- Dongseo Gogeum Muye Chongram (東西古今武藝總覽)
The name of the martial manual was strange.
It was not called Taijiquan, Yang Family Spear, or some fearsome-sounding fist technique.
There was no “Blood (血),” no “Break (破),” no grand “Heaven (天)” character in it at all.
Even giving it a grandiose title might have seemed like fraud—yet this one called itself a “Comprehensive Compendium.”
Taken literally, it claimed to encompass all martial arts of East and West, past and present…
But how could a small booklet possibly contain the countless martial systems of different ages?
It sounded like an overblown title meant to make people laugh.
Yet this had been handed over with solemn gravity by Great General Jin Mugwang.
Lee Hui could not laugh.
He lowered his head, concealed his expression, and received it respectfully.
Back in his tent, seated comfortably, Lee Hui opened the book.
The moment he turned the first page, he realized it was something like an encyclopedia—summarizing the essential points of each school and extracting their strengths.
“As expected.”
He flipped through a few pages and could not help a quiet laugh rising from his chest.
One could not train from this alone.
It would help someone already versed in the art, but since it did not present the full system, it would be difficult to master anything from it by itself.
Yet every single term summarizing the essentials bore the clear mark of careful deliberation.
“What an interesting Great General.”
The characteristics, essential points, and training methods of various martial arts were written concisely.
If there were ever a book suited to the phrase “cutting away all excess,” it would be this one.
“Compendium” was almost too grand; “Essentials (要結)” might have suited it better.
And true to its name, it contained a vast number of martial systems.
Even the art Lee Hui himself had trained in for years appeared summarized midway through.
Though not thick, it used thin paper and was packed with content.
There was so much that one might doubt whether the author truly knew all these arts.
The foundations of all martial disciplines passed down in the imperial archives were precisely recorded.
It still felt thin, like merely skimming the surface of a watermelon.
But “essentials” meant compressed summary, not that anything important had been carelessly omitted.
As Lee Hui skimmed quickly, he suddenly felt a strange dizziness.
It was a sensation he had never felt before in study—time seemed to halt, and an odd force surged upward.
It felt as though the characters were leaping from the page.
The martial art Lee Hui had memorized and recited countless times had been taught to him by General Yang Dalseong, his direct superior during the Yunnan campaign.
General Yang, from the imperial court, had volunteered for the southern expedition.
For reasons unknown, he had summoned the young Lee Hui every night to instruct him in martial arts—but never told him the name of the art.
As a boy, Lee Hui spent months each night meditating, sensing qi, circulating it (運氣).
It took over a dozen months, but he eventually succeeded.
Though not many, he became one of the few experts who could handle internal energy within that imperial art.
His family’s martial foundation made it possible, but to complete it in so short a time meant Lee Hui himself was no ordinary man.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Most trained for decades without even sensing qi.
And here—on these pages—was that very art’s inner essence summarized more simply than he had ever seen.
His eyes widened.
For a fleeting moment he wondered if those months might have been unnecessary had he possessed this.
Clear, concise essentials were recorded here.
He could not tear his gaze away from the few words that pinpointed the core.
The value of the book rose sharply.
The brief notes on Yang Family Spear merely described the typical balance of emptiness and solidity one feels while practicing it.
But if equal care had been taken throughout, this thin compendium could become an absolute guide to rapidly maximizing one’s martial ability.
“Add the strength of the lower dantian to the spear’s motion…
When turning to sweep, release the force and let it turn.”
How could martial arts be built on the recitation of formulas?
A great school does not simply guard secret phrases.
It builds a unique system of sensing qi and cultivating it.
Not merely books, but training methods, environment, teachers, and tradition are essential.
A secret manual alone cannot make a superior master of a famed orthodox sect.
It may help, but it cannot be absolute.
A book is only a book.
Closer to practice (習) than to scholarship (學).
At the phrase “release force and let it turn,” he felt an odd agreement.
Most people apply strength to turn, making the motion slow and easily avoided.
To turn faster by releasing force—this was no hastily assembled summary.
He remembered how long it had taken him to sense qi.
That was not something another could teach through a few lines of instruction.
Unless a senior brother shared experience directly—“Try it this way”—
or a master guided one indirectly through mountain ascents and subtle insights,
qi-sense (氣感) was not easily learned.
Seen that way, this book gathered the very core of such inner truths.
Depending on the learner, it could yield tremendous results.
