Chapter 675: The New Semester Has Begun (9)

Stepping into the banquet hall, her eyes were suddenly dazzled.

Because a massive lamp had been set over the center of the floor—what is this, did they oil them? Qing peered at the monks’ slick, glossy, gleaming bald heads.

They really did oil them? What, do monks rank “bald-head lumens” as a measure of style?

Of course not.

Monks have two head-shaving days a month (the fourteenth and the twenty-ninth), and when they shave they soak the scalp with oil to soften the hair for protection.

In the Central Plains, scented soap is somehow thought of as a womanly thing, so men just scrub hard with water—and today happened to be shaving day.

Naturally oil doesn’t wash off with water, so the whole dome shone bright and slick.

The man who was literally shining was Abbot Wolbong of Shaolin—renowned for Shaolin’s absolute skills and his mastery of the Hundred-Paces Divine Fist and the Diamond-Indestructible Divine Art—a young master of Shaolin.

Only, his first impression and last impression had both been less than ideal.

“Abbot Wolbong, how have you been?”

He turned his head—and was struck by the most harmful beauty in the world.

A face that makes you lose your wits without meaning to.

Was Mara, the tempter who once sought to seduce the Buddha, like this?

“Ha! Gasp! Namo Amitabha.”

Wolbong hurriedly began his chant.

Then he raised one palm, edge-on, and bowed at the waist—the Shaolin greeting called the “half-palm.”

“To the Heavenly Flower Sword—long has it been.”

He aimed it at Jegal Ihyeon.

“Abbot? That’s Blind-Thunder of Absolute Faith.”

“Ahem. My apologies.”

Hearing Qing’s voice, Wolbong adjusted his angle and raised the half-palm again.

Only now did it show he’d squeezed his eyes shut.

What’s this? Some sort of cultivation?

There’s silent-cultivation, so having eye-covered cultivation wouldn’t be strange either.

“I hear you’ve taken the Junior Division this term? My goddaughter is enrolling—Jayeo, greet your instructor.”

“Hel—lo. I am Seomun Jayeo.”

“The child is truly... hmm... truly... mmm. Haa... Namo Amitabha.”

Wolbong slit his eyes open—just a hair—and, seeing Jayeo, lost his words again.

Those weren’t a person’s eyes; they were a corpse’s—no gleam, just black pupils, depth bottomless and unreadable.

“Young patron—you’ve suffered much.”

“Teacher, that’s exactly why I’m asking—please look after our Jayeo. She’s been such a spoiled little thing I’m not sure she’ll adapt.”

“Ahem. As instructor I will exert my utmost to train every cadet without exception.”

Meaning: no special treatment.

Already a rigid sort—not one to baby children—which, oddly enough, was a relief.

“Of course. Teach her strict. Children are to be raised strong. By the way, you’ll be training them on the foundation of the Marrow-Washing & Tendon-Changing Classic? Could I hear some details?”

“Th—the same regimen as our temple’s novice monks. As it concerns the temple, I must ask your understanding that I cannot speak freely.”

“Oh, come on—since when are Shaolin and I strangers? Don’t be like that between us. Please?”

“Ugh—Namo Amitabha, Goddess of Mercy preserve me.”

Whatever the case, Wolbong found Qing extremely uncomfortable—maybe because she was a parent?

And then came life’s only true joy: mealtime.

Changbin is a man of word and deed as one.

He always says wine tastes best when poured by a lady; and when a lady pours for him it truly tastes too good—so good he could drown in the cup and drink forever.

Only—where did the wine go?

Even if the little one is tiny, set her on your knee and your line of sight will be blocked.

Changbin, in need of an excuse to leave this messy world and focus on something, took on Jayeo’s meal care.

“Stir-fried bok choy.”

“Oh! Little hall master knows how to eat properly. Those who truly know flavor always start with the vegetables. Your inner work in matters vegetable is quite profound.”

“Hee-hee.”

Familiar enough to make you wonder if he wasn’t Mount Hua’s third disciple-senior so much as Mount Hua’s daycare teacher.

It does nag a bit, that old saw: true gourmands eat greens.

Back home, with bulgogi or spicy pork, true connoisseurs go for the onions first—so it’s not entirely wrong.

But that’s a matter of scarcity value: there’s a lot of meat on the plate and little veg. Which is rarer?

Faced with a meat plate, and you go to the greens first?

That’s not about knowing taste; it’s a fundamental challenge to one’s qualifications as a human being.

“Changbin? Jayeo’s growing—are you going to feed her only greens?”

“Ah—yes. I will do—erm—do so.”

We’d finally gotten comfortable as friends last time, and then after a break it resets and his distribution slides back to the elder’s side.

“Oh! Little hall master, here’s Four-Bird Treasure. Do you know what Four-Bird Treasure is? It means the four treasures—duck, chicken, pigeon, and quail.”

“Fish-Fragrant Eggplant.”

“Now look—see? It looks like a whole duck, but if you open the belly—oh!? This is—chicken inside—”

“Fish-Fragrant Eggplant.”

“Among the winged, the tastiest under heaven is quail, they say. Try one and—”

“Fish-Fragrant Eggplant.”

Jayeo was very firm.

Children, when they sense softness, become infinitely full of themselves.

Of course, as young as they are, their eye is young; they can’t tell “soft” from “seems soft,” which creates problems.

In any case, to Jayeo’s eye Changbin looked very soft.

It’s the sort of thing you could scold as rude—but frankly, it’s nice to see a child be childlike, so let it be.

