The Unaffiliated Surge

With the Hidden Dragon Tournament now officially underway as part of the Grand Murim Tournament, the members of the Ban-Geom-Ssang-Do Association began trickling into the Mucheon Pavilion.

The founding president was Seomun Cheong, though she had somehow ended up in the position without even realizing a group had been formed around her.

“But if it’s the Ban-Geom-Ssang-Do Association, shouldn’t it be called the Sword-Saber Association? Why are we pretending the swords are the ones yielding?”

“When outsiders hear the name, they’ll assume ‘sword’ comes first anyway. We decided to put ‘half-sword’ at the front because none of us wanted to explain an embarrassing name.”

“Wait, you guys are actually embarrassed about the name?”

The members nodded calmly. Since the name had been slapped together in a fit of anger while they were teasing each other’s weapons, it was naturally embarrassing. Besides, it was rather childish for martial artists to belittle one another’s chosen arms in the first place.

At any rate, the Grand Murim Tournament held little appeal for Cheong’s friends. There was the world’s most handsome man who found social gatherings uncomfortable (zero friends), Paeng Cho-ryo who wasn’t part of the young elite generation and thus had nothing to do (zero friends), the sword-obsessed training fanatic who would rather swing his blade one more time ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than loiter around (zero sword friends), the friendless Gongson Yoye, and Dang Nan-a—who also had no friends but possessed an even worse personality.

When Cheong actually listed them one by one, she realized every last member had some kind of flaw that left them friendless. Therefore, it seemed her destiny as the only one with plenty of friends was to take the president position and lead these loners.

The sole exception was Jegal Ihyeon, who was hard to spot. He was an extremely extroverted muscleman who loved being around people, poking his nose into every event to broaden his horizons (eavesdropping on every story imaginable).

So they sparred together, ate together, and wandered around at night in a big noisy group—though they still bathed separately. Before anyone realized it, four days had flown by, and the round of thirty-two of the Hidden Dragon Tournament had arrived.

Throughout those four days, Cheong continued wearing the rough uniform that felt like it had been woven from blades. Her skin turned red and swollen every night, but her transcendent durability prevented any actual damage. As Cheon Yuhak had said, once she grew accustomed to it the pain stopped bothering her. That was what “getting used to it” truly meant.

The absolute amount of pain never decreased no matter how many times it was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠repeated. Yet because she had grown accustomed to it, even though it still hurt, she had reached the point where it actually felt refreshing. Like the satisfaction of pressing a mosquito bite with a fingernail until it left marks shaped like 口, 十, or 田. Or the bladder-tingling relief of carefully scratching beside a scab.

Unfortunately, the tournament required her to wear the Sinnyeo Sect uniform, which offered no arm guards. After trying it directly against her bare skin, Cheong reached a simple conclusion.

Aigoo, this is actually driving me insane. For real.

She had hoped it might have improved, but having worn only rough fabric for days, she naturally couldn’t adapt to the soft, whispering texture. Still, she no longer made that miserable face from before. She was already overcoming the pain of rough clothing, so she could simply take time later to get used to soft clothing as well.

In the end, Cheong wrapped her arms and legs with guards, cinched the uniform tightly to her body with a wide belt, and stepped out. And then—how stifling the world felt! Having wrapped her entire body the way gloves trapped her hands, it was inevitable. The wind that usually flowed freely around her was gone, making it feel like she couldn’t breathe.

So what could she do? She simply resolved once again to grow accustomed to the sensation as quickly as possible.

The Hidden Dragon Tournament was a continuous series of upsets. The win rate of the rogue martial artists—or more accurately, the unaffiliated ones—had gone beyond high and straight into insanity.

Thirteen of the preliminary qualifiers were completely unaffiliated. Ten of them had advanced to the round of thirty-two, meaning ten out of the thirty-two main bracket participants were unaffiliated.

Thanks to that, more than a few spectators had lost bet after bet, grown furious, taken out massive loans, and ended up completely ruined under crushing debt. But ticket sales for victory and defeat were a legal business recognized by national law and permitted by the Murim Alliance. All responsibility lay with the impure mortals who had tried to strike it rich in one reckless gamble.

