Chapter 246: Emergence of the Divine Dragon

Qing shot forward, skimming low across the ground.

Consequently, from Wolbong's perspective, her form seemed to plummet downward for an instant, only to suddenly surge up right before him.

In response, Wolbong planted his feet firmly using the Thousand Catty Weight technique and brought his forearms together, creating an iron wall.

And then, tok.

The sword strike hitting his forearms, which were filled with concentrated energy, felt light as a feather. It clearly wasn't intended as a genuine attack, so Wolbong slowly lowered his arms.

He saw Qing standing quietly, sword held ready.

"Patron, what is the meaning of this?" Wolbong asked.

"Just now, weren't you attempting to block a sword strike with your bare arms?" Qing replied.

"That is correct."

Qing was speechless at his unashamed reply.

Does that even make sense? Trying to block a sword swing with just two forearms? Even if this is just a spar...

It was a sparring sword with a blunted edge; even coated in Sword Energy, a true edge wouldn't form.

If simply coating it with Sword Energy could suddenly create an edge out of nothing, who in the world would bother carrying actual swords? Might as well carry around thin iron rods and emit some kind of super-hot blade only seen in a far-future space age.

Qing's eyes shifted to the referee — who doubled as the announcer.

Her look clearly asked if this situation made any sense.

The referee's expression also turned subtle.

"Ahem, Wolbong," the referee began, "Even if it were a blade clad in Sword Energy, could you have blocked it bare-handed?"

"This humble monk has studied the Vajra Invulnerability Divine Art," Wolbong stated. "My body can no longer be harmed by Sword Energy."

"Vajra Invulnerability Divine Art!" the referee exclaimed.

"If the Patron wishes, you may use a real sword," Wolbong added.

The referee looked at Qing.

"Young Lady, what will you do?" the referee asked. "The monk is quite confident. Will you perhaps use a real sword?"

Hidden behind her veil anyway, Qing furrowed her brow deeply.

Starting the spar and then bringing out a real sword felt pathetic, not to mention, could she even attack freely with one? If she actually cut him, it would just spill blood at the tournament.

Besides, winning a match of bare body versus real sword would inevitably lead to gossip later, wouldn't it? All that talk about being pillars of the Orthodox Murim and upholding righteousness... isn't this just him pettily twisting things to his advantage?

Just when it seemed like they might clash again, the two combatants stood there idly chatting, causing the murmurs in the tournament grounds to grow louder.

Qing shook her head in response.

"It's fine. Let's resume."

And so, the spar resumed.

Qing initially coated her sword with only a slight amount of Sword Energy, testing the waters to see if he was really okay. The gently extended sword strike lacked the subtleties of yielding; it was simply a light swing with reduced force.

Wolbong met it by lightly raising his vertically held forearms.

Thwack. The impact transmitted to her hand felt incredibly solid, like striking a massive boulder.

Qing gradually increased the intensity of her offense.

Wolbong matched her pace, effortlessly blocking each sword strike. It was a display of skill where he blocked even trajectories that seemed certain to slip past with his arms, as if daring her: Cut me if you can.

Only when Qing's Sword Energy grew denser, weaving into distinct bundles of sword threads, did a certain conviction form within her.

Hm. He probably could block a real sword, alright.

But it was still just as tricky.

If I cut his neck, would it actually sever? What about other vital points? His stomach? What if I stab his solar plexus? Ugh, why is this so complicated?

However, Wolbong seemed to believe he had sufficiently demonstrated his defensive prowess. He finally unleashed the initial forms of the Shaolin fist arts, charging with the ferocity of a heavily armored beast.

Fortunately, they were techniques she recognized.

The straight punch was the Big Dipper Array from the Seven Star Fist. She twisted lightly, and his bent arm swung around, the back of his fist aiming for her face.

Qing leaned back, and the fist stopped right before her chin, the movement stirring her veil. That was about as far as a human elbow could rotate.

After deflecting the light combination, it was Qing's turn again. She stomped hard on one of Wolbong's insteps and used the instep of her other foot to push the back of his knee.

What the...? Why isn't he budging?

But the leg planted firmly on the tournament stage didn't buckle. Instead, it was Qing whose balance faltered, her torso tipping over.

