Chapter 22

Chapter 22
## Chapter 22

### Egg Precision Training

—

A vivid crimson welt remained slashed across her cheek as Han Sang-ah spat a mixture of crimson and spit onto the dirt, her eyes burning with a glare directed at me.

“Ugh.”

“The goal isn’t for you to successfully parry the strike.”

Observe the movement, listen to the rhythm, and sense it through your pores. If you can achieve that—even if the block fails—I will pull the strike short. However, if you react purely on reflex and lift your blade like you just did, that is precisely when I follow through.

Han Sang-ah’s condition was deteriorating rapidly after enduring dozens of impacts. The sight was so grim that several Coast Guard personnel approached with hesitation, questioning the nature of our “training.”

“I… understand.”

“Then demonstrate it, you brat. Stop talking about understanding and actually do it.”

The darkness of the night grew heavier. Han Sang-ah was struck dozens of times more following that exchange, but eventually, she managed a streak of twenty clean blocks, even managing to transition into a counter-maneuver.

“A full day of rest will see those bruises faded anyway.”

That was the exact level of force I was applying to her.

“Good grief, is your face covered in thick makeup or something?”

The perspiration on her skin had evaporated into a crust of white salt. On her arms and legs, the crimson lines left by my spear looked identical to the marks from a brutal canning.

I hoisted a bucket of water I had kept ready and emptied it over her.

“Gah… haa.”

Drenched and shivering, Han Sang-ah collapsed on the spot. She went through her eighth fit of dry heaving since we began the session, eventually burying her face in the bile-stained ground as she lost consciousness.

“Hoo, haa.”

She hadn’t completely blacked out, at least. She began circulating her mana internally to purge the exhaustion as fast as she could. I snatched up a thick blanket, wrapped her up tightly like a kimbap roll, carried her back to the hotel suite, and laid her down.

“Excellent effort. Get some sleep, then make sure to hydrate and eat before passing out properly.”

I placed a tray of water and sustenance by her bed and exited the room.

“I’m exhausted.”

Staying awake for several nights to push her through these drills had taken a toll on my own stamina. My mental state was fine—I had endured sleep deprivation many times before—but my muscles were screaming.

Following Han Sang-ah’s example, I ate, cleaned myself up, slept, and rose with the sun.

“Alright, then.”

Peering through the window, I spotted Han Sang-ah already in the courtyard, repeating her sword forms. She was resilient, I’ll give her that.

“She certainly seems to have developed a profound hatred for Club Sandai.”

I let out a wide yawn while watching her, then made my way down to the training ground.

“Yoo Chan-seok.”

Instead of a verbal greeting, I lunged with my spear. Han Sang-ah immediately brought her sword up to intercept the point.

“Nice. It seems you’ve finally grasped the concept.”

“If my concentration slips for even a second, it all falls apart.”

“That’s only natural.”

Did she really think the connection between mind and body was that simple to rewrite?

“Have you ever encountered these specific terms?”

“Which ones?”

I rhythmically tapped the shaft of my spear against my palm.

“Phrases like ‘Plucking One Flower to Connect Wood,’ ‘Four Taels to Move a Thousand Catties,’ or ‘Superior Skill Subdues Strength’.”

“Yes. I’m familiar with those high-level realms.”

I scowled at her response.

“Realms? No, those are just mechanical tricks. You don’t need some spiritual breakthrough or grand enlightenment to perform them.”

If you’re looking for enlightenment, go read a philosophy book or sit in a temple. Why would you subject yourself to a physical beating for that?

Han Sang-ah looked stunned by my blunt dismissal of the concepts.

“Just tricks?”

“Think about why traditional martial artists get demolished by professional combat sports fighters.”

The fighters spend their time drilling scientifically proven methods and monitoring nutrition, while the traditionalists spend their days stabbing sand or hitting their stomachs with wooden dowels.

In the old days, perhaps they lacked proper equipment, but in the modern era, there’s no excuse for that kind of pointless self-flagellation.

“If these ‘realms’ you’re talking about were actually mystical levels of power, then someone with my meager mana capacity shouldn’t be able to replicate them, right?”

I finished my thought and drove the spear forward. Han Sang-ah blocked it as if she had been anticipating the move, using her sight, hearing, and physical intuition to track the weapon.

As the steel of the sword met the wood of the spear, I subtly shifted my hand placement. Her blade seemed to glue itself to my spear, caught in the momentum of my movement, until—with a sharp gust of air—the sword was ripped from her grasp and sent flying.

“And then they give it these flowery, arrogant names. ‘Plucking One Flower to Connect Wood.’ What a joke.”

It’s cringeworthy. It’s nothing more than calculating the length of the weapon, sensing the shifting centers of gravity, and applying the correct vector of force while managing your mana output.

“…”

“It’s a circus performance with a fancy title. If you possess enough skill to pull that off on a live opponent, you could have just ended the fight much faster through conventional means.”

I gave the spear a quick, decorative spin before continuing.

“It’s all about vanity. It’s a performance meant to elicit gasps from a crowd.”

It is the byproduct of narcissists who crave the admiration of others.

“Stop worshipping that nonsense. Just train hard every single day. True skill isn’t a sudden flash of inspiration that strikes like a bolt from the blue.”

I sat down in a cross-legged position, mocking the posture of a meditating monk.

“Humans don’t just shed their old selves and emerge as something new overnight. What are we, insects?”

Han Sang-ah finally spoke.

“There were moments during our duels when my consciousness just… went blank.”

“I noticed. That’s why I hit you—to bring you back to reality.”

“Oh.” A look of realization dawned on her.

“I honestly believed that was some kind of flow state.”

