I Am This Murim’s Crazy Bitch
Chapter 391: Let’s Have Some Real Fun (7)
Munjeong’s sword was a famed blade.
It even had a splendid name: Willow Wave Sword, so called because its movements flowed like the branches of a willow tree caught in surf.
With the prestige of being Fuzhou’s Greatest Sword, wielding a half-baked blade would only tarnish that image.
So, one either used a worthless chunk of iron barely shaped into a sword—because then people would say even a cheap weapon became a masterpiece in the hands of a true master—
Or one used a brilliant, gleaming sword worthy of the title. Anything less, and one couldn’t maintain the dignity of “Fuzhou’s Greatest Sword.”
(Not Greatest Man, mind you. Greatest Sword.)
Of course, when it comes to real experts, a rugged, unadorned sword like the Clear Steel Sword tends to look much cooler.
Absolutely slick.
But fights between masters are decided in a single moment.
So it was with the clash between Qing and Munjeong.
If he had known about the demonic martial art of the Minor Western Witch, he might have been able to defend against it. But he didn’t. He left an opening.
Took a full hit to the danjeon with that forbidden art, which twisted his qi and blood, disrupted his internal flow, shattered his defensive reflex—and left his skull split wide by a hand chop.
This is why in battles between masters, a single mistake means defeat—and death. So masters must use the finest weapons.
That old saying about how a true craftsman doesn’t blame their tools?
That only applies when you’re making ordinary results.
If you want to create a masterpiece, you need tools to match—meaning the better the craftsman, the pickier they must be about what they use.
And now, one such masterpiece, the Willow Wave Sword—a true sword among swords, forged with a master’s blood, sweat, and tears—was meeting its new owner.
“Wow. Look at that shine.”
Qing lifted the sword and gave it a gentle shake.
The blade swayed like a supple willow branch. She gripped the hilt and applied strength.
With her acute and sensitive awareness, she could practically hear the sword screaming.
AAAHHH! Stop! Mercy! Bones! My spine’s snapping! Save the sword! Why is this bitch touching a sacred blade?! It’s breaking! IT’S BREAKINGGGG!
Only when the sword bent to its very limit, nearly breaking, did it finally straighten again.
Truly, it had met a disgusting new master.
Qing, looking pleased, gripped the newly dubbed Moonlight Sword (No. 11) and knelt to pull the scabbard from Munjeong’s corpse.
“No way!! Elder! Did you really take down Munjeong?! You’re incredible!!”
As Qing separated the scabbard from the body, she rummaged inside the robe and asked,
“Eh? Was he famous?”
“Of course! When you say Munjeong, you say Fuzhou’s Greatest Sword! When you say Fuzhou’s Greatest Sword, it’s Munjeong! A famed master of swordsmanship!”
“Hm. That so? Oh—Golden Wound Medicine. Knew it.”
The sword had seemed impressive, so she figured the spoils might be good too. Even the case looked expensive.
She’d used almost all the Golden Wound Medicine Tang Nana had given her on Yeon Pa; the rest she’d just licked from the side.
“He’s that big of a deal!! A sword master approaching the Huajing stage! Practically there!”
“But he wasn’t at Huajing. And let’s be honest—when do Unorthodox bastards not exaggerate? I bet he’s been going around claiming he’s ‘almost Huajing’ for, what, ten years?”
At inns or restaurants, there was always some Unorthodox jackass boasting about reaching peak stage, saying, “I can see it just over the hill!”
In fact, this was Munjeong’s eighth year of being “almost Huajing,” so Qing’s guess wasn’t far off.
“But still! Munjeong was late-stage peak-tier! While you, Elder, are just early-stage peak! That’s a major achievement! Doesn’t that just scream achievement?!”
Qing had heard Unaram’s exaggerations enough to not even flinch anymore.
But her shouting still echoed far and wide.
“The Heavenly Flame Sword took down Fuzhou’s Greatest Sword?”
“Wasn’t that right in the middle of enemy territory? That doesn’t even sound real.”
“She was already a badass when she was just at peak-tier and took down the Flame Demon General. And she’s the master of a divine technique too.”
The whispers spread, raising Qing’s fame like wildfire.
For reference, Fuzhou was the provincial capital of Fujian—a city bigger than Namnyeong and Rooster Forest_+ combined.
So “Fuzhou’s Greatest Sword” wasn’t some neighborhood chump.
Sure, Fuzhou’s top three martial artists were all wanderers, and Munjeong was only ranked fourth—but hey, she never claimed he was Fuzhou’s Greatest Man. Just Greatest Sword.