Since the distribution was transparent aside from operational costs, for every person’s bloody tears there was naturally someone else pocketing gold.

The surprises continued. In the matches leading up to Cheong’s, three unaffiliated martial artists advanced to the round of sixteen—the true start of the main tournament. There was Ma Sohyeop who fought with chairs, Wang Sohyeop who also fought with chairs, and… some other guy. She didn’t know his name.

Having watched the matches, Cheong frowned fiercely.

What the hell? What exactly did they do over four days to keep getting more villainous?

Compared to four days ago, the unaffiliated martial artists’ evil karma had risen by roughly thirty points each. Unless they were grouping up to commit misdeeds together, how could their evil karma values rise so similarly?

Yet there was no particular news, and in Kaifeng where absolute masters, supreme masters, and ultra-supreme masters swarmed like ants, they probably couldn’t have caused any major trouble.

Around that time, as Cheong moved to the waiting room, she heard another loud “Hmph!”

Cheong answered politely.

“Yes, I’ve been well too. Have you been well, Moyong Sojeo?”

“Hmph. Why are you acting so friendly?”

Still, she hadn’t started a fight first. It seemed she had properly taken Cheong’s advice that constantly nitpicking at others would only highlight her own inadequacies.

After turning her head away grumpily for a moment, Moyong Juhee suddenly flashed a wicked smile.

“So, Sojeo. You know that if you win this round, you’ll face me next, right? Instead of losing to some worthless opponent, why don’t you advance and fight me with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your real skill? Since there’s bad blood between us, a plain match would be boring. How about we each put up a bet?”

“Moyong Sojeo. I don’t have any lingering resentment. As the old saying goes, only the one who struck can’t sleep at night.”

“……?”

Moyong Juhee was momentarily stunned. Wasn’t the old saying the opposite? But the proverb that the striker can’t stretch their legs while the one struck can sleep peacefully was a strange saying whose existence made no sense. Originally, the one who hits forgets quickly and sleeps well, while only the victim feels wronged and loses sleep.

“Ha. Since I still have resentment, I must make a bet. If Seomun Sojeo loses, you will remove that veil in front of the spectators and reveal your face. How about it?”

“Hmm. Why should I?”

“Why? Don’t you have the confidence to win?”

Cheong couldn’t stop herself from snorting. What kind of childish provocation was this?

“Fine. If that will put Moyong Sojeo’s mind at ease, I’ll gladly accept. Is that sufficient now?”

After all, Cheong had nothing to lose. Winning would end it. And even if, by some one-in-a-billion chance, lightning suddenly fell from the sky and she lost, she could simply show her face.

The prospective participants in the waiting room turned unfavorable gazes toward Moyong Juhee.

“Again, again! She always does this and makes me look like the only bad bitch…! Just you wait! I’ll crush that arrogant nose of yours properly!”

Moyong Juhee stormed out of the waiting room first, huffing angrily. It seemed too uncomfortable to stay, so she decided to wait below the arena platform ahead of time.

Unfortunately, the fierce clash between the two prideful women betting on Cheong’s veil never occurred.

Moyong Juhee, who had poured all her rage onto Cheong, was defeated by an unaffiliated fighter in the round of thirty-two match as if it were a lie.

Cheong was simply dumbfounded.

What? She told me to come up but then she goes and loses herself. What is this? Is this what they call an honorable death or something?

Then it was Cheong’s turn.

Familiar with the central passage after having used it once before, she smoothly passed through and once again flew up elegantly to land gracefully on the arena platform. The spectators greeted her with loud cheers.

With her transcendent hearing, Cheong caught a few of the shouts. Hmm. Should I just throw the match?

But there was no point in fighting with the audience. Cheong simply shook it off and faced her opponent.

Whoa. That’s cutting it close. Four more points and it would’ve been execution time.

Unaware of Cheong’s vicious thoughts, her opponent offered a polite fist salute.

“I am Doraeman of Simcheon. I have learned the Danyang Saber Technique.”

“I am Seomun Cheong, disciple of the Sinnyeo Sect. Aside from the Sinnyeo Sword and Wolnyeo Sword, I have learned various other miscellaneous skills.”