Within the compendium were core insights Lee Hui should have known more than a decade ago.
奥意 (deep inner meaning)…
Knowing it might have shortened time, yet to realize it bodily required relentless training and countless trials.
He had advanced quickly only because he had come close to real combat.
Once one grasped the inner meaning and trained sufficiently, an ordinary soldier—or a third-rate martial artist—might be led to the threshold of first-rate or higher arts.
In truth, this book was closer to a Martial Canon than a mere compendium.
A well-organized Martial Canon.
It might prove immensely useful.
At the end, in small script, was the compiler’s name.
Mugeoja (默語子)
Lee Hui tilted his head.
It was unfamiliar, a peculiar name.
“The One Who Speaks in Silence”?
Or perhaps “The One of Black Words”?
A speaker of hidden language?
The language of silence?
There should have been an official title—Keeper of the Archive, perhaps—but it simply read “Mugeoja.”
It diminished the book’s credibility.
It seemed merely a pseudonym to conceal identity.
The oil lamp, fueled by animal fat, flickered in the wind.
Reflexively he looked toward the door.
When flame wavered, someone had opened it.
Lee Hui’s tent was not large.
A small bed, chairs for council meetings, and a single central table—nothing more.
Roughly assembled wood made up the table, hardly worthy of the name, yet compared to other expedition equipment, it was relatively fine.
Strategist Geum entered, clearing his throat.
“May I come in?”
“Yes, please.”
“What brings you here so late?”
Though a civil official attached to the army, Strategist Geum handled the paperwork.
The Great General disliked writing formal reports and had Geum draft them in his stead.
Geum had the peculiar talent of mimicking handwriting—
he could imitate the Great General’s script almost perfectly.
Talent both elevated and exhausted a man.
Thus Geum handled most documents.
“Will you have tea?”
“At this hour…?”
He declined politely, but not unwillingly.
Tea in the center of a military camp was no small luxury.
And this tea was of high quality.
Lee Hui, being of noble birth, received additional supplies from home beyond standard provisions—
fine weapons, premium tea, and more.
He possessed the finest horse and lived more lavishly than common soldiers.
He ordered hot water and tea ware prepared.
The black sandalwood tray with white porcelain cups looked refined in the lamplight.
Strategist Geum accepted the tea with both hands, humbled.
“The Great General said there would be work if I came…”
“From the Great General?”
He was being seen through.
The General must have anticipated that Lee Hui would wish to copy the book and sent Geum accordingly.
Lee Hui smiled faintly and handed over the book.
“I do not know its origin, but it seems precious.
I need multiple copies.
It is for training the boys, but I received the original from the Great General, so I cannot tear it apart for sections.
Please make ten copies.
And bind them separately so they can be divided by section.”
“What sort of book is it?”
Geum turned it upright and smiled at the title.
Lee Hui forced seriousness.
“It is very important.
It must not leak elsewhere.”
The explanation tangled.
“Imperial archive” carried weight—even if such a place technically did not exist.
Lee Hui produced a bundle of dried tea leaves wrapped in cloth.
“And this is Yu Lou Chun. From my family. Harvested in spring, stored, sent in autumn. A token of sincerity.”
Yu Lou Chun—rare tea, worth its weight in gold.
“There’s no need for this… the Great General already ordered…”
“I ask it of you.”
“When is the deadline?”
“Not long.
Full-scale battle is near.
Before then.”
“Leave it to me.”
After Geum departed, Lee Hui summoned Gagyeongpil, commander of the First Company.
“I’ve entrusted a martial manual to Strategist Geum for copying.
From this moment, monitor his tent.
Record all who enter and leave.
Track and recover any books that come out.”
“Yes, General.”
Gagyeongpil asked no further questions.
Lee Hui trusted no one fully.
A scribe could easily produce an extra copy.
Such leaks of rare manuals had caused problems before.
“Compendium…”
Lee Hui pondered the General’s intent.
Why give it now, on the eve of a great battle?
It would not help in this war—but perhaps in the next.
If the General assumed victory and return, then this book had a future purpose.
One axis of martial power was the martial world.
The other was the army.
The General gave it because it was needed now.
If not for this battle, then for the one after.
Was it perhaps for the boy?
Too much thinking could ruin things.
Lee Hui shook his head sharply, clearing stray thoughts.
Excess thought was dangerous—
especially on a battlefield.