Chapter 700: Instructor Bureau (4)

Qing’s policy was for the three training squads to learn the Heavy-Road, Quick-Road, and Gentle-Road for each move, then keep switching subtleties as they progressed—so they would touch everything through the end of the Eighth Move.

In truth, it wasn’t efficient. Many people training three things separately doesn’t present a single, graspable picture. Even if each of the three assistants took one, Qing was just one person; she wasn’t the Great Sage Heaven-Equal plucking hairs to make clones, so overall guidance was hard.

Even if they learned one at a time—everyone in the order of Heavy, then Quick, then Gentle—you still had to teach all three anyway.

So why split them anyway? Not to “divide and rule,” as Sima Chunbong had admired. The Heavy-Road Sword can be swung in empty air. The Quick-Road Sword can be swung in empty air.

But the Gentle-Road Sword cannot be swung in empty air—it must be accompanied by paired practice. As a defensive subtlety aimed at self-protection—guarding and letting pass, inducing openings and breaking balance—you had to cross swords against a person to truly embody it.

Therefore Heavy/Quick had to practice together with Gentle by alternating in paired drills. In that case, the Gentle-Road squad that had to face two squads by turns would end up with a schedule that was quite hard and grueling. Qing had thought of that, too.

Did you come here to play? If it’s hard and grueling, you won’t do it? Just say “I died” and push through—what else? The subtlety of Softness is evaluated about half a weight class above; of course it’s hard—how could it be easy?

It was Qing’s deep thought. Just let it be hard. It’s meant to be hard.

“Assistant Changbin takes Heavy-Road. Assistant Moyong takes Quick-Road. Assistant Namgung takes Gentle-Road exclusively.”

It was reassuring to have Namgung Sinjae take the hardest part. The Moyong clan is famous for the quick sword—perfect for teaching Quick. As for Changbin, whose achievement was frankly poor—that was a shame, but the plan was to raise the Sword Jade Girl well and bring her in as an assistant to cover that.

Thus: formal class, commence! —And just as they began, a cadet slid in to block Qing’s path and raised a hand to request to speak. She was right in front of her; did she really need to raise her hand? Well.

“Cadet Sword Jade Girl.”

“Yes, Instructor. What am I to do?”

The Sword Jade Girl removed a veil that hung from her ears and covered her jaw—something more Indian or Persian than Central Plains. Large almond eyes with sharp tails, pupils unusually big—somehow giving a cool aloof look. Her expression was haughty, the kind of cat-face that looks like it’ll scratch if you touch it—but her gaze, somehow... like a puppy wagging its tail off. As if rhombus-shaped sparkles were bursting out. Mm. A cat-dog. Exactly a cat-dog...

“For now, join First Squad and proceed.”

Her shoulders slumped. On an ordinary day I’d wonder why, but if I think of her as the female version of Sword Fang—the She–Sword Fang—then perhaps she’d wanted me to transmit the moves directly. In truth, at about super-transcendent she’s still just “a low hand,” but among imitators below peak, it’s natural not to want to train together.

But class time is for everyone. Even if there’s a genius in the class, a teacher shouldn’t do one-on-one tutoring during the lesson.

“Starting today, after daily duties—after the evening meal—for about one shichen, you’ll carry out assistant-instructor duties by training privately. Of course, it’s not compulsory—you may refuse, cadet—mm.”

Qing broke off mid-sentence as the Sword Jade Girl began firing rhombus light-rays with her eyes. No need to hear her answer.

“Thank you, Instructor.”

She bowed and withdrew with a show of poise. Anyone could see her steps were far too bouncy. Mm. Very easy to read...

Again—formal class, commence!

In truth, the assistants had already agreed to handle move transmission, so there was nothing Qing particularly needed to lay hands on.

She simply strolled and flicked off-the-cuff pointers at anyone who caught her eye.

“Cadet Mae Ida—wider [N O V E L I G H T] stance, and do not twist the waist. More—more—that’s enough.”

“Cadet Hayatu—your shoulder’s slipping. Lock your scapulae and open your chest.”

“Cadet Innkeeper—just now, that posture—mm—like this—don’t extend the elbow all the way.”

It was a great decision to bring the Belly Dagger. No need to touch anyone; a little push-pull with the recorder and that’s that—how convenient. Qing had trained blade-handling in new-skill sword drills until even a sharp edge moved like her own hand; a blunt recorder was nothing.

Qing moved around, laying down pointers on cadet posture.

In truth, Qing was slightly at sea. She’d never served as an instructor; this was her first class. The assistants would handle move transmission, and she’d look after fine corrections—mm—is this the right way to do it or not?

The cadets thought differently. She slid in, tapped and nudged with the recorder, set their posture—and then, without fail, the strength in their wooden swords came up a notch. So this is a recorder that grants enlightenment! A fresh shiver. A fresh thrill!

Qing merely took a look—build, the ratio of upper to lower body, limb length and joint positions—then set the posture that fit. So she thought.

In truth, it was the astonishing sum of experiences etched into her brain by countless real fights: seeing the enemy’s body and weapon and, by their stride, the bend of their joints, the stretch of their waist, roughly gauging the distance and the force they could put through. In this respect, Qing was a born fighter.

