A New Way of Life
As So-un began his period of secluded residence at the Jin estate, his daily life changed.
He rose at dawn and began the day with circulation practice.
He then carried out what he believed to be the original reason Lee Hui had left him here.
He conducted patrols alone.
Like a quiet walk, he moved swiftly or slowly through the inner and outer grounds of the estate, sweeping the surroundings in wide arcs.
The range of his search was extensive.
Most of the time he went on foot, but when necessary he mounted a horse and circled broadly.
He inspected the barricades, traps, and snares that had been set.
He compared their condition with that of the previous day.
He used the method he had once trained in—expanding his bodily energy outward to sense the currents around him.
He greeted the former White Dragon members who had stood night watch and spoke with them about the household's affairs.
When he rode out, he crossed beyond the estate boundary and galloped through the rolling hills of Henan, studying the terrain.
What he watched for most carefully was any change in the landscape from before.
So-un's memory had developed extraordinarily.
He could detect even a sickle left upon a rock.
Upon returning home, he told the person who had forgotten it exactly which field and which rock it had been on.
His awareness sharpened.
Changes in objects once unnoticed now imprinted themselves clearly in his mind.
At times he rode as far as Anyang County before returning.
After completing a circuit, he went to pay his respects to Great-Grandfather.
He served as the old man's companion until the rest of the family awoke and began to move about.
They conversed on many subjects and then shared breakfast.
The topics were usually tales from Great-Grandfather's youth.
There were stories of the beloved General Jin Mugwang as a child, the day Lady So-gun entered the family as a bride, the feast held when imperial rewards were bestowed, and even the younger son's obsessive zeal in teaching martial arts to his own child once the boy began to walk.
Each day So-un heard a little more of these endless stories.
Great-Grandfather cherished him even more than his own grandson.
What child could be more dear than one who came each morning to pay respects and listen?
So-un sat close and asked questions to stir the old man's memory.
At times the memories tangled—crediting the wrong uncle with defeating barbarians in the Great Gorge of Haran, or confusing who had married whom.
Yet the individual details remained remarkably accurate.
Afterward he joined a small group—no longer truly the White Dragon Corps—who gathered voluntarily to train.
He trained with them before beginning the rest of his day.
The training was the same as before.
Tiger Step and the mounted stance formed the foundation.
They practiced the Eight Brocades, recited the Chongram, and then took up their respective weapons to rehearse their forms.
So-un still found himself in the position of offering advice.
The group—whether it could still be called the White Dragon Corps—had advanced immensely from its beginnings, though they themselves did not realize it.
At some point they realized that holding the Tiger Step and the fixed mounted stance no longer felt difficult.
Yet they continued the old methods of practice.
So-un continued as well.
Though he had already entered a realm where perception had opened and energy gathered toward unity, he still repeated these exercises.
Was it diligence, naïve momentum, or simple fellowship with his comrades?
His days became tightly structured around contemplation and practice.
He remained within the small pavilion until midday.
He ate the simple meal Mirang brought him.
Often he skipped it, but the resourceful Mirang would rouse him to eat.
He would sit blankly, finish the food, and resume his afternoon practice.
Mirang watched from nearby, bringing needed items, washing clothes, cleaning, and carrying meals.
She worked quickly and well.
Her habit of talking incessantly did not change.
She continued to chatter about various things and even spoke outside about what occurred inside the pavilion.
Whenever she recalled So-gun's warning not to disturb him, she would change her seat or halt her words.
Over time, however, So-un found that her chatter created a small island of respite within his solitude.
Listening quietly to Mirang, the midday hours would pass unnoticed.
She was flawed by her talkativeness, yet she worked efficiently.
She kept the quarters spotless, tended even to the courtyard and pond.
Assigned entirely to So-un, she had little else to do, but her quick hands matched her quick tongue.
She finished most tasks while he was away.
When he began practice, the surroundings grew quiet.
She even spoke while working.
The pavilion stood slightly apart from the noise of the clan.
Within it he could dwell in deep stillness while faintly hearing the sounds of ordinary life.
He was neither cut off from the world nor buried within its bustle.
It was perhaps the most ideal environment.
The problem was Mirang's mouth.
Speaking of outside affairs within the pavilion posed no great issue.
But when she spoke outside about the repetitive life within, it inevitably turned to So-un's martial arts.
Unable to bring outside matters in, she began taking inside matters out.
So-gun did not forbid that.
Thus tales spread beyond the pavilion—that So-un flew through the sky, that lightning struck from his sword, that with a single stroke he split an entire tree's leaves in half.
Exaggeration amplified Mirang's words.
The people of the Jin estate knew her temperament and did not wholly believe her.
Yet they began to regard So-un differently.
After hearing her stories and then seeing his calm bearing, they sensed an aura that discouraged casual familiarity.
It was born from Mirang's talk.
Imagine a small boy stepping from a pavilion said to fly through the heavens.
They assumed perhaps he merely leapt high and she called it flight.
Thus even his strange conduct was attributed to her embellishment.
In the evening the household members returned from their work.
They spoke casually, helped with tasks, and ate together.
The next day's labor was decided then.
Without being ordered, So-un found tasks or accompanied others.
If told that a southern field had flooded, he went with his uncle to help.
If farm tools required repair at the county forge, he accompanied his younger uncle.
He sought roles for himself, believing this the path to forming good relationships.
He focused deeply on the concept of relationship.
He sought to understand that mutual generation and mutual opposition might be relative.
Fish at a fishmonger's stall are destined to die once sold—how then does one form a good relationship with the stall's owner?
There are unavoidable relationships, improvable relationships, and relationships that must be lived despite inevitability.
He came to grasp this.
He observed similarities between political negotiation and scheming, and the merchant's relentless pursuit of profit.
The merchant stops once profit is achieved.
Politics pursues power itself without end.
Yet the patterns of relationship resemble one another.
After supper he resumed circulation and breathing exercises.
He focused on the natural energy of the earth at the hour when it quietly awakens.
He meditated at dawn and dusk.
Except for morning, late afternoon, and evening intervals, nearly all his time was devoted to cultivation.
At times he visited So-gun's quarters to indulge in childish affection or light conversation.
Yet the talk soon deepened and returned him to practice.
So-gun sought guidance not from martial instruction but from the enlightenment of the Zen school and Daoist scriptures.
At times she offered a saying of the Supreme Elder Lord.
At times she posed a Buddhist kōan.
Whether intended or not, So-un would fall into contemplation.
It became a catalyst for deeper immersion.
So-gun herself was born of a martial house, yet had long set it aside after marriage.
So-un's attainment already stood beyond hers.
She could not presume to guide him directly.
What she could offer were questions—bundles of thought to provoke reflection.
So-un sank ever deeper.
When absorbed in thought, he forgot the passage of time.
Leading him back to the pavilion became a task in itself.
Not infrequently Mirang had to guide him like a fool.
Spring arrived.
Flowers bloomed and the air grew warm.
The Jin estate secured for So-un the time he needed.
It was a place where his strange conduct drew no alarm.
A space where he could sink into stillness and reflection without restraint.
Time flowed quietly on.
Lacking a master may seem a difficulty.
Yet who could teach what lies beyond Hwagyeong?
When martial attainment rises beyond a certain point, there is no teacher left to instruct.
That place is called the Untraveled Realm—No-Man's Land—because few have gone before.
So-un was moving somewhere along that boundary.