Chapter 382: I Told You to Go Have Some Fun, Didn’t I? (12)

If some hopelessly idle noble had ever gathered data on how martial artists tended to fight, they would’ve discovered a fascinating fact: over half of those fights broke out in inns.

Curiously enough, restaurants rarely saw such violence, and tea houses operated under some unspoken agreement of politeness.

Which, really, made perfect sense.

Restaurants had price tags.

Customers tended to carry heavy coin pouches.

Starting trouble with one of them could easily backfire—hard.

And tea houses?

People who had the luxury of sipping tea quietly weren’t the sort to go pulling weapons.

But inns? Anyone walked in.

In the martial world, inns were the kind of places even dogs and cows wandered into.

And fights between martial artists were usually about asserting superiority.

“I’m this superior, and you dare not treat me with more reverence? Not give me special treatment?”

So when some big-shot from the Black-Rank Combat Unit of the Grand Apostolic Allied Coalition of Martial Scoundrels told a lowly song-selling woman to “spread your legs and receive my superior seed”—

Naturally, that woman was expected to obey.

But she hadn’t wanted to.

So a fight had broken out.

From the perspective of the unorthodox faction, it had probably seemed like righteous indignation.

“I’m a member of the Black-Rank Combat Unit of the Grand Apostolic Allied Coalition of Martial Scoundrels!”

“The Grand Apostolic Allied Coalition of Martial Scoundrels!”

“Or the Martial Apostolic Alliance, for short!”

One thing about those unorthodox bastards—they rarely acted alone, unless they were outcasts.

In this case, a few Black Bear Unit members had been enjoying a little “friendly” group dinner (everyone splitting the cost), and when teasing a pretty wandering singer hadn’t gone their way, they’d surrounded her and pulled weapons, shouting a threat that’d make the heavens weep: “Strip. Now.”

CRASH. A table, reinforced with layers of thick wood, splintered.

From behind the curtain by the waist-high kitchen counter, the inn’s young waiter let out a sorrowful scream as he tried to explain the situation.

Qing, who had been leaning nearby to listen, nodded.

“Bastards deserve to die.”

“Exactly! Enemies of womanhood! Degenerate lechers like that ought to be castrated, every last one of them!”

Unfortunately, by the time Qing had entered the inn, the so-called “lowly” wandering singer had already been beating the living hell out of the Martial Apostolic Alliance fighters—like she was pounding dried pollack.

Hmm. Qing had hoped to see some blood today.

But judging by the beating the woman had been handing out, it hadn’t looked like her turn yet.

Still, it had been a rare chance to watch a skilled practitioner of leg-based martial arts in action.

So she had settled in, watching with interest as the waiter filled her in.

The veterans of the martial world always repeated one phrase: beware of children, women, and the elderly.

They had said it so often that people practically grew calluses on their ears from hearing it. Every single senior martial artist she had ever met had made sure to say it at least once—often enough that it echoed in her dreams.

Why?

Because no matter how often they said it, no one listened.

A beautiful wandering singer?

That meant she had the confidence to survive in the martial world on her looks alone.

But men—

Men didn’t think with their brains. They thought with their balls.

And since they had two balls but only one brain, it had always been a two-to-one situation. And men simply could not defy the orders of their testicles.

And when they misjudged?

This happened:

The woman grabbed a man by the hair and slammed his head into a table.

A Martial Apostolic Alliance fighter charged in with a dagger,

But with a sudden whoosh, her full skirt had flared like flower petals.

It had been a leg technique known as the Skirt-Shadow Step, characterized by hiding one’s movements within a wide, fluttering skirt.

“Damn it! I’ll kill you!”

Finally, the martial thugs had drawn their swords.

And then—

The edge of the floating skirt flicked upward, a foot slipped through, and it grazed the underside of one man’s chin—shhk.

Wait. Shhk?

That had been a slicing sound, not a thud.

Qing had squinted—not because she’d been disturbed, but to focus.

Then she’d seen it: a silver gleam at the tip of the woman’s shoe.

She had blades attached to her footwear.

The man she’d struck had rolled across the floor clutching his neck.

Another fighter had rushed at her from behind.

She had spun like a top, her skirt fluttering in three distinct layers—top, middle, and bottom—completely hiding her figure.

And every time the skirt bloomed wide—

A scream.