Qing had “eaten for free” when it came to martial arts—through the universe’s mysterious new-skill, brain-kneading, eyes-rolling-back learning method. But martial arts learned that way are like putting a fine weapon in your hand. Like a pistol in the hand. A skilled hunter takes twelve lives with twelve rounds; someone else empties ten magazines and, far from a kill, leaves a trail of collateral damage and then gets killed. The reason some achieve quickly but are weak in real fights—and the reverse—shows a huge difference at this very point.

In this regard, there weren’t many—even expanded to middle-aged martial artists—who had fought as many fierce life-and-death battles as Qing, in a martial world that was, overall, peaceful.

But Qing had no idea how valuable her corrections were. So—is this right? Should I say something more... higher-level, theoretical? Talk about “cadres” of movement? But “cadres,” my foot—most of them are third- or second-rate; honestly, it seems better to load weight, build bodies, run, crawl, and cultivate grit.

As a result, those cadets who were already getting it on their own didn’t have many spots she needed to fix. So when Qing approached, they suddenly sprouted strength—their absent sword-power grew. Please look here! Look at me too!—desperate body movements craving attention.

And then, while she was a little at sea—vooom! vooom! vooom! The sound of a sword cleaving the air—splendid, weighty tone of a heavy sword—but not the sound that should come in the First Move.

The First Move is Strong–Weak–Weak. One heavy, then two soft. Even with a heavy sword, modulation is vital; the pattern aims for many things—that’s why it was made that way. And Strong–Weak–Weak is a popular trait for a first move even outside the Three-Road Sword. If you kill with the first strike—excellent. If you connect and disrupt their posture, you can pursue quickly and finish; if you miss, you can follow fast and hide your opening.

But if you make all three strikes Strong–Strong–Strong—unless the move itself was built as Strong–Strong–Strong...

Vooom! Vooom! Vooom! Again the whoosh of a wooden sword. Three separate blows thrown like three separate acts—no longer a single move’s linkage.

“Cadet Chang Yohong?”

The owner of the sound was the Vermilion Bird girl, Chang Yohong.

“Ease the force in the second and third strikes, mm—”

Qing swallowed the rest—her sword grip was clumsy from the very first hold.

“Cadet, have you perhaps never held a sword before?”

“Well...”

“This instructor is not reproaching you. Answer comfortably.”

“...Yes.”

Given good fire, there’d been no reason to use a sword. Sure, a sword would look twice as cool—Flame’s Breath! Hellfire! Mm—very cool indeed. A flame-blade ought to be stronger than a flame-fist. Frankly, if I had to fight, she would be much harder to face than that Azure Dragon dancer; no matter how high your skill, fire is hot.

“Is there any cadet in this curriculum who is touching a sword for the first time?”

Here and there, names rang out. For those from third-rate backgrounds, sword arts were a luxury; there were people who had used saber arts or fist arts.

“Mm. Those concerned will receive sword-arts basics after the evening meal. It is not compulsory; any cadet who wishes may join freely. And Cadet Chang Yohong—like this—the arms here—wider—and the little finger should feel like it rests.”

Ah—this won’t be handled with a recorder. Qing reached out her hand. Chang Yohong startled and tried to draw the sword away—but you can’t escape the touch of Qing, mistress of the No-Shadow Divine Hand. A hand that was unusually cool—and soft—lightly pressed the back of her hand. Because of the Vermilion Bird Dance, Chang Yohong’s body ran hot; the Minor Water Art’s cool minor water felt like cold ice. Like plunging a fever-hot hand into cold water.

In that instant, fwoosh, flames rose in her hand on their own. This was why successors of the Vermilion Bird Sect wrapped themselves up tight.

But only for a moment—tcheo-jeojeok, the sound of frost forming.

“Cadet Chang Yohong?”

“I—I’m sorry, it just... I can’t control it very well.”

Qing nodded. If it’s not an attack, it’s fine.

Add the extreme of the Ice-White Divine Palm to the Minor Water Art that grants sub–Diamond-Indestructible from the elbow down—then a momentary burst of flame is nothing, you just freeze it.

“It’s fine. Release the strength in your fingers.”

Only now did Chang Yohong realize she was gripping hard enough to crush the sword. It had simply been so long since another person’s skin had touched hers. As a Vermilion Bird heir who cannot control her flames in the introductory stage, the garments that wrap the whole body are a fireproof device to protect me—and restraints to protect others.

Qing’s vision went dark. From toes to head position, it was a total mess; she set the posture straight down the line—and yet, mm, why is this one so stiff? When she dances she’s soft and flowing; now she creaks like a wooden-jointed doll. Mm. This will take far more effort than I thought. Did I take the instructor’s job too lightly...

With someone who lacked even the basics of sword arts, there were not one or two places to correct. And there hadn’t been just one or two who cried their names earlier; if I start from the very beginning with each, the estimate goes off the rails.

“This won’t do. Cadets touching a sword for the first time, and cadets unaccustomed to the sword—fall out to the rear. And—Cadet Sword Jade Girl?”

How to hold a sword, how to swing it, the basic posture and points of caution—surely the Sword Jade Girl, already a super-transcendent swordsman, could set those. If you’ve got talent, use it. Reassuring! Sword Jade Girl! Ah—is this how a professor feels when taking on a grad student? An immense feeling of omnipotence!

Qing was already putting her to frugal, thorough use—before even raising her to assistant-instructor.