Planting one hand on the ground, she performed two large, swallow-like flips. By the time she landed, Wolbong had closed the distance, assumed a Horse Stance, and had both fists chambered tightly at his waist.

Front? Back? No time to think. Wolbong's thighs seemed to swell to twice their size. Boom! Qing stomped the ground, launching herself upward.

Simultaneously, Wolbong's twin fists shot out. Extending from his grounded feet through his torso, his arms struck out. The powerful twin fists grazed narrowly beneath Qing's ascending feet.

Thwack! Qing's knee struck Wolbong's forehead.

My knee! The joint screamed in protest, and Qing swallowed a yelp, using one hand to brace against Wolbong's bristly head as she flipped into a handstand.

Just how hard is he?

Since she was already there, she struck his bluish shaven head with the butt of her sword hilt before using the rebound to fly back and land lightly on the ground.

Wolbong staggered slightly, but that was all.

Qing clicked her tongue in disappointment. Should have hit harder.

She'd held back slightly, worried she might actually crack the monk's skull, but he seemed largely unaffected.

However, the tips of his ears turned faintly red, perhaps from blood rushing to his head. Hm. Is he pissed?

"Hap!"

Wolbong charged forward aggressively once more.

Qing retreated with large strides, unleashing a series of sword strikes. Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak! Although her backward movement prevented her from putting full power into the slashes, his fierce charge, batting away her sword with his fists and arms, was incredibly disconcerting.

The purpose of a weapon is fundamentally to make contact with the opponent's body. Since human flesh cannot withstand a blade, the moment they touch—be it a stab, a slice, or a cut—a dramatic conclusion is reached.

But the Shaolin martial monk thoroughly defied that basic principle.

Seeing this, Qing couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration.

So this is how Shaolin monks, who don't even use weapons, are ranked among the Greatest Under Heaven martial artists... Seriously, who blocks swords with their bare hands?

Hm. Maybe this monk knows White Hand Demonic Arts too?

The suspicion seemed somewhat reasonable.

But in terms of sheer toughness, the Vajra Invulnerability Divine Art was an External Art specifically designed for such resilience, whereas the toughness gained from the White Hand Demonic Arts was more of a side benefit. There was no need to even compare which was stronger.

From Shaolin's Seventy-Two Shaolin Fist Arts, an unending chain of attacks erupted—using arms, fists, the backs of hands, knife-hands, palm heels, and even kicks.

He parried her sword with his bare hands, seamlessly blending offense and defense. Qing could only retreat, flinging out her sword with no other recourse.

In an instant, more than ten exchanges flew by, and Qing had retreated over thirty steps.

But no matter how nimble someone moving backward might be, they could never be faster than someone moving forward.

Moreover, Shaolin's Footwork specialized in that kind of straightforward, powerful advance. The distance gradually closed until, at one moment, Wolbong planted his foot right in front of Qing, landing inside her wide stance.

Ah. Something big is coming. Qing sensed it instantly.

Just as she expected, one palm shot towards her eyes while the fist pulled back tight whistled menacingly as it thrust forward—piercing straight through Qing's abdomen and out her back.

Since no blood spurted across the tournament grounds, it was clear he had pierced the afterimage Qing left behind using her emergency escape—the movement technique derived from Wave-Treading Subtle Steps fused with formation principles.

Like a scene from a legend where Ximen Qing herself had used teleportation, Qing reappeared coolly eight steps behind Wolbong, facing away, and quickly spun around.

Wolbong, having suddenly lost his target, wasn't flustered, having already witnessed Qing's Wave-Treading Subtle Steps from afar. He immediately located her and aimed his fist.

Then, as he turned, he took a large step, rotating his body completely straight while thrusting his fist—

A chilling premonition washed over Qing, and she desperately drew upon her True Qi.

Pushing her output to the limit, her Sword Energy flared, making the blade seem to swell to five times its size in an instant. The sword, now like a great saber, descended with the force to cleave mountains. KWAANG!! With a deafening roar, Qing's Sword Energy shattered like an unfolding fan, scattering violently behind her.

Qing was thrown backward.

Even her hand, hardened by the White Hand Demonic Arts, throbbed with a tearing pain.

It was Shaolin's famous divine art, the Hundred Pace Divine Fist.

Whoa, if that had connected properly, I'd be flat on my back right now.

