Hey, Throw Down! - 5
It's not strange for a martial artist to use his fists. Even the righteous leader of the orthodox sects, Shaolin Temple, beats opponents with punches, slaps them with palms, and kicks them senseless. They're monsters who've honed their bodies to the limit, overpowering foes not with some novice's self-defense tool, but with their own flesh. But that's because Shaolin's arts evolved in that direction. People get flustered when a Shaolin monk pulls out a sword or spear, just like how it's not commonplace for a swordsman who mainly wields a blade to dive into a real brawl with fists.
"Does Huashanpa have... fist techniques too?"
"I've heard they do, but only briefly at the training stage."
"...That's not beginner-level at all, though?"
And right there in front of the officials and commoners, the uncommon happened.
Yu Jin-ha, wrapping his fist in a faint plum-blossom hue of qi, smashing it into Baek-gyeon's face. Baek-gyeon, who'd boldly tossed his sword after the surprise gut punch but got overwhelmed by the momentum. What started as a proper sword exchange between two late-generation disciples had somehow turned into a no-holds-barred fistfight—
"You lightness-handling bastards think you can overpower a heavy sword user with brute force?!"
Baek-gyeon, pushed into a corner, landed a roundhouse kick to Yu Jin-ha's waist.
"Urk...!"
Yu Jin-ha staggered from the solid hit, and Baek-gyeon didn't miss the opening, driving a fist straight into his solar plexus. The mood flipped with this fiercer violence than Yu Jin-ha's initial ambush, and the murmuring officials began falling silent one by one.
Whoa.
At some point, even I found myself mesmerized, watching these two young heroes' dogfight with rapt attention. The best spectacles are fires and fights, and among fights, the best are scraps between punks or no-holds-barred brawls where face means nothing. Getting a front-row seat to Shaanxi's top late-generation disciples throwing down like this? Not being hooked would be weirder.
Can't predict a damn thing.
Both had landed clean hits on each other, so whoever won wouldn't be a surprise. Baek-gyeon's eyes were a bit unfocused from the surprise face shot, while Yu Jin-ha's movements had dulled from the waist and gut blows. They were duking it out with massive handicaps.
I leaned forward, pulling away from the chair's backrest. Zhongnan and Huashan's hierarchy sorting or trophy distribution? Who cares anymore. Hierarchy can wait, trophies can be finagled with some brainpower. But witnessing this raw brawl up close? Miss it now, and it'll never come again. This life's one shot.
"Heavenly Thirty-Six Leg Arts!"
"What bullshit! Zhongnan's got no leg arts!"
"I just made 'em!"
Did getting punched scramble his brains too? Baek-gyeon boldly spewed nonsense while kicking Yu Jin-ha's shin. True to his heavy sword training, each blow looked heavier, more destructive than what the lightness-trained Yu Jin-ha could muster.
The initially stunned crowd, at a loss for words, started heating up as time passed. Cheers for face punches, roars for gut kicks. This raw, unrefined brawl—more straightforward than any dignified sword discourse—was plenty entertaining for commoners starved for fun. Weird analogy, but it's like flipping hours of a boring go board into a game of marbles: everyone thinks it's dumb but badass. Exactly that vibe.
"Wooooaaah!"
"Who said Zhili's Shaolin has the Central Plains' best fists?! Our Shaanxi's Huashanpa holds its own!"
"Look at those heavy, powerful kicks! A heavy sword warrior through and through—unbreakable!"
The reactions were fiercer than during any Heavenly Thirty-Six Sword Arts or Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Forms. Zhongnan and Huashan disciples, dazed by the frenzy, broke into enlightened grins.
"Eldest senior brother! Go for the philtrum!"
"Eldest seeeeenior brooo! Kick him right in the balls! That'll end it!"
In this madhouse party complete with unsolicited advice, Baek-gyeon and Yu Jin-ha silently traded blows. Their mouths were busted open by now—blood-mixed spit flying multiple times.
"If swords fail, use fists; if fists won't do, tear with teeth—that's the warrior's way. In this peaceful era, many young fools forgot it, but seeing youths who still uphold that path..."
Far from disgusted by the bloody, undignified mess, Nang-jung Wang's eyes welled up as he lost himself in nostalgia. Every time I hear these kings' war stories, it messes with my head. What the hell did they get up to during the founding wars? Piecing together the fragments I've heard sounds like hell itself.
"Plum bloooossom! We won't loooose!"
I glanced at Nang-jung Wang with mixed feelings, then whipped my head toward Yu Jin-ha's roar from the arena.
"Zhongnan invincibleeeee!"
Baek-gyeon screamed back with a voice shredded raw. The two madmen—these weren't young heroes anymore—their fists grazed each other. No dodging, no blocking. This one shot to end it.
"Whoa..."
