Let's Have Some Fun

Let's have some fun. The unorthodox martial artists once again strode confidently across the street. Three full combat units, their numbers matched by the horde of thugs from the salt gang. The differences between orthodox sects and unorthodox factions were far too many to list. Yet one of the chief distinctions was this: orthodox sects were selective about their disciples, while unorthodox factions would accept anyone with arms and legs. (Sometimes they even took in those without.)

First, orthodox sects had to worry about their martial arts leaking out. The number of cases where an orthodox sect accepted someone with a rotten heart and ended up annihilated was so common that warriors could turn it into a drinking game—guessing which sect had been destroyed by its own disciple. For that reason, they bound their sects together like family, emphasizing belonging with the mindset of I am the sect. The sect is me. They accepted only those with good character and talent, pouring the sect's resources into a small elite group to raise them into true masters.

The unorthodox path, however, operated on a different principle. To them, low-level warriors were people upon whom they graciously bestowed their faction's name. These bottom-rung fighters were pathetically grateful for mere room and board. In fact, most factions even charged them for it. The martial arts they taught were nothing more than slightly tweaked third-rate techniques scavenged from the streets—vaguely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second-rate at best. If you wanted proper arts, you had to prove your worth with results and catch the eye of the higher-ups. Or you could suck up to the right "big brother," offering flattery and bribes. So while it might appear to be a clash between a small elite and a vast horde, unorthodox factions were never truly lacking in high-level experts. It was simply that the orthodox had a sturdier core, while the unorthodox had dozens upon dozens of legs.

One might ask if that made the orthodox weak, but the fact that nearly all the long-standing sects with deep traditions belonged to the orthodox side revealed the true importance of the righteous path. Unorthodox bastards had a habit of fracturing the moment they grew too powerful—splitting into factions, changing leaders, or simply collapsing. Therefore, when the orthodox and unorthodox clashed in a battle for dominance (over what was essentially a local business district), the orthodox usually lost the fight itself. But if they inflicted any real losses, the unorthodox alliance would fracture. Their internal balance would collapse, leaders would change, and even the boss's seat would begin to shake.

That was why unorthodox factions rarely picked fights unless they were confident. What was the point of claiming territory if you were just going to hand it over to someone else? Better to swagger around and maintain the status quo. Yet this time the Sadoryeon had thrown its weight behind an aggressive push, dispatching three entire combat units—two white-rank and one black-rank. That alone was enough to overwhelm the Gyerim Sword Sect. Add to that the countless third-rate salt gang thugs who were happy to act as meat shields, dying after landing even a single scratch, and the situation grew dire.

Because of all this, a heavy, solemn tension hung over the righteous martial artists gathered at Jangshan Martial Hall in Nanning. They had more high-level experts on their side, so they stood a fighting chance. The real question was how many of them would actually survive. This was the true hidden strength of the orthodox path. Even when clearly outnumbered, they kept their seats with grim expressions. Where could we possibly run? This is our home. These are our families.

Had it been the unorthodox, the numbers would have been dropping in real time as people fled. That was their way—abandoning a sinking ship while screaming "Save yourselves!" at each other.

And so, with the wide gates of Jangshan Martial Hall thrown open, Sect Leader Kang Su-yang and Gang Leader Yo Hwan-cheol ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stared at each other from a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠distance. For some reason, wars in the central plains always required someone to step forward and run their mouth before the fighting began. It was an ancient tradition, stretching back to more primitive and barbaric times. This was the pre-battle psychological warfare phase.

It was strangely similar to the way dark-skinned warriors from the distant western regions traded insults in rhythm and rhyme. How remarkable. This was because all modern humans shared the same roots. It came from the influence of the great Hwan Empire culture—the predecessor civilization of humanity that had existed even before the birth of the universe. The proof of this truth was clearly drawn on the watermelon map. Or so the lowlifes still claiming this nonsense in Cheong's hometown insisted.

In any case, the immortal classic line "It must be nice to have three fathers." had also originated from pre-battle psychological warfare. Truly a moving speech that struck the heart. First strike wins!

The moment Yo Hwan-cheol opened his mouth to speak—

"The salt merchant has arrived. However, our warehouse is already full of salt, so we have no need of you. Begone."

Kang Su-yang had seized the initiative. The effect was spectacular.

"Who are you calling a lowly salt merchant?!"

"Then you are not a salt merchant? What are you, then?"

"I am the master of the great Yo Family Salt Gang, Yo Hwan-cheol!"

"Is a salt gang not a place that makes salt? If the master of a salt gang is not a salt merchant, then what is he? I'm genuinely curious, so please enlighten me."

"I...!"

Yo Hwan-cheol could not continue. Because he was, in fact, a salt merchant.

"Besides, I never said you were lowly. Where is there any true noble or base in this world? How can one speak of superiority between the master of an orthodox martial hall with three hundred years of history and a mere salt merchant? That is what I believe. At least, I do."

The implication was clear: I am the only one who thinks so. Everyone else knows you're trash.

Wow. This uncle really knows how to talk.

Cheong's ears perked up. Wow! How does he twist it so elegantly? If it had been her, she would have gone with something like, Does the word 'lowly' sting? Were you born with lowly blood? Did it come from your father or your mother? Or both? Oh, but one thing's certain—your father must have been a real piece of work, because his children will be lowly for generations. The kind of crude, vulgar mockery one might hear on the streets.

In terms of pure psychological damage, Cheong's style of speech would have been a thousand times more effective. But such crude language also damaged the speaker's dignity. It seemed being a sect leader required a certain refinement. I don't think I could twist it that gracefully.

Cheong listened with the attitude of a diligent student. She was currently hiding inside a teahouse across from the main gate of Jangshan Martial Hall, behind the unorthodox warriors. She had taken on the role of the rear ambush team. The walls were covered with caltrops to catch anyone trying to climb over, and those who entered through the main gate would walk straight into the encirclement. All she had to do was cut them down.