If she gave him too much distance, brutally powerful attacks like that would come flying.

Both of Wolbong's arms were outstretched, his bent legs now perfectly straight, and the heel of his rear foot was slightly lifted off the ground.

Qing also subtly shifted her feet, gauging the angle.

The moment Wolbong's body snapped around, Qing stomped the tournament stage hard enough to crack it and shot forward.

Fwoosh! The aftershock of the Hundred Pace Divine Fist brushed past her ear. Even though she had dodged with plenty of room to spare, the residual force was still strong enough to tickle her earlobe.

Qing's Movement Technique carved sharp, lightning-like trajectories, zig-zagging left and right as she advanced.

It was a lightning-fast movement utterly different from the elegant and leisurely Yue Maiden Footwork—it was the peerless lightness skill that defined the Divine Thief, Phantom Step.

However, since it wasn't a lightness skill she readily displayed, no one recognized it.

Qing's Sword Energy painted afterimages, striking at Wolbong like a bolt of lightning mirroring her movements.

But the moment it connected, Wolbong's body vanished—using the Iron Plate Bridge technique that Qing herself often employed. It could even be called the original, as it also stemmed from Shaolin training.

Springing up like a coil, Wolbong curled his fingers and thrust downward with a palm heel strike. A palm heel strike uses the hardest part of the palm near the wrist, like bone, delivering powerful blows with minimal loss of force.

Wolbong's palm heel strike drove into Qing's stomach.

Oof! Even though she'd desperately tensed her abs, her breath caught with a strangled gasp—Keoheuk!—as the air was forced out.

Because it wasn't a solid blow carrying rotational force from his footwork, but rather a makeshift attack using only the snap of his wrist from an awkward stance, the power was negligible. That was why she could withstand it.

Qing abruptly slammed her sword point-down into the tournament stage floor and clenched her fist, swinging an uppercut at Wolbong's jaw. Wolbong hadn't anticipated a swordmaster simply abandoning her weapon, and his head snapped to the side.

Truth be told, Qing herself had mastered about thirty of Shaolin's Seventy-Two Shaolin Fist Arts. Most of the bare-handed martial arts manuals commonly sold in markets were just degraded versions of them. And she had maxed out all those cheap, white-bordered miscellaneous martial arts as soon as she acquired them, since they barely cost any Training Points anyway.

Qing channeled the throbbing resentment from her bruised abs into a powerful strike aimed at the staggering Wolbong's solar plexus. However, Wolbong's palm intercepted it, blocking the path to his vital point.

But Qing possessed monstrous strength. Wolbong ended up striking his own solar plexus with the back of his hand, forcing a sharp Keok! as the air rushed from his lungs.

Qing's eyes flashed.

Retracting her fist, she leaned forward, channeling the force from her stomping foot into a driving elbow strike.

It was a picture-perfect execution of a technique reminiscent of an Outer Gate Pillar Strike.

Thwack!! Another blow landed squarely on Wolbong's solar plexus, forcing out what little breath he had left. Qing immediately spun the opposite way, intending to follow up by ramming her shoulder into him using the technique known as Iron Mountain Lean, but—

"Ack!"

Trying to use such a common technique—especially against a master who had properly learned the orthodox version from childhood—was perhaps too complacent.

As payment for her complacency, Qing took a hard blow to her side. Snatching her sword from where it was embedded in the stage, she quickly created distance.

"Oww. That hurts..."

Qing winced, rubbing her stomach and side.

Wolbong, too, was panting, trying to regulate his breathing after taking two solid hits to the solar plexus.

Qing was pondering how she could possibly beat him into submission when...

Suddenly, Wolbong raised his hand in the formal Half Palm salute.

"This humble monk apologizes. I gravely underestimated you, Patron. There was indeed a reason my Mentor instructed me to give my all."

"So, you weren't giving your all until now, is that right?" Qing asked.

"Yes," Wolbong replied. "Should you sustain an injury, I urge you to concede without delay."

Then, a golden energy seemed to shimmer around his fist before it began to glow with a dazzling luminescence.

-Ooh! It's Fist Force!
-Transcendent Realm! A Transcendent Realm martial artist!

A roar erupted from the spectators, who had been watching the spar with bated breath.

For Qing, however, this was decidedly bad news.