Chương 25: Grom the Barbarian Trained His Face to Be Immune to Face-Slap

Grom was suddenly transported into the world, and the first thing he received was a face slap. He lost everything — his dignity, and… well, that was it. That was the whole list. It had been a soft tap given how thick his face was. But dignity was all he possessed in this new world, and he had arrived with nothing else. No coin, no name anyone recognized, no memory of how he'd gotten there. Just dignity, and now not even that.

When he first dropped in there was a woman standing in front of him, surrounded by a ring of men. He didn't hesitate, despite the confusion, despite whatever cosmic jetlag came with being yanked between worlds. He simply walked closer, his shoulders broad enough to cast a shadow clean over all three men at once. They turned. They looked up, and up, and up. Then they looked down. Their eyes went wide. They ran, sandals slapping against the packed dirt of the street, robes flapping behind them.

Grom faced the woman, raising a placating hand.

"Are you al—" The woman screamed, a sound sharp enough to send pigeons scattering off a nearby roof. In an instant, Grom was surrounded by a wall of onlookers, murmuring, pointing, craning their necks. The crowd parted like water around a stone, giving way to a man who walked with his hands clasped behind his back. He advanced at a pace so deliberate, so unbothered, that Grom found himself marveling at it. It was the first time in his life that he had witnessed a human being walk that slow.

Finally the man reached him and stopped, tilting his head up to meet Grom's eyes. His robes were fine silk, dyed a deep, arrogant purple, and a jade pendant swung faintly at his belt.

"You dare?!"

"I dare what?" Grom scratched the back of his head. The man lifted one hand and crooked a single finger: a small, lazy gesture that somehow carried the weight of a royal decree. Come here. Grom leaned his head down. That was the exact moment he lost everything. The slap connected with a sound like a whip crack. At first Grom was simply confused about what the gesture had even been for. But he watched the crowd's expressions shift in real time. From "that guy looks interesting" to "does that guy even exist?"

As if he'd been quietly erased from the social fabric of the street. One by one, the onlookers dispersed. They turned their backs and melted away without a word, leaving him standing alone in the dust. The man who had slapped him gave a short, contemptuous snort. He straightened his sleeves, and turned to walk away as well. His entourage fell into step behind him. Grom's stomach chose that precise moment to grumble, long and loud. He stood there a moment longer, rubbing his cheek.

He then looked left and right down the street. He spotted a stall further along, smoke curling up from a grill loaded with skewered meat. He salivated openly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He wandered over.

"Excuse me, good sir, can I have some?" The man behind the stall kept fanning the coals, eyes fixed on the fire.

"Excuse me," Grom repeated, a little louder, but he remained ignored. He stood there, staring at the glistening meat, as his stomach continued its grumbling protest. Then someone tapped his shoulder. He turned and found himself looking at a masked old man.

"Follow me," the old man said, and started walking without waiting to see if Grom would comply. Grom followed. At the corner of town, tucked behind a crumbling section of wall thick with moss, the old man crouched beside a wooden crate. He rummaged inside and pulled out a loaf of bread, offering it up. It was speckled with mold along one edge, but Grom accepted it gratefully.

"Thank you." He tore into it without hesitation and chewed. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. The old man also produced a bundle of plain, undyed clothes.

"Wear these once you're done eating. You can't walk around town naked." Grom swallowed his last bite and licked his fingers clean.

"I see." He shrugged into the clothes, which fit loosely across his frame but at least covered the essentials. Then the old man held out a mask as well.

"Wear this." Grom tilted his head, studying it.

"Why?" The old man sighed. He pulled his own mask down just enough to show his face. There, spread across his cheek was the unmistakable splatter of ink shaped like a hand. He pulled the mask back up.

"No one talks to anyone with this mark." Understanding dawned on Grom.

"Don't tell me—" His hand drifted up to touch his own cheek, still faintly warm. The old man nodded gravely.

"The moment you're face-slapped, you lose your dignity, and with it, your place in the eyes of others. The only way to lift the curse is for the one who slapped you to be slapped back in turn. But it was the young master who struck us. Reaching him past his guards and his family's influence is nearly impossible for someone like us." Grom considered.

"Are you telling me this so your own curse will be lifted too, through me?"

"Are you upset that I'm using you?" Grom shook his head. A smile spread across his broad face.

"No. I'm grateful I can return the favor."

The next day, Grom began his training, which turned out to be far less productive and far more confusing than he'd hoped.

"Are you sure sitting like this isn't a waste of time?" Grom asked cross legged.

"Concentrate. Focus on building your foundation establishment." The old man sat across from him, perfectly still, eyes closed.

"But I don't know what a foundation establishment is."

"Absorb the spirit energy of the world into your abdomen, then guide it upward. Through your core, into your face."

"My face?"

"Yes. In this world, the first slap costs a man his dignity. The second costs him his life. It matters little how thick your face already is. What matters is training it to stop the hand before it ever connects. Picture a film of spirit energy, thin as silk, settling over your skin like morning dew." Grom nodded along, despite understanding perhaps none of it. His brow furrowed in earnest, useless concentration.

Days passed. The old man's patience wearing thin and then somehow renewing itself each morning. Slowly, Grom began to get the hang of it… or something close to it. His face, already thick, grew thicker. Where before it had carried the density of a dictionary, it now carried the density of an entire treatise on the meaning of Dao. Dense enough that scholars might have spent lifetimes failing to fully unpack it. Then his stomach grumbled. The old man glanced toward the crate. It sat empty, save for a few crumbs.

He rose, brushing dust from his knees.

"Can't be helped. Let's go buy food." Grom pulled his mask back into place and followed him out. At the market, the young master happened to be there again. The old man stopped short in front of Grom. Just then, a young girl carrying a basket bumped into the young master.

"S-sorry, please forgive me," she stammered, bowing low.

"You dare?!" The young master's hands drifted behind his back. The old man turned to Grom, voice low.

"Let's withdraw. Your training isn't complete yet." But Grom didn't turn. Something in him refused to. He rushed forward instead. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, and tackled the girl. He rolled with her against a stack of baskets, dodging the incoming face-slap by a hair's breadth.

"What are you doing?!" the old man shouted. Grom straightened up, setting the girl gently back on her feet before turning to face the young master fully.

"Sorry, old man. I'd rather lose my dignity, or even my life, to a face slap than lose my dignity to myself by standing by and doing nothing." He drew a deep breath, chest swelling, and shouted loud enough for the whole market to hear, "I am Grom! My dignity will not be taken by a mere face slap!" With that, he tore the mask from his face and let it fall to the dirt. The crowd gasped as one, a ripple of astonished whispers spreading outward through the stalls.

The young master took an involuntary step back, color draining from his face.

"H-how did you remove the face-slap curse?" Grom took a step forward. The young master's legs gave out beneath him.

"Face-slap him, Grom!" The old man clenched his fist. But Grom remained standing where he was. He turned instead and looked at the old man. His eyes were gentle despite everything.

"If you slap someone, they'll only try to slap you back. It's a system built as an endless loop. One grudge feeding the next. Can't you see? I already broke my own curse without returning the slap that started it. Let's end the cycle here, together." Grom smiled, warm and unguarded, and offered the young master his open hand. The young master stared up at that hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, reached out and accepted it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

And from that day on, the Iron Hand Sect's curse, generations old and never once broken, was finally lifted.