Chapter 674: The New Semester Has Begun (8)

“Morning examinations are hereby concluded!”

Whoever he was—examiner or proctor—announced the end of the morning round.

People drifted off, reluctant.

Some, realizing that when this many bodies flood the stalls at once the lunch window from the opening of the late-morning period to the stroke of mid-afternoon isn’t that long—about an hour and a half—broke into quick trots and disappeared.

Of course, those who’d claimed seats up front kept their backsides planted, declaring with iron will they’d wait it out for the full hour and a half.

Street vendors, as if waiting for this, raised their voices and sold meals at slightly inflated prices, grinning ear to ear.

In the midst of it, Yang Chil—the seventh of the Yang household—was out of his head.

Me... first-rate?

The feel of the world he’d skimmed with that thread of true energy that had stepped past the blade—an infinite liberation unlike anything before—seemed stuck to his heart and wouldn’t let go.

True energy once outside is both a part of the body and the martial artist’s inner self. A brand-new limb had sprouted and swept the world; what would that feel like?

Hard to put into words—like a blind man opening his eyes: that kind of something.

“Hey, you.”

If someone hadn’t tapped his shoulder and spoken, Yang Chil would have stood there forever, vacant, replaying that instant.

When he came to, a middle-aged man with a long scar running from cheek across the lips was looking at him.

If not for that, he’d have been a handsome, clean-cut type—a middle-aged man who likely made more than a few women cry.

“Uh—hm? And you are...?”

“They call me Jogeaksan. Embarrassing to say, but some in the world also call me the Blue River Gale Chivalrous.”

“Ah! You’re Great Hero Jo.”

“First, congratulations. How does it feel to set foot in the first-rate realm?”

“I—It’s hard to believe. Ah—did I pay my respects to the Heavenly Flower Sword? In the confusion I didn’t even manage a greeting—”

At that, Jogeaksan let out a hearty laugh.

“Come on, man. If you bowed to the floor and shouted long life three times, I’m sure the Heavenly Flower Sword got your meaning.”

“D-did I? Shouted long life?”

“Not exactly long life—but it had that flavor. Now, these are my younger brothers. The youngest will be enrolling this time, and I think you two could be fine friends. As a ‘please look after my youngest,’ let me treat you.”

Yang Chil’s face clouded a little.

“Do you think... I can pass? I’ve no backing, and I’m a nobody in the martial world.”

“Ha! What would it look like for the Academy to fail a youth who hit first-rate under the Heavenly Flower Sword’s instruction? That’s a story worth broadcasting from the rooftops. And what would that do to the Heavenly Flower Sword’s face? Hm? You’ve got to study not only martial arts but how the martial world turns.”

He was already saying “you’re in.”

The corners of Yang Chil’s mouth jumped.

To Jogeaksan, the look was nothing but endearing.

Couldn’t even manage his face; not a man of the Martial Alliance, yet he believed with rock-solid faith.

Jogeaksan worried about his youngest—scatterbrained and weak-willed.

Stick him to someone too sharp and he’d be dragged around; stick him to someone just like him and two featherbrains would only get feathery together. Better he make a friend who was a little naïve yet firm-spined and capable.

“Ah—right. How old are you?”

“Yes, I turn twenty-three this year.”

“Do you? Perfect. Youngest—he’s your age.”

“Er—my name is Matasa.”

“Hey now. You’re the same age—don’t go slapping stiff courtesies on each other. Right, Young Hero Yang?”

“Come, come, never mind all that—let’s have a simple drink. We’re wanderers—our purses aren’t deep—but it’s not so bad we can’t wet our throats on a day this good.”

If Yang Chil had felt put upon, this would have been an old fussbudget foisting a sworn-brother-in-law buddy on him.

Luckily, he was a provincial come up to the city with no acquaintances.

And from the sound of it these men had respectable nicknames and were spoken of as chivalrous in the mouths of the world—so it was gladly welcome news.

Adding one more to the Blue River Six Chivalrous made seven, which meant finding a restaurant with space took a bit of legwork.

After a contest with bouts, restaurants are always bedlam—everyone sharing what they saw and felt.

These impressions live in the realm of eye and insight.

