Paths of Discipline
1332 Words
The next day, Prince Young-Sik stood before Royal Physician Go.
The old man placed twelve bound texts before him—along with a small carved figure of the human body.
“You wish to learn how to wield the sword,” Physician Go said calmly. “Then you must first understand what allows you to hold it.”
Young-Sik listened carefully.
“The body is not merely flesh,” the physician continued. “It is structure, balance… and flow. Learn it, and you will strengthen more than muscle.”
Young-Sik nodded.
“Then… let us begin.”
He studied without pause.
Bones. Muscles. Tendons.
How they connected. How they moved.
How they failed.
If I had been stronger…
When the sun reached its peak, he did not eat.
Instead—he trained.
The sword rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
By the time he stood before Master Im later that day, his arms trembled—but his posture did not falter.
The scholar studied him briefly.
“Why do you wish to learn politics?”
Young-Sik paused.
Not because he lacked an answer—
but because he had too many.
Why politics…?
“To ensure,” he said slowly, “that the King is never alone in his decisions… so long as those decisions serve the people.”
Master Im’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“…I see.”
He unrolled a scroll.
“Politics is not virtue,” he said. “It is alignment.”
His finger tapped the parchment.
“You must convince others to stand where you stand… even if they do not share your reasons.”
Young-Sik lowered his gaze to the text.
“Read. Understand. Then defend your understanding.”
A week passed.
Then another.
Young-Sik adapted.
He studied the body—and trained accordingly.
Adjusted his stance.
Refined his breathing.
Strength followed knowledge.
By the seventh day—
he held the heavy sword for ten minutes with both hands.
Two minutes—
with one.
Far from the palace, in the shadow of Mount Yangge—
progress was… less consistent.
“Hong Jin-Ri!”
Madam So’s voice rang sharp.
Liquid spilled.
Again.
Jin-Ri stood frozen, cups slipping from their precarious balance.
“…Even I,” Madam So said slowly, “have limits to my patience.”
The other girls groaned.
Some glared.
Yeng crossed her arms, shaking her head.
Jin-Ri smiled weakly.
“What are you looking at?” she muttered.
Days turned into weeks.
Still—she lagged behind.
Not from lack of ability.
But from lack of care.
“She does not listen,” Madam So told the chief. “She slows the others.”
“Aigoo…” her mother groaned, pressing her palm to her forehead. “What am I to do with you?”
The chief said nothing.
Instead, he took Jin-Ri by the hand.
“Come.”
The infirmary was quiet.
Too quiet.
“Look,” he said.
Jin-Ri shook her head.
“…I said, look.”
He lifted her chin.
She saw them.
Villagers—weak, pale, unmoving.
Some barely breathing.
“…We cannot feed them properly,” the chief said. “Much less heal them.”
Jin-Ri’s vision blurred.
She remembered.
Yeng’s brother.
Gone the same way.
“Will you let this continue?” he asked.
Her hands clenched.
“Would you watch your family suffer the same fate?”
“No!” she cried. “I won’t!”
“Then understand this.”
His voice softened—but did not lose its weight.
“This village survives because of what we send out… and what returns.”
He gestured toward the people.
“This… is what happens when that chain breaks.”
He knelt before her.
“I built this place so no one would have to endure such loss again.”
His eyes met hers.
“Is that not worth effort?”
Jin-Ri said nothing.
But she did not look away.
She returned to training.
Silently.
Carefully.
This time—
she listened.
Every step.
Every motion.
Every breath.
Madam So watched in quiet surprise as the girl who once resisted now moved with precision.
Not perfect.
But deliberate.
From that day forward—
Jin-Ri did not fall behind.
Thirty days passed.
In the palace courtyard, Young-Sik stood before General Shin.
With one hand—
he lifted the sword.
Held it.
Steady.
The general’s brows lifted—just slightly.
“…Again.”
Young-Sik did.
No hesitation.
No struggle.
Only control.
The general exhaled quietly.
He was not meant to succeed.
“And yet…”
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“A monster in the making…”
Training advanced.
A wooden dummy was brought forth.
“There are nine angles of attack,” General Shin said, demonstrating each with clean, efficient movements.
“Today—we begin with one.”
He stepped back.
“Show me.”
Young-Sik raised his sword.
Brought it down—
—and lost control.
The blade slipped—
spinning dangerously before embedding itself in the ground.
A eunuch stumbled back in alarm.
“Grip,” the general said calmly. “Not strength.”
Young-Sik retrieved the sword.
Adjusted.
Breathed.
Struck again.
This time—
clean.
Controlled.
“Again.”
He repeated the motion.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Months passed.
The three teachers gathered one evening.
“To learn the blade may take him years,” General Shin said, pouring a drink. “To master it… a lifetime.”
“He learns faster than most grown men,” Physician Go added. “He understands the body—and uses that knowledge.”
Master Im remained quiet for a moment.
“…His mind concerns me.”
The other two glanced at him.
“He does not see the world in absolutes,” Im continued. “He believes light and darkness may be used together… if the outcome is just.”
Silence settled.
“That path…” the physician murmured, “…is dangerous.”
General Shin drank.
“…And necessary,” he said. “A beast can protect as well as destroy.”
He set his cup down.
“Our task is not to soften him.”
His gaze hardened.
“It is to ensure he does not lose his way.”
The three raised their cups.
“May he never step into darkness.”
Eight years passed.
Jin-Ri, now fifteen, had mastered her training.
Cooking. Etiquette. Protocol.
Grace—
when she chose to use it.
“Jin-Ri! Wake up! We’re going to be late!”
Yeng shook her.
“Aish…” Jin-Ri groaned, cracking one eye open. “Why would you wake me up…?”
“Because we are going to be late!”
“I already finished today’s task.”
Yeng blinked. “…What?”
“Easter egg hunt,” Jin-Ri muttered, pulling the blanket over her head. “Write your name on the egg and return it. I already did.”
“…How?”
Jin-Ri smirked beneath the blanket.
“You ask too many questions.”
Yeng leaned closer. “Where is it?”
“…Like I’d tell you,” Jin-Ri said lazily. “You’ll never hear me say the chief went to the third well last night.”
Yeng paused.
Then grinned.
“You’re the best.”
She ran.
Jin-Ri smirked.
“…Too easy.”
Within the palace grounds of Pyeongcheok—
Prince Young-Sik moved with precision.
His blade cut through the air in practiced arcs.
Each strike—
clean.
Controlled.
Measured.
General Shin approached.
“You have improved.”
Young-Sik bowed. “Master.”
The general placed something in his hands.
Young-Sik looked down.
“…This?”
“Think of your first lesson,” Shin said. “Weight builds strength.”
Young-Sik hesitated only briefly.
Then nodded.
He resumed his stance.
The motion slowed.
The effort increased.
But he did not stop.
Far from the village.
Far from the child he once was.
The boy who could barely lift a sword—
was gone.
In his place—
something sharper.
Something heavier.
Still forming.
- Writer
