Chapter 224: Hidden Dragon Tournament

Now that the Murim Conference was underway, the members of the Half-Sword Twin Saber Society began to gather stealthily at the Mucheon Pavilion.

Ximen Qing was the inaugural president, though the group had formed without her knowledge, and she'd somehow ended up saddled with the presidency.

"But if it's the Half-Sword Twin Saber Society, isn't that just a Sword and Saber Society? Why does it sound like the saber user yielded?" Namgung Shinjae asked.

"Well, anyone hearing it for the first time would assume the sword comes first, right? We didn't want to have to explain the embarrassing name, so we agreed to put Half-Sword first," Gongson Yoye explained.

"What, you're embarrassed by the Half-Sword Twin Saber Society?" Qing asked.

The members nodded gravely.

The name had been chosen in a fit of pique while mocking each other's weapons, so of course, it was embarrassing.

Besides, it was childish for martial artists to belittle each other's weapons in the first place.

In any case, the Murim Conference didn't hold much appeal for Qing's friends.

There was the world's most handsome man (no friends) who found gatherings uncomfortable, and Peng Choryeo (no friends) who wasn't one of the Successors and thus had nothing particular to do.

Add to that the Sword Lunatic (no, Sword Brother) who'd rather swing his sword than hang around the Murim Conference, Gongson Yoye who simply had no friends, and Tang Nanah who also had no friends and a nasty temper besides.

Come to think of it, Qing mused, looking at them one by one, it seemed every member had some flaw that left them friendless.

So, it must be fate that I, with my many friends, take the presidency and lead these loners.

Only Zhuge Ihyeon was hard to find.

He naturally loved being around people, a hyper-extroverted muscle man whose pleasure came from poking his nose into everything and broadening his horizons (i.e., picking up all sorts of gossip).

So, they sparred together, ate together, and though they bathed separately, they roamed around enjoying the night sights in a group.

Four days flew by like that, and soon dawned the day of the Hidden Dragon Tournament's round of thirty-two.

For the past four days, Qing had continuously worn the Hemp Robe, which felt like it was made of knife blades.

By night, her skin would be red and swollen from the chafing, but her superhumanly durable hide wasn't actually damaged.

Just as Cheon Yuhak had said, once she got used to it, the pain wasn't bothersome—or rather, this was exactly what 'getting used to it' meant.

Repeating the same agony didn't decrease the absolute amount of pain.

But simply because she was accustomed to it, even though it hurt just as much, she now felt a sense of relief, almost coolness.

Like the pleasure of pressing your fingernail into a mosquito bite, carving characters like 口, 十, or 田? Or the bladder-tingling coolness when carefully scratching beside a scab?

However, for the tournament, she had to wear the Divine Maiden Sect uniform indicating her affiliation. After trying it on without the silk cuffs, Qing reached a conclusion.

Damn it, this is driving me crazy. Really.

She had hoped it might have gotten better, but having only worn coarse clothes lately, she naturally wasn't used to the soft, rustling sensation.

But she didn't grimace like before.

She was already in the process of overcoming the pain of the rough clothes; dealing with soft clothes was just a matter of spending time later to get used to them.

In the end, Qing wrapped her limbs in silk cuffs and used a wide sash to hold the uniform tightly against her torso.

And god, the stuffiness was overwhelming!

It felt like her entire body was wrapped in the peculiar oppressiveness of wearing gloves.

Unable to feel the wind that usually flowed around her, she felt almost suffocated.

Well, what can you do?

All she could do was reaffirm her resolve to get accustomed to the sensation quickly.

The Hidden Dragon Tournament was a series of upsets.

The win rate for Wanderer-types—or more accurately, unaffiliated martial artists—wasn't just high, it was insane.

Among the previous qualifiers, thirteen were unaffiliated. Ten of them made it to the round of thirty-two. That meant ten out of the thirty-two main competitors were unaffiliated.

Thanks to this, rumor had it that more than a few spectators had lost heavily. Some got angry, took out loans to bet more, and ended up utterly ruined with massive debt.

But the sale of Victory Tokens was a legal business recognized by national law and permitted by the Murim Alliance. All responsibility lay with the impure souls who recklessly tried to make a quick fortune.

Since the profits were distributed transparently (minus operating costs), someone's tears of blood surely meant someone else was lining their pockets.

