The bronze coin felt heavier than it should have.
Jinmu rolled it between his fingers again, thumb rubbing over the faded characters. One side bore a stylized flower with four petals, the mark of the Jeonghwa Mint. The other side was stamped with the symbol for "ten," though this was misleading. A single coin like this was worth one — not ten — and everyone knew it. The "ten" simply meant it was the tenth revision since the founding of the current dynasty.
He stared at it in silence.
It's just a coin. Just metal. Weight. Shape. Carved value.
He held it up against the moonlight, watching its shadow fall across his palm.
So if I can copy a martial art…
He brought it down. Pressed it to his chest.
Why not this?
He took a slow breath.
And with no one watching, no words spoken, he activated the command.
COPY.
A soft pulse echoed in his core. His skin tingled faintly, like warm mist brushing his chest. A strange kind of echo lingered in his hand — the sensation of the coin's existence, now separated from the physical item.
It was there.
Stored.
Perfect.
Ready.
He held out his empty palm again.
Focused.
PASTE.
And the coin appeared.
Clean.
Identical.
It dropped into his hand with a faint clink.
Jinmu stared at it, eyes narrowing.
Then again.
PASTE.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
The coins began to fall faster now, each one perfectly duplicated. No wear. No mint difference. No scent of the forge.
He grabbed an empty grain sack from under the shelf. It still had traces of barley in it, but it would do.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
He worked slowly, counting under his breath.
"Forty-two… forty-three…"
The repetition dulled his senses a little, like water dripping into a still pond.
"Seventy-nine…"
"Eighty…"
By the time he reached one hundred and fifty, sweat had gathered on his brow.
This is draining me. Not just physically.
It wasn't like martial arts. This wasn't about muscle. It was mental strain — like holding a complex movement in the body, but only in thought.
Still, he pushed forward.
"Two-twenty…"
"Two-eighty…"
"Three-ninety…"
The pouch grew heavier with every duplication. He had to retie the knot halfway through and double the base with an old apron just to prevent tearing.
"Four-ninety-eight…"
"Four-ninety-nine…"
"Five hundred."
He stopped.
Shoulders tense. Fingers aching.
Breath caught in his throat.
He closed his eyes and sat in silence.
It's done.
The sack now held five hundred bronze coins.
Five hundred.
In Jeonghwa's money system…
He mentally recalled it from a lesson long ago — maybe even from the boy's old memories that still clung to him.
Ten bronze coins make a single silver.
Ten silver coins make a gold.
That meant fifty silver.
Or five-tenths of a gold coin.
Half a gold might not sound like much to someone from a big sect… but to a family running a battered inn near Hwagok's edge, it's a miracle.
He cinched the sack, checked the knot twice, and hoisted it over his shoulder.
It was time to make it count.
The sun was just starting to peek over the rooftops when Jinmu stepped into the main room of the inn. Dust particles swirled in the air, golden in the early light. The floor still bore cracks from the fight. A torn banner drooped from the rafters. But there was peace.
For now.
Haerin stood by the kitchen, reorganizing stacked bowls with a soft frown. Her motions were precise, but distracted — the kind of focus that came from trying not to think too much.
"Mother."
She turned at the voice. "Oh—Jinmu. You're up early."
"I didn't sleep."
She noticed the sack over his shoulder. Her brow furrowed.
"What's that?"
"Something we needed."
He walked forward and gently lowered the sack onto the center table with a soft thud.
Coins rustled inside.
Haerin's eyes widened.
She pulled the drawstring back slowly and peeked in.
Then froze.
"Jinmu…"
Her voice trembled.
"This is… bronze?"
"Five hundred," he said quietly. "All clean. No forgeries. I checked them."
"How?" she asked. Not accusatory. Just stunned.
"I visited some of the traveling traders who pass through the lower road. Some owed us meals from the past two winters. I reminded them."
"You walked all the way to the south trail?"
"Had to get up early."
"But five hundred…?"
"There were a lot of them."
She looked down again. Her fingers lightly touched the top layer of coins as if afraid they'd vanish.
"They paid all at once?"
