Chapter 688: A Martial Artist Must Strengthen Himself — A Martial Artist Must Be Strong (7)

Sima Chunbong, who always sat first in the evaluators’ gallery each morning, was oddly nowhere to be seen.

Right before the exam began, a woman in a distinctive outfit strode out of Headquarters’ main gate and drew every onlooker’s eyes.

The front flap reached forward to the shoulders and buttoned tight at the throat; instead, the ample sleeves flounced in two tiers, and the one-piece, pleatless skirt fell in a straight line.

It was a Manchu banner-dress, but Qing wouldn’t have known that even if she saw it.

Only—

“Hu-hut, Heavenly Flower Sword. How do you do?”

“Mm. Did you sleep well too, Sima?”

“I did not sleep well at all. After dinner yesterday I dozed for a moment, and in that gap those incompetent laymen processed my entire share of work—ugh, how am I to bear this disgrace...!”

So—while he napped after eating, his colleagues did all his work for him.

What? Isn’t that good?

For one destined to run the Central Plain’s martial administration in the future, there is no disgrace greater than having his work stolen from him.

The Martial Alliance staff knew that well; the moment someone shouted, “We saw him laugh himself unconscious and keel over!” their eyes went blood-red and they finished it all in a blink.

The one who calls it a disgrace that others did his work, and the staff who, to tease him, blitzed through a mountain of tasks—

None of them are quite normal.

If a staff officer or deputy staff officer saw it, they would be dumbfounded—if you can do it like that, why don’t you, instead of dawdling every other day?

But—smart people have their quirks.

They slow their pace to minimize the day’s assigned workload.

Not everyone can be staff.

Anyway—

While Sima Chunbong ground his teeth—“Thanks to whom, pray tell”—Qing focused on his clothing.

It was a dress she’d never seen, like most women’s, and very pretty—what is it?—but the stitch lines were a bit crooked; was the seamster lacking?—No, that wasn’t the thought.

This is... body armor.

With the front flap reaching the shoulders, then dropping along the flank, there was no gap to slip in a hand; the chest lay flat, and it was obvious there were compression bandages beneath.

The hem along the ribs sagged with weight—looked like iron plates added inside.

“Kk, why the face? It’s a Manchu banner-dress. Nothing strange about it at all, you see?”

“Mm. It’s pretty.”

“Ah. A-hem.”

He hadn’t expected an unvarnished compliment; Sima Chunbong coughed and fidgeted in sudden embarrassment.

Qing looked and thought:

Mm. I won’t poke him today.

It was absolutely not that Qing reflected because he’d gone so far as to don some barbarian tribe’s garb to block pokes.

This isn’t a great city; in a small one, who would sell “barbarian” clothing?

From the stitch lines, he’d run it up himself overnight.

In that case—not reacting will be far more infuriating.

“A-anyway, given yesterday, I fear I must process matters swiftly today, so sharing supper will be difficult.”

As expected, Sima Chunbong came right out with a provocation.

“A pity. I wanted to eat together.”

“......?”

“Work is work. You have to eat to live, Sima. What’ll you do if your workload keeps getting stolen.”

“Uh... Heavenly Flower Sword. Then tomorrow, as well?”

“If you think of me in the middle of work, come by and play. I’ll be in the practice yard researching swordplay.”

“Uuuhm.”

While Sima Chunbong stood there with the look of, this isn’t how it was supposed to go, the first-round exam—empty-hand division—began.

In truth, the reason empty-hand fighters—so-called “fist artists”—cast aside convenient weapons to use inconvenient limbs isn’t because their heads are inconvenient.

They simply can’t obtain proper weapons arts.

Street-market fist arts versus sword/spear/sabre and other weapons arts show a difference in level that is—not a little—frankly, glaring.

After all—Shaolin spawned all under-heaven’s martial arts.

They say in the old Shaolin days, wandering monks were not stingy with instruction; the Six-Harmonies Fist, the Seven-Stars Fist—those fists picked up (stolen) in vagrant days all carry blue borders in Qing’s Martial Arts Window.

By comparison, of the so-called weapons manuals that circulate in the market, maybe one in ten is even registrable; most are lemon lots—and even those wear a plain white border.

And if you must learn without a master, fist arts are easier to pick up.

Thus, the overwhelming majority of the fist artists testing here were desperate warriors aiming to abandon fists this very chance.

Of course, there are some who truly wish to learn fist; but if the head is lacking, the body suffers—that’s how it goes. It can’t be helped.

They’re all pitiful folk......

With a faintly wistful gaze, Qing watched Wolbong rumble with this and that fighter—two bare-chested men, sweat-reeking—and then, suddenly, she was distracted.

Not so much looked away as—more passive—was made to look; her gaze was stolen by the irresistible tug on the soul.

Oh. Low-cut. Bold choice.

“Low-cut” meant a style that laid the upper chest open; the figure most famous for it was the Sea-Tressed White Lily, Jin Seol.

Is it early for low-cut because of the heat?

Last year, low-cut was the trend—this year too? At last? For real?

Qing stole peeks, here and there, at the low-cut woman’s chest.

Truth is, Qing’s body is a woman’s; even if she looked openly, who’d complain—and she knew it.

But if an evaluator keeps looking away, there’ll be nothing to write on the report.

Except—

And the next day.

And the day after that.

What’s this? Has the low-cut trend already arrived?

