Return of the Moyong Clan's Prodigal Master

Trash Manuals

Ha-jun ignored them. In his past life, he would have kept his head down, apologizing for existing. He would have hurried past, desperate to avoid confrontation.

Now, he walked down the center of the path. His stride was long and predatory. He didn't look at them, not out of fear, but out of the arrogance of a higher species ignoring insects.

The Tyrant's Aura, the passive skill he had unlocked, rippled off him in cold waves. When his gaze accidentally brushes against a disciple, the boy would flinch, pale, and look away, instinctually sensing the predator within.

He reached the Library. It was a colossal five-story pagoda, guarding the clan's knowledge like a slumbering beast.

At the entrance sat Elder Gu.

Ha-jun remembered Gu. A withered old man with a heart as dried up as his skin. Gu had been the one to officially record Ha-jun's demotion to servant status in the previous timeline. He was a man who delighted in bureaucracy and the suffering of those beneath him.

Ha-jun approached the desk.

Elder Gu didn't look up from his ledger. "Name and rank."

"Moyong Ha-jun. Outer Disciple."

Gu paused. The quill scratched against the paper, then stopped. He looked up slowly, peering over his spectacles. His eyes were milky with cataracts but sharp with disdain.

"Ha-jun," Gu chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "The broken branch. I heard you caused a stir in the kennels last night. Beating up fellow trash doesn't make you treasure, boy."

"I am here to use the library," Ha-jun said, his voice flat.

"Of course you are," Gu sneered, leaning back. "The Clan Head, in his infinite benevolence, allows even the... challenged... disciples access. It is a testament to our mercy. We let the blind look at paintings, and we let the cripples look at sword manuals."

He waved a dismissive hand toward the heavy oak doors.

"Go on. The first floor only. Try not to drool on the pages. It ruins the ink for the talented ones who come after you."

Ha-jun stood there for a moment. The urge to reach across the desk, grab Gu's frail neck, and squeeze until the old man's head popped like a grape was overwhelming.

The System flashed a warning in red: [Restraint Required. Murdering an Elder in broad daylight equals immediate Game Over.]

Ha-jun swallowed the bile. "Thank you, Elder," he said, the words tasting like ash.

He pushed the doors open and stepped into the scent of old paper and silence.

The first floor was vast, filled with rows of towering bookshelves. Sunlight filtered through high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Scores of disciples were there, reading at tables or browsing the shelves.

When Ha-jun entered, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

He ignored the stares and walked deep into the stacks.

[System Scan Initiated.]

[Filtering... Filtering...]

[Targeting criteria: High physical burden, external conditioning, erratic energy flow.]

Ha-jun walked past the popular sections. He ignored the Flowing River Sword section, which was crowded with eager young masters. He ignored the Iron Skin Defense shelves.

He went to the back. To the shadowed corner where the shelves were covered in a thicker layer of dust, where the bindings of the books were cracked and fading. This was the "Miscellaneous" section, the graveyard of techniques that were deemed useless, outdated, or incomplete.

"This is where I belong, isn't it?" Ha-jun muttered. "Among the rejects."

[Guidance: Third shelf from the bottom. The grey tome with the mold damage.]

Ha-jun crouched down. He pulled out a thin, battered book. The cover was plain, grey leather, stained with something dark that looked suspiciously like old blood.

He wiped the dust off the cover.

The Seven agonies of the Stone Buddha.

"Stone Buddha?" Ha-jun frowned. "This sounds like a monk's technique. A defensive art?"

[Analysis: Read the introduction.]

Ha-jun flipped the cover open. The ink was faded, written in a frantic, jagged hand.

To cultivate the Stone Buddha is to invite the mountain into the flesh. One must abandon the flow of Qi and embrace the stagnation of weight. This art does not circulate energy; it compresses it into the bones.

The pain of the first stage is akin to being crushed by a millstone. The pain of the second stage is akin to being buried alive. The user will lose their speed.

They will lose their flexibility. Their joints will grind like gravel. But in exchange, they will become an immovable object.

Note: Discontinued after three disciples died from bone marrow implosion.

"Bone marrow implosion," Ha-jun read, his eyebrows raising. "Orthodox trash indeed. This is a suicide manual."

[Correction: It is suicide for a human with Grade-4 bones. For you, with the 'Adamantine Skeleton', it is merely... a warm-up.]

[This technique does not require 'Azure Tide Qi'. It requires physical density. It will harden your skin and muscles to match your bones. It is the perfect external shell to hide the internal monster you are building.]

Ha-jun flipped through the pages. The diagrams were grotesque, showing bodies twisted into impossible positions to maximize the stress on the skeletal structure.

"I'll take it," Ha-jun said.

[Guidance: Look to your left. Bottom shelf. The scroll with the scorched edges.]

Ha-jun moved. He found a scroll that looked like it had been pulled out of a fire. He unrolled it.

The Gale of the Broken Wing.

Introduction: A sword technique created by a madman who had his hamstrings cut. It utilizes erratic, jerky movements and sudden stops. It destroys the user's ligaments with every swing, generating force not from flow, but from the violent recoil of torn muscle.*

"Destroys the ligaments," Ha-jun mused. "But I have 'Myriad Beast Sinews'. They won't tear. They will just snap back with more force."

[Precisely. To an observer, you will look like a desperate, untalented fool swinging wildly. In reality, you will be executing a high-velocity kinetic bombardment that no Orthodox prediction can track.]

Ha-jun held the two "trash" manuals in his hands.