The Joy of Reverse Odds
"Hmm. So, who do you think will win?"
"While Young Hero Wang has considerable real combat experience, can he truly be compared to a direct disciple of the Nine Great Sects? Especially against Senior Brother Peng Samin, even more so."
Peng Samin was a disciple of the Kunlun Sect from the Peng family, known by the alias Jade Tower Sword. The nickname had been given because he was so sensitive that he cried when happy, cried when sad, and would cry simply from seeing a sad person.
"I see. By the way, what are the current odds?"
"Young Hero Wang is at seventy-eight point nine. Taoist Peng Samin is at eleven point one."
"Hmm. Then give me one nyang on Young Hero Wang."
Cheong bought the betting slip for Wang's victory. Jegal Ihyeon immediately objected.
"Sister, are you really spending a whole silver nyang on a betting slip for a warrior who's obviously going to lose?"
"It's for fun anyway, isn't it? Betting on Peng Samin would only net me about ten coins at most. But if Wang somehow wins, I'd get nearly seven nyang, right?"
"That's exactly the kind of thinking that leads straight to ruin."
"Well, it's not like I'm wagering a fortune..."
And so the match began. Surprisingly, the martial art that used a chair looked impressive. It wasn't an ordinary square one, but a long, horizontal bench-style chair meant for two people at a noodle shop. The seat edges were reinforced with iron plates, and the legs were densely wrapped in iron wire.
The way he wielded the custom chair—twisting and turning it in every direction—was truly the perfect union of offense and defense. He blocked attacks while simultaneously thrusting with the legs, tripping, spinning, pushing to target joints, or smashing with the iron-plated edges, all with ferocious power.
Peng Samin kept retreating, desperately parrying, so the momentum clearly belonged to Young Hero Wang.
"What? He's actually good."
"I didn't realize he was concealing this level of skill. However, Kunlun's true power has not yet been revealed. After all, can one truly discuss victory or defeat with a Kunlun warrior without mentioning their divine footwork—roaming the harsh Kunlun Mountains like a dragon?"
"Hmm. I suppose..."
The match gradually intensified, stretching well past thirty exchanges. Cheong spoke again.
"So when exactly is this true power supposed to appear?"
"This is embarrassing."
Jegal Ihyeon's insight was the best among musclemen, but it seemed he ultimately couldn't escape the limits of being a muscleman after all. Peng Samin's sword went thunk and lodged firmly in the center of the chair. When Wang twisted and shoved the chair with all his strength, the sword that couldn't endure it snapped clean in two.
"Winner, Wang Bang of Nanning!"
The spectators' reactions were split between joy and despair. If Cheong's match had been the tournament's greatest upset, this was the second. Once again, countless people had lost fortunes on their betting slips.
"See? Betting against the odds is the proper way. Look, I earned seven nyang without even leaving my seat."
"To be precise, it's not seven nyang but six nyang and eighty-nine mun, Sister."
"Jegal. How unsightly. Just accept your defeat."
Jegal Ihyeon let out a resentful groan.
"Kugh. How can human intellect possibly lose to a beast's wild instincts!"
"Jegal, you should thank Hyang. If not for her, I would've given you a truly beastly smack."
"Hut. So you've finally realized why I specifically brought A-hyang along—ack!"
"You really are asking for a beating."
"No, how can you land such a fierce strike on the crown from that angle...!"
It was all thanks to her achievement in the Flowing Softness Softening Refinement training. With her greatly expanded joint mobility, the angles for Seomun Su-rin's nuclear strikes had also increased dramatically.
Yeah, enduring that pain was at least a little worthwhile.
Besides learning the weakness of Sosu Magong, there were other benefits. Cheong's beautiful white hands were tough enough to hammer nails without a scratch, yet they had been completely helpless against joint manipulation.
Right. The next training session was in seven days...
A faint glaze faded from Cheong's eyes. No matter how excellent the martial art, that torture—no, it was real torture. And it was an exquisitely precise torture at that, calibrated to avoid crippling her. It half-broke the joints and tore the tendons about eighty percent, leaving just enough to avoid permanent damage.
