Chapter 682: A Martial Artist Must Strengthen Himself — A Martial Artist Must Be Strong.

Qing’s daily routine grew simple.

At sunrise, she went out to do examiner work.

The first-round exam ran about two shichen in the morning and two shichen in the afternoon.

Since an examinee’s martial display took roughly a quarter-hour, you could see eight showings per shichen, thirty-two little performances a day.

Of course, that was in theory.

In practice the number tested per day fell short by two or three.

Because there were always weirdos who popped up to pull stunts for attention.

Martial arts are not calisthenics or dance made to whirl around in empty air; they unfold properly only when the other side receives them suitably.

Thus an examiner should engage so examinees can perform smoothly—and may sometimes bestow instruction on those she likes.

In short, it was absolutely not some surprise mission like “Defeat the Examiner.”

If that were the point, they’d just say, “Kill each other—no, fight,” pair them off, and take the winner. Why set up examiners and seat evaluators high up to watch in boredom?

Even so, there was a steady stream of benighted examinees who tried to win by any means—and here came one more.

A stir went through the grounds.

A peerless beauty in a veil had stepped onto the platform.

Why “peerless beauty” when she wore a veil?

Because unlike Qing, who wore a flower-hat with a drape that covered everything, this veil was hooked over the ears and hid only the lower face.

Qing cocked her head.

What’s the point of a veil like that?

It just makes you look prettier.

As in Qing’s hometown, where they say “mask-cheat,” hiding the lower face bumps a person’s looks up at least two grades; the jawline is the most variable, hardest to be born beautiful with, and the brain fills whatever it can’t see with the ideal shape.

“I am the Sword Pavilion’s Sword Jade Girl.”

“Sword Pavilion!” “From the Sword Pavilion!” “The Sword Pavilion!”

People of the Central Plains have the habit of repeating any word they recognize to broadcast that they know it; such ostentatious knowing counts as “cultured.”

Qing had vaguely heard the name.

That mysterious sect of lady swords on Hainan Island, or so.

For reference, in Jianghu “mysterious sect” means “holed up in a room and never coming out.”

Not that every shut-in is a mysterious sect—if they never come out, how would anyone even know they exist?

So if they don’t come out and their name is still known, how mysterious is that. Hence “mysterious sect.”

Not that it makes them amazing.

Either they produced a master famed across the Central Plains—or a very simple reason:

They’re all women.

A women-only sect naturally stokes curiosity the moment you hear it.

Right on cue, Sima Chunbong—who never left a silence unfilled—leaned in.

“Khe-heh, this just got entertaining, didn’t it? If she’s inherited the ‘Sword’ name, she must be the Pavilion’s head disciple. For that proud Sword Pavilion to appear, there can be only one reason.”

“And what would that be?”

“Kk-k...!”

If someone asks, answer—why just grin suspiciously?

Qing was spreading her fingers, ready to deliver discipline.

Sadly, those fingers did not dig into Sima Chunbong’s soft (for lack of muscle) flank.

“This girl seeks to reclaim the seat of Sword Queen here and now, and petitions the Heavenly Flower Sword for a duel.”

“Eh. The what now?”

Qing’s brow wrinkled.

Another oddball to waste her time.

When she’d asked how long the first-round exam would run, the despairing answer had been: “Until we’ve seen them all.”

Worse, applications were accepted on site, so the number of examinees kept growing in real time, and oddballs kept showing up to waste precious time.

“Sima, explain the situation?”

“Oh my, you haven’t heard? This tale begins with a chance meeting some fifty years ago...”

“I’m in a hurry. Short.”

“The Pavilion Master lost to the Grand Matron and laid down the title of Sword Queen. Now the disciple seeks to take it back.”

For once, Sima Chunbong summarized.

Weird as he is as a person, the boy really is kind—no wonder his good-karma is so high.

A chosen-people mentality turned in a positive direction, perhaps?

Come to think of it, the title for the foremost woman of the sword was Sword Queen.

And Master’s epithet? Grand Matron.

Two characters that fit both her tender heart and somewhat radical mind perfectly.

You sometimes heard “Sword Queen,” though never in front of Master.

To Qing she was simply Master.

Sword Queen? Men get to be Sword King and women must be Sword Queen? Women can’t be King? That sort of thing?

Even Empress Wu Zetian stopped at “Empress,” so perhaps Master wasn’t that radical.

Besides, the title Sword Queen already had a rightful owner—no reason she’d want to hear it.

It’s a pity I’m hearing this from Chunbong’s mouth—but you never say anything yourself anyway...

In any case.

Qing does not dodge a fight that walks up to her.

But there’s a time and a place.

This from the woman who, when she starts a fight, never minds the time or place.

Human nature: when I do it, it’s forbidden love; when others do it, it’s adultery.

Proof that, despite her transcendent genius, Qing still retains her humanity.

“I understand your words, Lady Sword. But the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy’s entrance exam is in progress. It’s improper to hold a private duel. Would you raise it after the schedule concludes?”

