Hey, Have a Spar - 3
The martial tournament was a deadly duel with real swords, one that put the pride of Zhongnanpa and Huashanpa on the line. But that was only from the perspectives of those directly involved. To the civilians and officials there just to watch, it was nothing short of the perfect spectacle.
"Waaaaah!"
"Zhongnan! Zhongnan! Zhongnan!"
"Huashan! Huashan! Huashan!"
Just looking at the reactions of the common folk gathered in the arena made it obvious. These people who had come to watch the tournament couldn't care less about the long-standing rivalry between Zhongnan and Huashan or the history of their split from the Orthodox Alliance. They were here solely to see elite warriors from two of the Central Plains' most renowned major sects—first-rate masters at that—clash in battle.
The officials from across the country at least maintained some dignity, watching the arena with stern expressions. But even they couldn't hide their subtle excitement.
"Whichever side wins, things should stay quiet for a while."
"Eleven participants from each sect. It won't end in a draw."
"It might be too much every year, but holding events like this periodically wouldn't be a bad idea."
Of course, their excitement stemmed less from the entertainment value and more from the joy of being able to control these "mad fighting cocks" that picked fights at the drop of a hat.
"Quiet."
The arena, swirling in a vortex of frenzy and cheers, fell silent at the voice of Nang-jung Wang rising from the VVIP seats. As expected of a Hwa-gyeong master. A single word, and he had the rowdy crowd in the palm of his hand.
"This tournament began as a government proposal to mediate a minor disagreement between Zhongnanpa and Huashanpa. I commend both sects for accepting this rather intense form of mediation."
Starting with praise for their willingness to follow the government's mediation, Nang-jung Wang continued.
"For ages, Zhongnanpa and Huashanpa have labored for the realm and its people. That noble resolve did not waver even when His Highness the Founder rose against the Mongol northern bandits. Their contributions to today's peaceful world are by no means small."
At those words, pride flickered across the faces of the warriors on the arena stage and the disciples in the spectator seats. Unlike the silent majority of murim, these were founding merit sects that had devoted themselves to the realm. It was one of the pillars of pride upholding Zhongnan and Huashan.
"Thus, people gathered here to witness the resolute will of these two sects: Do not cheer for one side alone—cheer for all. Do not fixate on victory or defeat; applaud the warriors who press forward with purpose. Today's outcomes are not eternal; they are but a chapter in the long history of these two sects."
Don't fan one side, support everyone, and don't sweat the results. For an official who had to remain neutral, it was the perfect declaration. The crowd erupted in cheers of "Long live!"
"Long live King Nang-jung!"
"Long live! Long live! Long, long live!"
Amid the fervent cheers, Nang-jung Wang boldly raised his right arm.
"Let the tournament begin!"
Even on Nang-jung Wang's face as he declared the start was a faint trace of excitement and joy. Being a veteran, he must have been looking forward to the fresh newbies scrapping it out.
A third-rate martial artist is a total newbie just starting to learn martial arts. Stronger than a commoner, sure, but embarrassingly middling if they try to call themselves a warrior anywhere.
A second-rate can handle the role of one full person as a martial artist and represents the majority in the Central Plains' murim. Reach this level, and you'll get respect as a warrior wherever you go.
A first-rate is the elite realm you reach by honing yourself beyond satisfaction with just being one person's worth—the level of seasoned veterans and aces. A sect or clan's power can be gauged by how many first-rates they have; they're the backbone, precious human resources.
And twenty-two such first-rates had gathered here. Elites backed by Zhongnan and Huashan—titans ruling today's Central Plains with their untainted history and traditions.
Now, these elites were gritting their teeth, going all-out to crush their opponents?
"Tae-eul Sword! It's the Tae-eul Sword!"
"Pure white sword qi—that's the White Plum Blossom Sword Technique!"
No wonder the crowd was cheering. Even the full-power techniques they unveiled were no joke. The Tae-eul Sword, foundation of current Zhongnanpa leader So Yu-gyeong; the Plum Blossom Sword Technique, symbol of Huashanpa (which ironically doesn't grow plums). They were diving straight into their sects' signature arts from the jump in this no-holds-barred duel. Nang-jung Wang stroked his chin with a pleased expression.
... How do they know that?
Something felt off. Officials knew the sects' signature techniques inside out, so their admiration made sense. But how were the common folk, far removed from martial arts, reacting like this?
Did a guidebook get leaked or something?
Zhongnanpa and Huashanpa did help maintain Shaanxi's public order, so the people might have seen their arts before. But honestly, a commoner witnessing a warrior's technique firsthand was a serious issue in itself. It meant the situation had been dire enough to risk bystanders getting caught in the crossfire.