Can a fashion spread this fast in just a few days?

As time went on, the density of low-cut in the crowd kept rising, until there was no need to sneak peeks; wherever you turned your eyes, a pleasing curve met them somewhere.

Now half the onlookers were low-cut.

At this point, the issue wasn’t the vogue of low-cut but an inexplicable phenomenon in the gender ratio itself.

Because even if you tour the Central Plain, a man can just pack a travel sack and go; for women, it’s not so easy.

Strictly speaking, the number of people with the status or wealth to “tour” is similar between men and women.

But the sort who can roam the Central Plain as half vagrant and half beggar—like Qing in the past—are almost all men; so among onlookers, men should outnumber women overwhelmingly.

And yet—behold.

Veils everywhere, and breasts everywhere.

The veils are expensive and overpowered, while the rest of the clothing is oddly plain—downright shabby—a strange balance of dress.

Yes, ordinarily, if you emphasize the top, you go simple on the bottom; if you emphasize the bottom, you go simple on the top—that’s basic (important) dressing sense, right?

Did they emphasize the hat and throw away the outfit?

Shouldn’t you not be emphasizing the hat in the first place?

Even Sima Chunbong seemed to feel something was off.

“Seen like this, the Heavenly Flower Fashion is truly something. Two years running after last year!”

Apparently not off.

Heavenly Flower Fashion—a term for trend/vogue—because Qing herself was the very instigator who had whipped a veil craze across the Central Plain.

“Kk, such influence! For this round, I must concede an official defeat to this Sima.”

It seemed the fact that Qing led fashion in the Central Plain gnawed at him more than the density of women.

But what is an “official defeat”?

So—there’s an unofficial one too?

“Hmm. Or not...? The Heavenly Flower Sword’s veil is so eye-catching and unique. The poor laymen, even if they wish to resemble me, Sima, have no special feature to imitate; they simply cannot. Then perhaps not an ‘official’ defeat......”

A defeat—manufactured?—no, rigged?

And what on earth is a rigged defeat supposed to be?

“Then—hmm—should there not be some distinctive signature—some innovative ornamentation to spark a vogue of my own... another ‘...Flower Fashion’...?”

Muttering about making something others could copy, he sank into deep thought.

Qing felt a powerful premonition that Sima Chunbong would show up for a while draped in “distinctive ornamentation.”

Well, his weirdness isn’t new—let it pass.

Qing had a theory that explained this inexplicable phenomenon in one go.

Ah. This...

Looks like the Jade Qilin is about to surface.

Must be Peng Daesan about to appear.

An abnormally high density of women.

Veils draped like Yellow Turbans.

Beggarly outfits.

And when told, “if you see a low-cut woman, stare a bit,” the effect seems to have taken; they’re now short on upper surface area.

But—if those three are combined?

I’ve seen this in an arcade game.

It’s what spawns out of a fog-shrouded quiet town.

Only, looking down on it in the blazing brightness of spring—what other scene in the world could compare?

Perhaps for that reason, the crowd could hardly focus on the exam.

As much as Central Plain folk love a fight, an exam is closer to a demonstration than a brawl; there’s no blood; and it’s the empty-hand division—no flashing blades, no CHING-CHING of a handsome swordfight.

Option A: admire sweat-reeking male physiques.

Option B: steal glances at the quantum-mechanical beauty—faces hidden by veils—by peeking the real upper chests.

Obviously, B, no?

Since they can’t stare openly, the men’s focus drifted farther afield—toward the far side of the grounds—which is why, even while “watching the match,” their eyes aimed across the ring.

And so, in that oddly listless atmosphere, today’s exam ended.

Heading for dinner, Sima Chunbong threw a look that seemed somehow regretful—somehow asking for something.

By now Sima knew, too.

Once you’ve eaten together, you learn how desolate a solitary meal is.

Though—yes—it is a bit of a hassle.

Qing hooked her arm through Sima Chunbong’s and led him off.

“C’mon, c’mon—what’ll they have today? The most anticipated moment of the day, I tell you.”

“A-hem, Heavenly Flower Sword, why are you leading me as if it were only natural we dine together.”

“Come on. Let’s go. What you eat is what you keep.”

Sima Chunbong, pretending reluctance, set his gaze far away and let himself be led without the slightest resistance; Qing, happy at the thought of food, even hummed a tune.

A melody Sima Chunbong had never heard—no, not merely “never heard”—something with a wholly different root, yet possessing a shape as a system.

Sima Chunbong—who boasts that he has mastered the four supreme gentlemanly arts of zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting; who calls himself the genius of the age—grew dizzy hearing that melody.

Be that as it may—at the restaurant, as expected—as one might have guessed—well, I’ll be—

Already here!

Qing’s face bloomed with the world’s most splendid smile at a face she hadn’t seen in ages and was overjoyed to see.

Within Headquarters, in the heat, veil lifted, the beauty of the greatest under heaven—pure gladness welled into a heaven-blessed smile.

In that instant, Qing realized.

Ah. I hadn’t known when I wasn’t seeing her.

I missed her more than I thought.

Truly. Really. I wanted to see you.

Calling the name of the one she had longed for, Qing dashed forward.

“Choryeo! When did you get here! How long has it been!”

The Peng family’s excessively burly wren, Righteous-Proper Martial Academy Blade Division instructor—Peng Choryeo—entered.