The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 105 – Training Attempt (Part Two)

 The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 105 – Training Attempt (Part Two)

Dawn.

Jinhwa opened his eyes. Outside the window, darkness lingered. But the far edge of the sky was turning pale. He sat up. His shoulders ached. Yesterday's water jar had done that. He kneaded them with his hand. It helped a little.

He climbed off the bed. He dressed. He opened the door. He stepped into the yard. Cold air filled his lungs. His nose stung. Somewhere a bird cried — short and high. He looked up. Faint stars still clung to the sky. The sun would rise soon.

He tapped the ground with his toes. Frost had fallen. Grass blades were frozen white. He swung his arms. He bent his waist. He loosened his body. His muscles woke.

He began to run.

One lap. Each time his sole struck cold earth, a dull thud sounded. Two laps. Arms swinging, legs pumping, he circled the yard. Three laps. His breath grew rough.

Around the sixth lap, his body loosened. The ache in his shoulders vanished. Seven. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Eight — his heart quickened. It drummed inside his ribs.

Past ten, his breath rose to his throat. His thighs burned. Eleven. Sweat traced his brow and pooled near his eyes. He wiped it with the back of his hand. Salt touched his lips. Twelve. His legs grew heavy — but he did not stop.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

He stopped.

He went to the well, panting. He lowered the bucket. The rope bit his palm. He drew water and poured it over his head. Cold water ran down his nape. Steam rose from his heated body. His eyes snapped wide open.

A week had passed like this.

On the first day, ten laps had pushed breath to his throat. His legs had trembled. By the third day — eleven laps. By the fifth — twelve. Now he could endure fifteen. It was hard — but he no longer felt like collapsing.

He lifted the water jar. Both hands gripped it. He raised it slowly. His shoulders tensed. His forearm muscles pulled. Water sloshed. One drop leapt onto his hand. Cold.

He crossed the yard. One. Two. Three. He planted each sole and held his balance. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. His shoulders grew stiff. Forty. His arms began to tremble. He clenched his teeth. Fifty steps.

He set it down.

Twenty steps more than the first day. He shook his arms out. They did not tremble.

Jinhwa smiled.

"I've changed."

He murmured and looked up at the sky. The sun was just rising. Red light stained the horizon.

Back room — after the run.

For the first time since the Hwasan Sect, he was truly training. At the Sect, he could only watch. Senior brothers swung swords and circulated energy. Without water meridians, he had mimicked them — but it was never complete. Something always felt missing. After leaving the mountain, he had still done basic conditioning — horse stances now and then. He told himself he should at least build his body. But deeper down, he had probably wanted distance from martial arts.

Now it was different. He had purpose. Running was training. The manual said so. Run. Jump. Lift. Throw. The body itself is the art. Carrying the water jar was training. Each geun of muscle added holds one more fistful of fire energy.

For the first time in twenty-three years, he was doing something he could call training. He felt nothing — no fire energy, no internal power. But that did not matter. The simple fact that he could call it training — that alone warmed his chest.

He crossed the yard into the back room. He sat on the bed. He closed his eyes. He gathered awareness at the Yongcheon point.

He counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. He focused only on his sole. Left foot — Yongcheon point. The hollow beneath the toes. Four. Five. Six. Inhale. Exhale. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

His shoulders stiffened. He adjusted his posture. He straightened his back. He focused again.

Eleven. Twelve. Stray thoughts crept in. Today's stock to sell. Rope inventory was low. He shook his head. Yongcheon. He refocused. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

He imagined a warm ember. A faint warmth will sprout. That is the beginning of fire energy. He recalled the manual's words. He poured every nerve into his sole.

Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

Time passed. The lantern oil shrank a finger-width.

He opened his eyes.

Still cold. No fire energy. He touched his sole. Ordinary skin. No warmth.

He spread his palm open. An ordinary hand. No sense of energy flowing — not like a martial artist's.

"My body is improving, but…"

Jinhwa murmured.

"Is this martial arts?"

No answer came.

Morning — the shop.

The sun had risen.

Jinhwa left the back room. He walked to the shop. He opened the door. Morning sunlight poured in. Dust sparkled in the light.

He picked up the broom. He swept the floor. The dry smell of dust brushed his nose. He wiped the display shelf with a cloth. He filled the gaps left by yesterday's sales. Rope. Straw sandals. Lamp oil. Wound salve. He placed each item in its spot.

