[CYM] 9 – Sword Dance

Had she endured all this time just living on scraps? No, she had spent her whole life watching others, wary of their gaze. The young master’s pointed remark had stung her.

While chewing on fruit, she pondered not the past but the future. Soon she would leave Muritmaegol, and he...

“Young master.”

Upon reflection, she realised she knew nothing about this man.

“What kind of fruit do you like? I’m quite fond of raspberries.”

“Are you asking for some?”

“Would you give me some if I did?”

“Why would I?”

She resented the smug man before her, who had been hoarding a six-month supply of life. Did he comprehend his own fate? Probably not, since he laughed so carefree.

Would Master Ki, who never sought his son, be aware? Likely not, since he did not seek him.

The young master finished his fruit and cleared the bowl. That day, the remaining raspberries were all hers.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✦ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

The fickle young master had recently been taking his post-meal medicine without complaint. With the weather warming, his irritability seemed to have waned. But it was uncertain when he might snap again.

For now, he seemed to be napping, as breathing sounds came from beyond the door. She placed the day’s decoction on the porch and waited for him to wake. It was not proper for a lower-class person to wake a noble’s son loudly, so she practiced the virtue of patience.

What to do in the meantime?

The wooden sword she always carried felt warm in her hand. The Hong family had passed down a demon-slaying treasure sword for generations, but her mother forbade her from touching a real sword, deeming it too dangerous.

The dull blade caught a gleam of light, irritating her eyelids.

She toyed with the sword handle, then drew it across in a diagonal line, as if performing an acrobatic feat.

Whoosh.

Her mother had ordered her to learn swordsmanship for self-defence but had forbidden her from learning the Hong family’s sword dance. “Don’t even dream of learning such nonsense,” she had scolded. But she had watched her mother dance under the moonlight for years, the dance so sorrowful it seemed to soak even her own clothes. How could she ignore such a dance?

It might have once been a matter of pride, but now for her mother, the sword dance was a crystallisation of deep resentment and anger, not something to pass on to her daughter.

She followed the traces of the sword moves she had secretly watched her mother practice. She pierced the sun with the sword tip, spun like a butterfly, and landed softly. She split the dust rising from the broad blade.

The Hong sword dance had a certain discipline. It was uncluttered yet ornate. She disliked the Hong name but loved the sword dance she had poured her soul into creating. It was awe and pride. Her mother would scoff at the notion of reverence for ancestors who had laid only thorny paths.

Drip, drip.

Sweat drops fell on the sandy ground. Immersed in the practice until sweat beaded on her forehead, she wiped the dampness from her flushed cheeks and let the tired sword droop. Something felt off at the back of her head.

Through the crack in the door, a cool gaze met hers. The young master was watching. How long had he been awake? His eyes, adorned with long lashes, curved into a lovely crescent. Silent and unnoticeable, he was indeed like a spirit.

“If you’re awake, you should speak up. I’ll reheat the medicine, just wait.”

“No.”

He propped his chin on his arm and lay down lazily, his face more animated than anything she had seen before, arrogantly gesturing.

“Keep going.”

“What? The sword dance?”

“Yes.”

The normally indifferent young master showed a sliver of interest for the first time. There were many families who combined martial arts with exorcism, so the sword dance was not necessarily tied to Punglim.

Her fingers itched with eagerness. She had diligently practiced martial arts alone for years and wanted to show off her skills, stretching out like they were asking for recognition.

After hesitating, she muttered, “Would you accompany the dance with a tune? A proper sword dance requires a melody to be complete.”

Had the young master been in his right mind, he would have refused outright. Yet, in front of this faceless madman, it seemed alright to let go for a moment.

The young master gazed intently at her face and then, with a voice so smooth it might make even a pair of mandarin ducks turn away in forgetfulness, began to sing a song. What to call it? It was a voice capable of breaking down walls.