Chapter 222: Hidden Dragon Tournament

Cheon Yuhak had urgent business today and vanished in a flash, leaving Qing wondering what to do next. With her characteristic lack of hesitation, she asked around and found her way to a large fabric store.

She had been completely swayed by Cheon Yuhak’s argument: what was the point of bundling herself up if it was unbearable anyway? Since she was out already, she thought she might find some suitable clothing.

"What kind of clothing are you looking for?" the clerk asked.

"I'm looking to buy some cotton cloth. What's the highest thread count you have? The very finest," Qing replied.

"Ah, you've come to the right place," the clerk said. "We just received a rare shipment of 180-count, six-ply fabric. Would you like to see it?"

The '180' referred to the fineness of the thread—the higher the number, the thinner the thread. 'Six-ply' meant six strands were twisted together.

In essence, the clerk was describing cotton cloth woven from yarn made of six strands of extremely fine 180-count thread.

"Ooh. You have something like that? May I see it?" Qing asked.

"Of course," the clerk responded.

Just hearing about 180-count, six-ply cotton suggested an extraordinary softness.

Actually touching the fabric the clerk presented confirmed it; it shimmered delicately, as soft as silk.

Which also made it a rather ambiguous product.

If it felt like silk, one might as well just buy silk.

"It's nice," Qing said. "How much is it? How much do you have?"

The clerk's face lit up.

A big spender!

Qing, who had little concept of saving money, bought up all the expensive cotton cloth and then wandered among the ready-made clothes displayed in the shop.

"Ma'am, is there a particular style you're looking for?" the clerk inquired.

"Just… browsing," Qing said.

Translated, "just browsing" meant, I'll look myself, so please don't bother me.

After the clerk retreated with a disappointed look, Qing scanned the garments.

But having never cared much about clothes, how would she know? The thin garments seemed far too revealing, yet her Master's words kept nagging at her.

Wavering like that, a particular piece of clothing suddenly caught her eye.

Oh. What's that?

It was clearly a stiff hemp robe.

"Excuse me, that hemp robe..." Qing began.

The clerk, who had been watching the big spender with lingering regret, rushed over eagerly.

"Heh heh, it's an unusual piece, isn't it?"

The clerk explained that a lady from a high-ranking official's house had ordered it. It was originally meant to be mourning attire, but the lady remarried before the garment was even finished.

Since it was woven from the highest quality hemp, they couldn't just discard it. So, they dyed it and put it on display.

"What do you think?" the clerk continued. "Isn't the black color subtle and lovely? Even on starched hemp, there isn't a single uneven spot or imperfection – that shows the skill of our dyeing process. If you happen to have any clothes that need dyeing..."

Listening to the explanation, Qing realized it wasn't really for sale, but more like an advertisement showcasing their dyeing skills.

In the Central Plains, 'black' didn't mean the pitch-black common in Qing's homeland.

It referred to a deep grey, the color modern mothers might call 'dark mouse grey'.

It wasn't completely black, giving a brighter impression, yet being fundamentally dark, it couldn't be too light either.

Thus, properly dyed black gave a truly refined and elegant impression.

The color was indeed lovely, but that wasn't all. A thought suddenly struck Qing.

Her eyes gleaming, Qing asked, "That one, how much is it?"

Mourning clothes, by their very origin, are meant to be uncomfortable. When one loses a parent, master, or even an undeserving ruler, there's no way to outwardly prove the grief and discomfort within.

Therefore, mourning clothes were designed to flaunt to the world that, even if the heart's state was unknowable, the body was undeniably uncomfortable.

However, because this robe was dyed so exquisitely, it didn't feel like mourning attire at all.

But the discomfort was real.

"Ughhh..."

Qing's reasoning was simple.

If feeling good was the problem, wouldn't getting used to feeling bad solve it?

If the gentle caress of silk was too much, maybe wearing hemp that scraped against her skin would work?

So, with a pounding heart, she tried it on immediately, and—wow, this was... aghhh!

Hemp fiber is naturally coarse and stiff. When starched, rubbed, and treated repeatedly, the stiffness might lessen, but tiny hook-like barbs form on the threads, making it even rougher.

