Chapter 672: The New Semester Has Begun (6)

Matasa’s charge was like a protagonist sprinting at a long-time nemesis out of an old tale.

As if to shout, Our fight begins now!

But his stance with the sword was clumsy and riddled with openings; only his momentum was good.

Of course, if momentum alone could win, there’d be no reason in this world to train martial arts so hard.

You’d just self-hypnotize, load yourself with affirmations, become Mr. or Ms. Grit, and win.

TONG TONG TONG—an almost absurdly cute clacking of blades rang out.

It was because Namgung Sinjae was going easy on him.

He wasn’t rejecting the incoming strikes roughly and batting them away; he was receiving them gently.

To Qing, it was a striking scene—

because it told her things were about to get quite boring.

She looked down, vexed, at the spotless white paper on the desk set on the viewing stand.

Mm. Matasa. Nothing of note.

Really, what is there to evaluate in pseudo-martial men who can’t even use sword-qi yet?

It’s like hauling in renowned authorities and asking them to judge the artistry of kindergarten picture diaries.

Suddenly, these sorts of stories—comics and such—came to mind.

It made her wonder just how bored and idle the experts who showed up to “see what this year’s entering class looks like!” must be to come watch the entrance test.

But work is work.

If you came for fun and it’s dull, you can just leave; but if it’s your job, you can’t help it—you have to be diligent.

If she’d come as a spectator, she’d have cut interest ages ago and moved on to pondering seriously what to eat for lunch today.

But today she was here as a judge, so she had to watch...

Then—CHANG!—a loud clash rang, and somehow Matasa’s neck was nestled between Namgung Sinjae’s blades as they crossed in a cruciform.

Matasa swallowed and said, “I’ve lost.”

“Your sword-spirit was fine as well, Master Ma.”

Namgung Sinjae returned a cupped-fist salute.

The crowd roared.

“Heh heh—Heavenly Flower Sword? What do you think?”

Sima Chunbong, seated beside her, addressed Qing.

Qing turned—still marveling, the way mass makes gravity; mm, this was far more interesting than the first test.

From Qing’s view, Namgung Sinjae hadn’t launched a proper attack even once—just a defense-only receiving stance.

He let every motion play out; after one full circuit, having seen all he needed, he suppressed the youth in a single move.

“How did you see it, Sima-rang?”

“Kheuheu—quite differently, I’d say?”

What now? Don’t tell me—“I see in three dimensions”?

I see in three dimensions too.

Then... do you alone see in four?

“We geniuses always see what others do not. For instance, that Matasa—the footwork can’t find its track and the sword routes change each time; he can’t have been in sword arts long. And yet the sword flow has a sharp tang—intriguing. Heh—yield the flesh to take the bone: amidst the clumsiness the trained bits show through faithfully. Indeed, a timber with a solemn heart—fit for a chivalrous man.”

Huh. He was watching very earnestly.

Qing gave Sima Chunbong a fresh look.

His good-karma numbers were unusual; the man himself is very strange—but perhaps he does give his best to what he’s given.

“And you, Heavenly Flower Sword—how did you see it?”

“Eh?”

Qing started.

What was there to feel?

Just: Very much a novice. I now understand the level of people I have to teach. I want to die from boredom. That much?

“Uh—mm. Honestly, even at the same realm, wouldn’t the Sword-Friend have the edge?”

“Oh? You mean depth?”

“No—Master Ma has one sword; Sword-Friend has two. Two’s more advantageous than one, no? So looking at it as is, you could say Sword-Friend was being petty?”

“...What.”

Sima Chunbong’s face scrunched—and then, no, wait, this is the Heavenly Flower Sword we’re talking about; even if not the equal of me, a genius close thereto—her gaze must be different; common metrics won’t do.

“Indeed. The Sword Empress also uses multiple flying-sword arts. But then twin-sword arts—indeed, twin-weapon arts—ought to have become the mainstream—no, that won’t do. It’s hard enough to reach the state with one sword; with two? I see. Because of the commoners’ insufficiency, days when two geniuses like me and you gather are miracles—yes, that’s how it has been. Yes—this Sima-rang sometimes overestimates commoners’ ability.”

Whatever revelation he had, Qing didn’t know.

She did know he was fun to tease.

Qing wrote her evaluation on the judging sheet.

Field of view narrow; innate strength lacking.

But the toes angle toward the opponent; ankles are supple, so advances and retreats are nimble.

Has basic sense for measuring distance.

One way or another, Qing was earnest.

Write the flaws first, then the strengths—the strengths stand out more.

Anyway, everyone’s lacking in skill; that’s why they applied to enter—to learn.

They’re trying.

You can’t mock present weakness for being meager and paltry; aside from this supreme Heavenly Flower Sword, who starts out good from the beginning?

Naturally they’re a mess; best to note what’s at least decent.

“W-wait. Heavenly Flower Sword?”

“Mm? Why?”

“These—these characters—what is this—orderly yet vigorous brushwork—majestic spirit, full to the brim with no gaps—and yet formed so clearly that anyone can read them—what on earth...?”

