The Return of the Namgoong Clan's Granddaughter-Chapter 88

At first light, Seolhwa rose as always and made her way toward the training ground.

Namgoong Cheongun, who had stayed up late accepting drinks from the clan’s elders, was still fast asleep—so she stepped out quietly.

But she didn’t head toward the outer courtyard.

Knowing full well that the Red Dragon Division members were likely in the same state as Cheongun, she had already sent word through Ryeong the night before that morning drills would be canceled.

Instead, she turned toward the training ground reserved for the direct line of the inner household—a place she hadn’t visited in some time. It was there she had first tested the sword given to her by Seop Mugwang.

As she arrived and was about to step through the gate, Seolhwa suddenly halted.

“Hah! Haaah!”

Contrary to her expectation that the training ground would be deserted following the banquet, the sharp cries of martial exertion rang from within.

It was a surprise, but not an unnatural one. The Namgoong Clan was, after all, a martial family—and diligence in training was to be expected from some.

Still, she was curious. Who would be here at this hour?

Moving forward again, she entered the training ground—and found a completely unexpected figure.

Namgoong Woong?

The second son of Namgoong Cheonghae. Younger brother of Namgoong Soryong.

He was drenched in sweat, striking a wooden training dummy with a mokgeom. Sensing her presence, he paused mid-swing and turned toward her.

Their eyes met briefly. Then Namgoong Woong’s round eyes widened in surprise.

He ran over, panting, and gave her a quick, deep bow. His flushed face broke into a radiant smile.

“Good morning, Sister Seolhwa. Did you sleep well?”

Behind that clear smile, the face of Namgoong Woong from her past life came to mind.

The young man who had once stared her down with burning fury—like he meant to kill her.

"If you mean to destroy Namgoong, you'll have to cut me down first!"

It had been during the final raid on the Namgoong estate. She’d set it ablaze, cutting down retainers and warriors alike.

Namgoong Woong had stood firm in front of the clan’s wounded and elderly—those too weak to flee or defend themselves.

"Young Master, run! You are Namgoong’s last hope!"

"Woong, go! Our lives don’t matter—just go!"

Everyone he protected had begged him to escape.

And they were right. He bore the clan’s blood. If he lived, perhaps Namgoong could rise again one day.

But Namgoong Woong, foolishly, had stayed. He refused to abandon them.

"Until the last breath leaves my body, I will protect Namgoong! Even if scum like you try to trample on our spirit—it will never break!"

Even after losing an arm, even after one of his eyes was slashed out, even as his blood spilled from every wound—

Though his elder brother and mother had fled the clan to save themselves—

Namgoong Woong remained. Just as he’d said, until the moment his life was extinguished.

Perhaps... the most truly Namgoong-like soul in this entire clan was Namgoong Woong.

If anyone knew what Namgoong stood for, it was him. He was its very embodiment.

“Are you here to train?”

He asked brightly, his eyes wide with sincerity. Seolhwa gave a small nod.

“You must be tired after the Heavenly Martial Festival. That’s incredible!”

“You’re here too.”

“Ah... I, well...”

Namgoong Woong scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

“I didn’t do anything nearly as impressive as you. Oh—your sword yesterday! It was amazing. I really wanted to tell you that if I saw you. And...”

“Hmm?”

“I... I’m sorry. For what happened at the training hall.”

“The training hall?”

“I didn’t know Father had deliberately withheld instruction from you. When my brother mistreated you, I should’ve stepped in. I should’ve said something.”

His expression was clouded with guilt.

Trying to act mature, yet he was still only ten years old.

To stand his ground and act with principle instead of following his brother or peers—that alone was already commendable.

“It’s alright. Everything worked out in the end. Besides...”

Namgoong Jangyang had been dragged away by Bipung Division members before the banquet began.

And given that Namgoong Mugang had been absent for the entire banquet, he was likely questioning him as early as last night.

“What happened at the training hall wasn’t your fault—it was Soryong’s. You don’t need to apologize for your brother’s actions.”

Namgoong Woong bit his lip, thinking, then shook his head firmly.

He seemed far too used to apologizing on his brother’s behalf.

This is the problem with the White Path clans.

Before children can even judge right from wrong, they’re taught to value righteousness, honesty, and purity above all else.

