemin stood with his mouth agape. The broken blade gleamed forlornly in the moonlight.
“…I’m fucked.”
Trudging down the mountain, I headed for the senior’s office. Seeing the lights still on at this hour, his business seemed to be booming today as well.
“Hyung, I wrecked my sword. Is there any way—”
The whine ready to burst out the moment I opened the door vanished right back down my throat. There were others in the office besides him.
Three men in black suits sat on the sofa. They gave off a distinctly foul stench. Judging by their builds and eyes, they were no neighborhood thugs.
“…Ah, you have company.”
As I scratched the back of my neck awkwardly and froze in place, the middle-aged man in the head seat slowly rose to his feet. He looked me up and down, then gave the senior a polite nod.
“The rumors were true. It was no exaggeration to say you can pull answers from a dead man’s mouth. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Don’t mention it. Offering intel worth the money is my job.”
“Until next time, then.”
The middle-aged man tipped his head courteously and swept out of the office, flanked by his men. A strange stillness lingered in the room until the clicking of their heels faded completely down the corridor.
I couldn’t let my guard down until they were entirely out of sight.
The distinct metallic stench that clung to those who made spilling blood a daily routine — my instincts from my black-ops days were blaring warning sirens.
“Oh, Taemin. Perfect timing.”
“You look crazy busy, though. Who were those guys just now?”
The senior took off his glasses, set them on the desk, and rubbed his dry face with both hands. With several monitors running simultaneously while he hammered away at the keyboard, he looked run ragged.
“Good news. First off, the legion registration is done. The name’s Veil. Searched it up, and there are plenty of legions sharing that name. A common handle like that is ideal for masking your identity.”
“Oh, nice. Veil, huh…”
For people like us who operated from the shadows, no name fit better.
Tapping his monitor, the senior continued.
“And like we talked about before, I registered you in the US Pro League. The Japanese league is small and the crowds are thin, so the purses aren’t much.”
“A man’s gotta swim in bigger waters, of course.”
The time difference meant fighting in the dead of night, which was a minor drag, but it hardly mattered. If the money was right, I was ready to wake up mid-sleep and swing a blade.
“Bad news too, though.”
“What is it? They don’t let you fight in a mask over there?”
“No, an offer came in from the NAA.”
“Eminem?”
“The NAA. Nova Arena’s American branch, you idiot.”
My face lit up at his words.
“Really? An offer already? That’s insane!”
Yet the senior’s expression remained grim.
“There’s a catch. It’s not a regular offer. It’s an SNF — a Short-Notice Fight. A replacement offer.”
“What’s that?”
“When a scheduled warrior suddenly pulls out due to injury or personal matters, they pitch a stand-in slot to someone else. Compared to other competitors, the prep window is laughably short, so the risk is enormous.”
He explained that a month of prep was standard. The offer handed to me, however, was for a bout just one week away. Forget proper training; it was barely enough time to manage physical conditioning.
I actually welcomed the news, though.
“Who cares if it’s a replacement offer? Fighting sooner is even better.”
Having just snapped my sword on the mountain and racked up an extra expense, I had zero reason to hesitate.
Despite my cheerful response, the frown lingered on his face.
“And… it’s Match 4.”
“Match 4? Isn’t that lower numbering?”
“It is.”
At that, my brow furrowed.
What the hell?
They didn’t slash my fight purse, did they?
“Just my guess, but I don’t think the NAA views you very favorably.”
“Why would the NAA care?”
“You came out of the Japanese league with an undefeated promotion. And with the worldwide spotlight on you right now, it feels like they want to squeeze every drop of hype out of Akwi before the novelty fades. In the most sensational way possible, too.”
The senior’s voice fell heavier than usual.
“Those American bastards have a pathological pride about their league being the absolute best in the world. And now some nobody Asian comes in undefeated from Japan? From their perspective, it’s not that you’re skilled — they think you just had an easy ride because the Japanese league is soft.”
I folded my arms and stared at the screen.
I had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
“So they want to use my name as a sacrifice to boost the market value of their own league’s prospect? Is that it?”
“Spot on. That’s why you’re placed in Match 4. Right before the main card kicks off, at the exact moment the crowd’s blood needs to boil hottest, they want to put on a blistering slaughter show. And you’re the sacrificial lamb.”
Having laid it out, the senior quietly gauged my reaction.
The faint smile lingering on my lips faded.
Hmm.
Frankly, it didn’t feel great. No matter how much hardship I’d weathered, being treated so openly like cannon fodder stung my pride.
Seeing me scowl in silence, the senior cleared his throat and cautiously added another line, seemingly convinced I was furious.
“…They did offer a pretty hefty base pay, though. You remember how I said base pay for an undefeated promotion is normally ten thousand dollars?”
“…”
“You start at twenty thousand. If you win, you get an extra hundred percent of your base, plus a thirty percent bump to your bout purse next fight. Not a bad deal, right?”
My scowl vanished in an instant, and I grabbed both of his hands firmly in mine.
The chilling silence that had hung in the room just moments ago was nowhere to be found.
“I am ready to burn myself to ashes for this!”
“…Huh?”
“American pride? I can inflate it until it bursts! A sacrifice? If they pay up, I’ll make it a work of art! I’m ready to dive into the capsule and die for them right this second!”
Beaming so brightly that no one would guess he’d been stone-faced seconds earlier, the senior shook his head in sheer disbelief.
“Weren’t you pissed off?”
“Come on, hyung. Getting angry over money means you’re no pro. And I’m a true professional.”
“…Still, your pride could take a hit.”
“That was back when my pride was worth ten grand. For twenty thousand plus a hundred percent win bonus, my pride already caught a flight across the Pacific. By now, it’s probably saying hello in English: “
Humming a tune, I stood up from my seat.
Twenty thousand dollars was a massive sum — a clean thirty million won. On top of that, winning meant pocketing another thirty million. How could I not be thrilled?
The senior stared at me, looking utterly exhausted.
“…You’re not gonna sell me out for cash down the line, are you?”