“Ahh. You don’t know? That’s called ‘writing.’ You use it when you write.”

It was an atrocity of a line—“You use writing when you write”—but Sima Chunbong didn’t hear it.

A heavy sense of defeat washed over him.

Such a fathomless gap...

Sima Chunbong had been serene even when he heard the Heavenly Flower Sword had smashed the all-time youngest Flower Realm record—

because he was simply a genius, and the Heavenly Flower Sword a martial genius; being outdone in martial was no shame.

But writing is the realm of civil.

And script—the calligraphic hand—reveals a person’s spirit and root: the upright essence of the soul.

“Sima-rang?”

“This—this cannot be.”

“Miss Sima?”

“Grk—this is my defeat. If scored, a gap between one hundred and... five points—grk—this is a complete loss, a total loss...”

“Chunbong?”

“It’s unwinnable—no. Sima-rang, pull yourself together. For this Sima-rang, there is no impossible. No matter how majestic the iron-fortress script—then I shall flow even more, emphasize beauty...”

Meanwhile, Namgung Sinjae withdrew.

Naturally. How could one man handle all those examinees?

And the next to serve as proctor—

“Immeasurable Life Buddha—this poor monk is Changbin.”

—was none other than Changbin, delinquent-member and ghost-member!

Qing’s gaze whipped from the muttering Sima Chunbong to Changbin.

Huh? That guy? Qing’s face creased.

If you came, you should at least say hello and ask after me. Where have you been holed up to only now stick your face in?

How utterly impertinent.

Of course, Changbin might protest.

He, too, had heard Qing was here after arriving at the test grounds—but even so?

Is it really right for him to go greet her first? The Heavenly Flower Sword is a woman; if an outside man acts overly familiar, how would that look? If people say, “What’s he doing, sniffing around the Heavenly Flower Sword,” he’d have no defense. He’s purely saying hello, but to others—and worse, to the Heavenly Flower Sword herself—it might look like a come-on. And she might not be pleased to be hailed; if he, lacking sense, greets her before people—besides, are they close, really? He feels like they are, but the Heavenly Flower Sword is kind to everyone. If he mistakes that and acts buddy-buddy and showboats—at least they’re on hello terms now, thank goodness—but then, “What’s with that guy; has he got designs?” and then...

Yes.

Changbin was the type who absolutely could not be the first to act familiar with a lady.

Not that he hid on purpose.

He loitered, seeking a natural “oh, we met by chance,” but failed.

In human history, aren’t “natural meetings” the reserve of the few who are naturally sociable and chat up the opposite sex with ease?

Of course, Qing didn’t know any of that—and found him impertinent.

You’re dead. From today, Changbin eats between me and Gunyeong. I’ll even seat Jayeo on my lap.

“I too, like you cadets—ahem.”

A sudden chill of premonition—Changbin’s downy hairs bristled—he coughed for no reason and rubbed his forearms.

In any case—the bout began.

Moments later—the bout ended.

After that, warriors from the Martial Alliance’s combat unit took turns sparring examinees.

And in the time Qing spent writing evaluations, she realized something big.

Jin Jangmyeong was a once-in-an-age genius—no, maybe not quite “genius,” but at least a prodigy once in an age.

Even with her strange constitution, Jin Jangmyeong had entered martial arts quite late.

What is it now—three years? Four? A solid late-first-rate—mm, “late-first-rate” is such nonsense I’m at a loss for words; a world where you divide first-rate into early/mid/late? It’s the end times.

Even so, she’d barely held a sword and was already nearing the cusp of peak first-rate.

Compared to that—looking at the cadets I’m to teach, mm... perhaps before the Oro sword art, I should teach them how to walk, and how to grip a blade.

More to the point—mm—my body itches. Shall we, soon?

Qing poked Sima Chunbong in the ribs.

“KYAK!”—Sima Chunbong rose an inch while seated. Miraculous footwork! No, since he bounced on his rump—hip-work? Whatever.

Turns out he was surprisingly ticklish.

“W-what is it?”

“Lady Sima. I’m—up next.”

“...?”

“I’m getting antsy. Picked up a brush I don’t usually pick up, and this won’t do. I’m thinking I’ll move a little.”

Sima-rang’s gaze slid back to Qing’s writing. This is a brush she “doesn’t usually pick up”?

Fwoosh—flames in both eyes.

Very well, Heavenly Flower Sword. This time I concede you the victory. But I, Sima-rang, will not wallow in defeat. I’ll make you faint dead away at the sight of my script!

That will never happen.

Less because of Sima Chunbong’s ability than because startling Qing with calligraphy would be impossible even if you added together all the time that flowed across the three thousand worlds.

If you wrote with noodles or meat, she might be surprised—Wow, edible script!

Anyway, Qing headed down from the viewing stand.

The talkative vice-principal—no, Director—had said he’d accept a bout anytime.

He’d even asked if she could at least once take the field before the crowd.

Thus—the Heavenly Flower Sword crashes the test!