Chapter 684: A Martial Artist Must Strengthen Himself — A Martial Artist Must Be Strong (3)

Even so, the Oro Sword Formula was a superb art.

“Truly, I must say it’s been honed well. I’m impressed!”

From the beginning, the figures who participated in creating the art were swordsmen from the era’s foremost sword schools; the craftsmanship of the swordwork itself was extraordinary.

That was Namgung Sinjae’s evaluation.

His realm might be low, but his eye for swordsmanship—an eye even Qing acknowledged—was astonishing for a mere “junior.”

“It’s curious. The dispositions are clearly different, yet they flow together so smoothly. It’ll be a great help in embodying multiple subtleties.”

That was Moyong Juhee’s impression—once an obsessive maniac for “rebirth through bone-deep change.”

Now she had even set that obsession down and, after that, finally acquired the tiniest layer of fat she had long dreamed of—well, in the chest.

Among the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society, Moyong Juhee was the one Qing recognized as the most “grown-up” member (among the members—obviously not comparable to the perfectly adult Qing herself). She had a shade over her as a person, but as one swordswoman she performed her share with pride—admirably so.

And above all, even to Qing—the only and true expert here—it was not a bad sword art.

From the outset, the reason the Oro Sword Art was made was to approach from a way the world had never seen and make a “perfect sword art.”

It was the legacy of Absolute Sword Drama, a sword club that vanished under vicious turf-guarding and absurdities.

“Absolute Sword Drama, is it? That such a sword society vanished is truly a lamentable thing.”

“If they got smashed for posturing before the Number One Under Heaven, then they had it coming.”

“The greatness of a swordsman lies wholly in sword-power; even if one’s disposition is a tad mischievous, that’s no great flaw. They merely paid the price for failing to recognize a greater swordsman.”

Their disbandment was regrettable, but the one who disbanded them was the Heavenly Martial Emperor, the Greatest Sword of ages—so it was fine.

Had the Heavenly Martial Emperor not been a swordsman, Namgung Sinjae would likely have fumed, cursing, How dare a non-swordsman oppress swordsmen!

Anyway.

The Oro Sword Formula was unquestionably an art too valuable to release for free.

A “chicken rib,” as they say—

For the Martial Alliance to keep it, it wasn’t something any sect would deliberately learn in place of their own signature arts; but to just dump it out, it contained, albeit in subtle measures, the quintessences of various sects—so they couldn’t just throw it open either.

An ambiguous item. The Martial Alliance made something of a big decision to release it at all.

Only, the problem—

“How do we teach this? Unless they can at least vaguely sense what a ‘subtlety’ is, it’ll never show its proper power.”

“I’ve thought this for a while, Sword-Friend, but your bar is too high. Even an imitation already manifests sufficient power. Merely learning the sword-form patterns makes it stronger than common low-grade sword arts.”

That was exactly what the Martial Alliance wanted from Qing.

But Qing went stone-faced.

“No, Sword-Friend? What kind of bullshit—are you planning to talk like those damned Sword-Form Clowns? Regardless of a sword art’s rank, when you’re teaching swordsmanship to swordsmen, you’re going to just hammer forms into them and make them ‘imitate’? Did you misjudge the person you were dealing with?”

“...!!!”

“If you swing a blade, does that make you a swordsman? That’s just a knife-hand. The difference between a swordsman and a knife-hand is passion for the sword. To never treat the sword as a mere tool that harms people, but to walk endlessly toward completion with it as your life’s companion—such noble bearing. Regardless of skill or rank, isn’t that a swordsman’s mindset?”

“Gasp!”

“Because those pitiful, still second-rate at best first-rate, at best barely Peak, wretches—barely worth calling ‘juniors’—because they’re lowly, you’re saying we can hand them hollow swordplay, chase only immediate results, shove a sharp knife into their hands for now, and call it done?”

“Gasp—!!”

“That ill-fated sword art that never got to bloom properly—that crystallization of sword-soul soaked with the blood and sweat of so many senior swordsmen—you’d put it in the hands of would-be swordsmen, tomorrow’s saplings, as nothing more than a tool-knife? ‘Imitate’? ‘Ingrain the form’? How can you—of all people, you, Sword-Friend—say such a thing?”

