Chapter 699: Instructor Bureau (3)

In truth, Qing cheated.

It wasn’t the Heavy-Road Sword’s First Move, Strong–Weak–Weak; it was the First Move of the Dokgo Nine Sword Forms—I Alone Am Exalted—mixed in rather a lot. The sky-piercing image of a colossal greatsword wasn’t the Absolute Sword Drama’s legacy at all—it was the Heavenly Martial Emperor’s.

It was exactly that trick: show up draped in imported cars worth hundreds of millions and luxury goods worth tens of millions, then say, “You can be like this too if you invest.”

Given the history—how the Absolute Sword Drama tried to throw its weight around at the Heavenly Martial Emperor and got beaten like a dog and disbanded—this bordered on an insult to the seniors, into the bargain.

But Qing is unabashed. It wasn’t cheating—just a bit of seasoning. If you must call it something, call it a white lie. Because, everyone was positively affected, weren’t they.

The cadets’ eyes were ablaze, like a great fire roaring with a bellows’ oxygen feed. Frankly, even at the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, they hadn’t expected they’d be taught truly astounding new skills. But then—surprise. Once the lid was lifted and they watched the demonstration, there was no such skill anywhere under heaven. Absolute Sword Drama? A sword club with a name that terrifyingly grand—wasn’t it said to be a sword art forged by the era’s best swordsmen united as one? Half the cadets were vagrants, the other half martial artists from small sects; the lower classes of the martial world have an obsession with “new skills” that surpasses imagination, a blind devotion. Naturally their fists clenched; naturally they burned with resolve to learn it even if their bodies broke. In other words, they were exactly the sort who are easy marks for a con.

“Before that, I’ll announce training squad assignments. First Squad—captain, Yang Chil.”

At that, Fine, I’ll do it had been on the tip of his tongue, but the man who had made first-class after being smacked by Qing—Yang Chil—swallowed hard. Me, captain? Can I do it?

“Squad members: Mandarlo, Jang Sam, Matasa—”

The Blue River youngest, Matasa, smiled at his friend Yang Chil—Great for you. In the Central Plains or in Qing’s hometown, friends wanting to land in the same squad were all the same.

“...So Eumjo, Jang Bihu—”

“Unacceptable!”

Someone suddenly cut off Qing’s words with a shout. It was So Eumjo—his clan ruined.

“Cadet, this instructor said I would announce assignments. Training assignments are not subject to a cadet’s consent.”

“But that bastard is my enemy! He destroyed my clan! At a time when merely living under the same sky as my enemy is a humiliation—you’re telling me to be in the same squad with him!?”

So Eumjo jabbed a finger at Jang Bihu and shouted. Qing answered:

“Cadet So Eumjo, step forward. Prone-out.”

“Huh?”

“This instructor clearly said to keep the basics. Pointing at a person with your finger is improper behavior—it’s a basic among basics that even a child would know. So—step forward. Prone-out.”

So Eumjo flinched. Somehow, when the plain speech switched to polite speech, Qing became even more imposing.

Of course, that wasn’t what Qing was aiming for. Mm, instructors really do use polite speech, huh. Plain speech just doesn’t stick to my tongue. It slipped out—guess I’ll keep it this way. And if you’re a recorder-wielding teacher, polite speech is basic. Yep.

“Quickly.”

So Eumjo shuffled forward—face bright red; he looked quite aggrieved.

But rules are rules. Qing’s Belly Dagger came down. SMAAACK!!

“Gyaaaah!!!”

The Ximen-Surin-style pedagogy that can make anyone—man or woman, old or young—rub their butt and hop with a single strike: the pinnacle of learning-through-the-body.

“Cadets, take this to heart.”

From beyond the veil, Qing declared, eyes flashing with a somehow baleful glint.

“Etiquette.”

“Makes a.”

“Person.”

No one knew why she broke one sentence into three words stretched into three sentences, but the madness steeped into those three landed with a chill.

After a long bout of hop-hop, rub-rub commotion, So Eumjo finally returned to his spot as the fallout on his backside subsided. His face, however, was the picture of injustice.

“Cadet So Eumjo. Proceed.”

“Huh?”

“This instructor told you to keep etiquette; I did not forbid your statement. So continue with what you intended to say.”

Qing already knew perfectly well what he was going to say. Because the one who had blocked So Eumjo’s rather petty revenge—poisoning with Scattered-Air Poison, then carrying out the clan’s revenge—was Qing herself. And before the exam even began, the two who were slated for disqualification—one for cowardice (So Eumjo by Sima Chunbong’s prior sorting), one for background (Jang Bihu)—had been specially recommended and attached—by Qing.

So Eumjo hesitated, then extended his hand toward Jang Bihu again. Having learned one lesson after getting hit, he kept the fingers straight and indicated respectfully with both hands—

“F—, fuck! That bastard is a bad bastard! A total son of a bitch, a fucking bastard! I’ll kill him!”

Ah, that thing—I know it. Before the fight, your head is full of a perfectly logical, moving speech, but when you actually open your mouth, what pops out first is “F—, fuck!” That principle.

Unlike the ice-cold hatred in his curses, his manner was oddly careful and polite. Which was, mm—it’s bad to laugh, but...

“Cadet So Eumjo, step forward. Prone-out.”

“Wh-what? I didn’t point...”

“Calling a fellow cadet a ‘bastard.’ It’s plainly not a friendly token permitted by sufficient personal closeness. What did this instructor say?”

“Th-that—‘Etiquette... makes a... person...’”

“Good. Present it. Now.”

So Eumjo stepped forward again. His prone body trembled in a fine line—mm, nothing’s breaking or bursting, so why tremble, poor thing. Not that that meant Qing intended to let him off.

SMAAACK!!!