Another man, bleeding, fell to the ground.

One of them had swung a curved saber right through the swirling “flower.”

But the silk had flapped uselessly.

She had already dropped low to the ground.

Then came the follow-up—her foot had launched upward between the man’s legs,

And with it, the blade at the tip.

“Ooof.” “Ughhh.” “Nice move!”

Qing and the waiter had both grimaced at the brutal scene, unable to stop a wince from slipping out.

Only Unaram, immune to pain and totally ignorant of restraint, had shouted in wild excitement.

As if inspired by her cheer, the singer had suddenly turned, winked at them, kissed her fingers, and blown it their way.

To flirt in the middle of a fight—

Now that had been confidence.

“Die!!”

One more martial thug had leapt in from somewhere, raising a pair of willow-leaf sabers high over his head and swinging for her.

The blades had cut through the air like whips, tracing long arcs toward the back of her skull—

CLANG!!

The sound had been like a hammer on steel.

As if time had rewound, the sabers had suddenly snapped backward.

The thin blades had bent like reeds, vibrating violently and letting out a strange, metallic whine.

The thug had struggled to hold onto them, flailing wildly like a man doing a dance no man should ever do.

It had been the exact dance Qing’s hometown had mockingly called “Zero-Two.”

“Ugh.”

Qing’s face had twisted in disgust at the spectacle.

Then Qing had grabbed a full handful of chopsticks in her left hand and started flicking them one by one.

They had cut through the air like steel darts, hissing with lethal precision.

“A hidden weapon! That veiled woman—she’s a master—!”

One thug had tried to yell, only to have a blade-tipped shoe drive into his temple and twist on the way out.

Between the naturally skilled singer and Qing—whose deadly chopstick technique bordered on divine—the tables had turned fast.

“I will assist!”

Unaram had unsheathed her sword and slashed waves of energy into the fray.

The Black-Rank Combat Unit, drinking without their superior officers, hadn’t lasted long.

The final thug had collapsed.

He hadn’t even gone down in a proper fight—he had tried to flee, exposing his back,

Only to fall dead with a chopstick buried in his neck.

When the fight had ended, the wandering singer had walked over to Qing and bowed.

She had crossed her palms, touched her mouth, and lowered her head with knees bent in a sukbae—

The second-most respectful greeting a woman could give.

For the record, the highest level of courtesy—sky-ritual bow—was reserved only for emperors, parents, teachers, and the heavens during ancestral rites.

So really, this had been as respectful as it got.

“Nayangyeol of the Pavilion of Thousand Blossoms offers a deep greeting to the senior martial lady. If I may... could I ask your esteemed name and title?”

Qing had immediately realized the misunderstanding.

She had blocked a saber carrying energy with chopsticks,

Made a man dance himself into humiliation,

And looked completely composed behind a face veil.

It was no wonder the singer had taken her for a legendary elder in the martial world.

And since female masters were often older, seeing Qing’s concealed face had probably confirmed it.

“No need to be so formal. I’m Seomun Qing of the Sect of Divine Maidens.”

“Seomun Qing? The Celestial Flower Sword?”

“That’s what they call me, though I don’t think I deserve it.”

For some reason, the woman’s expression had soured.

“I see... the Celestial Flower Sword. Well—shall we move to a different room? I’d been looking for you anyway.”

****

The Pavilion of Thousand Blossoms—or Cheonhwa Hall—meant a manor of a thousand flowers.

It was a mystical martial sect composed entirely of women.

In terms of fame, it ranked second only to Mount Emei.

Mount Emei held first place, the Pavilion of Thousand Blossoms held second, and the Sect of Divine Maidens trailed in third.

Once they were seated in a room, Nayangyeol let out a deep sigh.

“The truth is... I came to Namnyeong to meet the Celestial Flower Sword.”

“You came for me?”

Nayangyeol hesitated, then forced herself to speak.

“In our Pavilion, we’ve long referred to the senior disciple of each generation as Celestial Blossom.

Our first senior was named Ground Blossom.

Our third generation’s senior was called Human Blossom.”

“Okay... and?”

“Even if the characters are written differently, blossom (花) and splendor (華) are essentially the same in meaning.

So your nickname—Celestial Flower Sword—has become a bit... awkward for us.