“That’s enough—enough!”

THUD. Namgung Sinjae slammed his knees to the ground.

“Sword-Friend, you are right. How could I— Swordsmanship is the world’s most superior art, the culture more necessary to life than any other, the noblest act a person can perform—how could I utter such reckless words about teaching swordsmanship? I am... ah, truly ashamed—ah, I cannot lift my head to look at the sky!”

Qing placed her long, slender fingers lightly upon the kneeling Namgung Sinjae’s shoulders.

“It’s fine as long as you know it now. Anyone can make mistakes. Knowing it as a mistake, feeling shame for it, and striving never to repeat it—that is what makes a gentleman—no, a sword-man.”

“A sword-man!”

“In that sense, just now you were a bit of a lower sword-man.”

“Urgh—my sword-heart aches, but even if I had a hundred swords, I’d have nothing to say.”

“But the class—the sword-work—hasn’t begun yet. We haven’t yet started our research—our sword-quest—to reveal the true world of swordsmanship—the sword-realm—to those pitiful, lowly aspiring swordsmen. So our work has only just begun—just begun to be forged.”

Words that sounded like words simply because they came out of Qing’s mouth. Frankly, even she didn’t know what she was saying.

“You’re right, Sword-Friend. It seems I let a dreadful heart-devil in. To speak such folly about the greatest matter under heaven—teaching swordsmanship.”

Qing nodded and got to the point.

“Anyone can err; what matters is the sword-heart that steps over it and goes on. But who, if not you, could deconstruct, analyze, and reassemble our venerable seniors’ bequests to pass on to our juniors? Thus, your sword-dance is heavy among swords—sword among swords—sword-sword.”

Namgung Sinjae’s eyes flared.

Qing smiled, satisfied.

Starting tomorrow, the entrance exams would begin for empty-handed fighters—that is, examinees who trained fist, palm, kick, elbow, joint-seizing, and so on—collectively, the empty-hand arts.

Which meant Namgung Sinjae would not be serving as an examiner.

But this way he’d cling to the Oro Sword Formula all day, right?

A so-called human-shaped automatic research unit for sword arts!

How nice to just slurp up whatever progress he had after her examiner shift.

If, because he’s Sword-Friend, he even filled any missing bits and completed it—then she could even learn it through the Martial Arts Window.

Utter honey. Honey, honey—now I want honey-sesame cakes. Wonder if there’s a stall outside selling them.

“So, Sword-Friend, compose yourself for a bit. Miss Moyong, do you perhaps want sesame cakes?”

“Pardon? We just had dinner not long ago...”

“Shh. Say you want them. Otherwise we’ll have to sit here watching Sword-Friend’s pitiful sorrow.”

“Sword-Friend! Such depth of feeling...!”

While Namgung Sinjae marveled, the hastened Moyong Juhee nodded rapidly.

“Ah—y-yes. I want some...”

“Then it can’t be helped. Since Miss Moyong wants them, we’ll step out for a moment. Come on. Want me to bring you some too, Sword-Friend?”

“Ah. I’ll have the black-sesame kind.”

“Sesame? Odd taste.”

“Well, because it’s black—”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Anyway, got it. Miss Moyong? Let’s go.”

Qing, delighted, took Moyong Juhee by the wrist and left the drill yard.

And then only the loud sound of Namgung Sinjae swinging a sword rang across the spot they’d vacated.

****

Righteous-Proper Martial Academy’s empty-hand exams—begin!

In fact, if Qing had insisted, it wouldn’t have mattered if she didn’t take examiner duty.

A sword instructor judging fist-arts does paint a slightly odd picture.

However, Qing was the master of the Thus-Come Palm, so she already had more than enough qualification.

They’d asked on a “come help if you like; if you don’t, that’s fine” level.

Why, then, did she bother to show up?

Because she had prepared a human-shaped automatic research unit at peak motivation to study the Oro Sword Formula in her stead?

