Chapter 247: Emergence of the Divine Dragon

Qing tasted the essence of martial arts hailed as the World's Shaolin and thought:

Ugh. Filthy. So filthy.

He's completely specialized for duels.

No matter how much I beat him with a sword, if he just insists it doesn't work, what can I do?

This is a totally tilted playing field... no, it's gone beyond tilted, it's like he's holed up behind castle walls...

If it were a real sword, she was confident she could at least flay his skin raw and bloody, even if she couldn't cut the muscle. Peel off the skin, poke around a bit, and any Shaolin monk would be crying tears and snot from the pain.

But the Murim Conference was an event for fostering camaraderie, not a place to start a cycle of hatred by finding new enemies.

So, even if it felt dirty...

She had to find a way.

Qing briefly reviewed the fight.

Distance. Right, the distance is tricky.

Beyond just martial arts, in the broader scope of 'fighting,' the importance of distance needed no emphasis; it was the fight itself.

Truthfully, a greatsword packs more punch than a sword, and a glaive even more so than a greatsword. The longer the weapon, the more you could unilaterally beat down an opponent from beyond their reach.

Of course, long weapons required larger movements, making them vulnerable if the opponent closed the distance.

However, assuming a fight between two perfectly matched individuals, the one with the longer weapon would likely inflict a fatal wound before the other could get close. Such was the destructive power of larger, longer weapons.

But in an era where the government held absolute control, carrying such 'deadly weapons' was illegal for individuals, so the mainstream choice for martial artists became the sword.

Reasonably long yet reasonably light, it struck the best balance, covering both moderate and short distances adequately. Thus, the sword was called the King of Ten Thousand Weapons and was the most preferred weapon among martial artists.

Other options included the saber, similar to a sword but single-edged, or short spears that could be carried in pairs and combined into a long spear or even a glaive.

Or there were staffs, like the gon and bong, which boasted innovative functional beauty, combining weapon and walking stick.

Speaking of functional beauty, the axe (bu) couldn't be left out, always ready to procure firewood (green wood) with its tree-chopping function.

However, pitiful individuals lacking the funds for a weapon, or perhaps those slightly less intelligent, chose not to use weapons.

These were the types I’d call idiots, Qing thought internally.

It was the same logic famous fighters from Qing's homeland unanimously preached: if you see someone with a knife, don't fight, run.

For these idiots, the only distance was extreme close-quarters, close enough to share breaths.

And then they had the gall to spout nonsense like, "In super close combat, no weapon user can beat an unarmed martial artist."

They made impossible assumptions, ignoring the fact that they couldn't even breach the opponent's weapon range to get close in the first place.

But Shaolin had brilliantly overcome this.

Even if not reaching the level of the Vajra Invulnerability Divine Art, they cultivated resistance to weapons through all sorts of External Arts like Iron Shirt, Bell Covering Art, Bamboo Leaf Hand, Golden Bell Shield, Meteor Palm, Iron Knee Art, Friction Art, and even techniques with names that would make Qing tilt her head, like Nail-Pulling Art (Baljeonggong: pulling nails) and Cactus Palm.

Training these basics from childhood was why Shaolin's Martial Monks inevitably aged prematurely on the outside.

Then, suddenly, Qing had a great realization.

Ah. I see.

This wasn't about subtleties like suppleness versus rigidity.

The problem was trying to have a serious martial arts conversation with such an inferior unarmed fighter in the first place.

What kind of martial art is that crap anyway?

Qing smoothly sheathed her sword.

Wolbong asked, looking puzzled, "Disciple? Are you intending to forfeit?"

"Nope," Qing replied. "I'm just going to get serious now."

Simultaneously, Qing struck a pose. A peculiar stance, one fist lightly clenched forward, the other near her solar plexus, body angled towards the opponent.

Right. Might as well.

Since he's messing around in this sacred duel, why should I take him seriously?

"Alright, here I come," Qing announced.

With that, Qing shot forward.

From close range, she took three quick steps—tak, tak, tak—and threw a powerful punch. A straight, honest fist with no frills. Wolbong met it with his own straight punch.

CRACK! An incredible roar, unbelievable for a clash of mere fists.

Fist Force, even at its peak, provided crushing power like steel armor, not sharp cutting energy.

