Chapter 673: The New Semester Has Begun (7)

The crowd spotted a tall woman walking out with her back to the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy.

Her face was covered.

But what swelled swelled very generously, and the waist bound tight between top and bottom was thin enough that, by any measure, this was no man’s figure.

Women in veils were—exaggerating only a little—so common in the Central Plains right now you could trip over them.

Because of who? Because of the Heavenly Flower Sword.

So the crowd gulped.

No way... is that the Heavenly Flower Sword herself?

“Hello, everyone. I am Seomun Cheong, a humble wanderer of the martial world.”

Two beats later, a roar exploded and shook the grounds.

“Heavenly Flower Sword!” “Clown!” “Hang’e Incarnate!” “Gangnam Beauty!” “Three-Heads Beauty!” “Most Beautiful Under Heaven!” “Show your face!” “BEEEEEP—!”

Mm. The slogans have multiplied.

“Gangnam Beauty,” hm, I kind of get what it’s supposed to mean, but it makes me feel... some kind of way. If you insist on nitpicking, are we talking full-body cosmetic reconstruction? Who knows.

(“Gangnam Beauty” means a glamorous, showy beauty. In the Central Plains it’s used to praise looks.)

And who’s the bastard yelling “show your face”? There are always punks who think hiding in a crowd lets them say anything and pretend it’s all in good fun.

Let me catch one of you someday.

The best thing about a veil is you don’t have to manage your expression, so the crowd never saw the Heavenly Flower Sword’s smile reeking of blood-scent.

And then—

“WHIIISTLE!” “Kyaaa— Heavenly Flower Sword, sis!” “So cool!” “HEA! VEN! LY! FLOWER! SWORD!” “THE! NUM! BER! ONE! SWORD!”

What is this popularity? Am I really at this level?

The mood refused to settle, so Qing raised a hand to quiet them.

Eyes swung to the recorder in that hand—so pale she was almost transparent from the wrist down.

It stood out even more because it was an ugly iron recorder, rough-made and a dingy, sodden, smoke-black color.

“My studies are still lacking, but as I’ve accepted a post as an instructor of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, I would like to learn a thing or two from you examinees.”

The examinees traded looks.

The Heavenly Flower Sword... is an instructor?

Some men’s faces lit up; others turned hazy or lecherous.

At the height of their hot-blooded years, and their teacher is the most beautiful woman under heaven? The Central Plains has more than a few tales of forbidden romance—out-and-out scandals that shred propriety.

But that is that and this is this.

The Heavenly Flower Sword is known as a master near Harmony.

And not just any: she proved her real-combat strength on an eastern tour of the Central Plains, with life-and-death duels. A practical master. So none of the usual things people say to young masters—too young, no real experience, can’t exert true power, not accustomed to killing so her heart is soft—applied to her. She was the real thing.

She’d beaten three superlative masters; people argued over whether she could handle a single Harmony-realm opponent. Hence that ridiculous coinage floating around: “quasi-Harmony.”

And she’s a woman.

There are too many places you’re not supposed to target—face, chest, hips—so it’s hard to run a proper set of techniques.

Which meant that even though she was offering to show something—Anything! Show us a little more!—the examinees were loath to step forward to display their “specialties.”

Shaky glances and uneasy eyes flicked busily among the examinees.

You go. No, please, you go. I’d rather not.

If no one goes, everyone will be mocked; and yet no one wants to go first.

As if Qing couldn’t read that mess.

Look at these rascals, she thought, and a sly, offended feeling bubbled up.

Soon enough, a young man let out a long, deflating sigh and stepped forward.

“Allow me to pay respects to the great hero. I am Yang Chil of Jogeong.”

“I’m Seomun Cheong. ‘Great hero’? I’m still young for a title like that—please lower your form of address.”

“You stand on the verge of Harmony. And you serve here as an instructor.”

“Mmm.”

Qing put on a troubled face. Put on.

At my level, “great hero” fits.

If I’m a “young hero,” then anyone below superlative had better be called “little young hero” or “tiny hero,” right?

Age in the martial world? Please. The strong make the rules.

