Chapter 677: The New Semester Has Begun (11)

Sima Chunbong whispering at my side.

“Indeed, a man with competitive spirit, is he not? An indispensable virtue for a warrior. Heh-heh. Do you suppose he is qualified to share the loneliness of the one who strides out alone at the front?”

“Competitive spirit, my foot. If you charge in anywhere, anytime without knowing the place and time, that’s not spirit—that’s a fighting rooster. Mm. Fighting rooster... now I want charcoal-grilled tucked in a wrap.”

“...? Heavenly Flower Sword?”

Qing is not someone with an especially strong thirst to win.

If she takes a hit, her eyes do go red—but people get angry when they’re hurt; that hardly departs from common human nature.

Only—call it “a challenge”?

Having received one, she knew one thing for sure.

Mm. If I win, I break even; if I lose, I’m in the red.

Come to think of it, there were plenty of elders who said, “Since we’ve met, let me see your sword once.”

I can very clearly see what a great favor that was.

From the elder’s side, it’s as easy as twisting a child’s wrist—barely even exercise—and if he happens to take a hit, it’s a total loss of face.

In fact, I once nearly cracked Sword-Friend’s father’s skull.

So this is a matter of propriety.

Qing is no hardline ritual-law Confucian.

But if you want someone’s favor, shouldn’t courtesy come first?

From the dancer’s point of view, he has nothing to lose even if he’s defeated.

He doesn’t even have to win—just collide for a few exchanges with a handsome flourish and it’s more than enough to stamp his name in the minds of people who are already excited and chanting “Little Azure Dragon.”

But Qing is not the sort who moves by profit-and-loss arithmetic.

If anything, she values sentiment too much and barges in where she shouldn’t, taking losses; the very incarnation of meddlesomeness who jumps in because she can’t stand seeing an acquaintance in a bind.

Which is why—she bristled.

As much as she values sentiment, she slaps a heavy price on lack of it and adds a charge of impudence.

In short, that’s impudent.

Truth is, Qing’s goodwill is cheap.

She doesn’t turn away those who come; if you try to get close, one round at a drinking table and she’ll act like an old friend.

Pour her a cup and ask for a spar once, and she won’t even pretend to hesitate—she’ll say let’s do it, a soft-hearted soul.

But like this? It’s nothing but galling.

“Ooh! The audacity of a first appearance!” “Accept him!” “Heavenly Flower Sword!” “Heavenly Flower Sword!” “Little Azure Dragon!” “Little Azure Dragon!”

They’d already burst into cheers and started chanting those epithets; backing out now would not be easy.

If Qing were nothing more than a veil, maybe. But here she sat as an instructor of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, an outer disciple of Divine Lady’s Gate, and the Heavenly Flower Sword, disciple of Ximen Surin.

Refuse here, and talk will start that Heavenly Flower Sword backed out for lack of confidence.

If such rumor fell solely on Qing, she wouldn’t care what anyone said.

But it would affect the Martial Alliance, Divine Lady’s Gate, and her master—those entangled—so of course she could not ignore it.

A thought flashed through Qing’s mind.

Ah. So this is what the affairs of the martial world are like.

Because it isn’t just about me.

You set your roots somewhere and get bound tight in a web of master and disciple and friend, holding and being held.

Suddenly the crotchety face of that old Heavenly Martial Emperor floated through her mind.

Dokgo Nine Sword Forms, seek the end of the sword.

Alone, in solitude.

Rescuing the Sword was not the point.

Right. Who among those who call themselves swordsmen doesn’t want to see the end of the sword?

Everyone wants to reach the extreme of the blade.

The Heavenly Martial Emperor’s path was the Lonely-Solitary walk.

To transcend the world’s affairs and cut free of this web of ties, to spend his life solely for his sword.

So he did.

He smashed the Demonic Church, swept the Blood Cult, raised havoc in the imperial palace, and put the Central Plains in order—

To wrap up any remaining ties, to shake off even the last hair’s breadth of regret.

The old man, who awkwardly cared about posing in front of juniors, cleaned away what remained.