And since Qing's forearms possessed a partial Vajra Invulnerability, a sort of lower-grade equivalent, she could handle mere Fist Force, which wasn't Sword Force.

Ow. Damn, that hurts.

Still, the pain was unavoidable.

But Wolbong's expression turned serious; he hadn't anticipated this astonishing raw strength.

Qing threw another punch with her aching fist.

Wolbong's forearm deflected Qing's fist outward while his other arm swung wide. A fist surged towards her side. Qing opened her palm and caught Wolbong's punch.

Then it devolved into a brawl.

Fists deflected fists, fists collided, sometimes knife-hands met, fingers brushed past, elbows cut through the air, and knees rose and crossed.

Beyond the Seventy-Two Shaolin Fist Arts, Wolbong was a master proficient in the most powerful fist techniques like the Luohan Divine Fist and the White Lotus Divine Fist.

It was incomparable to Qing's crude imitation, merely copying the form she'd seen.

Yet, surprisingly, their fight was neck-and-neck, a clash of dragon and tiger, evenly matched, running parallel.

Because Qing was a woman.

Truthfully, Wolbong also harbored dissatisfaction with the unfairness of the duel. The areas one could strike a female martial artist were restricted.

At best, arms, legs, shoulders—non-fatal, sturdy areas—and the abdomen. Even targeting the abdomen meant above the navel.

Furthermore, Qing possessed absolute defense over the most vital point on the torso: the solar plexus.

In contrast, Qing aimed freely at Wolbong's chin, around his eyes—even his head.

Wolbong's frustration was mounting.

Qing's hands, which had been unleashing only hard strikes in straight lines and sharp angles, suddenly traced soft, bizarre curves and grabbed Wolbong's forearms.

Qing could lift two hundred jin (120kg ≈ 265lbs) with one hand. And that was without momentum, purely arm strength.

With both hands, four hundred jin.

But using her whole body's muscles, she could draw out even more—overwhelming strength befitting a Female Overlord, the female version of Xiang Yu, who was said to have plucked mountains and thrown them.

Wolbong's body lifted. CRASH!! With a tremendous roar, Wolbong's body, tracing a wide semicircle, collided violently with the stage floor.

Even amidst the fall, he executed a breakfall to lessen the impact, a testament to Shaolin's grueling training ingrained in his body.

But Qing's hands still held Wolbong's wrists firmly.

Wolbong flew. It was just a short flight, rising and falling in a semicircle, but it was a miracle astonishing enough to make the entire audience gape.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! He was repeatedly slammed down, the heavy impacts threatening to break the stage. The audience, terrified he might die, couldn't look away.

Qing was fully intent on swinging Wolbong around. Suddenly, Energy Aura flared from Wolbong's fist, striking his own captured wrist like a hammer blow.

"Ack!" Qing cried out as the Fist Force struck her.

One hit was enough to know. A few more, and her bones wouldn't just be damaged; they'd break and shatter.

Wolbong's fist coiled again. Just before the trajectory of the Fist Force reached her, Qing released his arm.

"Kuh."

Wolbong, having struck his own wrist with his Fist Force, let out a short groan and rapidly distanced himself. But only for a moment. Using the Thousand Catty Weight technique, he regained his balance, landed neatly, and brought his palms together.

"Hoo. Hoo."

Qing caught her breath.

Swinging a person struggling desperately not to be swung required a completely different level of strength than swinging an iron ball of the same weight.

Just then, Wolbong's fist shot out in a surprise attack. Qing flinched, about to stomp her foot, when—

Qing flew a zhang(3.3m ≈ 10.8ft ) and tumbled. Ugh, why, why the chest again! This bastard! Now he's not even pretending, aiming for someone's chest in a duel!

Then, a shadow fell over her.

Faced with the rare sight of a bald head glittering against the sun, Qing hastily rolled away. It was a technique called the Lazy Donkey Roll; Qing, through countless practice sessions on her bed, was a master roller.

A fierce fist, like a hawk snatching prey, punched through the stage floor where she had been. Even amidst the dizzying rotation, Qing didn't miss that brief moment, and a chill ran down her spine.

Wasn't this a duel? Isn't that a straight-up killing move?

Using her rolling momentum, Qing quickly got back to her feet and saw the bloodshot eyes of Wolbong. It was the look of someone truly pissed off.