Technically not a lie.
Not long after, the imperial forces swarmed in and arrested everyone who wasn’t labeled a “respectable martial instructor.” The battle ended there.
It was a clear-cut victory.
****
Yohwancheol, the Master of Yoga Flame Hall, muttered in disbelief.
“...Why the hell is the government involved...?”
He was shackled behind his back.
The rope connected to his cuffs wrapped around the neck of the person behind him—linked together in two neat lines.
If one person tried to bolt, the rope would yank forward and backward, tightening around their throats.
And the one directly behind Yohwancheol was none other than Jo Gwangang, the commander of the Black Bear Battalion.
“I have no idea either,” Jo Gwangang said. “They even mobilized the military...”
Surprisingly, even in this primitive and savage Central Plains, some form of tripartite separation of power existed.
But it wasn’t because of any noble belief that concentrating too much power would harm the people.
It was a ruling-class convenience—divide the underlings so they bicker amongst themselves, making it easier for the Emperor to reign.
Of course, usually the three factions swore brotherhood and colluded to devour everything anyway, so commoners always suffered regardless.
Still, by structure:
The constables serve under the Inspector-General.
The soldiers belong to the Military Commander.
To get both on the same field, the Provincial Administrator’s authority must be invoked.
And in Namnyeong, there’s only one person who can pull off that trinity.
Prince Su Si.
“Master Yohwancheol,” Jo Gwangang asked carefully, “you didn’t offend the Prince, did you?”
“As if! Why would someone running the Flame Hall offend royalty?”
“Then how come it’s only us Unorthodox bastards getting arrested like this?”
“...Maybe it is because of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Prince from Sichuan is staying with the Rooster Forest Sword Sect. And where are those bastards right now?”
“...Gone?”
“Exactly. When you’ve got an important guest like Iron Fist Baekryeon (White Lotus), and suddenly all your people disappear—how do you think he’d feel?”
“Then they should’ve arrested the Rooster Forest bastards, not us—”
“Who do you think gets to complain? You think the homeowner’s going to call himself out? He’ll whine to His Highness, and what—His Highness is going to say, ‘Oh, I understand how martial society works’?”
Jo Gwangang’s face darkened.
“So basically, this is my fault now? And you’re only telling me this after it all went to hell?”
His tone sharpened. Yohwancheol flinched slightly.
Still, you don’t go antagonizing the Unorthodox Alliance’s leadership—especially not now.
“I wasn’t blaming the Division Head. I was just... analyzing the situation. That’s all.”
“Hmph. Still... maybe it’s for the better.”
“...What?”
“We might’ve taken some losses in the fight anyway. But now we’re just in jail—how long are they really going to keep us? It might actually be safer inside. Better to wait it out than be stuck outside when things go sideways.”
“Ohhh... I see where you’re going.”
“They say a man’s revenge is never late. Soon as I’m out, I’ll call in a top-tier combat unit from the Alliance and—”
WHAP.
The arrest rope slapped Jo Gwangang across the mouth.
“You bastards! You think prisoners get to chatter like this?! You mocking the executioner now?!”
Jo Gwangang’s expression collapsed.
Of course it did—some nobody dared to slap a top-tier martial master across the face.
He could snap the rope around his neck or the wood cuffs on his arms anytime if he wanted.
But a moment of venting would get him labeled a traitor for life.
“You! Widen those eyes at me again and I’ll— What’s your answer?!”
“...My apologies.”
“What, is that a mosquito crawling?! Louder!”
WHAP! The arrogant constable slapped Jo Gwangang’s cheek with the rope again.
Jo Gwangang’s blood pressure skyrocketed.
Another rope-slap flew in.
It didn’t hurt—but the humiliation was unbearable.
“I should petition the general for your immediate execution—”
“NO! I apologize!” Jo Gwangang shouted, startled.
“Again!”
“I apologize!”
“Tch. So what if you’re some big-shot martial artist? You’re nothing but a parasite leeching off the people.”
Jo Gwangang clenched his teeth so hard they almost cracked.
It wasn’t just being called a thug—it was ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) being called a parasite by a government dog, the true king of bloodsuckers, that pushed him to the brink.
I’m not letting that bastard go.
Jo Gwangang glared daggers at the constable, memorizing every line of his face.
In front of and behind him, the long snake of bound Unorthodox martial artists continued in silence.
****
A victory banquet was held at Jangsan Martial Hall.
Sure, not everyone had survived the battle—but war was war.
You celebrated the win first. The mourning came after.
“Hero! Will you accept this drink from me?!”