An ordinary morning.

He sat at the counter. He opened his notebook. A full week of training records filled one page.

Day One. Running — ten laps. Water jar — thirty steps. Yongcheon focus — 30 minutes. No change.

Day Two. Running — ten laps. Water jar — thirty-two steps. Yongcheon focus — 30 minutes. No change.

Similar lines followed. But from the third day, the numbers began to shift.

Day Seven. Running — fifteen laps. Water jar — fifty steps. Yongcheon focus — 40 minutes. No change.

No change.

He stared at those two words. The Yongcheon point still felt like nothing. No fire energy. No internal power.

But the numbers had grown. Laps run. Steps carried. His body was clearly changing.

Is this… the path to martial arts?

Footsteps interrupted his thought. He looked up. The farmer couple was entering.

"Shopkeeper!"

The farmer and his wife wore bright smiles. Jinhwa greeted them.

"Welcome."

He rose from his seat.

"We need rope again."

He brought out the rope. The husband gripped it and pulled. The twist was tight. He nodded. The wife tugged her husband's sleeve.

"Dear — look at those. Straw sandals."

The husband picked up a pair. He pressed the sole.

"Sturdy."

"Take them if you need them."

The wife looked at Jinhwa and spoke.

"Shopkeeper, you look well these days."

"Pardon?"

"Your complexion has brightened. Compared to last time."

Jinhwa was caught off guard. He rarely looked in a mirror.

"Oh — is that so?"

"It is. You have good color. Has something good happened?"

"I started… exercising a little."

The husband laughed.

"That's a fine thing. The body is your fortune. Especially for people like us. Build it while you're young — you'll suffer less later."

He took payment for the rope and sandals. The couple gathered their goods and headed for the door. Stepping outside, the wife looked back.

"We'll come again!"

Jinhwa watched them leave. They walked side by side. The husband carried the heavy load. The wife spoke to him from beside. An ordinary sight.

She said my complexion improved?

He touched his face. He could not tell the difference — but it felt good. The corners of his mouth lifted.

Afternoon — the counter.

Jinhwa sat at the counter. The sun stood high. It was warm. The door was wide open — but little breeze came through.

Footsteps. The herb-gathering elder entered. A carrying frame strapped to his back. A bent spine. A lined face. But his eyes were clear. He set the frame down.

"Shopkeeper — I'm here to deliver."

"Welcome."

Jinhwa rose and approached. He unwrapped the herb bundle from the frame. Hemostatic grass. Detox root. Licorice root. The smell of dried herbs pricked his nose.

The elder looked at Jinhwa and smiled. A gentle warmth spread across his wrinkled face.

"Shopkeeper — I saw you running at dawn."

Jinhwa was startled.

"You saw me?"

"I go to the mountain at dawn too. Herbs are best picked at early morning. Dew-soaked herbs have stronger potency."

"Ah…"

"I saw you circling the yard. Working hard."

His face grew hot. He had thought the training was private. Someone had been watching.

The elder watched Jinhwa's hands sorting herbs.

"Keep at it. Consistency beats everything."

"Pardon?"

"A day or two — anyone can manage. But a week. A month. A year. Few do that. Most quit in the middle."

Jinhwa looked at the elder's hands. Thick calluses covered them. Hands that had gathered herbs for decades. The knuckles were broad and rough.

"I started going to the mountain when I was young. Over fifty years now. Not a single day missed. Rain or snow. And so it came to this."

He handed over the herb payment. The elder tucked the coins at his waist.

"You do the same, shopkeeper. Consistently."

"Thank you."

He saw the elder off. The bent back vanished beyond the door.

Jinhwa sorted the herbs. He held a fistful of hemostatic grass. It smelled of dried leaves. It crinkled in his palm.

One year.

The elder's words echoed. The manual had said the same. One year until the first ember.

Only one week had passed. Much time remained.

It was far off. But the elder had done fifty years.

A quiet afternoon.

Jinhwa rose from his seat. He walked to the back room. He stood before the small mirror on the wall. A general store still needed a mirror — he dealt with customers. But he rarely used it. He wiped the dust with his sleeve.

He looked at himself.

