I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 223: Dormant Dragon Martial Contest (5)

“Hmm. So, who do you think will win?”

“Wang So-hyeop has quite a bit of real combat experience, but could he really compare to a legitimate heir of one of the Nine Great Sects? And if it’s Bung Sa-in the Taoist, even more so.”

Bung Sa-in, whose family name was Bung, was a disciple of the Kunlun Sect. His nickname was Jade Tower Sword. It was said he was so emotionally sensitive that he cried when he was happy, cried when he was sad, and even cried just from seeing someone else in sorrow—hence the nickname.

“Is that so. Excuse me, what’s the current payout?”

“Wang So-hyeop is at seventy-eight jeon and nine pun. Bung Sa-in the Taoist is at one jeon and one pun.”

“Hmm. Then one nyang on Wang So-hyeop, please.”

Qing bet on Wang So-hyeop to win.

Jegal Ihyeon immediately protested.

“Unni, why would you throw away a full nyang on someone who’s clearly going to lose?”

“It’s just for fun, right? Even if I bet on Bung Sa-in the Taoist, the payout would barely be ten mun. But if Wang So-hyeop wins somehow, I could walk away with almost seven nyang.”

“That sounds like a perfect way to go broke.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m betting big...”

And so the match began.

Surprisingly, the martial art using a chair looked quite effective.

It wasn’t an ordinary square chair, but one of those long, horizontal ones used in traditional teahouses for seating two people. The seat edges had been reinforced with iron plates, and the chair legs were loosely wrapped in iron wire.

Wang So-hyeop’s skill in swinging the custom chair this way and that was impeccable—offense and defense were one. He blocked and attacked simultaneously, stabbing with the legs, hooking to trip, shoving to target joints, or smashing with the reinforced corners. It was an all-out assault.

Bung Sa-in kept retreating and barely managed to block—Wang So-hyeop clearly had the upper hand.

“Whoa, he’s actually good?”

“I didn’t expect him to be hiding that level of skill. But the true strength of Kunlun hasn’t shown itself yet. After all, how can you judge victory or defeat without considering that footwork, like a dragon soaring freely through the perilous Kunlun Mountains?”

“Hm. Is it really that amazing...”

The duel only grew fiercer, lasting more than thirty exchanges.

At that, Qing muttered again.

“So when’s this ‘true strength’ supposed to show up?”

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“Ah... I’ve got no excuse.”

Jegal Ihyeon was the most insightful among all muscle-brains, but it seemed even he couldn’t overcome their limitations.

Bung Sa-in’s sword suddenly lodged itself smack in the middle of the chair with a loud thunk! Wang So-hyeop gave a mighty twist, and the sword, unable to withstand the force, snapped clean in two.

“Victory goes to Wang Bang of Namnyeong!”

The crowd’s reactions were split.

If Qing’s own match had been the tournament’s biggest upset, then this was the second—yet another unexpected outcome that had wiped out a good number of large bets.

“I told you, the real trick is betting against the odds. Look at me—just made seven nyang on the spot.”

“Technically, it’s six nyang and eighty-nine mun, Unni.”

“Jegal-ah. You’re pathetic. Accept your defeat.”

Jegal Ihyeon let out a bitter groan.

“Ugh. How can human intellect lose to the wild instincts of a beast?!”

“Be grateful to Hyang. If it weren’t for her, I’d have landed a proper beastly strike on you.”

“Hmph. So you finally realize why I brought Ahyang along—augh!”

“You really do beg for a beating.”

“How can someone strike the crown of the head with such brutal force from this angle...?!”

It was all thanks to the joint training she’d endured from Surin’s style. With her expanded joint range, the angular and sharp strikes of the Ximen Surin school had significantly evolved.

Yeah, I guess all that pain was worth it, at least a little.

Aside from discovering the weaknesses of Minor Evil Cultivation, there were some benefits.

Qing’s beautiful white hands were strong enough to hammer nails without injury, but when it came to joint locks, she had always been defenseless.

Right—next training session is in seven days...

The light in Qing’s eyes quietly faded.

