The Dirty Taste of Shaolin
As the Divine Dragon, Cheong had now tasted the essence of the martial arts known throughout the world as Shaolin’s pinnacle and thought to herself: Ugh. It’s dirty. So gross. This guy was a total tournament-specialized fighter. If he insisted that no matter how much you hacked away with a blade it wouldn’t work, everyone just nodded and moved on. This wasn’t just a tilted playing field—it was so tilted the opponent might as well have been behind castle walls laying siege. If she’d been using her real sword, she was confident she could have peeled the skin right off him even if the muscles were too tough, turning him into a bloody mess. Once the hide was off, a little scraping would have any Shaolin monk—anyone, really—crying and sniveling in agony. But the Murim Tournament was an event for friendly socializing, not the starting line of some hateful cycle of “Let’s go make new enemies.” So even if it was dirty… she would just have to find another way.
Cheong quickly reviewed the spar in her head. Distance. Yeah, the distance was the real pain. In the broader category of “fighting” that existed beyond mere martial arts, the importance of distance needed no emphasis—it was the fight itself. The truth was, a greatsword beat a regular sword, and a glaive beat a greatsword. The longer the weapon, the more it could beat the opponent senseless from beyond their reach. Of course, long weapons had large motions, so once someone closed in they became useless. Still, assuming equal skill and conditions, the polearm user would land a fatal blow before the opponent could ever get close. That was the destructive power of longer weapons.
But back when the government held absolute control, carrying such “lethal weapons” had been illegal for individuals. So the weapon of choice for martial artists became the sword. It was the perfect balance—long enough, light enough, able to handle both medium and short ranges. That was why it was called the King of All Weapons and remained the top preference for warriors. After that came single-edged blades similar to swords, or short spears that could combine into long spears or glaives. There were also staffs and clubs that boasted innovative multifunctional design by doubling as walking sticks. And of course, when talking multifunctional tools, one could not forget the axe, which could procure firewood (even fresh green wood) anytime.
Only the pitiful ones without money for proper weapons, or those whose intelligence was somewhat lacking, chose to fight without arms. They were the kind mockingly called “retards” (martial artists). Back in Cheong’s hometown, famous fighters all agreed on one thing: if you see someone with a blade, run. For these bare-handed “retards,” distance meant nothing but ultra-close range where they could feel each other’s breath. And then they’d spout nonsense like, “Once it’s this close, no weapon can beat a martial artist.” They were making impossible assumptions from the start, since they couldn’t even get past the opponent’s weapon to close the distance.
But Shaolin had overcome this brilliantly. Even if they hadn’t reached the level of the Diamond Indestructible Divine Art, they trained in Iron Shirt, Abdomen Piercing Art, Bamboo Leaf Hand, Golden Bell Shield, Meteor Palm, Iron Sand Palm, Friction Technique, and even the Nail-Pulling Art and Cactus techniques—external arts of every kind that built resistance against weapons. Because they trained these as basics from childhood, the Shaolin warrior monks couldn’t help but age quickly on the outside.
Then, suddenly, Cheong reached a great realization. Ah. So that’s it. It wasn’t a matter of soft versus hard techniques. The real problem had been her own attempt to have a serious martial arts conversation with a halfwit like this in the first place. What kind of martial art was that anyway?
Cheong casually sheathed her sword. Wolbong looked puzzled.
“Almswoman? Are you going to forfeit?”
“No. Now I’m going to do this properly.”
At the same time, Cheong settled into a stance. One fist loosely clenched and extended forward, the other placed diagonally in front of her solar plexus as she stared at her opponent. Yeah. When in doubt, Koreans go with Taekwondo. Since he’s fooling around in a sacred sparring arena, why should I bother taking it seriously?
“Here I come.”
Cheong shot forward. She closed the distance in three quick steps and thrust her fist out powerfully. It was an honest, technique-less straight punch. Wolbong answered with a straight fist of his own.
Boom!
It was an explosive sound that was hard to believe came from fist meeting fist. Fist qi, no matter how refined, possessed destructive power like being wrapped in steel, but it lacked a sharp edge. And the area below Cheong’s elbow was partially protected by something like a lesser version of the Diamond Indestructible body, so she could handle fist qi that wasn’t even at the level of sword qi.