I let out a dazed gasp at the sight that followed.
Cross counter.
Full-power fist slamming into the opponent. Full-power fist slamming into him. From this insane impact, after nearly an hour of trading blows, Baek-gyeon and Yu Jin-ha finally crumpled to the ground.
Crazy bastards.
That's why it's awesome. When am I gonna see lunatics like that again?
"...Last ten! This round! A heroic draw between our two young heroes' valiant struggle!"
The moment the two lunatics hit the deck, the official declared a tie, and the crowd answered with applause. Their sects' disciples quickly carted off the simultaneous KOs. No twitching as they were carried—properly out cold.
A tie, huh.
Tournament results: 5 wins, 5 losses, 1 draw for both sects. Odd number of fighters, yet a draw. Whatever. Who cares after that epic cross counter? Tie schm-ie.
Well, it does matter.
This was supposed to settle hierarchies for back-to-back tournaments. It just stoked rivalry and ended. But who could've predicted that cross counter? It's like the Primordial Heavenly Lord egging them on to keep fighting.
A mere mortal follows the Lord's will. Glancing at Pojeongsa, he wore a wry smile, clapping along.
Hang in there.
I'm outta here soon anyway. This tournament was rigged for one sect to submit quietly post-hierarchy sort. Winner struts, loser chills—no clashes. Win-win for the administration as long as there's closure.
But the unforeseen heroic tie boosted both sects' fame and pride, planting "These two are equals!" in the people's minds. Shaanxi won't quiet down—it'll burn hotter with competition. Worst outcome the officials can't deny.
So they plastered on smiles. Frowning now just proves failed murim control.
"Zhongnan vs. Huashan, Huashan vs. Zhongnan—even this old bag's heart burns hot."
Nang-jung Wang stood right after, praising and soothing the warriors. Even as an out-of-province king, he's administration-aligned. Not the type to watch Shaanxi officials suffer idly.
"Pojeongsa."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"I hear the administration planned rewards for the victorious sect."
"Indeed. Though no clear winner, neither lost, so we'll split the prizes as planned—"
Nang-jung Wang waved him off, cutting in.
"Nonsense. How could we give less to warriors who showed such brilliance?"
"Th-then..."
"As praise for both sects and Pojeongsa who arranged this, I'll award prizes myself. Just host a grand feast for the fighters, Pojeongsa."
Officials, led by Pojeongsa, prostrated at his offer to shoulder Shaanxi's burden.
"Long live Nang-jung Wang, forever and ever! Your Highness's will is lofty and warm—how could we not be moved?!"
"Long live Nang-jung Wang, forever and ever!"
Officials echoed Pojeongsa, and soon commoners joined, swept up in praising the king's virtue. Perfect. The crowd, fired up by Zhongnan and Huashan's spectacle and newfound murim awe, now focused on the administration. Their takeaway: "Pojeongsa who set up this fun show, and generous Nang-jung Wang who gave big prizes."
Saved face.
Board set, but shattered. Dodging that shitty image? Mission accomplished.
An unfamiliar ceiling. I cracked my eyes open to throbbing pain everywhere and a strange room, lying dazed in bed. Dizzy. I remember smashing my fist into that Baek punk's face, but after? Foggy. Did he clock me too?
"Eldest senior brother!"
"Eldest brother, are you okay now!?"
After blinking awhile, juniors rushed in.
"You were amazing, senior brother! You're Huashanpa itself!"
"Even Zhongnan guys were impressed! Everyone in the arena praised you!"
I waved off the nonstop praise with a smirk—
"Urgh..."
"Stay still for a bit. You pushed way too hard..."
"Seems so."
Pushed hard, sure, but not to where I couldn't even move my hand.
"Kids."
"Yes, senior brother."
"So, who won?"
Min-seol junior sister spoke cautiously.
"A draw. You collapsed, and Baek-gyeon did too."
"Good enough."
Sucks not winning, but dragging a tie after losing my sword? Did my part.
"Oh, and."
"What else?"
"You got a nickname, senior brother."
"What."
I instinctively tried sitting up but got pinned back by juniors. A nickname? For me?! Back in the untouchable murim days, even alley thugs had 'em, but post-Daesong founding, you need real fame. A warrior's nickname is glory beyond Peak realm.
"Wh-what is it? My nickname..."
"Shaanxi Twin Fighters. Nang-jung Wang bestowed it to honor your unyielding spirit!"
"Oh..."
No plum blossom tie-in, disappointing, but from His Highness himself? Pure joy. And the name's cool. Shaanxi's two fi—
"Wait."
"Yes, senior brother."
"Twin means there's another guy, right?"
No one answered.
Damn it all.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Sure, a bestowed nickname's an honor. Regional prefix on your first? Huge. But sharing with that Baek punk?
Goddamn...!
Suddenly felt like shit.