The Sword Jade Girl only gazed up quietly at Qing, then said:

“The title Sword Queen belonged generation to generation to our Sword Pavilion—the foremost lady swordsman’s due. Forty years ago, my master lost to the Grand Matron and passed the title to her. At that time the Grand Matron pledged that if a descendant of the Sword Pavilion sought to reclaim the title, she would not avoid it. Heavenly Flower Sword, you must now keep that promise.”

Qing was aggrieved.

What promise? She’d never heard of any such thing.

Why had Ximen Surin not told her?

Because she hadn’t promised it!

Some unknown island girl burst in claiming to be Sword Queen; after losing?

“Grr... it galls me, but I’ll yield the glory of Sword Queen. But our Sword Pavilion will surely reclaim it; we’ll challenge again.”

—she’d just nodded.

The Sword Pavilion rarely visited, but when the Central Plains faced trouble they showed up to help, so they were classed as orthodox.

And as a women’s sect, there was a sense of kinship.

Ximen Surin had never imagined that meant a promise for disciples to fight later.

“Then, once today’s exam concludes, shall we cross hands together?”

But the Sword Jade Girl shook her head.

“This is the recovery of the Pavilion’s honor—a duel that must be made widely known before the world. And after the exam, the sun will already be setting; not suitable for a duel. Also, once the exam ends, the Heavenly Flower Sword will enter the Academy as instructor.”

What? How is that my problem?

You barge in and demand a title like it’s pawned goods to be reclaimed.

Even at a pawnshop, you come during business hours, don’t you?

“Or... are you perhaps afraid to lose?”

Now? You think I’ll flinch here?

“Though you say so, Lady Sword, one may not burden the Alliance’s event with private affairs.”

A spark ran down Moyong Juhee’s spine. Ah—that’s...

“However small, when private matters override the greater task, in the end one forgets the great cause. Lady Sword, I stand here as instructor and examiner of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy—I cannot put the personal first. You understand?”

“That is not so. Sect business stands above all; no one in the world would wag a finger at something this weighty.”

“Our views will never meet and thus never conclude. Then let’s do this: if Lady Sword petitions me for an examinee’s trial, I will gladly accept. If I lose, you have already surpassed an instructor and need no Academy study. If you lose, then in what you lack you should seek learning at the Academy. What say you?”

“Good. The Sword Pavilion’s Sword Jade Girl petitions Instructor Ximen for the entrance trial.”

She sounded a touch resentful, but answered at once without needing to think.

Then—SHING—she drew her sword and SWISH SWISH through the air.

Tender starlight bloomed and stretched in soft lines—an ethereal blade—yet branched in many rays like blossoms, a sword art that joined the subtlety of illusion.

“The Sword Pavilion’s art—Eleven-Thousand Sword Forms.”

A banner-announcement—the duelist’s courtesy of declaring beforehand what art she would use.

Oh? Superlative peak. So she does have something she trusts.

Qing drew the Belly Dagger.

The Sword Jade Girl’s eyes sharpened, but Qing only rolled a shoulder.

Still... curious.

Merely superlative peak?

What gives her such confidence?

Even if my Flower Realm is secret, I’ve got the reputation of late-stage superlative—teetering on the edge—superlative-transcending superlative superlative-azure; I even flipped the ground, remember?

Well, Hainan is far—and an island.

With courier pigeons the fastest plan and mounted couriers second, how far could last autumn’s rumors spread in this primitive ancient Central Plains?

So the Sword Jade Girl felt confident.

At least until sword and recorder met.

CLANG—sparks flew, and with them a shockingly brutish force she had never imagined.

It was achievement enough not to drop her sword; both hands were shoved back and, under that ferocity, her waist could only twist to its limit.

Her flank opened!

Then—WHAM!!

Qing does not go easy on women.

She judges only whether a brain is installed.

If her heart was hurt, as with Lady Moyong, that’s different. But a lack of sense and manners? That’s a lack you fill with a spanking of love.

“Agh!”

With a gasp of pain, the Sword Jade Girl’s waist bent like a bow.

Not forward or back—sideways.

Nearly shrimp-shaped.

Qing eased back, widening the distance.

The Sword Jade Girl panted, then settled into stance again, eyes grave.

Truth is, one Ximen-Surin-Style Nuclear Forehead-Flick Bomb to the skull would have sent her tumbling.

But... the Sword Pavilion is orthodox family.

At least let her fight to the end and fall; if she fell in one blow, the Pavilion’s honor would be rolling in the gutter.

The Pavilion is not at fault.

They step up to help when danger comes; they are orthodox kin.

Therefore—even for the Pavilion’s honor—this girl must be beaten down thoroughly, like a dog, and only then collapse.

Of course that makes me the villain?

Fine, I’ll be the villain.

See how considerate I am.

Too many who think I’m easy keep crawling up—let’s use this to make crystal clear what kind of person Instructor Ximen is.

And, along the way, that you must never mouth off to a teacher with a recorder.

Why do the little punks here for exams keep babbling “world’s greatest beauty”? Get your heads on straight.

Absolutely not to vent the pent-up ire from attention-seekers.

Absolutely not to savor a long, long beating of a stubborn thing that refuses to back off because “ow.”

Absolutely not because the hand-feel of pummeling that dancer keeps shimmering at my fingertips.

Behind the veil, however, Qing’s smile was nothing short of ominous.