Chapter 685: A Martial Artist Must Strengthen Himself — A Martial Artist Must Be Strong (4)

“Now then—how is it? This is the true—urk.”

Sima Chunbong, seated, sprang straight up, then—THUNK—smashed his knee into the underside of the table, landed on his rump, and in a flash covered the Shining Wise Flower’s famous “wisdom pouch.”

Only, trying to shield that much mass with just two arms had the natural countereffect of making him look far more indecent.

“W-what—what do you think you’re doing!?”

Qing stared at her fingertip.

Huh? There was more bounce to it than expected. How with that kind of mass? Some secret Sima-clan Immortal Maiden Art? Or just because he’s a martial artist?

“Found a spot without iron plating.”

Sima Chunbong let out an affected sigh.

But the tips of his ears were bright red.

“Heavenly Flower Sword? I understand your competitive spirit. But in public—though we don’t have to mind the eyes of commoners—there is such a thing as decorum—”

“So if it’s not in public, it’s fine?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Shh. Sima, I understand that earnest heart that wants to speak with the great Heavenly Flower Sword of the transcendent Flower Realm—your less-great self wanting to monopolize the more-great one’s attention. But when it’s time to work, we work. The exam’s starting.”

“Tch. Playing it that way—hah! You got me. Fine, I concede. This Sima let his guard down to a sly stratagem.”

He said it with a mortified face, then muttered under his breath,

“Three ‘Greats’? Three times as great? Ho.”

At this rate we might soon hear “this Sima Great-Great-Great” or even “Great-Great-Great-Great.”

Anyway, fortunately, the fist-fighters’ trials were more entertaining to watch than the swordsmen’s batch.

How could a scrum of so-so types scrapping not be fun?

It’s a rule of fights: the small-fry brawls are the most entertaining.

There’s also the comedy of having good swords on hand yet scuffling with fists.

In the midst of that, an unusual examinee stepped up; the atmosphere rippled; Qing, for once, let the boredom out of her eyes and looked down over the arena.

First off—she was a woman.

A woman fist-fighter is, in truth, rare.

Or not so rare.

Any woman warrior, of course, usually learns at least one of the fist or kick arts in case she drops her weapon.

Central Plains is a rough place.

So if you expand “fist-fighter” to “anyone who’s learned fist arts,” then women fist-fighters make up a fair share.

But if you define a fist-fighter as someone who uses fist-arts as their mainstay—in other words, someone who voluntarily abandons a very convenient and powerful weapon to choose disadvantage with no benefit, a quasi-human ape whose intelligence and aptitude are suspect to start with—

A woman fist-fighter?

It was simple logic.

A blade hurts when it hits.

Whether the one holding the blade is a strapping man, an eight-year-old, a frail woman, or a tottering elder nearing his last days—

Being stabbed by a blade hurts the same.

But fists were a little different.

Getting hit by a strapping man hurts a lot; getting hit by a woman hurts, well, less.

If it’s an eight-year-old?

If you humor him with pretend groans, you might get a special tiny-hands massage.

That was why women fist-fighters were rare.

The size difference is just too absolute.

But the reason this examinee was unusual wasn’t merely her being a woman.

What is that outrageous outfit?

Is that actual leopard skin?

Come to think of it, in this primitive ancient Central Plains there’s no way there’d be fake leopard skin.

Dyes are expensive, and crafting a convincing fake would cost far more—in money and labor—than buying the real thing.

And in this heat?

It was one of those hot springs that already made you think this summer would be a scorcher.

She wore leather top and leather pants, leather boots laced up below the knee, and over it all a thick leopard-skin coat.

It might be a touch cool since it was still morning, but wearing mid-winter kit alone—of course everyone stared.

Even so, on her youthful face and nicely bronzed skin there wasn’t much of a sheen of sweat.

“Chang Yohong of Wongang County.”

Seeing her bronzed skin, Qing had expected some swagger.

Yet despite the shocking outfit, she took a perfectly polite clasped-fist salute.

“Ah, Wongang County! I see!”

“Why?”

“Heheh, Heavenly Flower Sword, Wongang County sits south of Ailao Mountain in Yunnan. She’s surely from one of Yunnan’s minority tribes; they say there are more beasts than people there, yes? Her bear and leopard skins make sense if so.”

“Oh, the thing under the coat is bear hide?”

“Also, Yunnan is so humid and hot that Central Plains folk say it’s hard to breathe—a harsh land among harsh lands. For this woman, our temperate spring probably doesn’t feel cool enough to shed her native garb—like a North Sea person sitting outside all winter.”

Gunyeong liked being outdoors in winter.

Because with the brazier lit inside, it’s too warm.

They say even the North Sea’s summer is cooler than this; Seol Iri at Divine Lady’s Gate would wear summer clothes and face the cold wind to gather qi all winter.

That blasted “gathering” of hers—the grudge she’d formed toward internal energy must be something—she’d sit collecting qi all day.

Not that there’s much else to use Gunyeong for.

Jayeo runs around glued to Hyang, so Gunyeong doesn’t need to mind her.

And Gunyeong’s no help with sword research.

Apparently the academy thought the same; they’d been letting this uninvited freeloader show up and just eat their food, unable to find any use for her.

Anyway.

Even if we revisit Gunyeong’s uselessness—well, she’s pretty and keeps you cool when she sleeps; if she’s breathing, that’s already a lot for Gunyeong, she’s trying hard—wanting more is just greed. Just grow up healthy.

Qing let the image of Seol Iri’s taciturn beauty slip past and refocused on the trial.

“I beg pardon, but my martial art is somewhat unusual. May I be examined in the form of a demonstration rather than a spar?”

“Proceed.”

Examiner Hwangbo Gwang readily agreed.

