Chapter 387: Let’s Have Some Real Fun (3)

The unorthodox martial artists once again strode confidently through the marketplace.

There were three entire combat squads deployed—and the number of third-rate Yoga Flame Hall thugs marching with them was nearly equal to that.

There are far too many differences between orthodox sects and unorthodox factions to list them all.

But one of the most striking differences? The orthodox sects select their disciples with care, while the unorthodox will take in anything with limbs. (Sometimes even without.)

For the orthodox, leaking martial techniques is a serious risk.

And the number of sects that were obliterated after taking in some twisted bastard is high enough that people could turn it into a drinking game: “Guess which righteous sect got wrecked by its degenerate disciple.”

That’s why orthodox sects operate like families.

They build deep loyalties with the mindset of “I am my sect; the sect is me.”

They focus on taking in good-hearted or talented individuals, investing the sect’s resources into nurturing a small number of disciples into top-level masters.

But the unorthodox?

To them, low-level warriors aren’t disciples—they’re the lucky ones getting to wear the name of the faction.

Just being fed and housed is considered generous. Most unorthodox factions charge their grunts for room and board.

The martial arts taught? Barely-refined versions of third-rate techniques you could buy off a street vendor. Second-rate knockoffs at best.

If you want to learn something decent, you’d better prove yourself in battle...

Or suck up to a higher-up, kiss their ass, and offer some tribute.

So you’d think it’s a battle between elite specialists versus a rabble, but unorthodox factions aren’t exactly lacking in top-tier fighters.

If the orthodox have stronger spines, the unorthodox have ten more limbs to flail around with.

Isn’t that a disadvantage for the orthodox?

Not quite. The sects that have survived long enough to become institutions? Almost all orthodox.

Why? Because unorthodox factions always implode the moment they grow too big.

They split up, the leadership changes hands, and none of them ever last long.

That’s why, when the unorthodox and the orthodox clash—say, over control of a regional market—the orthodox usually lose the battle.

But in the aftermath, when there are casualties? The unorthodox side begins to unravel.

Power balances collapse, leadership changes, and even the head of the faction might find their seat slipping out from under them.

So unless they’re absolutely confident, the unorthodox don’t start fights.

What’s the point of conquering territory if you're going to hand it off to someone else later? Better to preen and strut with what you already control.

But this time, the Unorthodox Alliance had gone on the offensive.

They sent three whole combat squads—two white-tier units and one black-tier.

That alone was enough force to crush the Rooster Forest Sword Sect.

And to fill out the ranks, a swarm of third-rate grunts from the Yoga Flame Hall—meant to soak up damage and maybe, if lucky, land a single hit before dying.

Because of this, the righteous warriors gathered in the Mount Long Martial Hall stood in a tense, solemn silence.

They had more top-level fighters, yes.

But how many of them would survive?

That—that was the strength of the orthodox.

Even knowing they were outnumbered, even seeing the writing on the wall... they stood their ground.

This was their home. Their families.

Where else would they run?

If they were unorthodox, half the crowd would’ve vanished already.

That’s the unorthodox way—screaming “Abandon ship!” and leaping off the sinking boat.

At the wide-open gates of Mount Long Martial Hall, Sect Leader Kang Suyang and Chief Yohwancheol (Master of Yoga Flame Hall) stood at a distance, sizing each other up.

For some reason, battles in the Central Plains always had to begin with someone flapping their lips.

It was a sacred tradition—passed down since ancient times, from an era even more barbaric than the current one.

This was the pre-battle verbal intimidation ritual.

Oddly enough, it matched the culture of those black-skinned people in the far West—trading rhyming insults in rhythm and tempo. What a coincidence.

But of course, this just proved all modern humans share a common origin.

All of us descend from a primordial race that predates the Big Bang.

From the great Korean Empire of Hwan, whose culture shaped all others.

At least, that’s what the idiots from Qing’s homeland still believe.

Anyway, we mustn’t forget that immortal line:

“Must be nice having three daddies.”

Truly, a stirring speech that could move the hearts of men—spoken right before battle, of course.

Strike first, win first.

Master of Yoga Flame Hall opened his mouth, preparing to speak—

But Kang Suyang beat him to it.

“Ah, the salt merchant has arrived.

Unfortunately, our storerooms are already full. Kindly take your goods elsewhere.”

Devastating.

“Who are you calling a lowly salt merchant!?”

“Oh? So you’re not a salt merchant? What are you then?”

“I am Yohwancheol, master of the grand Yoga Flame Hall!”

“Isn’t Yoga Flame Hall the place that makes salt?

If you’re the master of a salt-making faction, and not a salt merchant... then what are you? I’m honestly curious.”

“I...!”

Yohwancheol couldn’t finish.

Because, well, he was a salt merchant.

“And I never said lowly. There's no such thing as noble or base in this world.

I merely said that between the leader of a three-hundred-year orthodox sect and a common salt peddler...

Well, who am I to judge?”

Which clearly meant: Everyone else already has.

Damn. This guy’s good.

Qing’s ears perked up.

How does he twist the knife so elegantly like that?

If it were her, she’d have gone with something more blunt, like:

“Struck a nerve? You must be used to being lowborn.

Was it your father’s peasant blood or your mother’s? Or both?

Actually—no need to guess. Your kids’ll be nobodies for generations either way.”

Something a bit more... marketplace brute.

And frankly, her version would’ve hurt ten times more.

But crude mockery also damages the speaker’s dignity.

Clearly, being a sect leader wasn’t just about power.

