Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Friendly Tournament
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The area in front of the bulletin board was bustling with Qi Condensation disciples.
Standing on tiptoes made the official notice just barely visible.
Seoran swept her hawk-like gaze over the contents.
Stripping away the flowery rhetoric, it boiled down to this.
‘Hosting an irregular friendship tournament between sects.
Black Bamboo Sect included, a total of four major sects participating.
Each selecting ten Qi Condensation disciples to compete in martial arts.
Date and location: ten days from now in the border region.
Black Bamboo Sect’s representative selection prelims in three days.
Basic physical abilities such as strength, agility, and endurance as selection criteria.
Cliff climbing, obstacle running, and swimming performed in sequence; the first ten to finish selected as representatives.
Thereafter, the ten representatives scheduled for training camp until the tournament.
Registrations handled at the Administrative Hall.’
Yi Agum, who was half-buried in the crowd due to her short stature, asked.
“Sis, what’s written on the bulletin board? How do they pick the representatives?”
“Cliff climbing, obstacle running, swimming in sequence, top ten finishers.”
“Wow, that sounds brutal. No matter how I think about it, I couldn’t participate. Are you gonna do it, sis?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan. I’ll head to the Administrative Hall real quick to register.”
“Got it. See you, sis.”
Seoran headed straight to the Administrative Hall behind the bulletin board.
A long line had already formed in front of the registration desk.
Not a single person looked like a pushover.
Seoran felt a pleasant tension as she took her place at the end of the line.
*****
Thanks to the tournament news, Black Bamboo Sect was livelier than usual.
Everyone was buzzing over the rare large-scale event.
The most prominent group was, naturally, the prelim participants.
Qi Condensation disciples who’d always brimmed with confidence in their skills were tossing and turning at night with anticipation.
They didn’t show it outwardly, but up to the very last moment, they honed their skills without respite.
The next largest group was the spectators.
Life as a secluded mountain cultivator was always monotonously the same.
Politely put, it was the serene tranquility of escaping worldly affairs; bluntly put, it was downright boring.
The most excitement amounted to splashing around in the river with friends on holidays.
This rare break from routine in their dull days had everyone thrilled.
Especially since it involved superhuman clashes that half-transcended human limits.
It was nothing short of the world’s greatest entertainment.
This drought-ending amusement drove people mad.
Thus, whenever two or more gathered, the topic always came up.
“No matter how you slice it, first place has to be Senior Brother Im.”
“Yeah, he’s the top contender.”
“Then second place and below are what really matter.”
“My prediction: Elder Ho makes at least top five.”
“Hmm, that’s reasonable.”
“And Senior Brother Song should pass comfortably too.”
“Nah, honestly, Senior Brother Song’s a no-go.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?! What exactly is our Senior Brother Song lacking?!”
“Hey, why get mad? He’s great and all, but his lower body’s kinda weak, isn’t it?”
“Weak? That’s your eyesight that’s weak!”
“What’d you say?! Nothing’s more important in martial arts than the lower body! You don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
“You done talking?!”
East or west, ancient or modern, discussions always risked turning into a flea market brawl if you weren’t careful.
Everyone raised their voices for their favored contenders.
These arguments echoed everywhere in Black Bamboo Sect now.
Normally, this would escalate to “let’s settle it with martial prowess” and devolve into a fistfight.
But private duels between sect disciples meant a joint trip to the punishment hall.
The clashing opinions just ran parallel without resolution.
And then, a hero emerged amid the chaos.
“Why don’t we bet on it to see who’s right?”
The superhuman arrived on a white steed amid the battlefield—Jang Ok-gi mediated the crowd.
Black Bamboo Sect periodically distributed spirit stones to its disciples.
They could be used immediately for cultivation or saved to exchange for the sect’s magical tools and elixirs.
No cultivator refused spirit stones, so they doubled as currency for personal trades.
Jang Ok-gi proposed everyone stake spirit stones, with those who correctly predicted the finalists taking the losers’ shares proportional to the odds.
Minus the part about wagering on people instead of horses, it was a classic horse race.
For the record, Jang Ok-gi had never ventured into the secular world, so he didn’t even know what horse racing was.
Surpassing the saying “teach one, grasp ten,” this was talent creating something from nothing.
In the end, a gambling den sprang up.
