Chapter 422: A Battle of Wits and Hearts (7)

If you asked whether a demonic-path villain deserved to have their dignity preserved, eight or nine out of ten Orthodox martial artists would answer, “No.”

But—

What if you asked instead, “Then is it fine for a villain to be beaten to death with a pork trotter?”

They would all hesitate, making troubled faces, and say something along the lines of, “Well... isn’t that going a bit far? Might as well just punch them to death instead—how could you use such a cruel hand?”

Because this is the absolute worst way to kill someone—turning even death into a joke.

To die not by blade, poison, or qi, but beaten to death with a pork trotter—

And not just any victim, but the seasoned master of an entire martial sect?

Then what would you say at the funeral?

How would the survivors vow vengeance?

I will avenge our Sect Master who was slain by a pork trotter!

I will cut down the vile enemy who dared to swing a pork trotter at our lord!

Her cursed pork trotter will shatter before my sword!

That was why Lee Wangchul now faced a crisis within a crisis—an unprecedented, colossal peril no martial artist, no human being, had ever faced before.

(Though perhaps primates had faced it often enough.)

In the face of such a crisis, some collapse in place, while others grit their teeth and force a breakthrough.

Lee Wangchul was, without a doubt, the latter.

As the head of a sect, it was only to be expected.

The moment the gleaming, stripped-clean hind leg bone of the pig reflected in his eyes, his latent potential exploded.

It was the miracle born of a desperate will—not to die by pork trotter.

Even with the wooden floorboards splintering beneath him, his footing unsteady, Lee Wangchul poured every ounce of his strength into a single step—

Yes! Just one step.

In that instant, every muscle in his body, every tendon that pulled those muscles, every bone those tendons anchored, every joint linking those bones—all moved as one toward a single goal.

It was a majestic, harmonious chorus.

Too much is worse than too little.

The large muscles pulling on his bones and joints knew how to yield, using just enough strength to push the smaller muscles forward—granting them the chance to shine.

Thus, nameless minor muscles erupted in unison, exceeding their limits to keep his swaying torso in a precarious balance.

And so, one single step.

Not rushed, simply a very natural retreat of one pace.

Whoosh—the rounded joint of the pork trotter’s shank grazed the tip of his nose as it fell vertically.

So close it could not have been any nearer—not even by a hair—before it slipped past and cut through empty air.

An unremarkable backward step, just a small movement.

But for Lee Wangchul, it was a great leap.

In that moment, a tremendous revelation struck him.

True strength does not come simply from shouting and charging forward.

The great and the small must each fulfill their role; different bones, different muscles—every part must function as one, in perfect unity, for a person to truly control their own body.

The internal energy he had forced himself to hold onto—

That was essence (精), the energy a person possesses.

The techniques he had drilled into muscle memory through repetition—

That was qi (氣), the principle of seizing matter.

The knowledge he believed he understood through formulas and reasoning—

That was spirit (神), the strength held by the mind.

When the boundaries between the three—internal energy, mind, and body’s “knowing”—melt together into one, that is complete unity.

Thus came what martial artists call perfect comprehension—

The harmony of inner power, technique, and understanding.

The State of Harmony—Hwagyeong!

It was the dramatic moment when a martial artist who had transcended himself finally became truly whole.

And just as the revelation came—

The pork trotter returned.

CRACK!

With a single blow, his head split open.

The brain of a great Hwagyeong-level martial artist left the confines of the body and, for the first time in life, came out into the world to enjoy its freedom.

The enlightenment brought by the pork trotter was blown away by that same pork trotter.

This was the very definition of finishing what you start.

“...Huh? What the—why are you just standing there?”

Qing lowered the arm holding the pork trotter, a dazed look on her face.

The red droplets pattering down were not blood clots.

She hadn’t expected him to dodge the surprise strike, yet he’d slid away with uncanny movement.

And then—

He just stood there, staring blankly into the distance with unfocused eyes, as if his mind had gone elsewhere.

He didn’t even raise a guard, so she split his head open in one blow.

Weird. Well, whatever.

A man whose brain had fled his skull wasn’t likely to survive anyway, so there was no way to know—and no point in wondering.

Instead of puzzling over why the enemy sect leader had fallen into some strange self-induced trance, Qing simply raised her voice in triumph.

“I’ve defeated the enemy commander!”

The Killing Moon Sect fighters snapped to their senses.

“Lord Sect Master!”

The young men of the Fire Dragon Squad also snapped to attention.

“Let’s cut down the villainous enemy!”

After all, the reason to shout after downing an enemy commander is obvious—

Just as a person’s head decides life or death, the presence or absence of a leader decides victory or defeat for a group.

With the sect leader’s head smashed, the youthful blood of the Fire Dragon Squad soared—literally to the heavens, as the characters imply.

Gripping their weapons, they charged forward with the liberation of true chivalry, intoxicated by their own righteous valor as they struck down evil.

But the Killing Moon Sect fighters who had just watched their leader’s head burst under a pork trotter were already unnerved by such vicious technique.

A method so cruel it insulted even death itself!

Of course, Qing hadn’t harbored any particularly malicious intent.

She’d just been in a hurry, and it happened to be in her hand.

Whether because the chef was a novice or because they wanted to leave plenty of meat on it for presentation, the bone looked more like a cudgel than a food item.

And the meat stuck to bone is always the tastiest!