Qing couldn’t pull off that kind of elegance herself.

So she listened, curious and ready to learn.

She was stationed behind enemy lines, hiding across from Mount Long’s front gate, concealed inside a teahouse.

Her role: rear assault team.

Behind the wall, she had scattered caltrops—anyone trying to climb over would get shredded.

Those coming through the gate would be stepping straight into a kill zone.

She’d insisted: she could handle herself.

If a fight broke out, she’d attack from behind.

The orthodox warriors were hesitant—after all, she was technically a guest of the Martial Alliance.

They couldn’t assign her to such a dangerous task.

But what if it wasn’t that dangerous?

“I don’t see the point of exchanging insults like this. We’re going to fight anyway.”

“Ah, but just a bit of tongue-wagging can boost morale. It’s worth it.”

“But they’re losing.”

“Well, maybe that salt merchant had a few prepared lines. You know, the classics—‘Surrender now,’ or ‘Crawl between our legs and we’ll let the rest of you live.’”

“How childish. Men are ridiculous.”

The woman shaking her head was Changye, a peak-level master.

“Tch tch. This whole thing is just a turf war. Of course it’s childish.

Ah, miss—no offense meant to you, of course. Just an old man’s foolish tongue!”

The sudden groveler was Old Man Gyeon, also a peak-level master.

The gaunt, shriveled warrior who kept offering tribute was another peak master.

And the scholarly one always presenting brushes and scrolls? A peak master too—nicknamed the Illiterate Poet.

They were all guest warriors sent by Jayu from the Prince’s estate.

Including Qing, that made five peak-level warriors... and one leech—Nayangyeol.

Frankly, this wasn’t a strike team anymore.

It was a full main force.

“Looks like the salt merchant is backing off. Someone else is stepping forward.

This is gonna drag on. Oh! Miss, you wouldn’t happen to be curious about this preserved plum, would you?”

“Oh wow, thank you. I’ll enjoy it.”

“Ah, no no! I just picked it up on the way here. Haha.”

Qing had just reached out with her long, slender fingers when she paused.

Wait... did he say he picked it up off the street?

“It was still in the jar when I found it, I swear!”

“Where do you even find stuff like this...?”

“That damn gnat’s bringing bribes again...” Changye muttered.

Of course, even if it really had been scraped off the ground, Qing wasn’t the type to turn down food.

But just as she reached out again, a different set of fingers beat her to it—plucking out a round, glossy plum.

The persistent leech—Nayangyeol.

“Here you go, my little bear~ Say ‘ah’~”

“I have hands, you know.”

“But why get your precious fingers dirty? Your hands are national treasures. I must protect them. Ah~”

“Ah.”

“Good girl. Yum! Eek!”

Nayangyeol shrieked as she yanked her hand back.

Qing had chomped down—hard.

“Quit your bullshit.”

“Look! You left bite marks!

You really wanted to mark me that badly?”

“Try that again and I swear I’ll cut off a finger. You’ve got ten, right?”

“That’s fine. Every time I look at the severed stump, my heart will flutter remembering you.”

Qing munched on her sweet plum as she waited for the verbal duel to end.

And then—

“Enough words! Attack!”

The unorthodox grunts screamed and surged forward.

Third-rate trash, all of them.

They couldn’t even scale a single wall properly—clinging and flailing like idiots.

Too scared to charge through the front gate, they crowded the outer wall instead.

The few that got pushed through the gate?

Immediately flattened.

“Hidden weapons! They’re using hidden weapons!”

Hidden weapons, my ass. They were just throwing rocks.

But if a top-tier fighter throws a rock, it might as well be a hidden weapon.

Just like how Qing’s thrown chopsticks can’t be told apart from flying daggers.

“Unwatchable. Let me handle this!”

Now the Black Bear Battalion charged in, shouting their war cries.

They stormed forward—only to start boosting the Yoga Flame grunts up and over the wall.

Thanks to their help, the grunts finally made it over—screaming all the while as they landed on traps and caltrops.

Because of course, defending a martial estate means lining the base of the wall with pain.

Only then did the Black Bear fighters leap over, landing directly on their fallen allies—and raising their weapons.

The best way to deal with obstacles, from ancient times to now?

Shove other people into them first.

“Third wave!”

At Jo Gwangang’s shout—master of defeat and useless tactics—Qing shot up to her feet.

“Here I go!”

She burst from the teahouse with a stomp—BOOM.

Dust exploded from the ground, and her foot left a crater in the floor.

Maybe it was the leftover rush from rescuing Nayangyeol...

But her blood surged instantly, heat flooding her veins.

Grinning wildly, Qing shouted:

“The Moonlight Sword is starving!

So cry out—Hell-Slicing Demon Goat Blade!”

The crimson aura of sword energy swelled around Moonlight Sword No. 10—thick, glowing with the colors of dusk.

One of the unorthodox fighters turned his head at the sound of a woman’s voice—

Just in time for that sword energy to cleave into his neck.

His head spun half a turn more before dropping cleanly to the ground.

Yes. This. This is what I live for.

A beat later, the guest warriors from the Prince’s estate charged in.

Even Nayangyeol—the clingy pretty leech from Heavenly Flower Hall—followed after Qing.

The white-tier units were full of first-rate warriors, handpicked elites.

But even among Qing’s team, Nayangyeol was technically the weakest.

And they’d already handed all the special gear—nets, spiked chains—to the vanguard...

And yet, the battlefield burst into blooming blood in an instant.