Chapter 692: Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, Opening (3)

The third admission test was a stage for gauging the level of shen-movement.

They drove in stakes to place stepping feet, strung lines to make paths, added an overhead frame with a blocked ceiling you had to grab and ride along on the rope, and stacked stone steles into walls—an improvised set of obstacles to overcome.

Qing, as the lone true strongman—no, the foremost strongman-carpenter—of the party, took part in the construction, but, hm, how to put this. Somehow it all looked very familiar.

Obstacle-course drill—yeah, it made you feel like you ought to run an obstacle course.

Multiple difficulty tiers were prepared.

The easiest route, which cut straight across by the shortest line, was passable so long as you had basic balance and the leg strength to carry your own weight.

But the route that swung the farthest around was designed to demand a rather excellent realm in light-body work and shen-movement.

It wasn’t that the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy had sat idle for years; it had a plan refined across a long history.

Since the farther you went the more bonus points you got, everyone chose the farthest route they could.

(Of course, the bonus and penalty hardly mattered.)

So from the crowd’s side, how entertaining was it to watch martial artists fling themselves around with desperate grace.

At this point it was less an admission test than a strongman showcase put on by a gathering of murim folk.

Set up a stall in front and hawk some suspicious red pills and they’d sell like hotcakes in this picture.

And in truth, that was what was happening.

Only difference: they weren’t selling pills, they were selling reputation.

Behold—this is the Martial Alliance’s event.

See how outstanding these martial artists are, begging for the teachings of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy with life-or-death zeal.

Do you perceive our Academy’s standard, the Orthodox faction’s stature—the difference in strength?

You could call it a high-handed move that turned all examinees at once into carnival barkers.

But the Martial Alliance isn’t a charity; if they’re going to feed and house you for martial skills, they’d better take at least this much profit.

Above all, if you don’t like it, you can leave.

Yet what we saw were examinees running here and there, hanging and riding and balancing and vaulting, straining with everything they had.

Most were people stuck at third-rate or second-rate at best.

This was the point that told them how great an opportunity this was, and how great a benefit.

In that sense, if you’d already attained first-rate or better like Chae Seong-ha or the Sword Jade Girl, there was no need to cling to the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy with white-knuckled desperation.

“...Which is to say, the ones who stand out among them will each have their own purpose, yes?”

So explained Sima Chunbong.

The long admission process of first, second, and third rounds not only publicized the Martial Alliance’s event far and wide; it was also meant to spot the impure as much as possible.

“Chae is easy to read, isn’t he? He’s only here to gain fame, so that petty limit of mediocrities, that inborn inferiority? Well, if skill follows, fame naturally follows with it; and yet the commoner’s thirst for a name becomes the motive power that lets them imitate us—immortals whose names will be written into history—even a little.”

“Didn’t you give that Azure-Dragon dancer a decent evaluation the first time you saw him? You quietly dropped him into the common herd?”

“When—when did I— Such slander is improper toward this Sima.”

We were trading that sort of idle talk when the next one up was the Sichuan gentleman, Mandarlo.

Isn’t he bound to fail anyway?

His bad-karma wasn’t triple digits, but his character—well, let’s say there was something off.

If you handed him a card that read he came from the Academy of the Righteous-Proper Martial Arts, he’d go smear filth on it all over the place.

Only—

“Oooh!” “Fast, fast!”

Unlike the disgrace he showed in the second round, he gritted his teeth and shot forward. What’s this, not bad?

He took the stakes laid in a zigzag three at a time, landing cleanly, then started clearing the set obstacles at speed.

But hm, that—if he keeps that up—

He was too rushed.

Light-body work isn’t about sprinting flat-out; the ability to survey your surroundings and adjust your tempo to the situation is what matters.

He was biting down hard, eyes burning, dashing as if to make up for the disgrace he showed in the second round.

Sure enough, he leapt as if to vault the temporary palisade in one go, stretching his hands up high—

His takeoff fell short by just a palm’s breadth.

