The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 102 – The Flower Blooms at Thirty‑Eight

 The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 102 – The Flower Blooms at Thirty‑Eight

Morning — after a restless night.

Night passed. Morning came.

Dawn light seeped between the window slats. Cold air filled the room. Jinhwa opened his eyes.

He had slept poorly. The manual had appeared in his dreams. The character hwa had flickered before him. The phrase "the blocked one is blessed" had circled in his ears.

He sat up. His body was heavy — but his heart was light. He was tired — but excited. He washed his face in a hurry. He changed his clothes. He sat before the counter.

The manual was there.

Right where he had placed it the night before — on top. Old and thin, it lay quietly. A light film of dust had settled. The character hwa on the cover glowed faintly in the morning sun.

He drew a deep breath.

"Today… I read it properly."

Yesterday he had only skimmed. The classical Chinese was too archaic — too difficult. He had failed to understand much. He had turned pages too quickly. He had grasped only impressions. But today was different. From the foreword. Character by character. Carving the meaning as he read.

He opened the manual.

The first page. The foreword appeared.

"天地之間 火者不循環…"

Between heaven and earth, fire does not circulate…

He began reading slowly. The same passage from yesterday — but this time he weighed each word. He followed the flow of the full sentence. He struggled to understand.

Water circulates. From river to sea. From sea to sky. From sky back to earth. Endlessly turning — that is water. But fire, once it burns, vanishes. It does not return. It becomes ash. It becomes smoke. It leaves only heat — and goes out.

"It does not circulate…"

He read the next sentence.

"火起於一處 燃盡萬物 終歸於無…"

Fire rises from one place, burns all things, and returns at last to nothing…

Jinhwa suddenly thought of his own life. His days as a genius at the Hwasan Sect — brief. The glory of Pungnyu‑gak — brief. The success of the clothing shop — fleeting. None of it had circulated. Each had blazed and died. Each had risen and collapsed. Now he remained as the owner of a small general store.

"I, too… resemble fire."

A bitter smile. But it did not feel bad. It was a comfort, even. That it was all right to live like fire. That it was all right not to circulate.

He read on.

"막힌 자는 불을 닮는다…"

The blocked one resembles fire…

This time he read the surrounding sentences carefully.

"水行者 流通無阻 火困者 蓄而後發…"

The one who walks with water flows without obstruction. The one trapped in fire gathers — then erupts…

"Gathers… then erupts."

He closed his eyes. Having no water meridians meant energy could not flow. The Hwasan Sect's arts circulated energy along the meridians — and so Jinhwa could not practice them. But what if circulation was unnecessary? What if he only needed to gather? What if it did not need to flow — did not need to be unblocked — what if he simply gathered it in one place?

"Then… could I do it?"

His heart began to pound.

He opened his eyes and read the manual again.

"The entire body is the dantian…"

He looked down at his own body. Hands. Arms. Chest. Belly. Legs. All of these could become the dantian? At the Hwasan Sect, only the single dantian below the navel had been used. Energy was gathered there alone. Circulated from there alone. But this art was different. Energy was stored across the whole body.

"How…?"

He could not quite imagine it. But the manual continued to explain.

"Experience builds the vessel. Habit determines the form…"

He tilted his head. My experience… becomes the shape of the art? Working as a healer. Holding a broom. Sewing. Playing the geomungo. Running a business. Could things like these become a martial art?

He did not yet understand. He shook his head.

"Slowly… I will understand someday."

He kept reading. The foreword was long. Archaic language throughout. Difficult expressions. Much that he still could not grasp. But he managed to identify several core ideas. Fire does not circulate. It favors the blocked. The whole body is the dantian. Experience creates the form.

"This art… might actually suit me."

Hope grew. A small hope — yet certain. Uncertain — yet warm. Deep in his chest, something stirred.

He continued turning pages.

The end of the foreword drew near.

And then…

One sentence caught his eye.

"三十八歲 花開."

Thirty‑eight years. The flower blooms.

He stopped. His hand froze over the page. His eyes locked onto those four characters. His heart struck once — hard.

"Thirty‑eight… the flower blooms…"

At thirty‑eight… the flower opens.

His lips moved faintly.

"At thirty‑eight… the flower blooms?"

His voice trembled. He read it again.

There was no mistake. At thirty‑eight, the flower blooms.

"Why… thirty‑eight?"

He furrowed his brow and read the surrounding text.

"…The blocked one must accumulate. Gathering fire energy requires time. Only after thirty years of accumulation does it finally erupt. Not fast — but certain. Not quick — but solid. After long years, at last the flower blooms…"

He set the manual down. His hands trembled.

"Thirty years or more…"

He calculated.

I am twenty‑eight now. Ten years remain until thirty‑eight. But the manual says "thirty years or more."

"Wait…"

He picked the manual up again. He kept reading.

"…Fire energy awakens at five. After thirty years of gathering, it erupts at forty…"

"Five years old…"

The Hwasan Sect entrance examination. The day the spirit‑testing orb cracked. "This child — his fire energy is strong!" The master's astonished face.

He pressed his hand to his forehead.

"From five years old… until now…"

Twenty‑three years.

No — counting to thirty‑eight, thirty‑three years.

"Thirty years or more…"

That was why it said thirty‑eight.

Understanding began to form.

This was not a fast art. No circulation. No techniques. Only gathering. Day by day. Little by little. For thirty years or more. And when thirty‑eight arrived… the flower would bloom.

He closed his eyes.

"Thirty years…"

A long time. An enormously long time.

At the Hwasan Sect, results had been expected within seven years. The clothing shop collapsed in one. Pungnyu‑gak did not survive three. Everything had been fast. Urgent. Rushed.

But this art was different.