He’d been hoping to avoid scuffling with a young woman anyway.

In a fist bout—no weapons—it’s naturally awkward to scrap with a girl young enough to be your daughter.

The platform cleared.

The woman exhaled—whooo.

She took a step, folded at the waist, bowed her torso, then slowly raised her body as if erecting the top of her spine, spreading both arms wide.

What’s this? Isn’t that—ballet?

Do we have ballet in the Central Plains? Or was it native folk dance all along?

Of course not.

At the end of those somehow slow yet graceful motions—WHERRRK—sparks kindled in the air and coiled into several serpents that wrapped around Chang Yohong.

A sudden fire-show.

Wreathed in flame, with the tongues of fire fluttering—WHERRR, WHERRRK—Chang Yohong looked exactly like a Vermilion Bird.

Not a compliment—well, the flames were splendid, so it looked decent; but strip out the special effects and some motions looked a bit flappy.

“Sima. That leopard skin is probably—”

“Exactly. As I, this Sima, already discerned, it must be to block heat efficiently by means of animal hide. Fire is the most dangerous force, after all.”

Can’t recall him saying that, but sure.

Fire is dangerous, as Sima said.

During the Guangxi trip, when the mountain caught fire, master or not, everyone simply fled together; before a blaze, what can people do besides act like people?

You can sheath yourself for a moment and block the heat, but it’s only a moment.

WHERRRK, WHERRR. Multiple tongues of flame left long tails and traced complex paths.

Midway, they clubbed together like an iron mace and smashed at an invisible foe.

Ooh—flame fist. Qing was impressed.

A leg shot out and scarlet fire jetted forth.

Ooh—flamethrower. Qing was impressed again.

After about three breaths of twisting her body in something like avant-garde performance art, she raised both hands, wrists together, high to the sky—

FWOOOOSH! A loud sound of fire blossoming.

All flames surged at once, flapped in a great wingspan in the form of a giant bird, and ascended—a majestic sight.

Wow! Vermilion Bird! Taking off!

Judges, instructors, onlookers—every mouth hung open, faces blank with awe.

Was this martial arts?

Or a strongman show?

Or dance or performance art?

In any case, by the time Chang Yohong finished, her now-exposed face was drenched as if splashed with water.

In this hot spring she’d worn a thick leopard coat without a bead of sweat;

Well, of course—fire is hot...

“It is called the Vermilion Bird Dance.”

Oooooh!!

A beat late, cheers erupted.

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP—thunderous applause; here and there people tried to seed epithets like Wondrous Vermilion Bird or Vermilion Bird Prodigy.

To Qing’s ear, epithets with “Vermilion [N O V E L I G H T] Bird” had a... questionable ring.

“Heheh, this is getting interesting. One could say it has some connection with Chae’s Azure Dragon Dance, no? Azure Dragon Dance and Vermilion Bird Dance.”

“Ah, when I saw that brat I wondered if he was going to have all Four Gods each with a dance—and he really—”

“Tsk, Heavenly Flower Sword. That attitude is improper. Saying you only now realized—well, I understand your competitive spirit not to lose to this Sima’s insight, but you should refrain from such less-than-upright remarks—hyak! N-no, ahem, even if you’re the Heavenly Flower Sword—”

Sima Chunbong, face bright red, again hurried to cover the wisdom pouch.

Qing blew softly on her fingertip and said,

“Quit the obvious trick of hiding your weakness with a trinket. It makes you look weak.”

“Grr.”

Anyway—mm—so all four divine beasts each have a dance? No—there’d be a Central Yellow Dragon in the middle too, right?

The Central Plains counts five directions, adding the center to the four.

If so, just bundle them as Five-Directions Dance—Breath of the Vermilion Bird of the Four-Directions Dance—and be done with it. Why have each as a separate thing?

In sword terms that’s East-Sword, West-Sword, South-Sword, North-Sword, Center-Sword—each as a separate art.

Why not fuse them as Five-Directions Sword and—hmm?

A thought flashed across Qing’s mind.

Five-Directions Sword. Five. Oro Sword. Separate pieces.

Hey—that’s not bad, is it?

Inspiration arrives unawares; it speared into her mind like the soaring Vermilion Bird.

First, consult the greatest intellect in sword matters—Namgung Sinjae.

Of course, there was a matter far more important than the Oro Sword Formula to handle first.

Punishing the destroyer of judicial justice who dared avoid rightful punishment.

As soon as the day’s trials ended, Qing grabbed Sima Chunbong’s torso.

Feeling along his flank—he’d actually sewn an iron plate into the lining and covered it with cloth.

The sensation of a solid sheet of iron under her fingers pressing his side—not ticklish at all.

Even caught, Sima Chunbong chuckled with composure.

“Heavenly Flower Sword? It won’t work.”

“Do you cherish this outfit? Like, your parents bought it for you for the first time or something? It’s hot—mind if I make a tiny breeze hole at your flank?”

Sima Chunbong’s eyes spun.

“Uh, well. I’ve just decided to cherish it very much starting now? I, ah, don’t think damage would be acceptable. Heavenly Flower Sword? You wouldn’t, right?”

“Right. Then we have no choice.”

Qing’s right hand slipped through the front of Sima Chunbong’s robe, gliding in like a snake with no resistance at all.

Pickpocketing is, by nature, a high art of slipping into another’s pouch without the owner noticing; the pinnacle of No-Shadow Divine Hand lies in precisely this kind of infiltration.

Sima Chunbong’s body jolted at the unusually cool, unusually soft feel of those fingers as they wrapped his bare flank.

Her left hand set itself as well.

“Good idea—but you should’ve come in full plate.”

“D-don’t.”

“Do.”

Right after, Sima Chunbong clapped a hand over his own mouth.

He could not, in such disgrace, scream.