Of course not.

Putting off her own work makes the body comfortable but the mind less so; she had no intention of fully delegating her Oro Sword Formula research.

It was to observe the exams.

Even among blade-wielders, a few yellow—no, red—sprouts had been mixed in; why would the other departments be any different?

Qing alone could see whether a number glowed red or blue; she was the only one who could write a single line on an evaluation—This one’s background smells off; dig a little.

It was for the academy’s safety and to prevent ugly incidents. Even if a bit dull, such is the fate of an expert, she thought.

From early morning—WAAAA!!—a great cheer erupted.

The bald examiner stepping up was Wolbong, and the crowd’s response was for him.

Not strange at all.

Shaolin is, undeniably, the foremost sect of the martial world, and for those strange people who have renounced weapons, a Shaolin monk is a star, an idol.

But Qing—meh.

Sima Chunbong, seated beside her, was also indifferent, merely chattering away.

“It’s truly a pity the Jin Clan of Guangdong couldn’t participate.”

The Jin Clan was too busy rebuilding.

When you say “fist,” people point to the Grand-Polarity Fist; and since few sects truly specialize in empty-hand arts, they, alongside Shaolin, are the representative.

“Yeah. And the weather’s warm, too.”

Sima Chunbong’s head spun.

He’d said it was a pity Guangdong’s Jin Clan couldn’t make it—so why the reply about warm weather?

If you don’t know, you ask.

But Sima Chunbong could not admit to not knowing—especially not before his nemesis, the Heavenly Flower Sword—so he merely churned his brain.

Well, when the weather’s warm, women’s clothes get lighter; and speaking of women’s clothes, you can’t leave out Miss Jin Seol, one of the Five Flowers of the Martial World, the White Lily of the Sea-Tressed...

Mm. I wonder how Miss Jin is doing.

Guangdong is far south—much hotter. Mm. I should go see her once it’s hot. I also have to see the Sword-Cut Wall at Wudang; I could stop by on the way.

“But, Heavenly Flower Sword, heh-heh.”

“What’s this? What do you mean by that?”

“Heh-heh, regretfully, I must inform you in advance that this Sima-lang will not be able to grace you with my company at supper this evening.”

“Why? Busy?”

“The Heavenly Flower Sword must awaken to the duty of those of us who lead an age. Like a beast that herds sheep, our mere existence drives the common herd onward.”

“Eh? Do beasts usually herd sheep?”

“The commoners of the Strategists’ Hall were born with a tragic dullness; unless whipped forward by this Sima-lang’s very presence, they will remain common forever.”

Sima Chunbong prattled on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“So while this Sima-lang has set aside precious time for the Heavenly Flower Sword, now I must fulfill the charge I have neglected—scolding the laziness of those mediocrities. That is what I am saying.”

“What is this? Are you not afraid of my fingertips? Shall we test today whether a man can truly die [N O V E L I G H T] laughing?”

“If you think this Sima-lang will forever yield to such threats, you are gravely—”

He’d been meek for a few days and seems to have forgotten the terrifying experience where laughter brings fortune, tears, and muscle tears alike.

Qing did not hesitate; she reached out a finger and—BANG!

Instead of sinking in softly, a sound like striking an iron plate rang out.

Because she had actually struck iron.

Huh? He strapped an iron plate to his flank?

No wonder he was so blatantly provocative.

“Ke-keuk—u-huhuhu—hahaha!”

Sima Chunbong burst into wild laughter.

He was delighted at having wrapped iron around his ribs out of fear of being poked in the side.

“Hah! How is it, Heavenly Flower Sword? Of course, you could sheath yourself in steel-qi and punch through the plate—but would this Sima-lang’s flank remain intact then? Heh! You couldn’t do that, could you, knowing this Sima-lang will bring peace to all under heaven!”

Sure, an iron plate is nothing to pierce.

But then Sima Chunbong’s side, instead of provoking reflexive laughter, would gush blood—his viscera peeking out—a grisly sight.

So—could she accept that cost?

Sima Chunbong, threatening with his own body, not someone else’s.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.