Childhood Friend of the Zenith

I once asked Paejon.

"How many forms are there?"

Just how many techniques existed in Tua Pacheonmu?

"Right now, you could say there are seven… but who knows."

At my question, Paejon barely reacted, as if the number itself wasn’t all that important.

"The number of forms doesn’t really matter to me."

"Then what does?"

The number of techniques that made up a martial art—how could that not be important?

I couldn’t understand what he meant.
Especially for martial artists, who dedicated their lives to mastering techniques, that number was everything.

Yet, Paejon answered me indifferently.

"Completion. And satisfaction."

"…What?"

"If cutting down the number of forms increases the level of completion, then that’s the right answer. If adding more improves it, then that’s also correct. And if it brings satisfaction in the end—then that is what I call the completion of a martial art."

It was such a simple logic.

If adding a form weakened the art, remove it.
If removing it made things worse, put it back.

That was how one perfected a martial art.

"…So, are you going to keep adding more?"

"Of course."

"Then when the hell are you planning to master it?"

He had said that perfecting Tua Pacheonmu was his life's dream.
But if he kept going about it this way, when did he expect to actually achieve that goal?

At my question, Paejon laughed.

"Ahaha. My dear disciple."

"Yes?"

"What do you think mastery is?"

"Isn’t it when you’ve completely learned a martial art?"

When you’ve learned all the techniques that exist, fully embodying them in your body—wasn’t that what mastery was?

At least, that was what I always believed.

"I see. That’s one way to look at it."

But Paejon didn’t seem to agree.