Ow. That hurts like a bitch.
Still, pain was unavoidable. But Wolbong’s expression had grown serious. He clearly hadn’t imagined such tremendous power. Cheong thrust out her aching fist again. Wolbong’s forearm blocked her punch outward while his opposite arm swung in from far away, aiming for her side. Cheong opened her palm and caught the incoming fist.
Then it became a slugfest. They deflected each other’s punches, fists collided, knife-hand strikes landed, palm strikes grazed past, elbows sliced through the air, and knees shot upward in a chaotic exchange.
Even setting aside the Seventy-Two Ultimate Arts, Wolbong was a master who had learned powerful external techniques like Arhat Fist and White Lotus Divine Fist. Cheong’s clumsy imitation of those styles—copied only from the heat haze version with white borders—couldn’t compare. Yet somehow their fight was dead even, a true clash of dragons and tigers with neither gaining the upper hand.
The reason was simple: Cheong was a woman. In fact, Wolbong himself was dissatisfied with how unfair this spar was. When facing a female martial artist, the areas he could legally strike were strictly limited. He could only hit the limbs, shoulders, and other non-vital hard spots, plus the abdomen—but only above the navel. Cheong, meanwhile, possessed absolute defense over the most fatal point on the torso: the solar plexus. In contrast, she was freely aiming for his chin, the area around his eyes, and his head.
Wolbong’s dissatisfaction was growing by the second. Cheong, who had been throwing only straight lines and sharp-angled strikes, suddenly shifted. Her hands drew soft yet strange curves as they grabbed Wolbong’s forearms. Cheong could lift two hundred pounds with one hand—pure arm strength with no recoil. With both hands, that became four hundred pounds. But when she used her entire body’s muscles together, she could produce even more—an overwhelming power befitting the female version of Xiang Yu, the woman who could uproot mountains and hurl them.
Wolbong’s body lifted off the ground. With a thunderous crash, his body traced a wide arc through the air before slamming violently into the floor of the sparring platform. Even in that moment he had used a breakfall to reduce the impact, a reflex ingrained by Shaolin’s harsh training. But Cheong’s hand still gripped his wrist like a vise.
Wolbong flew. It was only a very brief flight—rising and tracing an arc before falling—but it was a shocking miracle that left the entire audience of the tournament gasping with mouths wide open.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The continuous heavy impacts threatened to shatter the platform. The spectators cried out in alarm, wondering if he would die, yet they could not look away. Cheong was swinging him with clear intent.
Then, suddenly, fist qi erupted from Wolbong’s free hand and slammed down on his own wrist like a hammer.
“Ack!”
Cheong screamed as the fist qi struck her. One hit told her everything—if she took a few more, her bones would not only fracture but shatter. Wolbong’s fist drew back again. Only at the last instant, right before the fist qi could land, did Cheong release his arm.
“Ugh.”
Wolbong, having struck his own wrist with his own fist qi, let out a short groan and shot backward at high speed. But only for a moment. Using the Thousand Pound Drop technique to regain balance, he landed steadily and brought his palms together.
“Hoo… Hoo…”
Cheong caught her breath. Swinging someone who was desperately resisting with all their strength required a completely different level of power than swinging an iron ball of the same weight.
That was when Wolbong’s fist shot out in a sudden surprise attack. Cheong flinched and tried to step back—
Cheong flew backward and tumbled across the ground. Ow! Why the chest again! You bastard! Now you’re not even pretending and going straight for the tits in a spar!
Then a shadow suddenly fell over her. The sight of a shiny bald head blocking the sun was so bizarre that Cheong immediately rolled across the floor. Having practiced the “falling like a log” technique countless times on her bed, she had already reached the level of a master cloud-roller. A fierce fist like a diving hawk punched straight through the floor of the arena.
Even in the spinning world around her, Cheong did not miss that brief instant, and a chill ran down her spine. Wasn’t this supposed to be a spar? Isn’t this straight-up killing intent?