No matter how powerful the technique, that torture-like—no, actual torture—itself was too much. It was all calculated to leave her just short of crippled. Cutting tendons so they barely held, tearing muscles about eighty percent—exquisite, surgical torment.

“Unni?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. What is it?”

“Are you aiming for another upset bet this time?”

While Qing had been slightly trembling, a few more matches had passed. Now it was a duel between a disciple from the Gosan Sect and the unaffiliated martial artist known as Woo So-hyeop.

“Of course. Once a man makes a decision, he should see it through. Excuse me—one nyang on Woo So-hyeop.”

And Jegal Ihyeon lost again.

“You’re so-called ‘Clear and Enlightened Thunder’? You might want to train some beastly courage too. You overthink everything and that’s why you never win.”

“Guh...! This humiliation...!”

As the tournament went on, one thing became clear to Qing—martial artists from the orthodox sects really were quite virtuous.

If they were from a sect or noble martial family, even the lowest ones held some degree of merit, and their evil karma rarely exceeded fifty points.

But the unaffiliated fighters who had passed preliminaries had mid-to-high double-digit evil karma. They hadn’t hit triple digits, but they were getting there.

By Qing’s own standards, they weren’t full-fledged villains, but they were definitely on the “future villain” track.

“Wait, weren’t only orthodox young martial artists supposed to compete? Did they just accept anyone who applied?”

“What are you talking about? Even if they’re unaffiliated, they’re chivalrous heroes well-known in their regions, who’ve passed strict verification.”

“Is that... so?”

Still, for all that “verification,” their karma seemed a bit high?

Of course, it’s not like others could see evil karma in numerical form the way Qing could.

The tournament became a string of upsets.

The unaffiliated martial artists—technically ronin, though the term had a bit of a negative ring—kept winning their matches.

Which meant Jegal Ihyeon kept losing.

And so did all those who bet on safe odds, hoping to make easy money.

The atmosphere inside the stadium began to sag. All around, people looked lost, some practically on the verge of tears.

Before anyone realized, it was time for the Shaolin disciple Wolbong’s match.

“Unni, you’re going to bet against the odds again, aren’t you?”

“Hm. Not sure. Excuse me—”

Qing stopped a passing ticket vendor and asked,

“What’s the current payout?”

“For Wolbong Hwasang, it’s three li—”

“I’m sorry, what? Three li?”

Qing asked again.

Three li meant, in Qing’s hometown terms, a payout multiplier of 1.003—betting ten thousand would earn you a pathetic thirty won.

“It’s eight li,” the vendor corrected. “There’s an eighty-two-to-one payout on Son So-hyeop of Sincheon. Might I suggest this is your moment to turn your life around?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Even upsets had to make some sense. There was no reason to bet on a match that was utterly impossible to win.

There was so little money being placed on Son So-hyeop that the ticket vendor let out a heavy sigh and trudged off, his back looking downright pitiful.

“Hm. The betting odds are completely insane.”

“Well, if his surname is Wol and he’s a Shaolin monk, that means he’s a disciple of Master Muak. Of course the disciple of the world’s greatest martial artist gets that kind of payout. So? Not betting on Son So-hyeop this time?”

“Master said he’s my semifinal opponent. That means he’s guaranteed to make it through. But buying a ticket just to win three li? Doesn’t feel worth it.”

At that, Jegal Ihyeon frowned.

“Unni, how can you have only one mouth and speak two different truths? You said yourself: Once a man makes a decision—Ugh, dammit...!”

Jegal Ihyeon clenched his jaw in frustration.

“Hmph. Still so inexperienced. Didn’t this happen to you in Luoyang, too? I remember saying something similar back then.”

“That was Brother Paeng who got caught off guard. Not me.”

“Still, seems like you didn’t learn a damn thing from it, huh?”

“Grrgh...!”

Jegal Ihyeon made another show of bitter frustration.

At that moment, the Shaolin disciple Wolbong stepped onto the dueling stage, and cheers erupted from all directions.

“—Shaolin, origin of all martial arts!”

“—Disciple of Master Muak!”