"More or less. I may have mentioned that I was apprenticing under someone now. That I was tied to a sect. Unofficially."
Her gaze lifted. "You lied?"
"Not really. I am tied to something now. I just didn't name it."
Haerin laughed softly under her breath. "Since when did my son learn to talk like a merchant?"
Jinmu smiled. "Desperation teaches fast."
She exhaled. Her hands let go of the bag as she stepped back.
"We can finally repair the beams," she said. "Buy lumber. Replace the side doors. Fix the kitchen wall."
"And the cracked window frames."
"Yes."
She looked at him again, this time with something softer in her expression. Not just relief — pride, maybe.
Or confusion.
"Jinmu."
"Yes?"
"Whatever path you've chosen… I hope it doesn't hurt you."
He didn't answer right away.
He just nodded.
"I'll go tell your father," she said. "He's in the storeroom. He's been trying to figure out how to stretch last month's delivery."
"Let me."
She paused. "You?"
Jinmu picked up the sack again.
"I'll bring it to him."
Haerin gave him a curious look but said nothing more.
Baekho was in the back, crouched low beside an opened crate. Inside were chipped rice bowls, a cracked soy sauce jug, and a dented kettle. His hands were dusty with flour and sawdust, and his eyes looked heavier than usual.
"Morning," Jinmu said.
Baekho glanced up. "You're up early."
"Didn't sleep."
Jinmu placed the coin sack on the ground gently.
Baekho blinked.
"What's that?"
"Back pay from some customers."
He opened the drawstring.
When the bronze caught the light, Baekho's hand froze mid-motion.
He didn't speak for a long time.
Finally, he sat down slowly beside the crate.
"This is…"
"Five hundred coins."
"How?"
"I walked out past the lower trail. Traders camped near the willow river. A few owed us from when the inn sheltered them during the floods last year."
Baekho raised an eyebrow. "And they paid in full?"
"I… gave them the impression I was backed by someone."
Baekho chuckled, low and dry. "You threatened them?"
"No. I just stood straight and didn't blink when I spoke."
Baekho chuckled again, louder this time. "That'll do it."
He rubbed his neck, then leaned against the wall.
"We can fix the outer supports. Patch the roof. Even order a proper signboard this time."
"Paint it gold."
"Don't tempt your sister. She'll add sparkles."
They both chuckled.
Then silence.
Baekho stared at his son for a long moment. Longer than usual.
"Jinmu."
"Hm?"
"Do you have time to talk later?"
Jinmu looked up.
The tone was casual.
But not empty.
The way his father's eyes watched him — patient, curious, but not prying — made it clear it wasn't just about the coins.
Or repairs.
It was about him.
Jinmu didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said. "I can spare time."
The sky was tinted with the soft blue of late morning when Jinmu and his father sat outside the half-fixed side porch. Baekho had already repaired one of the beams with spare pinewood and thick twine, and now he was sipping barley tea from a chipped cup, staring at the tree line in silence.
Jinmu sat next to him, waiting.
Baekho finally broke the stillness.
"You remind me of someone," he said, voice low. "Not me. Not your mother. Not even Seryeon."
Jinmu glanced sideways. "Who, then?"
"A woman I met when I was younger."
He took another sip. The steam curled from the tea's surface like memory.
"I wasn't always an innkeeper, you know. Before I met your mother, before I even thought about settling down, I wandered a bit. Did some merchant escort work. Guard jobs. Just enough to eat. Not enough to matter."
"You were a martial artist?"
Baekho gave a dry laugh. "Barely. I was average at best. I could swing a blade, keep my footing, scare off a few mountain thieves. That's all."
Jinmu didn't say anything. He knew his father wasn't one for storytelling unless it weighed on him.
"It was in the lower valleys of Yeonhwa Range," Baekho continued. "I found her under a collapsed cliff. Torn robes. Broken ribs. Looked like she'd dragged herself there from somewhere worse. I thought she'd die by morning."
"She didn't?"
"She didn't. She lasted three days. I brought her food, water, kept the fire going. Never asked who she was. She never asked who I was. But on the third night, when her fever broke, she handed me something wrapped in silk."