"Hooo." Wolbong breathed out. "It seems this humble monk underestimated you, Disciple. I shall no longer hold back and will do my utmost."

"Ha." Qing scoffed, dumbfounded.

What the hell? Why is HE the one getting angry?

The one subjected to mockery in this sacred duel wasn't Wolbong; it was Qing.

Until now, the only real Shaolin technique he'd shown was that single warning shot of the Hundred Pace Divine Fist. He'd hidden his Fist Force and completely refrained from using genuine Shaolin divine arts.

There was a limit to looking down on someone. That was why Qing, enraged, had resorted to crudely pushing him with sheer strength instead of proper martial arts.

True to his word of not holding back, Wolbong now stomped forward first. Instantly, his form multiplied, surging towards her.

Qing focused her vision, preparing to grab the incoming attack and throw him again.

Suddenly, five steps away, he thrust out a palm. A huge palm shadow formed of Energy Aura rushed towards her.

It was the Vajra Hand of the Great Strength Vajra Palm.

Qing urgently employed her Footwork. Her form instantly split into eight phantoms: one soared like a crane with arms raised / one gracefully spun backward / one dashed low across the ground / one rolled far away using leg power / one ran nimbly on all fours like a beast / one performed swift somersaults using the rebound from an Iron Plate Bridge stance / one slowly walked away from the spot / one shot forward like a cannonball. Each scattered in eight directions, then abruptly vanished four steps away.

As a natural follow-up to the emergency escape of the Wave-Treading Subtle Steps, Qing spun around sharply.

And there again were Wolbong's glittering bald heads, approaching with afterimages.

All manner of ultimate techniques poured from Wolbong's hands.

The Luohan Divine Fist left afterimages like six arms striking; the White Lotus Divine Fist carried the destructive power said to shatter cliffs; the Great Golden Dragon Mountain Hand where Energy Aura coiled around his knife-hand to meet the foe; and four bullets of Energy Aura arcing through the air—a divine art called the Finger Flicking Divine Skill.

Qing frantically swung her arms, deflecting, blocking, redirecting, while also rolling, crawling, jumping, and flying to evade.

What the— What is this? What, what's going on?

Only now did Qing painfully realize the truth behind the fame of "All martial arts under Heaven originate from Shaolin."

But Qing's eyes remained fierce.

So what if he's Transcendent Realm? How much deeper can his realm be? I'm the one with infinite internal energy, pumping it out without running dry.

Spamming Energy Aura attacks like that, can he really hold out? Even if he chows down on Shaolin elixirs, like Great Restoration Pills, instead of rice?

Then, THWACK!

A solid hit to the outside of her knee sent Qing stumbling badly. This, bastard! Fighting dirty with kicks!

Of course, this was the Shapeless Kick, the pinnacle among kicking techniques.

In Qing's tilting vision, she saw a fist lined up next to the bald head. She hastily raised her forearm, and just as she did—CRACK!!

Qing's form split again.

Qing reappeared, instantly stomped the ground to gain distance, landed backward, and spat out a mouthful of blood. Tweh!

She'd blocked the fist aimed at her cheek, but ended up slapping herself hard with her own palm. The inside of her cheek was torn, filling her mouth with the metallic taste of blood.

"Alright, you hit me...!"

Eyes spinning with fury, Qing charged forward with all her might. Spectators blinked, and in that instant, she closed four zhang(13.32m≈43.7ft), startling them into forcing their eyes open.

Wolbong stood his ground, quietly drawing back his fist.

The preparatory stance for the Hundred Pace Divine Fist.

Just as he stepped forward with the imposing presence of Mount Tai and thrust out his fist—

Qing, having reached point-blank range, thrust out her palm as if refusing to lose.

The moment fist and palm collided.

DEEEENG—!!!

Suddenly, the sound of a giant temple bell shook heaven and earth. A fierce explosion of True Qi sent a violent gust reaching even the spectator stands, whipping past them fiercely.

And fluttering in the harsh wind, floating through the sky, was a single Veil.

(T/N GODD DAMNN 🤩😝😫🙏 I savoured this fight and read slowly. Played this music on loop 👌👌 A Masterpiece. Wow favourite chapter so far)