Especially since Jayeo rarely shows childlike sides at all.

Only—

It really did worry Qing that Jayeo preferred greens over meat.

She likes all food, so if there are no greens she’ll wolf down meat just fine—but the priorities are wrong, wildly wrong.

And she can’t stand mushy textures; she spits out big fat caps and cartilage immediately.

Changbin eyed Qing’s expression, then—

“A—hem. Fish-Fragrant Eggplant sure is delicious...”

“No—feed her some meat, I said.”

“I—I am making every effort—utmost effort—Ahem—my throat’s dry—the wine—wine...”

Changbin peered at his place—then his miraculous cup had vanished.

It had, astonishingly, moved on its own to Seol Iri—a time-leaping technology if ever there was one.

“Uh, erm, well... Mm.”

He mumbled something, then nodded with grim resolve.

And—

“Little hall master? If you open the quail’s belly—oh! Inside—bamboo shoots and shiitake?”

“Ooh...!”

Jayeo’s eyes lit at the bamboo shoots and shiitake.

Apparently, he let the wine go cleanly.

Chatting up “Pu-nyung” versus not drinking—Changbin chose the latter, and the latter won.

“By the way, Sword-Friend—you’re talented. To be gifted at teaching on top of it. I marveled myself watching him awaken sword-force!”

“Sometimes I scare even me. How far do my abilities reach? Already famed in architecture and medicine, breaking unprecedented records in martial studies, and now education? May I be called the Omnipotent? The reason? Because I am omnipotent...”

“Enough nonsense.”

Namgung Sinjae cut it in one line.

Mm. Even Sword Fang’s getting cold?

Why is it the closer we get, the harsher the treatment? Do these people not know how to cherish more the closer they are?

“So—how did you do it? If it were someone you’ve fought countless times and knew inside and out, maybe you could grant insight—but this was a first meeting, wasn’t it?”

At that, the banquet’s noise dropped in a rush.

Everyone pretended not to listen—but they were listening hard.

“What did I do? I just happened to know the sword art he was using, and his posture was sloppy, so I corrected it a little. He happened to be ripe from long effort, so it popped. What power do I have to make someone first-rate?”

So thought Qing.

He’d piled up his own effort and hit first-rate. If correcting posture alone raised realms, where on earth would you find anyone not first-rate?

So just swing in correct posture and—bam—first-rate?

“Mm. Granted. Still—is it easy to fix someone’s posture in the middle of a bout?”

“That’s how I learned. Far harsher, actually. I pushed him into shape with a gentle shove; my master beat me whenever something looked off—until it was right. If you don’t know, you get hit—until you know. That forces you to keep your head turning and change your posture. Come to think of it—was I too kind? Maybe I should’ve made him think his way there on his own?”

That’s how Ximen Surin’s sparring went.

The difference: Qing kindly pushed and pulled him into place.

Ximen Surin, on the other hand, whacked the wrong place, hard—and never told you which part was wrong.

During the Ah-Cheong → Seomun Cheong “swap,” Qing’s sword had more peacock than she knew. She had a habit of striking flashy, “cool-looking” forms.

Water and fire—and the rod—always know the answer.

Put a person in water or fire and truth floats up; a switch steeped in the marrow of craft corrects bad habits and draws out proper posture.

“Hm.” “Indeed.” “To hear the Heavenly Flower Sword tell it—”

Those pretending not to listen—and those not pretending—nodded in unison, impressed.

Ahh, such a secret method!

It did sound awfully strict and violent as pedagogy—but the Heavenly Flower Sword’s achievements proved the effect beyond doubt.

Ximen-Surin-Style Pedagogy, which produced the Heavenly Flower Sword!

Beat the disciple.

Make them ponder why they’re getting hit—and find their own answers.

Silently. Steadily. Relentlessly.

In that moment, the fate of hardship and trial was sealed for the Academy’s cadets—and, farther off, for orthodox disciples everywhere.

Seomun Cheong has poisoned the Central Plains again!

Of course, she doesn’t know.

Aren’t masters supposed to beat disciples? In movies and games and everything else, disciples get hit first—right? Back in Qing’s homeland, that’s somehow the general idea.

****

The first-round entrance examinations of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy were set to resume at 2:00 p.m..

Thanks to the die-hard spectators who held their places under the hot spring sun and kept a ring open, they could skip the clearing process needed in the morning and go straight to the tests.

Namgung Sinjae stepped forward to await the next examinee.

Only—it was the start of another game of chicken.

The Heavenly Flower Sword might show up again.

If you’re taking the entrance exam anyway, who wouldn’t want to spar the Heavenly Flower Sword, who spoon-feeds you enlightenment and fortune itself?

If you happen to awaken, then by the face-culture of the martial world—no, of the Central Plains—even if you wanted to fail, you couldn’t; even if you didn’t want to enroll, you’d have to.

Spar the Heavenly Flower Sword and you get both a chance at enlightenment and a locked-in admission. Why volunteer for any other examiner?

But someone had to go first.

Everyone can see through such a shallow ploy in a heartbeat; let it turn into talk and the entire cohort’s reputation would sink.

And if they dithered like this only to all rush to fight before the Heavenly Flower Sword, that would be laughable—and an insult to the other examiners’ face.

Thus began a cutthroat game of glances.

Opening now.

Unaware that Qing—who understood all too well the level of the entrants (“I’m dying of boredom”)—had no intention of stepping in.

In the idiom of her homeland: they were knocking back kimchi brine—at the “salted cabbage rinse water” stage.