THUD! The palm that ought to have hooked and hung on the crest hammered the poor palisade instead.

And that was the moment.

“Oh?” “Ooh!” “Huh.”

Amazingly, Mandarlo’s body surged another palm’s breadth higher, and he snapped a grip on the palisade obstacle’s far edge.

For a heartbeat his two legs kicked the air; the rebound of his body made a surprising display of skill.

“Hey, did you see that?”

“That was...”

Sima Chunbong’s face turned grave.

A face that already looked fierce turned fiercer still.

“Why?”

“I’m fairly sure that was Wudang’s Flying-Cloud Stamping-Shadow.”

So it seemed to be a Mount Wudang technique.

Unless a Wudang disciple had concealed his identity to sit for the Academy, that was a serious problem.

It meant the art had leaked.

“So what do we do?”

“Ordinarily he’s a petty villain who deserves to fail, but in this case there’s no help for it. We pass him for now and trace the source.”

At that, Qing looked to Mandarlo.

He stood on the finish, soaking in the crowd’s OOHHHH!! of amazement and praise, that Sichuan gentleman forcing a calm face while the corners of his mouth kept sneaking up.

He was acting exactly like the Azure-Dragon dancer.

For that reason—the Sichuan gentleman passed.

Call it “passed,” though what came next would be closer to restraint or confinement.

****

Righteous-Proper Martial Academy testing schedule—complete!

For sightseers, it had been a very satisfying show.

In the Central Plains, always short on things to do and see, this was as fine a spectacle as you could ask for, and if one of the examinees happened to turn out a famous martial artist?

Then you’d have a lifelong boast that you were there when so-and-so stepped into the rivers and lakes.

Until the announcement of those who passed, the Academy’s staff officers would be entering their truly busy time; for everyone else, it was a lull with nothing much to do.

And so at last the moment Moyong Juhee had long awaited arrived.

“Um, miss? That art...”

“Ah, right. I said I’d help. What was it called. Turning of the Dipper? Is that right?”

Turning of the Dipper. Was it some kind of sound-art? From the name alone it sounded like a skill that would make a noise out of the upper dantian.

“It’s not Turning-of-the-Head-Voice, it’s Turning of the Dipper...”

A dipper is a measure of grain or a big soup ladle, and it also means the Big Dipper.

Thus Turning of the Dipper names the phenomenon where the Big Dipper revolves and moves all the stars; originally it’s a term astronomers used when they recorded the heavens’ motions.

And it is a family secret learned only by the Moyong clan’s direct line—their ultimate counter, which returns an enemy’s attack intact.

“Oh—so the extreme of grafting blossoms? Is that right?”

Grafting Blossoms refers to the art of using the enemy’s force; truth is, once you reach a certain level, you naturally come to use that much.

“Yes. Only, it’s rather difficult...”

“Mm, then shall we go with a hard style?”

“Th-that—no holding back with your hand! Hard! B-because, otherwise the training won’t take, right, that’s right?”

“Eh. Then Moyong gets cut in half. Does ‘Moyong’ and ‘young lady’ become ‘Mo, the lady’ and ‘Yong, the lady’?”

“Th-that—like when you coached the one named Yang Chil. If I fail the technique, it should really sting—really sting—so that I can train. There’s no other meaning to it; it’s only because that’s required, so, like that...”

Moyong Juhee’s manner was somehow awkward, her voice trembling.

Qing was moved.

Good heavens, how admirable.

It felt like only the other day she was crushed by a bad experience and acting like a shut-in, and now here she was, set on overcoming even that pain.

Come to think of it—left sword, right blade—Moyong Juhee, who’d begun following the Moyong clan’s unique family style, was the very symbol of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society itself.

(She herself might not want to symbolize anything like the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society.)

Our members should take after Miss Moyong and be this enthusiastic—uh, enthusiastic?

On second thought, everyone already is.

Even setting aside the sword-friend who sometimes goes overboard, the seriously qi-addicted Gunyeong, the rest naturally start training whenever they have a free moment.