"Sister?"
"Ah. Uh. Yeah. Why?"
"Will you be aiming for reverse odds again this time?"
While Cheong had been quietly trembling, several matches had already passed. This time it was a disciple from the Gaoshan Sect versus the independent Young Hero Wu.
"Of course. Once a man decides on something, he must charge forward without hesitation. Here—one nyang on Young Hero Wu."
And Jegal Ihyeon lost again.
"They call you Maengsin-hyeonnoe, but it seems you need the courage of the beast as well. Weighing and calculating everything like that is why you can't win."
"Kugh...! Such humiliation...!"
As the matches continued, what Cheong realized was that the orthodox sect martial artists were indeed quite benevolent. Whether from a sect or a prestigious family, their good karma tended to be in the single digits, and even at worst their evil karma didn't exceed fifty points.
However, the independent martial artists who had entered without affiliation and passed the preliminaries carried evil karma in the mid-to-late two-digit range—just short of three digits. By Cheong's personal standards they weren't full villains, but they certainly seemed like potential ones.
"By the way, wasn't this tournament only for young martial artists from the orthodox sects? Do they just accept anyone who trained alone if they apply?"
"What are you saying? Even without affiliation, these are righteous warriors renowned for chivalry in their operating regions. They have passed strict verification."
"Is that so...?"
For people who supposedly passed strict verification, their evil karma seems a bit high. Of course, other people couldn't see evil karma as clear numerical values the way Cheong could.
The Hidden Dragon Tournament was a continuous series of upsets. The independent martial artists who had entered without affiliation and broken through the preliminaries kept winning. (While they could be called ronin, the term carried an unpleasant connotation even if it wasn't outright derogatory.)
It also meant Jegal Ihyeon had lost that many bets, and that those who had tried to comfortably profit from safe odds had been defeated as well. Thanks to this, the atmosphere in the arena gradually grew heavy and damp. Here and there, people with expressions like they were on the verge of tears stood out, not knowing what to do with themselves.
Before they knew it, it was time for the Shaolin disciple Wolbong's match.
"Sister, you're going for reverse odds again, right?"
"Hmm. Well. Excuse me."
Cheong caught a passing betting ticket seller and asked.
"What are the current odds?"
"Three li on Monk Wolbong—"
"What? Three li?"
Cheong asked again. In her hometown terms, three li was roughly 1.003 times—meaning if you bet ten thousand won, you'd only win thirty. An incredibly stingy payout.
"It's eight li, correct. Young Hero Sun from Shenchuan is at eight hundred twenty to one. How about trying to reverse your life with this opportunity?"
"No thanks."
Reverse odds were one thing, but there was no reason to bet on a completely impossible fight. There must have been almost no money wagered on Young Hero Sun, because the betting seller let out a deep sigh and trudged away with a pitiful, dejected back.
"Hmm. The odds are completely insane."
"Of course they are. A Shaolin warrior with 'Wol' in his name means he's a disciple of Abbot Muhak, doesn't it? It's only natural when the disciple of the First Under Heaven steps forward. So you're not betting on Young Hero Sun this time?"
"Master said he's my semifinal opponent. That means he'll definitely advance. But it doesn't feel worth buying a betting slip just to win three li."
Jegal Ihyeon's expression immediately soured.
"Sister, how can you have only one mouth yet say two completely different things? You clearly said that once a man decides on something—ugh, kugh...!"
Jegal Ihyeon gritted his teeth in resentment.
"Hut. You're still far from it. Didn't you fall for this once in Luoyang? I think I said something similar back then."
"That time it was Brother Paeng who suffered, not me."
"Still, doesn't that mean you learned nothing from watching it?"
"Kheuk...!"
Jegal Ihyeon acted resentful once more.
At that moment, Shaolin disciple Wolbong appeared in the arena. Cheers erupted from every direction.
All Martial Arts Come From Shaolin!
