Fissures in the Alliance and the Nameless One's Rampage
'They couldn't even properly hit Shaolin Temple as I'd expected. Well, I wasn't hoping for much anyway.'
The damage to Shaolin was lighter than anticipated. That bastard Guanyin Daesa had blocked it pretty effectively.
The Murim Alliance pinned the entire incident squarely on the unorthodox sects. They claimed the unorthodox side had used some weird magic tool to fabricate the footage. It reeked of a hasty excuse, but it was undeniably effective.
The martial artists bought into it easily. From their perspective, who would want to believe that footage was real? Few people willingly admit their own dirty laundry.
Still, the seeds of discord had been sown. Plenty of folks weren't thrilled with Shaolin and Wudang dominating the Nine Great Sects and Eight Schools. This incident gave them perfect ammunition. No doubt, like-minded factions would be meeting underground to hash it out.
A tiny crack in the Murim Alliance's foundation. That's good enough for now.
I never expected one stunt like this to topple Shaolin anyway.
Today marked the official start of the Yongho Contest. My match was scheduled in Gyeonggi, so I headed straight to the pre-announced venue right on time. My arena was the training ground of a mid-tier clan called Yonggolbang.
With so many matches in the Yongho Contest, smaller bouts like this got hosted by local minor sects. Especially in the early rounds, when the schedule was packed.
Of course, promising young experts didn't fight in dumps like this. Stars needed a proper stage. Their matches were probably all at Shaolin Temple.
Not many spectators either. Just like the original story described.
Unknown challengers like me had to fight in lonely obscurity until they climbed the brackets. Hardly anyone bothered showing up for no-name bouts. Sure, watching fights was fun, but people ranked them—and they preferred the high-tier clashes.
"Both fighters, enter the ring! Seokgolju of Gaprinchae versus independent Jongchil!"
My opponent was a burly brute with thick, sturdy bones that screamed power. The guy looked like he could pack away a seom of meat in one sitting. Size alone made him no pushover.
But in the wuxia world, that bulk is more liability than asset.
The real threats were scrawny old codgers or innocent-looking kids.
Guys who oozed menace from their looks were usually cannon fodder, gone in a few lines. Seokgolju wasn't even mentioned in the original. Total extra.
"Come at me!"
His weapon was a spear. Mine? Fists.
"Everyone ready?"
The Alliance referee checked our status. No prep needed for trash like this. I nodded.
"Hey! Forfeit if you think you're gonna get hurt!"
A familiar voice rang from the stands. I turned toward it.
A stunning white-haired beauty with a frosty demeanor stared back. One of the Martial World's Four Flowers, Mo Se-young, aka Black Sand Thorn Flower.
"Senior Sister!"
Never thought she'd show up in person for my match.
I figured my steady massages had built some goodwill, but this? Way beyond expectations.
For a haughty type like Mo Se-young to drag her ass here herself, her favor toward me had to be solid.
She's an Alliance-favored young expert, so no matches for her anytime soon.
Hers would be mid-to-late tournament.
"Holy shit! Is that Black Sand Thorn Flower Mo Se-young? Rumors don't do her justice—she's gorgeous!"
Seokgolju drooled in a sleazy whine.
"Haha! A fine stud needs a pretty bloom. With a Martial Flower watching, I'll hold nothing back."
The bastard was cocky.
"That's my line."
I'd planned a light thrashing, but now? Time to toy with him thoroughly.
"Here I come!"
The starting horn blared, and Seokgolju lunged. Clumsy moves, massive wind-ups. I could dodge while yawning.
Extra through and through.
Pathetic enough to kill my buzz. I sidestepped casually, faked a punch, and tripped him.
He couldn't even spot basic feints. His body tilted. No inner power needed.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
I stomped him flat.
This wasn't a deathmatch. Killing him would've meant penalties.
Crushing his dantian should be fine.
If he were a promising talent, even that might be off-limits. But he was just another dime-a-dozen thug. No one would bat an eye.
His obscure Gaprinchae? Even if their leader stormed in, I wouldn't sweat it.
Thud!
"Squeal!"
Easy first win. Zero thrill.
I glanced at Mo Se-young. Bored expression—she stood to leave. My foe was too weak for her to care. Pissed me off, so I booted his head one more time.
A week passed. The tournament's shape was starting to emerge.
Hanan's vibe heated up as things hit mid-stage. Yongho talk everywhere.
I'd fought four matches. All wins, naturally.
Mo Se-young watched every one. She might play it cool, but I'd wormed deep into her heart.
"Not bad. Looks like you hit some lucky break."
She showed at my inn. For a massage, obviously. I slipped on the gloves and kneaded her ass. She was used to my touch now—plain rubbing barely got a twitch.