They grow up believing it’s normal to apologize for things that weren’t their fault.

If the Black Path’s flaw is never admitting fault, then the White Path’s is bowing their ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ heads before they even think.

That kind of upbringing often led to hypocrisy and arrogance in adulthood—though Namgoong Woong didn’t seem the type.

“So... do you usually train at this hour?”

“Oh, yes! Morning practice helps me focus better—and my body feels more awake, too.”

“I see.”

So he does know how to train.

Seolhwa’s eyes moved from the training dummy he had been striking to his hands.

His palms were raw and bloodied, the blisters torn open. Yet his grip on the sword remained tight and unwavering.

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t yet seen Namgoong Woong’s martial technique. According to Ryeong, his Grand Vast Sword Art had already reached five stars...

I wonder what he was like when he was young.

“Do you want to spar?”

At her words, Namgoong Woong’s head shot up. His eyes sparkled with disbelief.

“Spar? With you, Sister?”

“Yes.”

Namgoong Woong hesitated, unable to answer immediately.

It seemed he was concerned about the difference in their martial levels.

“I’ll go easy on you.”

At that moment, a small spark ignited in his clear eyes.

To be looked down on before even crossing swords—any martial artist would feel their pride flare.

Even if he lost, he didn’t want to appear incompetent before proving his skill.

“No. Please give it your all. I intend to do the same.”

What had started as a gentle provocation was met with the confident response of a proper martial artist.

“Alright. I’ll face you seriously.”

The two made their way to the center of the training ground, stepping up onto the sparring platform.

Before ascending, Woong retrieved Seolhwa’s wooden sword himself and offered it to her with both hands, his posture courteous.

He really is nothing like his brother.

Every little action he took showed respect for the sword.

It wasn’t the thoughtless pride of someone swinging a blade for show—it was the demeanor of one who understood the path he walked.

“Thank you.”

Without hesitation, Seolhwa accepted the sword and stepped onto the platform.

Namgoong Woong followed her and took his place at the opposite end. He gripped his sword and offered a formal martial salute.

“Please grant me your instruction.”

Seolhwa responded in kind, matching his decorum with her own.

“Likewise. Shall I make the first move, or will you?”

“I’ll go first.”

He showed no sign of arrogance. A child, yet already carrying the bearing of one who knew his limits.

Seolhwa found herself quietly impressed.

“Good.”

She shifted into stance, preparing to receive his attack.

Woong, too, assumed the opening form of the sword style he’d been taught. His posture settled, his breathing steadied—and in that moment, the light in his eyes changed. Gone was the warmth; in its place shone the sharp edge of a blade.

“Haaah!”

With a short, powerful cry, Namgoong Woong’s sword shot toward her.

Just as she had predicted, he employed the Grand Vast Sword Art, the Namgoong Clan’s fundamental style. A wise choice.

Learning swordsmanship wasn’t like picking dishes from a feast.

Like a newborn moving from mother’s milk to porridge, then to rice, and only then to meat—it had to be done in order.

Only by following that path could one grow stronger and rise higher.

Tatak—tak!

His technique wasn’t flashy, nor uniquely styled, but each strike carried weight and substance.

Every motion followed the established sword path with near-perfect precision.

It spoke of just how many times he had drilled those same movements.

How admirable.

He understood instinctively that before one could modify a technique, it had to be practiced—thousands, tens of thousands of times—until it became part of the body.

Most beginners, tempted by dazzling swordplay, tried to jump ahead. But not him. He walked the proper path.

...So what went wrong?

That was when Seolhwa began to wonder.

Judging by this pace of growth, if Namgoong Woong continued to train like this, he should have at least reached the peak of the Transcendent Realm.

But in her past life, no matter how generously she estimated, he had barely reached the late Peak Realm.

It couldn’t have been his internal energy. With proper elixirs provided by the clan, that should have developed steadily.

Was it a lack of enlightenment?

But why?

Why would someone who had, even from such a young age, thought so seriously about the sword and followed its path so earnestly—

Tatak! Tak!

“Haaah—!”

Seolhwa’s gaze grew sharper, her eyes narrowing with cold clarity.

And then—she understood.

The reason Namgoong Woong’s growth had come to a halt.