He reached into his coat.
Pulled out a bundle.
Not large. About the size of a folded towel. Wrapped in faded blue cloth, the edges fraying with time.
"I kept it sealed," Baekho said. "Didn't want temptation to bite me."
He handed it to Jinmu.
"I opened it once," Baekho added. "Inside was a martial book. Looked important. But it was like reading wind. I couldn't understand a single line."
Jinmu turned the cloth over, untying the cord gently.
"Why are you giving it to me?"
"Because something's changed in you, Jinmu. I don't know what, or how, or why. But you came back from that fight different. You walked like someone who's already made a choice."
Jinmu didn't answer.
Baekho sipped his tea again.
"I couldn't do anything with it. Maybe you can."
Jinmu closed the cloth again, bowing slightly.
"I'll take care of it."
"Good."
There was a long silence.
Baekho set his cup down with a soft clink.
"I won't ask where you got the money. Not really."
Jinmu's shoulders tensed.
"But I'll say this," Baekho continued. "When someone hides something, it's usually to protect the people around them."
He looked at Jinmu now, directly.
"And you've always protected this family, even before you could fight."
Jinmu exhaled quietly.
He knows. Maybe not the details. But he understands enough.
"I didn't do anything illegal," Jinmu said softly. "No blood money. No black deals. I just… found a way."
Baekho nodded.
"That's enough."
Another pause.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Don't let your sister find that book. She'll try to sell it to the Golden Fan Society."
"I'll keep it hidden."
"Good man."
Baekho stood, stretched his back, and turned toward the yard.
"I've got to check the fence again. Seryeon said a raccoon tried to crawl under the herb garden."
Jinmu held back a laugh. "Want me to help?"
"Finish your tea. I still remember how you swing a hammer like a paintbrush."
"I've improved."
"Not convinced."
Baekho left, humming an old folk song.
Jinmu waited until the sound of his father's footsteps faded down the path.
Then he turned to the cloth bundle in his hands.
He took it inside. Into the small storage room behind the kitchen, where no one would bother him. He cleared a spot on the floor, lit a single oil lamp, and sat down cross-legged.
Slowly, he untied the cloth again and opened the silk wrapper beneath.
Inside was an aged martial book.
No title on the cover. Just a lotus flower drawn in silver ink — faded, but still glinting under the lamp's glow.
Jinmu's breath caught in his throat.
He opened the first page.
The writing was in an elegant brushstroke, fluid and light, like wind dancing over water. Not overly complex. And yet, the meaning… the essence flowed into him like it belonged there.
Words formed silently in his mind:
> The way of the blossom is not to strike, but to sway.
Not to resist, but to yield.
Not to pierce, but to pass through.
Like mist between blades. Like breath across steel.
Jinmu's eyes widened.
He turned the next page.
Seven diagrams followed. Flowing forms. Familiar stances. Motions that danced like silk in water.
Each one carried a name.
He read them aloud, voice barely above a whisper:
"Drifting Petal Stance… Vein-Pulse Bloom… Twin Lotus Coils… Misting Blade Fingers… Petal Curtain Dance… Sinking Root Spiral…"
He paused.
The final one was drawn larger. The ink was darker, heavier, like the brush had pressed deeper on purpose.
"Heart of Blooming Death."
He ran his fingers over the lines.
This is it.
The technique I copied from the woman at the inn. The one I didn't know the name of. The one I thought belonged to Yeonhwa Palace alone.
But… this book… it's older.
He flipped back to the preface.
There was a small note scribbled on the edge in smaller characters.
> Inspired by the mists of Yeonhwa. For the disciple who can move like vapor and vanish like breath.
It really was based on mist. Not just elegance. Not just grace. But intangibility. Displacement. Flow.
He exhaled slowly.
I've been using it as a series of attacks… but that's only the surface. The real core is how you move before and between the strikes.
Like fog circling a mountain.
Like petals falling through wind.
He closed the book.
Held it tight in both hands.
And smiled.
This isn't just a technique anymore.
It's mine.