If I had to name a member who slacks and goes out to play, hm, that’d be Nana?

She sometimes pretends to throw hidden weapons, but strictly speaking that’s a hobby, not training.

Even Jangmyeong is diligent—Sword-Friend actually praised her for her zeal.

Seems skill isn’t what’s overflowing, though.

Thinking that, Moyong Juhee felt a bit less admirable.

“Alright, then—shall we take a look?”

“Y-yes! Please take care of me!”

Qing first approached lightly with the Ximen-Suren-Style Divine-Lady Sword Formula, Heavenly Maid, Great Hero.

I didn’t know Miss Moyong’s level; I couldn’t open with maximum output.

The Subtlety of Nuclear Fission is a life-saving art to draw maximum output without injuring the body; it isn’t a killing technique there to crack skulls.

A dashing blow infused with Ximen Surin’s grand spirit swept in toward Moyong Juhee.

In that instant, Moyong’s left sword received obliquely and shed with a steep edge; the moment it touched the center of Qing’s wooden sword, her right-hand wooden blade snapped in and wrenched the line.

Ah—so like this.

Qing twisted away from the wooden sword angling for her thigh and dragged a foot clear.

“Mm. Indeed. If I go gentle, the training won’t take. The faster and heavier the enemy, the trickier it gets.”

“Y-yes. That’s right. If it’s gentle, the training won’t take...”

Moyong Juhee put on her signature small-animal behavior, trembling like a shivering pup and sneaking glances up.

Her face seemed oddly flushed.

Was that single exchange that hard?

Then how are you going to use it in a real fight.

But that’s why she asked for a spar.

For someone who wants to improve, present awfulness is no problem at all.

Qing’s sword-blows grew steadily harsher.

Even so, Moyong Juhee—whose sword had reached the extreme peak—was, by Qing’s standard, a low-hand; but at least she was a minimal martial person who could do a quarter of a person’s work.

VMMMM—VMMMM— Qing’s sword-energy began to carry that monstrous strength.

Moyong Juhee, with a focus she’d never shown before, desperately received and returned. Not yet—not yet, because the time hadn’t come.

Then Qing’s sword-force grew subtler still.

The tip wavered; the subtleties of illusion and variation mixed in, sometimes lengthening into illusory thrusts, increasingly adding angles that bent and curled as she opened an irregular attack.

Moyong Juhee—despite the, shall we say, impish intent in her heart—had no plans to leave gaps on purpose.

It would be rude to Qing, who was helping in earnest; and she could not in the end handle attacks that exceeded her limit; and only then would the beating—laden with sincerity—sting, sting—

THWACK!

In that instant, Moyong Juhee’s mind flashed white.

The strength went out of her legs by reflex and her body collapsed as it was.

And only then did Moyong Juhee realize.

Pain is just pain, not a little sting.

Ah—it hurts... It hurts too much...

She realized too late. Life was live-fire.

“Uh—miss?”

“Good. That clears your head, doesn’t it?”

In truth I hadn’t even hit that hard.

And Ximen Surin’s instruction was grounded in the very obvious truth that, once you know it hurts, you fight back with greater desperation.

You mature in proportion to your pain; pain knows the answer, and discouragement raises a great lady.

“Um, excuse me.”

“Honestly, I think I underestimated you, Miss Moyong. I only saw you as fragile. Yet you’re a martial artist at the extreme peak; if you don’t like being a low-hand, you should at least be a middling hand, right? Alright, again?”

“...Y-yes. Please.”

Moyong Juhee could hardly claim she hadn’t asked for this.

To phrase it: she bound herself in her own snare by summoning disaster, and—trusting too much in her own pain threshold—she was like one who toys with a boat’s sail and cuts her own laurels.

Even so, separate from that, what followed was the most desperate training time of Moyong Juhee’s life.

Why—don’t they say even a dolphin dances when you give it the rod.

You could call it the moment when Ximen Surin’s pedagogy chalked up yet another resounding win.