On top of that, this robe had been dyed.

Instead of dyeing the thread before weaving, the finished garment was dyed and treated with chemicals to preserve the color, inevitably making it coarser.

The result felt less like fabric and more like a scrubbing sponge—no, rougher than a scrubbing sponge, closer to what they called sandpaper in her homeland, used for smoothing wood.

She, with skin already sensitive like her fingertips, was essentially wearing clothes made of sandpaper.

Every movement felt like her skin was being flayed, it stung so much.

This might be... too extreme, right from the start.

Still, sharp pain was preferable.

With her skin screaming every time she moved, she felt paradoxically alert and clear-headed.

Besides, the robe was suitable for training.

Hemp clothing is naturally breathable, allowing air to pass through easily.

Furthermore, the stiff jeogori hung straight down from her shoulders, creating a gap about two fists wide above her stomach where air could freely circulate.

Since it was gradually getting warmer, the coolness factor was at least appreciable.

Ugh-hyuck.

She just needed to get used to the uncomfortable, stinging, abrasive sensation.

According to Cheon Yuhak, there wasn't really a specific training method for the skill of reading space through skin sensitivity.

It was supposedly the result of an accumulation of unconsciously gathered experiences.

Living for a year or two with air flowing against the skin would naturally lead to an understanding of what was behind based on the airflow, opening up one's perception in all directions.

The only way to significantly shorten this period was to run around stark naked. So, the best approach was to wear clothes allowing maximum airflow and visit as many diverse places as possible.

Experiencing strong winds, weak winds, complex locations, crowded places, enclosed spaces, and so on—accumulating as many varied experiences as possible to expand her senses would greatly reduce the time needed.

Of course, that was still a distant goal for Qing.

When she couldn't even get used to her current senses, how could she possibly pay attention to airflow or anything else?

As Qing wandered the night streets of Kaifeng, her thoughts went something like this:

I think my skin's completely chafed off. Am I bleeding? I should just give up and go to sleep.

But despite grimacing, she managed to keep walking until late at night, somehow enduring it.

Which naturally made Qing feel rather proud.

Wow, another fulfilling day.

Almost every moment of my life is training, she thought.

This kind of misplaced pride was closer to self-consolation, certainly not a healthy mindset.

Still, it was far better than simply playing, eating, drinking, and avoiding the issue altogether. So, perhaps it could be considered an improvement.

The Grand Council was a gathering where the high-ranking figures of the Murim Alliance convened to discuss the future direction and major projects of the Alliance.

Although technically anyone could attend the Grand Council during the Murim Conference, the truly significant decisions were made in these exclusive meetings among themselves.

In this gathering that resembled a meeting of shadowy figures, Ximen Surin argued forcefully.

"How long are we going to tolerate those Black Store bastards? Their depravity worsens by the day! Is it acceptable for the Orthodox Faction Murim Alliance, walkers of the Righteous Path, to stand idly by?"

As an expert from two generations prior, Ximen Surin's speech was blunt and unrestrained.

Perhaps because of this, the expressions of those listening were not bright.

"But, Senior," one person countered. "The Black Store isn't solely composed of villains, is it? How many common folk depend on it for their livelihood? How can we act rashly and stir up turmoil?"

While the Black Store was a hotbed for all sorts of dirty dealings, it was also a lifeline for itinerant merchants without shops of their own.

Emboldened by this, others chimed in.

Many Orthodox martial artists were also customers of the Black Store; eliminating it would cause difficulties when needing to avoid the authorities' eyes or procure rare items urgently.

Weren't they cooperative when villains went too far or when dealing with public enemies of the martial world? In fact, their tight grip on the underworld figures made them easier to track.

The final point was made by Great Monk Muhak.

"Venerable Master Ximen, then, what should be done about the Black Store? They are not individuals who will stop simply because they are told to. We cannot lock them in repentance caves for re-education, nor can we simply massacre them all."

"Hmph," Ximen Surin scoffed. "And why can't we massacre those dregs? If you're going to spout that tiresome nonsense about the precept against killing—"

"Then how far would the massacre extend?" Great Monk Muhak interrupted. "The ya shang and flesh merchants? What about their scope? Those who supply directly? Are the middlemen who only handle distribution guilty of a capital crime? What about the fences? Should we execute robbers who harm people but spare pickpockets who merely steal?"