Then he shook out his sleeves and vanished—whether his end was ascension, or a lonely death on the road, who knows.

One thing is sure.

Until the instant his breath stopped in this world, he must have gripped his sword tight.

Worthy of respect, yes—but me, not so much.

Even if I claw my way to success, if I’m alone in the world, what’s the use?

The point is teasing those pathetically weak juniors, bragging to the elders and getting doted on, and having people go “Incredible! Heavenly Flower Sword!” and forehead-flick me until their fingers break—that’s what makes being an expert worth it.

Above all, if you have a sword, you use it to protect us fragile lesser folk.

Swordplay alone—no, even swordplay needs an opponent—just swinging a perfected sword into empty air, and then what?

Tsk. Somewhere, a tongue clicked in disapproval.

“Heavenly Flower Sword?”

“Ah. My mind wandered a bit.”

“Indeed, such composure even now! Worthy to be measured against Sima Chunbong. Hmph, but haven’t we steeped long enough by now?”

“Hm.”

That old Heavenly Martial Emperor kept surfacing in my thoughts.

He probably did accomplish something alone, and once he’d perfected it, he wanted to spread the word to the world in the shape of disciples and successors—“I did it, I was right.”

It’s troublesome when you keep pushing like this, sir.

You can lead the horse to the river, but drinking is the beast’s will; no matter how good the opportunity, a Lonely-Solitary walk is a bit...

Qing looked down on the crowd still chanting her name, shouting for a match.

And the dancer, smug for some reason.

Her irritation slowly ebbed.

Even that Heavenly Martial Emperor’s mental image—maybe he wants to leave his will through passing down a perfected art.

Maybe the old Heavenly Martial Emperor really thinks he’s doing me a favor, saying, “Have a bite of the Lonely-Solitary path, it’s truly delicious,” and pushing the plate.

All the more—how do you arrive at such a neat conclusion about a total stranger you’ve barely seen, unlike that old man you’ve seen enough times to grow fond?

Maybe this one isn’t holding some pitch-black scheme about trumpeting his name either.

If it’s a first time stepping into the rivers and lakes—

He might not know this is discourtesy.

He might genuinely not know how strong he is, and be curious where the martial world’s level sits, and want to find out right now.

It might even be, as Chunbong says, the competitive spirit of wanting to meet a strong one and cross blades.

Qing stood—and the roar deepened, OOOOH!!

The exam venue somehow felt like a festival.

As she stepped up onto the platform, Qing thought:

Well, I’m going to win anyway.

Astonishingly, Qing is a master of the Flower Realm.

Compared to a superlative peak, an expert so lofty it’s almost offensive—among them a particularly great one, the super-transcendent Heavenly Flower Sword who deserves three “Lord”s in front of her name.

Ivory Sword’s superlative teeth are so stunningly white they even startled me—teeth that even the Heavenly Flower Sword cannot match in beauty—but in martial skill, I’m sorry, you’re not my compare.

Even winning is breaking even.

Just because I gain nothing from this match, it would be petty to say the other side must gain nothing either, no?

So as a senior in the rivers and lakes, I should be generous.

Trade a few fitting exchanges, give one word of well-meant advice, withdraw—done.

“Seomun Cheong.”

“Chae Seong-ha. Hm. Indeed.”

Chae Seong-ha’s gaze raked Qing up and down.

This brat’s manners—

No, generosity. Generosity. Qing held it in.

Then he bared white teeth and bloomed a grin.

Pity that the previous opponent had been Ivory Sword Oh the great hero; his smile suffered by comparison.

“By my meager seeing and hearing, eight in ten in this world do not hesitate to name Seomun Lady the most beautiful under heaven. Might you grant me the chance to broaden my eye on that beauty?”

Ah. I see. Qing attained clarity.

Whoever his master is, he taught dance very well—but failed at moral education.

Not showing one’s face means one does not wish to show it.

Obvious to the point of tedium, and yet there are those who cannot grasp even the obvious.