Disciple of Abbot Muhak!
Successor of the First Under Heaven!
This secretly annoyed Cheong. What the hell? When I came out, no one said a word. But after I win, they pour out the boos.
Separately, the women's high-pitched squealing cheers were almost nonexistent. In Cheong's opinion, it was probably largely because of the monk's signature bald head.
As the odds suggested, the outcome had been decided from the start. It was closer to a guidance sparring session than an actual match. Using only basic techniques, he neatly closed the distance and secured the optimal position for his palm strikes. Then he deliberately gave up that hard-won distance advantage by retreating, seemingly to give his opponent a chance to display their martial arts out of consideration.
After all, Seomun Su-rin had instructed her to exchange at least ten moves before finishing the fight. So there had been no real point in Cheong's scouting.
In her view, the lines drawn by his martial arts advanced in perfectly straight paths.
"Very linear, isn't it?"
"'All martial arts come from Shaolin,' as they say. Since Shaolin is credited with producing the fundamentals of all martial learning, isn't the root of martial arts originally like that? Stronger, faster, more efficient."
"The first martial art was the Wolnyeo Sword Art, though. Then wouldn't the root be the Wolnyeo Sword? Why Shaolin?"
"The Wolnyeo Sword Art is merely an imitation of forms—lacking the true essence. It would be more accurate to call it the first martial technique rather than the first martial art."
When the Wolnyeo taught the Wolnyeo Sword Art to the soldiers of her kingdom, the world had no concept of martial learning, let alone martial arts. Therefore, they could only roughly copy the outer appearance without understanding the function or effect of the movements.
Even so, those soldiers gained the combat strength to be worth a hundred men each, capable of overwhelming their enemies. This was the first time in history that the terms "sword technique" and "sword art" appeared.
Even now, the Wolnyeo Sword Art was one of the easiest martial arts to obtain. Of course, it was nothing but third-rate compared to the authentic version Cheong had learned.
In the meantime, at the fifteenth exchange, Wolbong cleanly ended the match. Jegal Ihyeon evaluated the performance.
"I thought it would be a rare chance to witness Shaolin's martial arts, but it ended at the level of the Six Harmonies Fist. What a shame."
"Six Harmonies Fist? That one they sell in the streets?"
Cheong had learned it too. The easily obtainable white—occasionally blue-bordered—martial arts had been picked up simply because they were cheap, and the extremely common Six Harmonies Fist was among them.
"Since it is Shaolin's Six Harmonies, it must be far more refined and profound. But because Shaolin's Six Harmonies Fist spread widely and became the common version, the form itself probably isn't that different."
Additionally, nearly all of these common fist and palm techniques sold in the markets were degraded versions originating from the basics known as Shaolin's Seventy-Two Ultimate Arts. The saying "All martial arts come from Shaolin" was, at least when it came to fist and palm methods—or combat techniques in general—an undeniable truth.
"Hmm. In the end, I didn't get to see any real martial arts. I suppose I'll have to fight him myself to get a proper sense of it."
Jegal Ihyeon never got to see the martial arts listed in the Shaolin Temple introduction. The Arhat Divine Fist, White Lotus Divine Fist, Demon-Subduing Cassock Fist, Arhat Eighteen Palms, Great Strength Diamond Palm, Hundred Step Divine Fist, Finger Flicking Divine Skill, Diamond Ground, and the Nine-Grade Lotus Throne—every purple-grade divine skill and supreme art that came up in searches was nowhere to be seen. It was just the Six Harmonies Fist.
And so the second day of the Hidden Dragon Tournament, the round of sixty-four, came to a close.
Since a tournament wasn't about fighting consecutively to display one's full ability, the schedule tended to be somewhat relaxed. The next round—the round of thirty-two—would be held in four days, with all the matches taking place in a single day. Until then, she could diligently wear the painful training clothes and spar to grow accustomed to the sensation.
By that time, everyone should have finished most of their family business. The Ban-Geom-Ssang-Do Association members would probably be able to gather again.