Thoughts of someone who, in truth, respects age more than anyone.

“I, Yang Chil, humbly beg instruction.”

“Good. Come.”

Anyway, to Qing he was a commendable youth.

In the midst of a game of chicken, he shouldered the burden himself. What’s so mysterious about righteousness and chivalry? This—this is righteousness and chivalry.

Only, compared to his commendable spirit, his skill was... uh... eh.

There was internal energy in the blade, but it never surfaced; he had not yet formed sword-qi. Second-rate. Mid second-rate? Late?

Gasp! How rude of me. Slicing second-rate into early, mid, late is an insult to real martial artists. That’s like dividing “breathing” into early-stage, mid-stage, late-stage realms.

Anyway, Yang Chil’s painfully honest cuts came in at a brisk clip.

Block, or slip? After a flicker of hesitation, Qing’s sole slid back half a step and she turned her body.

To everyone else it looked like the slash skimmed a hairsbreadth before her chest and fell away—but to a Harmony-level master, a hairsbreadth is, with a dash of exaggeration, about the distance between the sun and the moon.

Vwoom, vwoom.

Yang Chil’s sword kept cleaving empty air.

Qing stepped clear of the lines with light, elegant footfalls—a sign she had enough leisure to spare some for poise.

Honestly, calling this “skill” is generous.

Especially this “swordsmanship” of his—whatever weird thing he picked up.

Big motions, a vague overall shape, and a jerky chain of linked strikes that broke hard at each move. Painfully awkward—but familiar to the eye.

Great Wind Sword. Was its edge blue, or white? Not that it matters; six of one.

Qing doesn’t even count anything with a blue border as a real martial art, so her martial-arts window is already jammed full of odds and ends she pilfered on the road and pushed to Great Achievement.

In a beat, the recorder stretched straight forward.

It touched the young man’s knee—he’d just set a big step and left it floating—in a soft press, and then came down with irresistibly heavy force.

THUD— Yang Chil’s sole planted.

His forward step cut short by half a step, his body pitched ahead—but the upper body swing he’d practiced a thousand times kept going. His center lurched forward—VWOOM!

Yang Chil froze. Just now?

By instinct, by the sound, by the feel still clinging to his hand, he knew it: that was the Great Wind Sword’s Fourth Move—among the Crosswind variations, the best stroke he’d ever produced.

He clutched that instant of sensation by force. How was it? Like this?

CLANG! Steel rang loud as sword and recorder struck.

Qing nodded. Hm. That’s better. Did this one learn his arts from a book?

Qing’s “engraving” study forces a perfect understanding from a technique’s point of invention straight into her brain.

She brings out exactly what the founder had in mind, with none of her own interpretation. So at a glance at Yang Chil’s forms, the thought came:

What’s this? Splits? Playing hopscotch? Flexibility calisthenics? He’s about to wade the ocean with that stride.

Qing liked the boy’s mindset—no one else steps up, so I will.

So instead of just snickering inwardly and letting it pass, she extended the recorder and pressed that idiotically far-reaching knee into a proper place.

A proper place.

Classical manuals of the Central Plains are not detailed.

Account for the learner’s body type?

Height in feet and inches, leg ratio by tenths, where the knee sits—how to calculate your step length from that? Nowhere in the world is there a manual that specific.

Usually it’s: far, near, narrow, wide. Roughly.

If there are diagrams, that’s practically charity.

Because a manual isn’t a primary textbook; it’s supplementary material, a teaching aid.

Especially in external arts, the norm is master-to-disciple transmission; the manual merely assists.

Of course, there are manuals by masters who never took disciples—written so some future stranger could self-study.

“Set the foot forward two chi, bend the waist as if reaching for the sun of a tiny horse,” and so on—pleasantly detailed.

Famous manuals even have commentaries with standardized units.

But the problem in this era is primitive weights and measures—primitive measures rely on the human body.

A chi is the length of an adult’s index finger.

A cheok is the span from the tip of the middle finger to the tip of the thumb when an adult spreads the hand.

Because big or small, people vary only so much; they don’t deviate wildly.

But when that becomes a manual, a form?