Of course, Qing prefers to cover her face; no need to manage expression; in an inn, all those eyes fixed on her face stop bringing food to their own lips and pass it to cheeks and philtrum and chin instead, donating it to their skin—those lines of sight are merely cumbersome.

Still, to demand what someone has deliberately concealed?

Just because you’re curious?

That’s simply rude.

In this, I think anew on my master’s grace.

She emphasized manners and rites—wasn’t she trying to make a human being out of a gutter rat who ate anything?

And now I, too, sit in the teacher’s seat.

This one needs a crash course in etiquette.

“I wear this veil here not as a woman, but as an instructor of this academy and a judge of this exam. It aligns with the academy’s principle that on the path of martial learning we do not distinguish between man and woman. Otherwise—why ask to see my face? Do you truly sort your opponents by beauty or ugliness when you turn toward the sword?”

Astonishingly, many do!

If the opponent is a beautiful woman, there’s a tendency—even among the cruelest demonic heads—not to kill but to subdue.

But you can’t answer that outright, so Chae Seong-ha stammered, at a loss for words.

“A warrior proves with martial skill. The exam is still in progress; let’s leave idle chatter here. Come—show me your ability.”

Having run his own mouth, then saying “prove it with martial skill,” was a shabby line.

Even the Tang Family’s Grand Head Poison Grandpa had acknowledged it: a formless supreme poison—the Hell-Ghoul’s Tongue.

Qing widened her stance and sank her hips.

Her left hand closed lightly beside the ribs; her right hand extended with the knife-edge of the palm.

A basic guard of the common fist-and-palm arts in the rivers and lakes.

Chae Seong-ha’s look said, are you serious.

“You won’t draw your sword?”

“I have not yet judged you worth drawing a sword for. I’ll decide after I see yours.”

Then Qing gathered the four long fingers and flick-flicked them—if put into words, a come-on, come-on gesture.

“Then—here I come!”

Chae Seong-ha set his first step with that same light footwork as before.

Toes angled toward the foe.

His center flowed onto the forefoot, turning the body naturally; both arms swung long to add rotational force.

His body spun once, twice—

In that instant, Qing’s gaze flashed.

From the sole of his forward foot—from the Gushing Spring Point—inky demonic qi poured as his body shot—Air-Smiting Instant Move, the legendary art of shen-movement that “strikes the air and moves the body.”

Counted among the three greatest movement studies in the world, together with Kunlun’s Cloud-Dragon Great Eight Forms and Mount Wudang’s Carrying-Cloud Bell.

Its hallmark is ghost-silent bodywork coupled with the very fastest burst over short distance.

Normally, it’s KABOOM-KABOOM-KABOOM with Heavenly Demon Dominion Steps—one-two-three, Three-Steps-Hundred—to crank out maximum speed, so Qing seldom used this method.

Qing’s arm curved like a whip.

The hand moved so fast the afterimage trail faked the eye.

In Chae Seong-ha’s world—spinning, just finishing his second turn and linking into the third—an automaton suddenly skimmed past within arm’s reach.

And—SZZAK!!!

A Ximen-Surin-Style teaching palm—bearing the subtlety of a chain reaction—smashed squarely into the center of Chae Seong-ha’s back.

“Agh!”

With a scream he crossed his arms behind to reach his own back and, hop-hop, like a sparrow, like a stiff-limbed jiangshi, he bounced around the ring on both feet.

From the point behind the solar plexus, the very middle of the back, two extremes of agony surged—searing blaze and cracking freeze.

A martial artist’s flexible joints do let the backs of the hands and palms scrub the afflicted spot, but that right elbow flung up and the left bent far back—well, the shape was... something.

“Ughhh...”

Groans rose from the crowd as well.

Especially the married men with sharp-handed wives—their sympathetic cries were loudest.

After quite a while of hop-hopping around the ring, rubbing his back, Chae Seong-ha finally seemed to have the pain easing and shouted:

“W-what do you think you’re doing? A sneak attack!?”

His eyes were ringed with tears—so much it must have hurt.