“—Heir to the world’s greatest martial artist!”

Qing felt a slow burn of irritation.

What the hell? When I came out, no one said a thing. I win, and they boo me?

That aside, there was noticeably little screeching from the women in the crowd.

Qing figured it was probably due to Wolbong being a monk—meaning, bald.

From the betting odds alone, the outcome had already been decided before the match even began. It looked more like a guided sparring session than a real duel.

Just with his basic skills, he closed the distance with precision, establishing a dominant striking zone.

Then, instead of capitalizing on that advantage, he stepped back again—apparently to give his opponent space to show off some martial arts of their own. As Ximen Surin had advised: Don’t finish it before at least ten exchanges.

So all of Qing’s snooping had been for nothing.

From what she could see, his martial arts moved in a perfectly straight line—simple, direct, unshakable.

“Wow, that’s... incredibly linear.”

“Well, they say Shaolin is the source of all martial arts. If that’s true, then their techniques would be rooted in raw fundamentals. Stronger. Faster. More efficient.”

“But the first martial art was the Moon Maiden Sword. Doesn’t that make it the root? Why is everyone acting like it’s Shaolin?”

“The Moon Maiden Sword only had form. It lacked inner meaning—just empty imitation of technique. So rather than calling it the first martial art, it’s more accurate to say it was the first form of combat movement.”

When the Moon Maiden taught her sword style to the soldiers of Yue, there wasn’t even a proper concept of martial arts or martial techniques in the world.

They had no understanding of biomechanics or energy flow—they could only copy the visible movements by rough approximation.

And even that was enough for the Yue soldiers to gain one-versus-a-hundred strength and dominate their enemies on the battlefield.

That moment in history was the first time anyone had ever used the phrase: sword technique—geombeop, or swordsmanship.

Even now, the Moon Maiden Sword was one of the easiest techniques to obtain.

Of course, the real thing Qing had learned was a completely different, authentic version—unlike the third-rate garbage most people got.

While that thought passed through her mind, Wolbong ended the match cleanly in fifteen exchanges.

Jegal Ihyeon gave his evaluation of the bout.

“I thought we’d finally get to see a proper display of Shaolin martial arts, but it all wrapped up with Six Harmonies Fist. Quite the letdown.”

“Six Harmonies Fist? You mean that thing they sell in street stalls?”

Qing had learned that one too.

She’d picked up lots of techniques just because they were cheap—basic white-scroll martial arts, occasionally bordered in blue. The Six Harmonies Fist was one of the most common among them.

“Well, since it’s Shaolin’s version of the Six Harmonies, it’s obviously far more refined and deep. But still, the reason the basic Six Harmonies became widespread is because it came from Shaolin. The form may not differ all that much.”

In fact, most of those ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) common market scrolls for martial arts techniques were just diluted versions of Shaolin’s 72 Basic Arts. So in the realm of close-quarters combat, the phrase “all martial knowledge comes from Shaolin” was, at least for striking arts, quite accurate.

“Hm. So we didn’t get to see the real stuff after all. Guess I’ll have to fight him myself to really understand.”

Jegal Ihyeon, who had been hoping to see some flashy techniques from Shaolin, was visibly disappointed.

No Arhat Divine Fist, no White Lotus Divine Fist, no Kasaya Demon-Subduing Palm, no Arhat Eighteen Palms, no Giant Strength Vajra Palm, no Hundred Step Divine Fist, no Flicking Finger Divine Technique, no Vajra Finger, no Nine-Stage Devotion Form... He searched and searched, but instead all he got was Six Harmonies Fist?

And so, on day two of the Hidden Dragon Martial Tournament, the round of sixty-four came to a close.

Since the matches weren’t meant to be fought in quick succession—so the participants could actually perform at their best—the schedule was on the relaxed side.

The next round, the round of thirty-two, would take place in four days.

Until then, Qing figured she could keep wearing her painful training robe and sparring nonstop to get used to the heightened sensitivity.

By now, most people had probably finished meeting with their families, so maybe the members of the Half-Sword, Double-Blade Society could finally regroup.