Everyone’s finger, arm, leg—even torso proportions—are different, and external arts must use the body with maximum efficiency.

So you learn it according to the manual first.

And then you “make it your own”—the optimization process, refining the founder’s art into your art through embodiment over time.

This is one reason old great houses keep producing masters.

Generations train the same art, accumulating materials or experience that let them teach the correct posture from the start.

Wanderers or students of small halls?

No such luck.

You do what the book says, drill the habits in deep, and only then do you start changing it.

And the would-be entrants of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy are exactly that level.

If anything, that’s the fortunate half; the other half are third-rates who can swing a blade and know a handful of external tricks.

The recorder traced the air in soft arcs.

Its tip set and gently pushed beside the hip; sometimes it slid under the elbow to guide up, forward, outward; sometimes it poked the chest to make him give ground; sometimes it slapped the back to make him hunch.

Yang Chil’s forms changed little by little.

The hiss of a blade cutting savage wind shifted to VWOOM, VWOOM—big wind befitting the name “Great Wind.”

His body pitched and twisted, and the center of mass settled into the sword-force so the power gathered heavy and deep.

In the midst of it, Yang Chil ground his teeth.

He was giving everything not to fall.

Each time he was pushed or pulled his center twisted, and every counter-movement to right himself doubled his sword-power.

And dimly, he understood.

For reasons unknown, his martial art was being tended with exquisite care.

This might be a greater stroke of fate than the Academy itself.

And also—

This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If he fell now, the teaching would end here.

On this point, Qing might protest.

What? If you fall, you stand up again. Why would it end here?

But precisely because he believed that, he fought harder and focused tighter than he ever had in his life.

The crowd watched, breath held.

A clumsy, creaking martial artist was, to their eyes (lacking the eye to read technique), turning into something plausible.

But true, loaded movement is often easier for others to see than for the person doing it.

It shows on the outside.

Back where Qing is from, even with no knowledge at all, the thrill of a proper kick or a clean strike at a ball tells you in an instant: that one’s real, that one’s not.

So the Heavenly Flower Sword is an instructor—and even as an examiner, she’s teaching!?

Meanwhile, Yang Chil was drenched in sweat.

A sword is light, but never light for the one swinging it.

You can’t hold a tipping body together with raw strength alone.

So, helped by a mind honed to a point, even his paltry internal energy flowed along his channels on its own, adding strength where needed to endure.

That’s what martial artists mean by mental strength.

And then, at some moment, Yang Chil suddenly felt it: the last pinch of true energy in his lower abdomen—one thin thread—slipping outside his body, with a subtle bliss.

Not that leaky feeling from inefficient circulation studies that drains a weak man’s qi.

From me to the world.

From inside to outside.

Like a chick breaking the shell and finally touching the world—an infinite release.

For a heartbeat along his edge, a pale blue gleam slid, and vanished as if it had never been.

Yang Chil’s body stopped dead.

Just now—no way—

“Congratulations. You’ve formed sword-qi. You’ve entered first-rate.”

Followed by a small voice muttering, Ugh, first-rate, oh boy—was that me talking to myself? An auditory hallucination? Whatever—maybe he was hearing things from exhaustion.

But the Heavenly Flower Sword, that gentle, tender, truly great teacher who bestowed such vast instruction even on a nameless wanderer—she would never say such a thing!

He must be hearing things because he was spent.

More importantly—

Yang Chil’s pupils trembled.

I—I’m first-rate?

Honestly, Yang Chil was just lucky.

The art he’d learned at the local hall—paid for by selling half the main beam of the house—was the Great Wind Sword.

And Qing, of all things, had also learned it by stealing manuals—blue-bordered ones she’d thoughtlessly driven to Great Achievement.

And by nature, when everyone else might suffer, he was the kind to step up and take the loss to fix it.

This time was the same as always; he hadn’t done anything {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} special.

Had it not been so?

Qing would have gone, Ugh, what is this—second-rate? Came out feeling stiff and didn’t even break a sweat—this is what I’m supposed to teach?—and after pretending to block a few times, she’d have turned on her heel and left.