Jang Ok-gi, for whom everything but cultivation was pure joy, volunteered as the unpaid bookie without prompting.
In an instant, contestant lists and odds were posted on the wall.
The scattered squabbles vanished at once.
No need to argue endlessly—if opinions differed, just stake spirit stones.
The results would prove who was right.
A warrior fights with the sword, not the tongue.
Only self-proof at the risk of life was the warrior’s path.
In that sense, Black Bamboo Sect had no cowards.
Everyone tossed spirit stones like candy wrappers.
Spirit stones accelerated cultivation.
For cultivators whose lifespan extended with realm advancement, spirit stones were tantamount to life itself.
They were now betting their lives on this wager.
And not small amounts either.
Most believed the quantity staked reflected the strength of their conviction.
Quite a few Qi Condensation disciples wagered their entire fortunes.
How steadfast must their faith in others be to unhesitatingly place their all on the line?
Yi Agum pondered, staring at her friend’s unfamiliar face—eyes wild with fervor, clutching the number tag tightly.
His breathing was ragged; he didn’t look sane at all.
Only two remained in their right minds now.
Jang Ok-gi approached, eyes sharp with spirit, and asked.
“Junior Sister Yi, not betting?”
He was actively promoting now too.
No one paying him, yet his face beamed with fulfillment.
“Uh, I...”
Yi Agum, eyeing the papers plastered to the wall, spoke up.
“Then one spirit stone on Sis Seoran.”
No one had bet on Ryu Seoran, the youngest prelim participant.
Her absurdly high odds looked downright lonely.
Kind-hearted Yi Agum decided to toss one spirit stone so her sis wouldn’t feel bad.
“Got it, one spirit stone on Cultivator Ryu. Here’s your number tag. Can’t claim payouts without it, so don’t lose it, okay?”
Jang Ok-gi scribbled busily in the ledger, handed over a wooden tag, and cautioned her.
The number was 105.
Just then, someone called Jang Ok-gi from afar.
“Cultivator Jang! Brought more spirit stones! All in on Elder Ho additionally!”
“Yes, coming right now!”
Jang Ok-gi dashed off through the bustling crowd like the wind.
Now that she looked, even Jang Ok-gi seemed off.
The one-and-only rationalist, Yi Agum, pocketed the wooden tag and returned to her quarters.
*****
Prelims day.
Participants gathered at the starting point, warming up.
The competition format was simple.
First, dash from the start and climb the sheer cliff ahead barehanded.
Even if you slipped and fell, Foundation Establishment cultivators on flying magical tools waited nearby for safety.
After cliff climbing, follow the signposts scattered about as you run.
Passing all obstacles leads to a bridge spanning the river.
Dive into the river mid-bridge, then swim upstream against the current.
Swim hard, and the finish line comes into view.
Malicious interference with others is, of course, disqualification.
Spectators board large ship-shaped flying magical tools to follow the entire process live.
Impossible not to be entertained.
A flawless setup.
“Ready!”
At the booming command, the contestants heightened their focus.
“Go!”
At the start signal, the aspiring superhumans bolted in unison.
Unthinkable acceleration on two legs—already, the leaders were scaling the cliff.
Seoran maintained the mid-pack from the outset, not overexerting.
She planned to avoid the leaders without falling too far back.
Soon, all contestants were climbing the cliff.
Cliff climbing grew harder as it went.
At first, plenty of handholds and a slight incline despite the steepness.
But the incline vanished, eventually giving way to perfectly vertical sections.
Scarce footholds, no protrusions—relying on tiny cracks, ascending by finger strength alone.
Fierce winds battered, the face slick as if artificially polished.
Misplace your center of gravity, and crumbling rock sent you plummeting.
Dropouts mounted steadily.
Past the vertical stretch came overhangs protruding like eaves.
Any upper body weakness meant instant elimination.
Surviving all trials, they finally crested the cliff.
But no path to run in sight.
Senior Brother Im, in the lead, scanned about in confusion.
He finally spotted the signpost.
It stood on the opposite cliff face from their ascent.
Senior Brother Im peered down at the cliff below.
Logs just thick enough for one foot—or barely two—were densely embedded along the vertical drop to the adjacent peak.
Senior Brother Im muttered unwittingly.
“This is the running part?”
At that moment, Seoran was still solidly mid-pack.