And the upsets continued. In the matches preceding Qing's, three unaffiliated martial artists advanced to the round of sixteen, the main stage of the tournament proper.

There was Young Master Ma who used the Ground Fist Technique, Young Master Wang who used a chair, and... some other guy. Who knows.

Watching the matches, Qing frowned deeply.

What the hell? What have they been up to these past four days? Why are they becoming worse people?

Compared to four days ago, the evil karma of the unaffiliated martial artists had increased by about thirty points each.

Could their evil karma scores rise so similarly unless they were banding together and doing bad things collectively?

But there was no news of such activities, and surely they couldn't have run rampant here in Kaifeng, overflowing with absolute top-tier experts.

By the time Qing moved to the waiting room, the sound of someone huffing forcefully through their nose was already loud.

Qing responded politely.

"Yes, I've been well too. Have you been well, Young Lady Murong?"

"Hmph. Why are you acting so friendly?"

Still, she hadn't initiated the hostility this time. It seemed she had taken Qing's advice to heart—that constantly harping on other people's attributes only highlighted her own lack.

After turning her head away sulkily, she suddenly flashed a wicked smile and spoke—

"Well, Young Lady, did you know that if you win this round, you'll face me next? How about you don't lose to some pointless opponent and come face me with your skills? Since there's some bad blood between us, it would be boring otherwise. Let's each make a wager."

"Young Lady Murong. I hold no lingering resentment. As the old saying goes, only the one who got hit can't sleep."

"...?"

Murong Juhui stared blankly for a moment.

Didn't the saying go the other way around?

But the proverb, "The one who hit may not sleep soundly, but the one who got hit sleeps with legs outstretched," was a strange saying whose existence was a mystery.

In reality, the one who hit quickly forgets and lives happily, while only the one who got hit feels wronged and can't sleep.

"Ha. I still have resentment, so I must make a bet. If Young Lady Ximen loses, you will remove that veil in front of the spectators and reveal your face. How about it?"

"Hm. Why should I?"

"What, aren't you confident you'll win?"

Qing couldn't suppress a smirk.

What kind of childish provocation is this?

"Fine. If that will put Young Lady Murong's mind at ease, I'll gladly accept. Are we settled?"

Qing had nothing to lose anyway.

Winning was enough.

And even if—one in a billion chance—a lightning bolt suddenly struck from the sky and she lost, she just had to show her face. So what?

At this, the other contestants in the waiting room gave Murong Juhui disapproving looks.

"There you go again! Always making me look like the bad guy...! Just you wait! I'll crush that arrogant nose of yours!"

Murong Juhui stormed off, fuming, leaving the waiting room first.

Clearly uncomfortable staying, she probably intended to wait near the stage.

Unfortunately, the intense battle between two prideful women wagering on Qing's veil never came to pass.

Murong Juhui, having vented all her anger at Qing, unbelievably lost her round-of-thirty-two match to an unaffiliated fighter.

Qing was simply dumbfounded.

What the hell? She tells me to come up, then goes down herself.

What is this? Is this that 'honorable death' thing or whatever?

And then, it was Qing's turn.

Having been here once, she navigated the familiar passages within the vessel, soared elegantly once more, and landed gracefully on the stage. The audience greeted her with loud cheers.

-The Ugly Sword Maiden is here!
-Boo! Ugly wench! Take off that veil!
-I bet on you this time, wench, so do well! If you're ugly, you'd better be good with a sword!

Her superhuman hearing picked out a few voices from the crowd; that was the gist.

Hm. Maybe I should just throw the match?

But what good would fighting the audience do?

Qing simply shrugged it off and faced her opponent.

Evil karma: ninety-six points. Wow. Cutting it close.

Just four more points and he'd be execution-worthy.

Oblivious to Qing's grim thoughts, her opponent performed a respectful fist-palm salute.

"Doraeman of Shenzhen. I have learned the Danyang Dao technique."

"Ximen Qing, disciple of the Divine Maiden Sect. I have learned the Divine Maiden Sword, the Yue Maiden Sword, and various other miscellaneous skills."

Truthfully, Qing didn't have a suitable technique for her left hand in this tournament.

No matter how she tried to justify it, openly using White Hand Demonic Arts or the Black Slaying Demonic Palm was problematic, and the Shadowless Divine Hand was a secret.