It told him to gather for thirty years.

Slowly. Little by little. Surely.

At thirty‑eight, the flower blooms — so it said.

He opened his eyes. He looked out the window. The sun had risen high. People moved along the street. The world turned as it always did.

But inside Jinhwa's chest, something was changing.

"There is a reason… thirty years are needed."

The time to gather fire energy.

Like water in a pot slowly pushing the lid. Like an ember growing by degrees. Time that must accumulate — slowly.

That was not waiting.

It was preparation.

It was accumulation.

"But…"

He pressed the manual to his chest.

"That is not all."

Another passage from the manual surfaced.

"Experience builds the vessel. Habit determines the form…"

Yes.

Time alone was not enough.

Sitting idle for thirty years would not make the flower bloom.

Experience must be gathered.

Habits must be built.

The form must be prepared.

"Which means…"

He exhaled slowly.

"Thirty‑eight is not a guarantee."

It was a minimum.

The unavoidable, irreducible minimum of time needed to gather fire energy.

But without effort during that time, even at thirty‑eight the flower would not bloom.

"On the other hand…"

His gaze changed.

"With effort… perhaps…"

It might be possible at thirty‑eight.

It might be possible at thirty‑five.

Perhaps even sooner.

Of course, nothing was certain. The manual said thirty‑eight. But that could be an average — or a minimum — or simply what the creator had experienced.

"I… could be different."

He set the manual down.

His hands were no longer trembling. His heart raced — but without urgency. He was excited — but calm.

"What have I done all this time?"

He asked himself.

At the Hwasan Sect… he had relied on talent alone.

Drunk on the word "genius." Careless with the basics. He preferred praise to effort. He never neglected training — but he immersed himself only in what came naturally.

At the clothing shop… greed had led.

He thought only of earning big. Caution was absent. In the end, he was swindled.

At Pungnyu‑gak… he fell into desire.

Four women at once. He failed to tend the troupe. He lost everything.

"All of it…"

He opened and closed his fist.

"I never truly put in the effort."

Leaning on talent. Blinded by greed. Lost in desire.

And he had only pursued what came easily — what was already working.

True effort — he had never given it.

The effort to fill what was lacking.

The effort to make the impossible possible.

He had repeated attempts — but never the real work.

Every day. Little by little. Steadily.

That kind of effort — he had never tried.

"This time…"

He looked at the manual again.

"It is different."

Ten years until thirty‑eight.

Day by day. Little by little. Surely.

Simbeop training every dawn. Reading the manual whenever he could. Building the form through daily life.

"If I do that…"

A smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"Perhaps ten years will be enough."

No — perhaps eight.

No — perhaps…

"With effort… I can bring it even a little closer."

Of course, it might not work.

He might fail even at thirty‑eight.

He might once again realize he was useless.

But…

"I refuse to give up without trying."

He stood.

"I am not waiting."

He murmured.

"I am preparing."

He placed the manual beside his bed. Within reach. A hand's stretch away.

He went out to the yard.

The morning sun was warm. Birds sang. Wind blew. The world was at peace.

He stood in the center of the yard.

"As the manual described…"

He steadied his breathing.

He inhaled slowly. Air descended to his belly. His body eased. His mind grew calm.

"Feeling the fire energy…"

He closed his eyes.

Somewhere deep inside — very deep — something warm seemed to exist. It could be illusion. It could be imagination. But still — he thought he felt it.

"Is this… fire energy?"

He was not sure.

But that was all right.

He did not need certainty right now. Slowly. Little by little. He would come to know.

Time passed.

He kept standing and breathing. His legs went numb. His lower back ached. Sweat formed.

But…

He was happy.

Truly. Sincerely. Happy.

Practicing martial arts.

The thing he had thought he abandoned after leaving the Hwasan Sect.

The thing he had believed he could never do again.

Right now — in this moment — he was doing it.

Regardless of outcome. Regardless of results. That did not matter.

The simple fact that he was practicing martial arts — right now, in this moment — made his heart pound. It spread a smile across his face. It made the world feel bright.

"I… truly wanted to practice martial arts."

He had called himself a shopkeeper.

He had said he was far from martial arts.

He had said the murim had nothing to do with him.

But… that was a lie.

Let me be honest.

He still wanted to practice.

He had not wanted to drift from the murim.

He wanted to be strong.

"Being honest like this… is a relief."

He opened his eyes.

The sky was blue. Clouds drifted. The sun shone. The world was still beautiful.

"It said the flower blooms at thirty‑eight."

He murmured.

"But that… is not a guarantee."

Without effort, the flower would not bloom — not even at thirty‑eight.

Conversely — with effort — at thirty‑eight, at thirty‑five, perhaps sooner still.

"So… I make the effort."

He clenched his fist tight.

"Day by day. Little by little."

Every dawn — in this yard.

Every spare moment — reading the manual.

In daily life — building the form.

"Not at thirty‑eight — but at thirty‑six. At thirty‑five. That is the goal."

He made his resolve.

It was not large. It was not glamorous. No one was watching.

But it was certain.

This time is different.

This time there is no haste.

This time — slowly. But surely.

"Starting today…"

He closed his eyes again.

"The real beginning."

He continued to breathe.

The tail end of twenty‑eight.

A man discovered a single manual,

read the four characters "the flower blooms at thirty‑eight,"

and understood it was not a guarantee — but a minimum.

Without effort, even thirty‑eight would not be enough.

With effort, the time could be shortened.

And so — from today, from this moment — he chose to begin.

Not the result, but the process.

Not the achievement, but the training itself.

He chose to enjoy it.

He was twenty‑eight now.

Ten years was not waiting — it was preparation.

With effort… perhaps sooner.

[End of Chapter 102]