A face he had lived with for twenty-eight years. Familiar — yet today it looked different.

The farmer's wife had been right. His complexion had changed. Better color than a week ago. Life had returned to his eyes. His skin looked healthier.

He removed his shirt.

His upper body appeared in the mirror. He studied himself slowly.

There was change.

He rolled his shoulders. The lines were different. He touched them. Firm. A week ago, they had not been. At Pungnyu-gak his frame had been large — but that had been soft weight. Now it was different. Muscle was forming.

He looked at his forearms. From carrying the water jar daily — the biceps had sharpened. He flexed. Muscle swelled.

He touched his belly. The slight paunch had flattened. Not quite defined — but level.

His mouth curved upward. A laugh escaped. He tried to stop it. He could not.

"I've definitely… changed."

He murmured.

Years of basic conditioning had primed his body. The change came fast. Sleeping muscles were waking. The body he had neglected since Pungnyu-gak's collapse — it was coming back to life.

But.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The smile faded.

Martial artists were not like this. He recalled the swordsman who had bought wound salve the previous night. That man's body was different. Not because of muscle — a different energy flowed through him. A pressure felt simply by standing near him. That was a martial artist.

Jinhwa's body was merely getting fitter.

"Is this… martial arts?"

The mirror gave no answer.

He put his shirt back on. He straightened it. The fabric sat differently now. The shoulders were tighter. The sleeves pulled snug against his forearms.

He left the back room. He returned to the shop.

Near evening.

Jinhwa sat at the counter. The sun was beginning to tilt. Light through the window turned red.

The door opened. A young woman entered. Early thirties, perhaps. Dressed like a merchant's wife. Neat clothes. Tidy hair. She looked around and asked.

"Excuse me — do you have needles?"

"Yes, right here."

He set out needles and thread. She browsed the items — and glanced at Jinhwa. Then she smiled and asked.

"Shopkeeper — are you unmarried?"

Jinhwa froze.

"…Pardon?"

"Oh — forgive me if that was rude. It's just… you're tall. And well-built."

His face burned. No one had said such a thing since the Pungnyu-gak days.

"Ah — yes… I'm unmarried."

"Is that so? Shall I introduce someone? A man like you — many young ladies would be pleased."

"No — that's quite all right."

He waved his hands. She paid, smiling.

"Still — think about it. Business matters, but a home does too."

"…Thank you."

She left.

Jinhwa sat at the counter. He touched his face. Still hot.

Asking if I'm unmarried…

At Pungnyu-gak, he had heard such things often. Tall and well-built — he had drawn women's eyes. But after the collapse, no one had said it. Since opening the general store, he had focused only on work.

Yet today the farmer couple had noticed his complexion. And this woman had offered a match.

"Has my body… really improved that much?"

He opened the notebook. He reviewed the week's records. The numbers had risen. Laps. Steps. Breathing time. And people had noticed.

But the Yongcheon point was still cold.

Evening — the shop.

Jinhwa surveyed the shop. The sun had fully tilted. The sky blushed red — then darkness began to fall. He lit the lantern. Its glow touched the display shelves.

The door opened. The caravan leader entered. A familiar face. Mid-forties. Modest clothes. Few words. His eyes were sharp — but not cold.

"Lamp oil and rations, please."

He set out two bottles of lamp oil and dried jerky. The caravan leader checked the goods.

"I'm heading east next week. Do you know the road conditions?"

A conversation from a few days ago surfaced. The young swordsman had mentioned it while buying wound salve.

"A customer told me recently. New bandits have settled past the eastern ridge. You should be careful."

The caravan leader's eyes widened. He bowed his head.

"Thank you. You have sharp ears, shopkeeper. Information like this can save a life."

"I simply hear what customers say in passing."

"Still — remembering it and passing it on is a different matter. Thank you."

He paid and left. The door closed.

Jinhwa sat at the counter. He recorded the payment in the ledger. Today's sales — 2 nyang 3 jeon. Not bad.

He looked around the shop. Displayed goods. Tidy shelves. The familiar scene lit by lantern glow. He liked this space. The smell of dried herbs mingled with oil. The scent of a general store.

At Pungnyu-gak, he had not known this. A grand house. Dazzling performances. Money pouring in. Those were all he had wanted. Small things had been invisible.

Now it was different. A small shop. Regular customers. Honest trade. These were his place.