Ximen Surin frowned deeply.

This damn meddling monk is so slippery.

His excessively polite tone, used with everyone, was grating. He was a true sly old fox.

Honestly, when punishing evildoers, what need was there to establish criteria for who lives and who dies?

If they were seen, they died. If they were lucky, they might live. They might stick to their ways and eventually meet a blade, or, just maybe, have a change of heart and step into the light.

The Murim Alliance wasn't some assembly of deities who had reached the heavens of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors. Even if they decided on criteria, enforcement wouldn't be absolute.

So how could she possibly answer when asked to state the criteria here?

It was truly a cowardly way of arguing.

All she could do was sigh deeply and issue a warning.

"Avoiding unpleasant tasks will eventually lead to great disaster," Ximen Surin said. "They grow more reckless by the day; they're bound to cause a major incident eventually. When that happens, it will be too late. Tsk. That disgrace then—forget the disgrace, how will you manage public sentiment?"

"If they cross the line, we punish them," someone replied. "Why would public sentiment blame us for depravity not ordered by the Orthodox Murim?"

The conclusion was rejection.

"Tsk."

Ximen Surin clicked her tongue.

This was why she hated coming to the Murim Conference.

Regardless, the Grand Council continued.

"Then the next agenda item is the matter raised by Daoist Master Cheonbija," the moderator announced. "Regarding the reopening of the Uijeong Martial Hall..."

On the second day of the Murim Conference, the schedule for the Hidden Dragon Tournament included matches for Group Two and Group Four.

Qing took a seat in the spectator stands, following Ximen Surin's suggestion to observe the Shaolin disciple Wolbong's match.

The idea was to study the martial arts of Shaolin, hailed as the Greatest Under Heaven, in preparation for the semi-finals.

To her right sat Zhuge Ihyeon, serving as commentator, and to her left sat Tang Nanah, fulfilling the role of friend.

And perched firmly on her lap was Zhuge Xiang, responsible for cuteness.

Qing felt she had an enviable setup: a left-hand protector, a right-hand protector, and a pet.

Except...

Ugh.

Zhuge Xiang, still a child by any standard, didn't seem particularly entertained by the tournament.

Sitting on Qing's lap, she fidgeted constantly, swinging her feet and squirming. Each movement caused the sandpaper-like fabric of Qing's robe to grate harshly against her skin.

As Qing let out a pained groan, Zhuge Xiang arched backward, tilting her head up to ask, "Gaga big-sis, am I heavy? Ooh, it's soft."

Zhuge Xiang rocked back and forth, bumping the top of her head against Qing's chest.

Qing's heart skipped a beat. What is this adorable creature? How can she be so cute?

"No, no. Xiang-ie is light," Qing said. "But, are you bored?"

"Ung... A little. Yaaawn," Zhuge Xiang replied, letting out a big yawn.

Qing brightened at this, pulling Zhuge Xiang closer, encouraging her to lean back.

Yes. Sleeping would be much better.

Your fidgeting is chafing me!

"Then just take a nap," Qing suggested. "Lean back comfortably."

"I'm not sleepy though..." Zhuge Xiang murmured.

Despite her words, Zhuge Xiang drifted off shortly after.

Children tend to fall asleep quickly.

Feeling much more comfortable, Qing watched the match, then tilted her head curiously.

"That was Young Expert Wang, wasn't it?" she asked Zhuge Ihyeon. "Was he always like that?"

"His chair is different, isn't it?" Zhuge Ihyeon replied. "I heard his broke during the last preliminary match, so he had to get a new one. Apparently, the original chair was a specially crafted weapon strong against blades, so it was naturally weak against the dulled swords and sabers used for tournaments."

"No, not that..." Qing said.

She looked at Young Expert Wang, the martial artist who used a chair.

She remembered him because of his unusual weapon; his Good Karma score had been in the single digits, maybe three or four. What did he do to suddenly become such a bad guy? she wondered.