“A weightlifter’s greatest fear is losing their mental grip in the middle of a heavy lift. That ‘flow state’ you’re talking about is no different.”

If you keep chasing that feeling, you’re asking for a career-ending injury. Allowing your body to move on autopilot because you’re too tired to think—what is there to be proud of in that?

“I assumed you were trying to force me into that state.”

“Why on earth would I do that? If your body is the vehicle, your mind is the person behind the wheel.”

No driving instructor teaches you how to drive while falling asleep. That’s how you get your license revoked permanently.

“There are plenty of people out there much more powerful than I am currently. If you think my perspective is garbage, feel free to disregard it.”

I generally don’t hold high expectations for others. Han Sang-ah replied.

“I met stronger people at the Academy. But none of them ever made me feel like I was incapable of catching up.”

“Except for me?”

“Yes, except you. There has to be a legitimate reason why I feel that way.”

That was her self-assurance talking. She knew she possessed a rare level of talent.

It wasn’t a flaw. One step further and it would be hubris, but she wasn’t there yet. I reached into my pocket and produced an egg.

“What is that for?”

I placed the egg on a flat surface and made a series of lightning-fast stabs with a pair of chopsticks. The tips punctured the shell five times in rapid succession without causing the yolk inside to rupture.

“Go ahead and finish peeling it.”

She looked at me skeptically, then cracked the shell. After inspecting the contents, she looked back at me, utterly bewildered.

“It’s a simple drill. Stop the momentum the very instant the tip of your tool makes contact with the yolk.”

That way, it remains intact. Her expression shifted into something unreadable at my instructions.

“Most people lean too heavily on what they see and hear. Your sense of touch is just as vital.”

Every vibration of impact is transmitted through your tool or weapon directly to your hands.

“I’m not expecting you to get it right immediately. Spend an hour every day practicing this. Your family has plenty of money—breaking a few eggs won’t bankrupt you.”

She looked back and forth between the broken egg and me, then gave a firm nod.

“I understand.”

“Using your intuition is fine at the start.”

Intuition isn’t a bad thing. It’s the sum of your past experiences guiding your body without conscious thought.

“But once you can successfully do it ten times in a row using just your ‘feel,’ stop relying on it.”

At that point, the experience of breaking thousands of eggs will have settled into your subconscious. That is when you must pull the action back under your total, conscious command.

“Understood. And what happens if I master that?”

“Then you move on to doing it with a blade.”

She let out a weary sigh.

“I will attempt it.”

“Trying doesn’t count for anything—only results do. If you’re content with being killed by Club Sandai while whispering to yourself that you ‘did your best,’ I won’t get in your way.”

She glared at me again, then began stabbing at an egg with a terrifying level of concentration.

For several days following that, our entire diet consisted of various egg dishes. With the Coast Guard assisting in the logistics of the island, we had a never-ending supply of eggs.

We had hard-boiled eggs, steamed custard eggs, rolled omelets, egg-heavy fried rice, scrambled eggs, and even egg-based porridges…

People who live in the gym love eggs, don’t they? I usually discarded two or three yolks per meal but made sure to consume every bit of the whites.

We weren’t just focusing on eggs while the rescued men were recovering. We engaged in massive physical workouts followed by a literal flood of egg protein into our systems.

The massive amount of yolks fueling my metabolism resulted in a significant surge in my physical development.

“Don’t you ever get tired of the taste?”

The sulfuric, fishy aroma was becoming nauseating. Han Sang-ah was currently working through a plate of scrambled eggs as she replied.

“I view it as buying fuel. Sometimes I genuinely wish I was a machine.”

“What?”

She finished the last bite on her plate.

“A car doesn’t have to worry about the flavor of its gasoline. It just needs the energy.”

She was clearly someone who found the act of eating to be a chore. What a depressing way to exist. Suddenly, a member of the Coast Guard came sprinting toward us.

“Hunters! The medical team says one of the survivors has finally stabilized.”

That was excellent news—at last, someone was healthy enough to provide information.

A long recovery period? It was expected. When you consider their wrists and ankles were worn down to the bone and their bodies were skeletal from lack of nourishment…

The fact that they survived at all was a miracle.

“Is the survivor able to speak clearly?”

The officer nodded quickly.

“Yes, just one for now. She was the most recent capture, so she’s the least injured.”

That meant she had likely been taken most recently. Han Sang-ah and I took a moment to steady ourselves outside the infirmary before stepping inside.

“Hello there.”

“Oh, um…”

The survivor was a young woman. She looked ghostly pale and so frail she might shatter at a touch—which made sense given she had only just woken up.

“We were told you’re from Seoul. How did you end up in this situation…?”

She bit her lip, her expression pained.

“Ji-seok… he really loved the idea of sea fishing.”

That short sentence told the whole story. She had gone out on a boat with her boyfriend for a fishing trip and they had been intercepted.

It wasn’t just a trip between friends—who would travel all the way from the capital for a private boat trip with just a casual acquaintance?

“Fishing on the open sea is strictly prohibited these days. You’re lucky the Coast Guard didn’t find you first.”

She flinched and gave a small, tearful nod.

“Y-yeah. I suppose we are being punished for breaking the rules.”

In her weakened state, she began to sob quietly.

“I don’t believe that’s the case. There is a concept known as small-sample error, which is effectively the inverse of the law of large numbers…”

Han Sang-ah attempted to provide some comfort. As expected, explaining statistical fallacies didn’t seem to be doing much for the woman’s emotional state. I clapped my hands once to get their attention.

“Let’s stay focused. We need to prevent anyone else from falling into this trap. We need your help to understand what happened.”