To put it bluntly, it was like seeing a mushroom cloud bloom right in front of you. You might know the name, but you should never see it up close.
Ah.
Looking toward the especially loud cheers revealed the culprit behind this bizarre phenomenon. Suspiciously neat appearances, an air of subtle wealth, clear and precise voices upon closer listen.
Cheerleaders.
Each sect had planted cheerleaders in the spectator seats. People to wildly cheer whenever their disciples unleashed a technique.
These guys... they were dead serious about this tournament...
Public opinion warfare in the 14th century.
People were people, no matter the era.
"......"
"Huh..."
"What in the..."
As I scanned the cheerleaders hidden throughout the seats, a sudden hush fell. Not just the commoners—even the merchants whispering bets on the winner, the officials speculating on the aftermath, and Nang-jung Wang who had been watching contentedly—all fell silent or muttered in disbelief.
"Narutagon...?"
I whipped my gaze back to the arena.
"Whoa."
I couldn't help letting out an exclamation upon seeing the Huashanpa warrior rise, covered in dirt like he'd just rolled across the arena floor.
Actual Narutagon?
I never expected to witness Narutagon here of all places, so like the other spectators, I just stared blankly.
"...Waaaaah!"
"Narutagon! Narutagon!"
"No way, Narutagon!"
The silence soon exploded into fervent cheers. Officials, merchants, commoners—every spectator praised the warrior who had executed Narutagon.
"A true warrior."
Even Nang-jung Wang nodded, deeply moved, and regardless of the outcome, the crowd's hearts had gone to that Huashanpa fighter.
Narutagon. A four-character idiom meaning a lazy donkey rolling furiously on the ground. In simple terms, rolling on the dirt to dodge an attack or evade danger.
You might think rolling on the ground in a crisis is obvious, but sadly, it wasn't in the old murim.
"Hah, rolling on the ground without a shred of shame!"
"A true warrior would rather die standing than live on in such an ugly way!"
Warriors obsessed with face and dignity to an absurd degree despised anything "ugly" that prolonged life. If someone pulled Narutagon, they'd immediately mock them as weaklings worthy of scorn—even fellow sect members would shun the disgrace.
From a modern sensibility, you'd think, "If rolling saves your life, why die honorably taking a sword to the gut?" But what can you do? That was murim culture—bizarre as it was, you had to accept it.
But from the founding war of Daesong onward, as murim's authority plummeted and warriors lost their obsession with face and dignity, Narutagon's image flipped overnight.
"Rolling on the ground is shameful? Then are the commoners and soldiers crawling to survive each day mindless beasts without shame?"
Grandfather, who struck first and asked questions later when it came to murim.
"If I survive, I can save dozens or hundreds more innocents suffering under the barbarians. Are you telling me to abandon a warrior's duty for a moment's face?"
Ak Wang, who rose in Shandong to protect the people.
"Those who see rolling as shameful think it's natural when they fail to protect the people by dying. What a laughable contradiction."
Gi Gangwang, who received no help until the moment he lost his family to water bandits.
"We are not warriors living for our own face—we are soldiers who rose to protect the people. A soldier prioritizes safeguarding the realm over personal pride."
Jung San Wang, who demanded survival over blind sacrifice from his troops.
"No matter how many times you fall or roll through the gutters, the one standing at the end is the victor."
And even the Founder, who survived to the end and rebuilt Song.
The heroes who forged this new world all defended Narutagon, calling it "the brave act of enduring personal humiliation for a future promise."
Narutagon was no longer a symbol of shame.
"Willing to bear humiliation for the greater good! A true warrior and hero!"
"Huashanpa harbored a great hero!"
"Young hero Han Ji-ryong—no, great hero! Look over here!"
"Zhongnan's sword is heavy and profound, but Huashan's resolve is even thicker!"
Which led to this absurd scene. In a world where "Narutagon = a real man's act prioritizing the realm and people over personal face" had become common sense, pulling it off was like scoring perfect artistic points, win or lose.
No wonder even the Zhongnanpa warrior—Han Ji-ryong's opponent—lost his will to fight and gazed at him in admiration.
"...I surrender."
In the end, the Zhongnanpa warrior sheathed his sword and yielded. Yet no one mocked or cursed Zhongnan. Everyone's hearts held the thought: Can't be helped with Narutagon.
"Sorry, senior brother. I handed them the win from the start..."
"It's fine. I would've done the same. Don't worry about it."
Even his fellow Zhongnanpa warriors.