They’re also a way of boasting: this is how well I can “see,” this is how well I understand martial arts.

Some even sell such talk for money—those are the tale-peddlers.

“Everyone—did you see the final exchange? Hm. I don’t know how well you know the realms of a martial artist, but in principle, one who extends intent into the four limbs and commands the body freely is second-rate. Among the better second-rates, some fill the blade with qi to raise its hardness so it won’t break and keep the edge keen. This is a martial trick called Filling-Qi-Into-Steel—our art of the rivers and lakes! The very act of charging the sword full of qi!”

Ahem, the tale-peddler cleared his throat.

“But—did you see it after Young Hero Yang’s last strike? A glossy, wondrous blue radiance skimming the edge? That was the manifestation of the art called sword-qi. The sword-qi that filled the weapon finally showed its color outside. That means Young Hero Yang rose to the first-rate realm! His repeated floor-bows and booming thanks are the proof. But how—by what marvel—does a martial artist suddenly break through on the spot? Well, that...”

The tale-peddler let the moment stretch—then suddenly—

“Ahem. My throat’s a bit dry.”

“Here we go already. Boy—bring that tale-peddler a bottle of whatever clears a throat like a river sluice!”

Jogeaksan snickered and refilled Yang Chil’s cup.

“All about you, eh? To make such a brilliant debut on the martial stage—congratulations.”

Yang Chil’s face went bright red.

To hear his name from another’s mouth—from a tale-peddler who usually spun stories of far-off heroes—left him shy and awkward.

The serving boy had been among the audience, so he hustled over and set a bottle before the tale-peddler.

But the tale-peddler took his time, poured, and drank—because he knew the value of suspense.

“Kyaa—hits the spot. Thank you kindly. Now, where was I? Right—how could Young Hero Yang step into first-rate on the spot? Now then, folks—have you heard the phrase ‘striking points to open the channels’?”

A murmur went around.

Some nodded knowingly.

Others: What’s that? Why are you saying things only you know? “Striking points to open the channels”? A dish? Is the tale-peddler already ordering food?

“‘Striking points to open the channels’ is originally a medical method. You strike the points to clear blocked vessels and benefit the meridians! But when internal work reaches its peak, a master can apply it to guide the opponent’s true energy! The Heavenly Flower Sword used this to deliver a great lesson—and Young Hero Yang gained enlightenment on the spot!”

He wasn’t making it up.

“Striking points to open the channels” is indeed a widely used medical art; its efficacy is vouched for by every medical text there is.

That said, it’s not exactly reliable to claim it here—because the method is less “striking” than kneading out knots, dissolving fatigue and turbidities—in the western tongue, massage.

If whacking acupoints could grant enlightenment, the martial world would be a far uglier place.

Every master under heaven would be obsessed with beating their disciples.

Of course, even now there are more than a few who beat diligently—but, anyway.

And saying the Heavenly Flower Sword—known as late superlative—guided true energy by “striking points” is a bit...

Usually at this point someone would speak up to refute.

But the party in question is the Heavenly Flower Sword—and she’s in this very city, set to sit again this afternoon as an examiner.

To stand up and say, “No way,” to publicly “smack down” a story—that’s not easy.

“Oooh!” “So that’s the story...!”

“The more astonishing truth? The Heavenly Flower Sword looked at the swordsmanship of a mere wanderer—an art with no name—and grasped its essence at once!”

He said it not knowing a mere wanderer who’d learned a nameless sword stood right there.

It’s a constant: the top cause of death for tale-peddlers is getting stabbed because they ran their mouth wrong.

Yet to Yang Chil’s ear it didn’t sound wrong—and besides, in this city no one was about to draw blades lightly.

“The Heavenly Flower Sword’s talent? Known since she reached superlative at twenty. But today this eye beheld a true shard of genius. I dare say she is ‘one sight to grasp the truth,’ a genius among geniuses—”

Naturally, the mood was: And now we begin our hymn to the Heavenly Flower Sword.

“Mm—but was it really ‘striking points to open the channels’?”

The third or fourth brother asked it sotto voce.

Yang Chil didn’t know.

Because he’d never received it before.