In truth, she didn’t have a suitable left-hand technique for a tournament match. No matter how much she insisted it was fine, using Sosu Magong or the Black Killing Demonic Palm openly felt wrong, and the Shadowless Divine Hand was a secret. The Yeorae Shinjang had too much killing power; she could only reduce it to the level of the occasional Yeorae Honey Chestnut or blow the opponent’s torso apart—there was no middle ground.

And using two weapons would mean saber techniques, which were demonic arts. Using two swords to win was impossible, so dual swords were absolutely out. Just look at Moyong Juhee, who had suggested ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the match. Famous for dual swords, she had already revealed their limits. If not for the dual swords, she could have faced Cheong in the next match.

“Since my realm is not low, I will yield the first move. Come at me.”

“I won’t refuse.”

Doraeman nodded in thanks and charged—

What the—! He’s fast!

In the blink of an eye, Doraeman had closed the distance with his saber drawn back fully. Cheong hurriedly bent her knees using the Iron Plate Bridge technique. Above her horizontally laid body, the bladeless saber whistled ferociously as it sliced through the air.

From that position, Cheong kicked off the ground, performed a handstand, rotated twice, and landed back on the arena platform. Yet Doraeman stuck close again. This time his saber rose high into the sky, gleaming.

Cheong stepped according to the Nine Palaces formation. Her figure multiplied into six before vanishing completely, reappearing nine steps behind Doraeman with her back turned.

The absolute masters of the Murim watching from the wooden observation tower at the front of Kaifeng all shot to their feet at once and shouted.

Regardless, Cheong was reflecting inwardly.

Wow, he’s seriously fast. Among all the martial artists she had faced so far, his speed ranked among the top. This was why they said the world of Murim was wide…

Cheong had inwardly looked down on him for being unaffiliated, but the moment she yielded the first move she had nearly been struck and suffered great embarrassment.

As Cheong hurriedly turned, Doraeman—who had also been flustered at suddenly losing sight of his opponent—found her again. The characteristic of the Wave-Treading Micro-Steps that allowed one to appear behind the enemy was truly specialized only in evasion and escape.

Doraeman’s martial arts were purely aggressive. The trajectories of his double-handed saber swings, based on his tremendous speed, carried destructive power that could bisect an opponent even if the blade was the rounded one used for tournaments.

But now that she understood the speed, she could handle it. The fierce strikes that combined rapid speed with precise targeting had no technique behind them, so their paths were obvious. Still, strikes of this power were difficult to receive even if seen, so his martial depth could be considered quite profound.

However, Cheong was not the type to yield in a contest of strength. Grabbing her sword with both hands, she swept it upward boldly from the ground. Clang! With the sound of steel colliding, Doraeman was launched into the air.

In truth, upward-cutting techniques were rare in both sword and saber arts. Moving from earth toward heaven went against the natural order and required several times more power. Yet once that power was obtained, there was no technique more effective. By the principle of action and reaction, when they clashed vertically Cheong transferred the force into the ground while Doraeman lost his weight and floated upward.

This exchange made ten. Since she had to give him at least ten moves, Cheong— who would die if Cheon Yuhak told her to—did not pursue her opponent as he hung in the air and simply lowered her sword.

Doraeman landed, retreated two steps to regain his balance, and even in the middle of the match raised his left hand before his solar plexus in a gesture of thanks.

Cheong grew slightly confused.

What? Why is he so polite? He doesn’t seem like a bad guy? But then why does his evil karma look like that?

Doraeman’s expression had grown much more relaxed. With that single exchange he had realized the gap between them. Yet because she had given him the chance to display his martial arts, he had calmed his competitive spirit and now intended to show everything he possessed.

Accordingly, Doraeman’s saber technique changed. The rapid, powerful strikes vanished, replaced by heavy, honest saber strikes that planted firmly on the ground. Mixed within were sudden half-step accelerations that made the technique quite threatening, but since Cheong no longer underestimated her opponent she handled it without difficulty.

Thus ten exchanges passed, then the eleventh.

When his saber qi, carrying an extremely yang nature, drew a large arc as if to cut the sun itself, Cheong’s sword tip was already resting beneath Doraeman’s chin.