The Buddha's Palm was too lethal; she could either drastically reduce its power to the level of her occasional 'Buddha's head-flick' or completely obliterate torsos—nothing in between.

Using weapons in both hands was also tricky. His Dao technique was likely a Demonic Art, and she couldn't win using two swords, so twin swords were absolutely out.

Look at Murong Juhui, who had just proposed the challenge.

Famous for her twin swords, she revealed their limitations and lost. If not for the twin swords, she might have faced Qing in the next round.

"Since this maiden's realm is not low, I shall yield the first move. Please, come," Doraeman said.

"I shall not refuse," Qing replied.

Doraeman nodded his thanks and charged—

What the— He's fast!

In the blink of an eye, Doraeman, having drawn back his dao significantly, arrived before her.

Startled, Qing bent her knees using the Iron Plate Bridge technique. Her body horizontal, Whoosh! With a vicious sound, the blunt dao blade sliced through the air above her.

From that position, Qing kicked off the ground, flipped backward into a handstand, rotated twice, and landed back on her feet on the stage.

Immediately, he was close again, this time his dao flashing high towards the sky.

Qing stepped through the Nine Palaces positions, her form multiplying into six before vanishing completely, reappearing nine steps behind Doraeman, her back turned.

In front of the Kaifeng Prefecture building, watching from the wooden pagoda, the absolute experts of the martial world shot up and exclaimed in unison.

"Wave-Treading Subtle Steps!"

Ignoring them, Qing reflected internally.

Wow, seriously fast.

Among the fighters I've faced so far, he's one of the fastest with a sword—no, a swift saber.

So this is why they say the martial arts world is vast...

She had internally underestimated him because he was unaffiliated, but after yielding the first move, she almost suffered a major embarrassment.

Qing spun around quickly. At the same time, Doraeman, momentarily bewildered after losing sight of her, located her again.

The characteristic of Wave-Treading Subtle Steps—appearing with one's back to the enemy—was truly specialized only for evasion and escape.

Doraeman's martial art was utterly aggressive.

Based on high speed, the trajectory of the dao swung with both hands held a destructive power that seemed capable of shattering bones even with a blunt tournament blade.

But now she knew his speed.

It was a fierce assault combining rapid speed and precise strikes, but its limitation was its lack of finesse, making the trajectory predictable.

However, countering such a powerful strike head-on wasn't easy, even if foreseen. In terms of martial depth, it was quite profound.

But Qing wasn't one to back down from a strength-versus-strength clash.

Gripping her sword with both hands, Qing swung upwards in a grand arc, as if sweeping the floor. Clang! With the sound of colliding steel, Doraeman was flung into the air.

Truthfully, upward slashes from below are rare in both swordsmanship and saber techniques.

Moving against the natural order, from earth towards heaven, requires several times more strength than the opposite.

However, if one possessed that extra strength, there was no technique more powerful.

By the simple principle of action and reaction in a vertical clash, Qing transferred the force into the ground, while Doraeman lost his balance and floated upwards.

Okay, that's one exchange. I need to let ten moves pass.

Qing, utterly obedient to her Master's words, didn't pursue her airborne opponent and calmly lowered her sword.

Doraeman landed, took two steps back to regain his balance, and despite being mid-match, raised his left hand to his chest in a gesture of thanks.

Qing felt a little confused.

What's this? Why is he being polite? He doesn't seem like a bad guy.

But then, why the state of his evil karma?

Doraeman looked considerably more relaxed.

He had realized the gap between him and Qing with that single exchange.

Yet, understanding her intention to give him a chance to display his skills, he suppressed his competitive spirit and adopted an attitude of simply showing everything he had.

Then, Doraeman's dao style changed.

Gone was the fierce attack born from speed. Now, it was a heavy dao technique, planting his feet firmly, thrusting forward with straightforward, weighty power.

Yet, threatening variations were mixed in, momentarily increasing speed by half-steps. But Qing, no longer underestimating her opponent, dealt with them without difficulty.

Thus, ten exchanges passed, leading to the eleventh.

Blade Energy, imbued with extreme Yang properties, swung in a large semi-circle as if cleaving the sun. Then, Qing's sword tip was suddenly touching Doraeman's chin.