Qing had been gnawing it clean until it gleamed, so when things suddenly went south, the long, heavy thing in her hand was perfect to swing.

If she’d left things alone, Pohee and the enemy would’ve gotten into a shouting match over Hee-Sister, and—

In Murim, fights that start with words always end in blood.

So if battle was inevitable, best to smash the leader’s head first.

That way she could protect Hee-Sister and minimize damage to her Orthodox family, the Fire Dragon Squad.

And that’s exactly what happened.

The Killing Moon Sect fighters, without even properly crossing blades, immediately turned and ran.

From the stairwell came the sounds of bodies tumbling, railings snapping, and men screaming as they fell.

The sect’s officers who’d joined the banquet showed the seasoned escape skills of the Demonic Path—

Bursting through sliding doors into an opposite private room, then straight out to the balcony, leaping without hesitation.

The Ocean Pavilion was square, in the Central Plains style, but like ancient primitive structures, the upper floors were narrower than the lower ones.

Thus, the officers could use the layered tiled roofs to drop swiftly to the ground.

Still, they were ruthless enough to throw their junior brothers as bait to cover their own retreat.

Of course—Brothers, your sacrifice will not be forgotten!

In their minds, the scene was already rewritten as, “Elder Brother! I’ll hold them off! Withdraw!”—a glorious act of loyalty.

The biggest casualties here were not Lee Wangchul, killed by pork trotter; not the officers who lost their direct subordinates; not the quick-thinking escapees who got away with broken bones.

Lee Wangchul, at least, had tasted—if only briefly—the great realm of Hwagyeong.

And once you’re dead, you’re not really a victim—at most, a victimized corpse.

The fleeing officers, Wang U among them, had lived.

Even the fighters who’d been battered on the stairs had escaped the Heavenly Flower Sword’s vicious pork trotter strike alive.

But what about the Killing Moon Sect stragglers ransacking other rooms and threatening innocent guests?

With the stairwell blocked and no grasp of the situation, they couldn’t even run before righteous Orthodox youths burst in, roaring, “Die, you Demonic Path scum!” and cutting them down without mercy.

The worst part for them was the reaction of the rescued guests.

“As expected of the Orthodox! We believed in you!”

“Overwhelming gratitude! And more thanks still!”

“Because of you, we avoided grave humiliation!”

“Orthodox forever, we love you! Truly, the Orthodox handle all great matters!”

“We know—Shaolin, the Nine Great Sects, the Martial Alliance!”

It was enough to draw tears of blood from the dying Demonic Path thugs.

Those bastards are no different from us—they live by stabbing people too...

And the thugs who’d been merrily kicking and beating a lone woman met the same fate—

Or worse, really.

Add them to the list of men beaten to death by pork trotter.

“A pack of so-called men ganging up to beat a woman... And you’re always mouthing off about honor. Tch. Are you all right, miss?”

The woman, curled up with her head covered, slowly turned.

With eyes utterly devoid of expression, she looked up from the floor at Qing as though nothing had happened.

“Thank you. May I ask the name of the great hero who has granted Rangrang her life?”

“Seo Mun Qing.”

“Is that Seo Mun Qing, or Seo Mun Qing? In accordance with the common naming customs of the Central Plains, if it is the latter, then are you that Heavenly Flower Sword, Seo Mun Qing?”

“Mm. And what kind of Heavenly Flower Sword is that supposed to be?”

“A monster said to have three, perhaps five heads. But Rangrang has now realized this was a misunderstanding. Not a monster with multiple heads, but a beautiful woman whose bosom is so large it rivals a head’s size—thus the expression ‘three-headed beauty.’ Truly, I have learned something today.”

“That’s an incredibly rude thing to say, you know.”

“My apologies. May I then ask why it displeases you? Is it because you prefer the rarer epithet ‘five-headed one’?”

“Wait—what the hell is a ‘five-headed one’...?”

“By analogy, if one likens great mass to a head, ‘five-headed’ could be deduced to mean the buttocks—specifically, a single cheek. But Rangrang cannot understand this, for the Heavenly Flower Sword’s single cheek is even larger than the volume of a head.”

“...What the hell is wrong with this woman?”

Qing tilted her head.

This woman had clearly been beaten within an inch of her life—

And yet, she looked... fine?

“Anyway, are you sure you’re all right? Nothing hurts?”

“If you are asking whether there is any danger to life, any physical disability, or any hindrance to movement—Rangrang is fine. But the pain is severe.”

...What an odd person.

And the fact that she referred to herself by name made Qing want to keep her distance.

“Miss, can you stand?”

“I can. But Rangrang would prefer to lie here for one more minute—no, two.”

“Ah. Sure. Do as you like.”

With a sour expression, Qing glanced around, then watched as the supposedly Rangrang woman lay there blank-faced—yet crawled across the floor with needless precision, reaching out to drag over a toppled roast pigeon and pull it into her arms.

She began tearing off bits of meat and chewing steadily.

Her face betrayed nothing, so it was impossible to tell if she enjoyed it, but as her jaw moved faster and faster, it seemed she must have liked it.

Above her head, lying sideways, the blue Western numeral “1” was drawn—

And beside it, lying sideways, the Central Plains numeral “one.”

Good deed: exactly one point.

Not a bad person, probably.

At least, anyone who still had the presence of mind to focus on eating couldn’t be too far gone.