Using the momentum from her roll, Cheong sprang to her feet and saw Wolbong’s eyes—bloodshot and filled with the gaze of someone properly pissed off.
“Hooo… It seems this humble monk has underestimated the almswoman. From now on, I will not hold back and will give it my all.”
“Ha.”
Cheong let out a disbelieving snort. What the hell? Why is he the one getting mad? The one who had been toyed with in a sacred spar was her, not Wolbong. So far the only proper Shaolin technique he had shown was that single warning shot of the Hundred Step Divine Fist. He hadn’t used any of the real Shaolin divine arts, hiding his fist qi like a coward. There was a limit to looking down on someone. That was why Cheong had stopped using proper martial techniques and simply shoved him around with raw power out of pure anger.
True to his word that he would no longer hold back, Wolbong stamped forward first and charged. In an instant his figure multiplied into countless afterimages as he closed in. Cheong focused her eyes, preparing to catch the incoming attack and throw him again—when suddenly, five steps away, he thrust out his palm. A massive palm shadow of condensed qi came crashing in. It was the Diamond Palm from the Great Strength Diamond Palm technique.
Cheong urgently used her footwork. Her figure split into eight illusions: one with both arms raised flying like a crane, one spinning gracefully backward through the air, one skimming along the ground, one tumbling far with the recoil of both feet, one running nimbly on all fours like a beast, one spinning like a swallow using the recoil from an iron bridge, one slowly walking away from the spot, and one shooting forward like a cannonball. All eight shot off in different directions before vanishing after four steps.
Using the emergency escape of her Wave-Treading Micro-Steps and the natural follow-up motion, Cheong spun around sharply. There were Wolbong’s shining bald heads again, approaching with more afterimages. All sorts of ultimate techniques poured from his hands: Arhat Divine Fist that left afterimages as if he had six arms, White Lotus Divine Fist with the destructive power to shatter cliffs, Great Golden Dragon Mountain Hand that wrapped the enemy with coiling qi from the edge of the palm, and the four-pronged qi bullets that flew in arcs—the divine art known as Bullet Finger Divine Power.
Cheong frantically swung her arms to deflect, block, and redirect while rolling, leaping, jumping, and flying to dodge. What the— What is this? What the hell is all this? Only now was Cheong truly realizing, deep in her bones, the meaning of the reputation “All the world’s martial arts come from Shaolin.”
But her eyes only grew fiercer. So what if he was at the Transcendent realm? How much deeper could his level really be? With her infinite internal energy pouring out endlessly, the one who wouldn’t tire was Cheong. He was dumping out that much qi—there was no way he could keep it up forever, no matter how many Shaolin miracle pills or Great Rejuvenation Pills he ate like rice.
Then—wham!
Cheong’s body staggered violently after taking a clean hit to the outside of her knee. This bastard! Using a cheap kick! Of course, it was the supreme technique among kicking arts known as Formless Kick.
In her tilted vision she caught sight of a fist lined up beside the bald head. The moment Cheong hurriedly raised her forearm—
Crack!
Her body was sent flying again. The Cheong who reappeared after spinning around stamped her foot, creating distance in a single bound, landed, and spat out the blood that had pooled in her mouth. She had blocked the punch aimed at her cheek, but in doing so had slapped herself square in the face with her own palm. The inside of her cheek was torn, filling her mouth with the metallic taste of blood.
“So you hit me, huh…!”
With her eyes rolled back in fury, Cheong charged forward with everything she had. The distance of four jang closed in the time it took the audience to blink once, forcing them to focus their eyes in shock. Wolbong quietly drew back his fist where he stood. It was the preparatory motion for the Hundred Step Divine Fist.
Finally, stepping forward with the presence of a towering mountain and thrusting out his fist—at that exact moment, Cheong, now right in front of him, thrust her palm forward as if refusing to lose.
The instant fist and palm collided—
Deng—!!!
A massive temple bell sound suddenly shook heaven and earth. The violent explosion of true qi sent a fierce gale all the way to the spectator seats, whipping wildly around them. And fluttering in that rough wind, a single face veil flew into the sky.