So Eumjo became possessed by a jiangshi again. This time, the thigh. Because Qing’s Ximen-Surin-Style Nuclear Forehead-Flick Bomb hasn’t yet reached Ximen Surin’s realm—hitting the same spot twice could cause problems. The essence is to hit the exact same place again—alas.

The thigh sits below the butt, so to rub it you have to hunch your back; many more difficulties bloom. But once the thigh gets “irradiated,” whether cadet or cadet’s grandpa, face or no face, you must rub—such is the law.

“Now, Cadet So Eumjo. Proceed.”

So Eumjo indicated Jang Bihu respectfully and, choosing his words with difficulty—

“Th-that gentleman is the eldest son of the On Family House, an unorthodox house. The On Family House violently seized our clan’s business and even now, as Eomchang County’s foremost unorthodox force, ruthlessly extorts the common folk. Therefore, I think I must not be placed in the same squad as someone with such dirty—no, I mean, unclean? Tainted? Anyway, with such blood flowing in his veins—and as my clan’s enemy besides...”

All eyes fixed on Jang Bihu. Every gaze was cold and severe—mute blame writ as scorn.

Jang Bihu’s face went pale.

But this had to be untangled now. Even if Qing blocked So Eumjo’s speech here, it would just spread—through dorm mates, through the friends he’d made. Better to make it clear before everyone than let backtalk churn.

“Cadet Jang Bihu. If you have a rebuttal, make it here and now.”

Jang Bihu glanced at So Eumjo, then, with difficulty, began his story.

“My surname was not originally Jang but On. As Cadet So says, I am indeed the eldest son of the On Family House. However...”

Yes, the blood is dirty—he admits it. But he left home because he hated it, and he changed his surname to cut ties.

Some nodded; some frowned. A buzz rose. Even if he says “severed ties,” is a clan’s business erased just because you dislike it, can you step out and escape that grudge so conveniently? But if it’s the foremost unorthodox power that extorts the people, that’s the Unorthodox Alliance’s turf; if he’s thrown away the successor’s seat and walked out, hasn’t he shown resolve to match?

Qing stamped her foot. THUD.

“This instructor will not force your judgments. Some will say Cadet So Eumjo’s revenge is just; some will say Cadet Jang Bihu is blameless. But!”

Qing stamped again. THUD.

“Right now, as cadets of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy and as trainees of the sacred Sword Hall, you are sailors aboard the same ship. Therefore, at this Academy, acts that stir up disorder over past grace and grievance will absolutely not be permitted. Do you understand!?”

“Yes!” “Understood!”

“Is that all the voice you’ve got!?”

“Yes, ma’am!!” “Understood—ma’am!!”

Well, the rest—I don’t know. The principals can work it out, or fight, or split after the Academy course ends. You can’t force them into a ring of apologies that drills to the earth’s axis like kids—Hug. Sorry. No, I’m more sorry.

“Right, we continue the assignments.”

Three training squads with nineteen each. The total number of sword-curriculum trainees was sixty-one; after subtracting the three assistant instructors, one remained.

The Sword Jade Girl shot her hand up.

“Cadet Sword Jade Girl.”

“Instructor. My squad hasn’t been assigned.”

“Cadet Sword Jade Girl is already proficient in swordsmanship. This instructor will teach you separately and assign you as an assistant instructor. If you do not wish this, I’ll place you in Third Squad.”

“No. In fact, I was going to ask. Thank you.”

Her eyes sparkled at Qing—mm, quite a bit of pressure, that.

Anyway, the last announcement. In truth, this was the main point.

“And on the full moon and the new moon going forward, the trainee representatives will fight trainees of the other curricula in matches—the King-of-All-Weapons Tournament.”

“King-of-All-Weapons Tournament!” “King-of-All-Weapons Tournament!”

The King-of-All-Weapons Tournament: a match where trainees from the three curricula face off; the winning curriculum gains the status of King of All Weapons.

The King of All Weapons’ perks were as follows: two dishes provided at meals; tea and snacks provided in the dorms; once a month, the three-day leave becomes four—an extra day; and so on—an amazing array of differentiated benefits.

And above all! You get to append “King of All Weapons” to your training hall slogan! At morning and evening muster, you must shout three times the honorable/humiliating slogan that the winning weapon—sword/saber/fist—is the King of All Weapons and the most superior weapon under heaven!

“However, this instructor can never allow the hideous noise of a half-sword saber, or the primitive punching used by bullies, shouting that they are the King of All Weapons. Do you understand?”

Qing’s aura turned baleful again.

“If the day comes when such a sound reaches this instructor’s ears, heh-heh—then even this instructor cannot vouch for this instructor’s wrath...”

Qing lightly wagged the Belly Dagger. The cadets swallowed hard. Ah—so if we don’t win, we’re screwed.

And the next was the crux:

The King-of-All-Weapons Tournament’s entrant is chosen by the other instructor! Which means, of course, they’ll pick someone easy.

“Therefore, not only must you follow this instructor’s guidance—you must push and pull each other, raising everyone’s achievement across the board if you are to win.”

It was a system cobbled together at Qing’s suggestion. Pit the training halls against each other to maintain internal cohesion; through that cohesion, have them teach and lead their laggards themselves, drawing out high achievement across the board.

For reference, Sima Chunbong, who wrote up the details, reacted with truly vehement praise: Divide and rule! Forge an external enemy! This is the very method of a sovereign! Indeed—a genius idea worthy of being the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy’s long tradition! Heavenly Flower Sword! I’d been feeling a creeping doubt at your crass words and rotten personality of late—and here you prove yourself my true rival, skkiyaa—AACK! With this praise she bounced up and down so violently that the wisdom pouch also, mm—still vivid to the eyes—gave the feeling that life had lengthened by about ten years.