“Heavenly Flame Sword! A cup from me as well!”
“We have to toast the new Greatest Sword of Fuzhou!”
Qing didn’t refuse a single cup offered to her.
Even if she got wasted, what of it?
“Damn, that’s good! All right, everyone get in here! I don’t know about Fuzhou, but tonight I’m claiming the title of Namnyeong’s Number One Boozer! Bring more wine!”
“OOOOOH!!”
But let’s be real—what is alcohol?
Alcohol damages the brain, rots the liver, ruins all five senses—sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch—and breaks the spirit too.
Drinkers like to lie that a glass of wine is good for your health, but in truth, alcohol offers not a single benefit to the human body. It is pure poison, the most toxic of toxins.
So now, Orthodox martial artists—lured by the schemes of the wicked Minor Western Witch—were guzzling poison.
Not sipping. Not drinking.
Chugging.
And one by one, they started to topple, wobbling, groaning, collapsing.
By nightfall, Jangsan Martial Hall had turned into a grotesque battlefield of its own.
Unaram collapsed on his right knee.
Nayanggyeol slumped on her left.
The grand sparring arena in front of the hall was littered with Orthodox warriors sprawled out, twitching, groaning, mouths slack with drunken gibberish.
In the midst of them all, Qing sat alone, quietly sipping from her cup.
Drip. Drip. She poured herself one more.
“Damn. Outta wine already? Aunty! One more bottle of spiced liquor over here!”
But what came wasn’t the aunty—it was an uncle.
And not even this inn’s uncle—someone else’s uncle.
A servant of the Rooster Forest Sword Sect.
“A letter... for the young lady.”
Qing took the red wax-sealed envelope. The servant didn’t leave. He hovered awkwardly.
“Oh, right. Since you came all this way... want a drink? I’d pour you a fresh one, but this was the last bit. Just give me a second.”
She tugged up her sleeve and polished the rim of the cup with loud squeaky-squeaky wipes.
“It’s not that. It’s just... this same kind of love letter keeps coming. Over and over. And the guy—he’s ugly. Really ugly. I thought you should know, Miss.
He’s got no shame, coming after you like that. Just say the word next time he shows up—I’ll slap the shit out of him.”
And just like that, a random errand boy walked himself straight into a beating he hadn’t earned.
A slap for a love confession that never even happened!
But it wasn’t out of rudeness—it was out of devotion.
Behind her veil, Qing smiled softly.
“Aww. There’s someone else sending them. And I’m not interested, so don’t bother.
Here—since you’re already here, pack up all that food over there and take it back to the staff. You can all eat together.”
“Are you sure we can...?”
“Of course. Everyone’s passed out—who’s gonna eat it?
That whole banquet table’s still full. Just wrap it up and return the cloth later, yeah?”
“You even think of us lowborns...”
The servant, half-moved, half-excited, started sweeping up the leftovers.
For the servants of the Rooster Forest Sword Sect, this was divine food gifted by a literal goddess!
The cult of Heavenly Flame Sword worship would continue tomorrow.
After distributing food she didn’t cook, Qing finally opened the letter.
“Waiting in the Lotus Room, Dragon Palace Pavilion.”
She tossed it into the fire pit.
Then she paused, thinking it over.
Should I even go?
It’s not like it’s White Death Poison... or was it Black Death Poison? Whatever. There aren’t that many of the Ten Deadliest Poisons floating around.
And since there’s no time written, it probably means they’re willing to wait all night.
There was no veiled threat in this one either—none of that usual crap about "your secret will be exposed" in the postscript.
Didn’t seem hostile.
Could it be a trap?
Probably not—every Unorthodox bastard just got hauled off. Who’s left to set up a trap?
Plus, how would they even know when I’d read the letter?
Wait. Why wasn’t that old man in the fight?
He could’ve caused massive damage with a single poison burst.
Maybe he got pissed at the Flame Hall bastards and refused to help?
After a moment of thought, Qing made up her mind.
Yeah. Might as well go now.
The fight had just ended in victory, and all of Bo Yeol’s people had been swept up by the authorities, meaning there weren’t any goons left to stall her.
And better to go now than let him prep some sneaky nonsense. Catch him off guard.
Bo Yeol, face solemn, gaze heavy, voice serious, spoke:
“I have decided... to join the Blood Cult.”
...Shit.
Shouldn’t have come.
Qing immediately regretted it.
What, had the old bastard lost his mind?
If you want to defect to the Blood Cult, just go. Why summon me to say it?
What, does he want a damn cheering squad?
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