And between tasks — he trained. He ran at dawn. He carried the jar by day. He breathed at night.

Both mattered to him.

Deep night — the counter.

Jinhwa sat at the counter. Customers came and went in trickles. A traveler buying lamp oil. A youth seeking wound salve. When no one came, the shop was quiet. Only insect song drifted in from outside.

The door opened.

A man with a sword entered. Early thirties. A martial artist. His gait was different. Almost no sound. His feet barely seemed to touch the floor.

"Do you have wound salve?"

His voice was low and steady.

"Yes, I do."

He set out the salve. The man paid — and glanced at the counter. The notebook lay open. Training records were visible.

"Do you train?"

"…Yes."

"Running. Water jar…"

The man scanned the records. He nodded.

"Basic conditioning. A fine thing. Martial arts begin with the body — not with flashy techniques. A solid foundation holds anything built upon it."

"Thank you."

The man tucked the salve inside his robe. He turned. He opened the door and left. The door closed.

Jinhwa stared after him. The man's silhouette dissolved into darkness. His steps were light. Like wind. He melted into the night without a sound.

Jinhwa leaned against the doorframe. That stride. He looked down at his own feet. Ordinary feet. When they met the ground — they made sound.

He had run for a week. A little faster now. But nothing like that.

"As I thought… it's different."

He exhaled. Comparing was pointless. He would walk his own path.

He returned inside the shop.

Late night — the counter.

He sat at the counter. He closed his eyes.

He gathered awareness at the Yongcheon point. He steadied his breath. He focused on his sole. Inhale. Exhale.

Insect song drifted in from outside. It was rhythmic. He matched his breathing to it. Inhale. Exhale.

Time passed. The lantern shrank by degrees.

He opened his eyes.

Still no warmth. His sole was cold. No fire energy.

He looked at the lantern. The flame flickered. A small ember burned the wick. Yellow light brightened the space around it.

"Is it… that hot?"

Fire energy. He did not understand it.

He took out the manual. He spread the old pages. One year until the first ember. His finger stopped on that line.

Only one week had passed. Fifty-one weeks remained. And after the first ember appeared — he still had to train until thirty-eight. He was twenty-eight now. Ten years left.

"…Far."

Far. No end in sight.

And yet — something was strange. He should have felt despair. He did not.

He opened the notebook. He lifted his brush. He began writing today's record.

Day Eight. Running — fifteen laps. Water jar — fifty steps. Yongcheon focus — 40 minutes. No change.

He paused. The brush tip hovered over the paper. A drop of ink spread slightly.

He continued.

But my body feels light. Customers noticed. Tomorrow, I continue.

He set down the brush.

Through the window — the moon. A near-full moon shone brightly. Silver light spilled into the shop.

Could I become like a martial artist? Could I walk as lightly as that swordsman?

He did not know. But this was all he could do right now. Run. Lift. Breathe. A little more each day.

He closed the notebook and stood.

The back room — bed.

He went to the back room. He lay on the bed.

He stared at the ceiling. Moonlight entered through the window. It cast a pale rectangle on the ceiling. Soft and still.

Twenty-eight was ending. Soon he would turn twenty-nine.

The Hwasan Sect. The clothing shop. Pungnyu-gak. There had been failures and successes. Now he ran a general store. And he had found a martial arts manual.

He raised his hand. In the moonlight, he studied his palm. Calluses had formed. From carrying the water jar. A shopkeeper's hand. And now — a trainee's hand as well.

He still felt nothing. Ten years until thirty-eight. It was far.

But there were things he could do. Run. Lift. Breathe. He only needed to do them daily. And he tended his shop. He greeted regulars. He shared information. He built trust.

Both were his life.

He closed his eyes.

His legs throbbed. Did I run too much today? It was fine. By tomorrow it would heal. He placed his hand on his belly. His heart beat slowly. Steadily. It was calm.

His body was changing — little by little. Customers had noticed. Someday, fire energy would come too.

Someday.

"Still… they said the flower blooms at thirty-eight."

A smile spread across his lips.

Sleep crept in. His eyes drifted shut.

Tomorrow he would rise at dawn again. He would run. He would lift. He would breathe. And he would open the shop door. And greet his customers.

Slowly. But surely.

He fell asleep.

\