Chapter 694: Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, Opening (5)

The last task of the admissions office was to group those who had passed into teams of ten to ascend to the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy halfway up White-Cloud Mountain.

“If they follow Red-River Valley up, even a seven-year-old won’t get lost. No matter how inferior the common herd, they’ll find their way.”

“And? Ah—do you still need people posted along the way? Is that why you called me?”

“No. The Heavenly Flower Sword should go up ahead—”

Suddenly Qing CLAPPED!

“Ah, I think I get it. You’re sending only Academy officers up with them, right? So—an ambush? How did you know I make face-skins that are to die for. I’ll shake their souls out clean.”

“Eh? An ambush.”

“Why, that thing. You check how they handle a sudden situation; if any of them run and leave a comrade, they’re disqualified on the spot.”

“...?”

Sima Chunbong knit her brows.

Not offended—she simply couldn’t fathom what Qing was saying.

“Heavenly Flower Sword? How ever did you get to that conclusion...?”

“Eh. It’s an academy—don’t they at least do that much?”

Sima was dumbfounded.

“Classes haven’t even started. How would they handle a sudden situation—and they haven’t even had a formal entrance rite, so strictly speaking they aren’t comrades yet, are they?”

The Righteous-Proper Martial Academy was stuffed with the Martial Alliance’s self-interest and had its share of politics—but it was still an educational institution.

At the very least, if it’s an educational institution, you teach something before you give them a trial; even if you ambush the passers-by on the mountain to “see their response,” what would you use that for?

There are indeed point totals and benefits allotted—but you award points after you teach.

And if you did it that way, the ones with higher realms and more experience in the rivers and lakes would just take the highest scores; if that’s what you wanted, you could have cut strictly by realm instead of selecting broadly from third-rate up to even one at the extreme peak.

“Is that so?”

“What do you think an academy is?”

“A place of plots and ambushes, real combat, blood flowing in murderous battles—and at the end, the place where we stop the world’s ruin dreamed by the great enemy of the world and restore peace?”

“Kh—hck, as jokes go, that isn’t funny at all. Ah—this Sima laughed only because even the world’s Heavenly Flower Sword has abysmal jokes I must scorn—not because your joke was—KIEEEEK!”

Prodded in the ribs for the first time in a while, Sima Chunbong hopped a foot off the ground.

The days were turning hot; perhaps the iron-plated-rib barbarian dress was getting hard to wear. Or perhaps it had simply been too long since Qing’s last poke and she let her guard down.

Either way, no ambush.

A bit deflating for Qing, who had been considering whether she needed to prepare secret-transmission face-skins.

Ambushes are fun.

“Ahem. This Sima was only going to ask you to go on ahead. You need to survey the facilities, arrange education-battalion organization and assign lodgings, plan field training, and so on. Even if you are the unique peer to this Sima—Heavenly Flower Sword—you hardly have time to idle.”

“Eh.”

What? What organization? Why am I assigning lodgings? Field training plans? “And so on”? What else is in that “and so on”?

Qing blinked—that face—blink, blink.

“What’s the matter? You’ve been researching curriculum every evening, haven’t you? You even gave instruction during the exams and recruited officers broadly, didn’t you?”

In Qing’s mind, a sword instructor’s job was to go to the practice ground at the hour, teach, and clock out when the hour struck.

In other words, an adjunct. Or a teacher.

But martial instruction in the martial world didn’t work like that.

It was, in essence, an extension of the primeval master–apprentice system: each senior generation held the junior generation and taught them; later, each person formally took a personal master to inherit the school’s higher arts and waited upon them.

This naturally made the juniors follow the seniors within the sect/house, and offer fervent support to the elders in hopes they would become personal masters.

Of course, that had its pathologies.

So-called personal masters worked you hard and didn’t actually teach you the arts; and there was almost no way to resist the depredations of the senior ranks, who were the de facto instructors.

Among the Orthodox groups, ethics and cultivation of character were the main standards—in other words, they at least knew such behavior was shameful. (Knowing it’s shameful doesn’t mean they don’t do it.)

But the Unorthodox?

They took a superior’s bullying as a natural right and an influence properly to be exercised; that was a prime reason unorthodox sects popped up and collapsed in short order, unable to endure.

This is why healthy organizational culture matters.

Anyway—

Qing finally realized her mistake.

Oh. Not an adjunct—a homeroom teacher?

And with sixty-seven total in the sword course—split into classes that was several groups; split into squads—six squads—basically a company commander?

“What’s wrong? The headcount is a bit high, but you can do as you did when you tended disciples in your sect. A bit high, yes.”

The Martial Alliance hadn’t invited Qing as an instructor for nothing.

In practice, first-generation disciples taught second-generation, second taught third; as one at the Head’s rank, wouldn’t Qing have taught third, fourth, and fifth-generation disciples?

In truth, it wasn’t so difficult or fussy.

Because whether in groups or as wanderers, martial folk fundamentally study on their own—self-directed study in the martial way.

It’s only busy when you first transmit an art; after that, you group them and let them practice on their own.

Then the senior ranks rotate through and check their progress once in a while; as for the juniors, if the sub-masters each come out one day in rotation, it amounts to seeing an elder every day.

“By the way, what a pity, isn’t it?”

“Eh? What is?”

Sima’s eyes slanted with a sly smile.

When her eyes narrowed, even those bean-sized pupils and fierce four-whites were hidden; a somewhat impish but ordinarily lovely smile.