“I’m not sure. Only—it was truly a marvelous experience. The Heavenly Flower Sword would press and push, and my arms and legs felt... as if their places were finally right—familiar.”

Because those places are in fact where they belong.

“And my true energy wheeled through my body at will, as if to say, ‘Why didn’t you do this before,’ spreading its wings...”

Because to keep from falling, the muscles and bones that needed strength were obvious, and a mind at razor focus guided the true energy unconsciously.

But just a moment ago he’d been a second-rate—an out-of-the-way nobody from a small hall. What deep theory of martial studies would he have learned?

So even to his own ears it sounded...?

“Huh. So it really was a method of opening the channels.”

“Elder brother—what if the Heavenly Flower Sword has actually climbed to an even higher realm?”

“She’s twenty-two this year? To be at the tail end of superlative at that age is already near a miracle. Better to say her study of the Thus-Come Palm has reached its height. She’s the master of the Thus-Come Palm, is she not? That’s no ordinary divine art. Among internal works it’s counted the loftiest—number one under heaven.”

Had Qing heard it, she’d have said: Me? Well, yes, I am great—but come on.

But Qing wasn’t here.

“Ah, if I could learn even a scrap—a single move—of a divine art, I’d die without regrets through three lifetimes.”

“You haven’t even mastered the Thousand-Steel Sword, and you want divine art? You think ‘divine’ is just a word? The depth is a different universe. Even if you snatch one move by luck, using it is a whole other story. Nail horseshoes to a dog’s paws—does it run like a horse?”

“Elder brother, that’s a little harsh.”

“Still, aren’t your soles bigger than mine? At your age I was much rougher. By that measure, you’re the younger who’s better than his elder.”

“Ahem, well...”

To Yang Chil, they were truly affectionate sworn brothers.

Maybe I can gather like-minded friends, swear brotherhood, roam the rivers and lakes, carry out chivalry, and make a name too.

Thinking it, his chest swelled grand.

It was mid-first-round, the city was packed with examinees, and examiners couldn’t wander freely; lunch, of course, had to be had at the temporary Academy headquarters, in the temporary testing ground.

If you asked Qing to name the three most enjoyable things in the world, she’d say breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

In order of preference it’d be dinner-lunch-breakfast; you might say that’s just the order of most lavish spreads.

But getting to enjoy the most enjoyable thing in the world three times a day, every day? That’s a massive win.

Better still with people she liked.

“What—? Impossible! What is this aura!? Something indescribably adorable is—!”

“Gaga!” “Hyang!”

When she stepped inside, Jegal Hyang—who hadn’t grown a millimeter—pumped those stubby legs.

Then she halted, froze.

Little Jegal Hyang should by rights have flung herself into Qing’s arms.

But a guest had already claimed Qing’s embrace.

“Gaga? Wh-who is she? That girl?”

Do kids count other kids as “girls,” too?

“Hm? This is my daughter, Jayeo. Seomun Jayeo.”

“Gasp. Th-then—your honored father?”

A childlike tongue with un-childlike vocabulary.

As expected of Young Jegal’s little sister.

She’d already finished a fair share of books and was reading military texts.

“Honored father? That’s me. I’m Jayeo’s father.”

Jegal Hyang let out a soft, relieved breath.

“Hm. Changbin?”

“Eh? Uh?”

“Here. You should get close with your niece too, Changbin. I need to share the joy of reunion with Hyang.”

Qing handed Jayeo to Changbin.

Consider it the penalty for dodging the magnanimous chairwoman who’d been generous with a ghost-member and still got ignored.

“A niece... Ah! Hello there, little hall master? I’m Changbin.”

Only—he took the child with unexpected ease and offered a smooth greeting.

What’s this? So “women” doesn’t include “children,” I guess? Naturally. If he’d stammered and called Jayeo a “woman” that would’ve been a problem.

To Qing it was a fresh sight.

In front of ladies he was the dashing rake of the realm, a romantic who stole the hearts of all Central Plains women—Changbin the Gallant. This side had never been observed by Qing.

What? He talked? And talks well?

Changbin can talk? The audacity.

But it wasn’t going to last.

Because the seat at Qing’s side—stolen—was making Seol Iri exhale a chill.