Of course, we know it’s not a title you gave yourself, but... I hope you understand what I mean?”

“Ah.”

Qing let out a troubled sound.

Yeah, that did make sense.

If a female master started calling herself “Priestess Sword” or “Enchantress Divine Maiden,”

What would the Sect of Divine Maidens even be supposed to do?

If someone used Mount Hua Demon Sword with no relation to Mount Hua,

Or Wudang Gale Blade with zero Wudang ties,

Or if some swordsman just claimed the name Shaolin Divine Sword—

That would cause a real mess.

Of course, no one in their right mind would dare challenge one of the Nine Great Sects.

But for smaller, less renowned sects—

If a non-affiliated woman used a name that overlapped with theirs, it really just meant one thing:

Being less famous and less powerful was the crime.

“I guess I’ll need to change my nickname, then.

But... how does one even go about doing that?”

Nayangyeol shook her head.

“Before we go any further... may I see your face?”

“Huh?”

“Our Pavilion Mistress instructed me to confirm whether you're truly worthy of bearing the name Celestial Flower.

If the rumors are true—if you are indeed The Most Beautiful Flower Among Flowers—

then our Pavilion will gladly honor you as the most beautiful woman under heaven.”

“That’s... outrageous!”

Unaram, who had been listening in, exploded in outrage.

They’d dressed it up as admiration, saying they’d “gladly offer praise,”

But the truth was obvious—if Qing wasn’t the most beautiful woman alive, they wouldn’t acknowledge the nickname and would demand she change it.

But who, exactly, decided who the most beautiful woman was?

To Han Chinese, big breasts were symbols of stupidity, lewdness, and wickedness (though that didn’t mean they didn’t like them).

To the Tibetans, large breasts were the single most important standard of female beauty.

Even the Five Flowers of the Martial World made that clear.

Some people liked the fierce, dirty-eyed look of someone like Hyeonhwa.

Others—like Qing herself—preferred the calm, sickly beauty of someone like Seolhwa.

There were innocent-looking types like Poison Flower, with a deceptively cute face.

Or the feisty, spirited cuteness of Sword Flower.

And then there were the traditionally pretty, balanced beauties like Lily Blossom.

Beauty wasn’t something that could be scored or calculated.

So how could the Pavilion of Thousand Blossoms claim the right to judge?

All that talk about admiration was just sugarcoating.

What they really meant was: “Change your nickname.”

That was exactly why Unaram had gotten so worked up.

“Hey, Naram. But honestly, the Pavilion’s not totally wrong.

If I went around calling myself the Sword Queen of Rooster Forest, imagine how annoyed the actual Rooster Forest Sword Sect would be.”

“Hmph...! Sister!

This humble Unaram is moved! Deeply moved! Utterly amazed!

A true hero possesses such generosity! Such a wide heart! Such a massive chest!

A chest vast enough to embrace all under heaven!”

Hmm.

Qing understood that Unaram meant no harm...

But still, she really needed to stop circling back to breasts in every sentence.

It wasn’t like she was obsessed, like Nana.

Though... now that she thought about it, she kind of missed Nana.

Maybe she’d swing through Sichuan on the way back home.

“Thank you for understanding.

Honestly, I was embarrassed just to bring it up.

We’ll report the issue to the Martial Alliance and ask for a ruling—”

Nayangyeol, sounding awkward and sorry, had been trying to explain—

But then, she suddenly went silent.

Her eyes widened like she’d gone dizzy... drunk... or just witnessed something unbelievable.

The side effect of seeing Qing’s face, now unveiled.

“Miss Na?”

Snapping back to herself with a quiet gasp, Nayangyeol looked at Qing, then slowly nodded.

“By the authority granted to me by our Pavilion Mistress...

I hereby recognize your right to bear the title Most Beautiful Flower Among Flowers.

Truly... if Seomun Qing is not Celestial Flower,

then what flower in this world could possibly be?”

“...Huh.”

Wait—what?

Problem solved just like that?

Qing blinked in disbelief, caught off guard.

Then Nayangyeol looked her dead in the eye with a strangely resolute expression.

“Miss Seomun...

There’s one more thing I’d like to ask.

Please don’t misunderstand. Just... hear me out.”

“What is it?”

Nayangyeol answered calmly.

“Please become my partner.

I’ve fallen for you.”