Her pussy lips squirmed visibly, lively. Even her asshole yawned openly, shameless.
Every fiber screamed to slam my cock in... but no fucking up a sure thing.
"Met a good master."
"Pulling that off so quick? Impressive as hell. Hng~ ♬ Right there, muscle's knotted. Harder."
That "there" was her pussy side.
Why would pussy muscles knot up?
Masturbated hard last night?
"Young hero Jong. Don't just focus on Miss Mo—do me too."
Sweet voice from the side. Yeon Muk from Huashan Sect.
I'd already fucked Yeon Muk. But she didn't know it was me—Hidden Mask at the time.
Flowers in both hands.
Each hand claimed a pussy. Their grips differed subtly. Hundred women, hundred unique cunts.
"Hnggg~ ♥"
Pussies varied, but their moans synced.
"Isn't Senior Sister Mo and Miss Yeon's match day coming up?"
"Hng~! Yeah, mine's tomorrow."
Mo's opponent? Extra. Solid enough for mid-brackets, but victory fodder.
Mo made quarters in the original Yongho.
Quarters meant top 8 among orthodox young guns. Excluding hidden masters, but still no small feat.
Even one per Nine Greats makes ten. Quarters? Solid supporting cast.
Yeon dropped at 16-strong. Talented, but murim's vast, experts abound.
Squelch!
Daydreaming, I plunged deep. Both arched, squirting like hoses. Their juices blended mid-air, splashing my face. Salty tang.
"Haaaah...!"
Mo and Yeon's faces melted in bliss. Now I could finger Mo freely.
Did she see it as "massage," or was she just offering her cunt? Who knows.
Either way, I was the only one with access to her treasure. Even the fairest flower yields to the bee. I was hers.
Gold Butterfly Pavilion was Hanan's infamous brothel. Pricy booze, stunning courtesans—patrons were all big shots.
One night cost what fed a family for a lavish month. No cash, clout, or fame? Stay outside the walls.
"Kuhaha! Young master Hyeok, you can hold your liquor. Been ages since anyone matched this Pang Jin-gun."
Pang Jin-gun
Heir to the notorious Hebei Pang playboy rep.
Here for Yongho, he'd turned Gold Butterfly regular fast.
His tab? Enough to launch a small merchant house. If he weren't Pang elite, it'd bankrupt his clan.
He toyed freely with a milky-skinned courtesan, skin like goat milk.
His hands—embodying Five Tiger Broken Gate Hands—were pot-lid thick. Kneading her tits, she couldn't help but scream.
Across from him, sipping: Namgung Hyeok. Namgung second son, once a heralded young leader.
But his rep had nosedived lately. His own doing.
"Still, with tastes like yours, how'd you hold out before?"
"Tell me about it."
Namgung grunted, downed his drink. He had a girl too.
Unlike Pang's stunner, freckle-faced plain Jane. Not even a courtesan—a lowly servant girl dragged upstairs.
Gossip wasn't just his brothel stamping ground.
Murim heroes were always libertines. Not like Pang's early infamy—visiting didn't draw fingers. Namgung's was his perversions.
He craved ragged women. Loved being toyed by them. Jongchil's scheme: love flop, forced fetish implant.
He had no clue. Just figured, "Guess that's me." No awareness, zero chance of truth.
Screw public eyes. Nail Yongho results, rep flips anytime.
Namgung's mindset.
Gawkers were pigs. Their shit-talk turns praise with wins. Precedents galore.
Exhilarated, Pang shredded her clothes. Courtesans didn't wear cheap rags—impromptu fun cost silver taels. He savored extravagance in every move.
"Young master~ ♥ Girl's body isn't ready yet."
She purred kittenish, enchanting. Words lied—her cunt drooled rivers.
Not for him. His silver.
"Heh. Your pussy says otherwise. Spread 'em. I'll fill you."
True Five Tiger master, his thrust was merciless.
Soon, the room reeked lewd, sounds stimulating. Namgung stripped.
"You too. Undress."
Sohyang, was it?
The chore girl hauled to worktime stripped hurriedly. Pay for months' grind in one go—nice, but still awkward. His demands were brutal.
Namgung bent, ass out. Asshair jungle, repulsive on sight. Goblin maw gaping.
"What're you waiting for? Spank it."
"Y-yes..."
Sohyang grabbed a small laundry paddle. Swung full force. First time, she'd gone easy—earned a rage fit.
Now? No mercy. Even her max was tickles to peak martial artist Namgung.
He was ultimate masochist. Different acts, same ecstasy-twisted faces. Beast pens had nothing on this.