Ah—right. She was one of the Five Flowers of the Martial World too.

Beauty always got shoved aside by her weirdness and I kept forgetting.

“Hehe. Through an instructor duel, it must have been the Heavenly Flower Sword’s ardent wish to decide victory and defeat with this Sima! But this lady long ago set her will upon the peace of the world and entered the Strategists’ Hall; I know nothing of teaching. Since what we contribute to the world differs, a formal event cannot be established. Hehe—truly a pity, isn’t it?”

“Y e s, w h a t a p i t y. S o v e r y.”

What “formal event” now?

Is she running a national games all by herself?

What’s certain is: she’s no help.

If she’s never taught anyone because of military work—hm—then I suppose I should consult the other instructors.

South of Nosan County, where the entrance exams were held.

White-Cloud Mountain was gentle at its base and stern above; halfway up, among primitive forest, lone gray crags and sheer cliff peaks thrust up—perfect for taking in the view.

Its beauty was ranked first in Henan.

Strictly speaking, “White-Cloud Mountain” referred to the whole White-Cloud Range—an expanse as large as a prefecture-level city—so of course it was beautiful.

Following the hiking trail and then a fairly thick stream up, you really couldn’t lose your way—a well-tended single path just as Sima said.

Only—it was a bit far.

From Nosan County to the Academy was about eighty li—roughly twenty-five miles.

A sturdy commoner, carrying no load on flat ground, would normally cover about twenty-five li in one shichen.

Climbing the mountain at that pace, it would still take a full three shichen or so—about six hours.

All the more since mountain paths are by nature not straight.

Still—even a third-rate martial artist’s stamina surpasses a commoner’s, and once you hit second-rate, comparison is pointless.

If the officers left after breakfast, they’d arrive around suppertime.

And this was still before the advent of proper civilization (electronics); these ancient primitives were superb walkers.

Qing had been cast into this primitive era for a long time now.

Before food arrives, when moving somewhere, when you have a moment with nothing to do, when you’re lying down and can’t sleep—those empty-handed times no longer feel empty without a screen.

So—walking a bit? Whatever.

The body’s too good; this doesn’t even count as exercise. It doesn’t even ruffle the breath, let alone stimulate the muscles.

Now, whether lying, standing, walking, or climbing a mountain path, the physical state is about the same.

And at that realm—where no one cared about such things and hiking was a light stroll—two people were walking left and right of Qing.

“How is it Qing hasn’t shed a single bead of sweat?”

“She’s a Harmony-stage master—of course. Hoo. I wonder when I’ll ever reach Translucent.”

“Aw, Master Yu Uga, you said you were close—you’re facing Mount Tai, aren’t you?”

“I thought it as comfortable as home; now that I’m blocked, how am I to climb—only the blank wall rises. I’m nowhere near it.”

Yu Uga—first-generation disciple of Mount Tai Sect, known to be at the late extreme peak.

Indeed he was; having failed to break through for a long time, he had volunteered as a fist instructor in hopes a clue might arise.

A master of Mount Tai’s secret, Mount-Tai Heavenly Wolf Fist; famous among fist stylists.

More precisely—famous only among fist stylists.

Mount-Tai Heavenly Wolf Fist? Sounds cool. Oh—gold.

A golden fist art. Rare.

For reference, Mount Tai is that famous Mount Tai—the very “Mount Tai is high though” mountain familiar even to Qing’s bloodline.

In truth, by height alone Mount Tai is far lower than the ancestral Mount Seorak—but for hundreds of li around there are no other mountains, and it’s near a sheer stone massif, so in truth its overbearing presence is ranked first among mountains.

Hence its use as “the biggest, heaviest mountain.”

At present Qing was ascending to the Academy with Peng Choryeo and Yu Uga—that is, the three instructors of sword, blade, and fist.

“Where were we? Ah—how do you haul the ones who lag? Hm. They have to extend their own training hours; you can’t just feed pills to someone because his progress is slow—and even if you have elixirs, you give them to the good ones. And you can’t have senior warriors hovering over them all day.”

“And then?”

“Well—treatment by realm. If one looks promising, sometimes we arrange a match.”

“Eh. A marriage match?”

“Once you have wife and child, your zeal changes—you get desperate.”

“Hah! That’s amusing. Responsibility makes the man.”

Qing had worked hard only on rewriting the Oro Sword Art; she hadn’t actually thought about the education process.

But if you don’t know, you ask.

So she was asking.

And she quickly realized it wasn’t as grand a thing as she’d imagined.

It was closer to “teach the form and have them practice”—like printing problem sets and setting self-study.

Pick the top student as class monitor and have him teach in your stead—like that.

So yes, the headcount was big, but it wasn’t the massive catastrophe she’d worried over.

Organization meant: mix levels evenly to raise the overall standard; or group by level to manage; or gather only the best and concentrate on them—policies like that.

Thinking it through—well, of course.

No matter how great the transcendent Heavenly Flower Sword—stack the honorifics—even then, handing her an instructor’s job cold would feel like the Alliance had no talent at all.

Only—hm—wasn’t it a bit of a waste?

Since it was the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, if everyone came away with something, they’d carry more pride and confidence as Orthodox folk; even if they didn’t live strictly as chevaliers, well—they’d feel loyalty to the Martial Alliance. It’s not a company, but the concept fits.

The passers were already selected; we were going to spend the Alliance’s money and officers’ time.

If we’re going to do it anyway—why not do it right?

Qing turned it over for a moment.

“Say—then, how about we...”