She had strongly insisted on this assignment, claiming that since she could take care of herself, she would strike the rear the moment battle broke out. The others had been reluctant to give such a dangerous mission to a guest from the Murim Alliance. But if it wasn't dangerous?

"I don't understand why we have to hurt each other's feelings when we're going to fight anyway."

"Because running your tongue a little can raise morale. The benefits are enormous."

"But you're getting crushed."

"Well, the limits of verbal warfare aren't widely known, so that salt merchant probably prepared some lines of his own. Something like 'Surrender' or 'If you crawl between my legs, I'll generously spare the rest of you.'"

"How childish. Men really are..."

The woman shaking her head was Chang Yeo-in, a Super Peak expert.

"Heh heh. Well, this whole thing is basically a game of territorial conquest, so childish is the right word. Ah, young lady, I certainly didn't mean you! This old fool has misspoken."

The one who had suddenly turned servile was Gyeon No, a Harmonious Realm master.

The warrior who kept offering gifts was Gakda-gwi, also Super Peak. The scholarly-dressed man who kept presenting brushes and paper was Munmaeng Si-in, likewise Super Peak. They were all guests from the prince's household whom Jayu had sent along.

Including Cheong, they formed a terrifying force: one Harmonious Realm expert, four Super Peak experts, and one Peak-level tagalong, for a total of six. At this point they weren't a detached unit—they were the main army.

"The salt gang leader is stepping back. Someone else is coming out. This might take a while. Heh heh, young lady, are you not curious about this precious jade tongue of mine? I happen to have some preserved plum blossoms here."

"Wow, you even brought something like this? I'll eat it well."

"No, no. I simply picked it up while walking. Heh heh."

Cheong, who had been reaching out with her long, elegant fingers toward the jar with a bright smile, suddenly froze. What? Did he mean it had been lying on the road?

"Ah, it was lying on the ground. In the jar."

"Just where do you keep finding all this stuff?"

"That Gakda-gwi bastard is offering bribes again..." Chang Yeo-in muttered.

Of course, Cheong was not the type to refuse just because it had been scraped off the ground. As she reached out with a giggle, another hand darted in first, plucking up one of the round preserved plums.

It was Na Yang-gyeol, the leech who had followed Cheong to the bitter end.

"Here, my teddy bear. Ah, will you feed me?"

"I have hands, you know?"

"But then your beautiful fingers would get dirty, my teddy bear. Your fingers are national treasures. They must be protected. Say 'ah.'"

"Ah."

"Good girl. You eat so well. Kyaa!"

Na Yang-gyeol let out a shriek and yanked her finger back. Naturally—since she had pretended to feed her but then left her finger in Cheong's mouth, the only response was to punish it with teeth.

"This one's pulling tricks again."

"Look at this. It's a bite mark from my teddy bear. Did you want to leave your mark on me that badly?"

"Try that one more time and I'll show you why they call me the master of leg techniques. I can live without a finger or two."

"Wouldn't that be fine? Every time I look at the severed finger, I could remember my teddy bear and feel my heart flutter."

Cheong munched on the sweet-and-sour preserved plums while waiting for the pre-battle banter to end.

Then, soon enough—

"Further conversation is pointless! Attack!"

The salt gang warriors charged forward with a roar, taking the lead. They were at best third-rate. They couldn't even properly scale a wall shorter than their own height, instead hanging there pathetically. Yet they were too scared to charge through the main gate, so the walls were covered with people clinging to them like cicadas. Those who were pushed into the main gate instead flopped spectacularly onto the ground.

"Hidden weapons! Hidden weapons!"

Hidden weapons? They were just throwing rocks. But at the third-rate level, rocks thrown by experts were indistinguishable from hidden weapons. It was the same principle as how chopsticks thrown by Cheong could not be distinguished from throwing knives.

"I can't watch this anymore. Third unit, advance!"

This time the warriors of the Black Bear Squad charged with battle cries. They ran forward with great momentum, only to shove the salt gang members clinging to the walls up and over.

The salt gang members who had barely managed to climb the wall thanks to their unorthodox "big brothers" screamed in terror as they fell. Placing obstacles at the base of the wall was basic common sense in defensive siege warfare. Only after that did the Black Bear Squad leap over the wall, landing on the bodies of their own allies impaled on the traps below. They raised their weapons high.

From primitive antiquity, the best way to overcome obstacles had always been to throw people at them.

"Fourth unit!"

At Jo Gwang-ang's shout of his infallible military strategy, Cheong shot to her feet as well.

"Right, let's go!"

Cheong kicked through the teahouse's hanging screen and stomped down hard. Boom! Black dust exploded upward and a deep footprint was left in the floor. Perhaps as a side effect of having seen blood so clumsily when rescuing Na Yang-gyeol, her blood flow reversed in an instant, setting her entire body on fire.

With a blooming smile, Cheong shouted.

A thick layer of sunset-colored sword gang coated the heavy blade of the Wolgwang-geom. An unorthodox warrior who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had turned his head at the woman's voice from behind had his neck pierced by the sword gang. His head spun another half rotation due to the law of inertia before dropping to the ground with a wet thud.

Yes. This. This is why I live.

A beat later, the guests from the prince's household joined the fray. Even the pretty leech from the Heavenly Flower Hall who had insisted on protecting Cheong came along. The white-rank combat units were composed mostly of first-class warriors—true elites. Yet even Na Yang-gyeol, the weakest in Cheong's detached force, was at the Peak realm. The capture nets and iron weights meant for high-level targets had already been given to the vanguard anyway.

In an instant, flowers of blood bloomed across the battlefield.