Chapter 41: The Fist King Enjoys the Pre-Festival
The Fist King Enjoys the Pre-Festival
Episode 41: The Fist King Enjoys the Pre-Festival
Dan Woo-sung stood with his arms crossed, observing the Pre-Festival.
A thought suddenly crossed his mind—if the Demonic Path had truly resurfaced, given their meticulous movements so far, wouldn't they have come to spectate the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament? After all, their identities remained hidden.
But the likelihood of that was slim.
They were on an entirely different level.
Combining Alliance Leader Yoo Jung-hong's words with his own experiences, Dan Woo-sung reached a conclusion:
When the Demonic Path made its move this time, they would bring forth warriors so powerful that even the combined might of the Three Gods One Saint wouldn't be enough to stop them.
It felt like an unseen race—who could grow stronger faster?
Leaving the window open, Dan Woo-sung continued his external martial training while listening to the clamor of the Pre-Festival.
He wasn't the type to idly relax after setting Cheol Myung-ho on such a brutal path. By the time Cheol Myung-ho returned after executing the Threefold Sword Technique a million times, Dan Woo-sung would have already completed even harsher training.
The clashing of weapons soon reached his ears, making his training anything but dull.
This was how Dan Woo-sung enjoyed the festival.
His training wasn't just about building muscle. He balanced himself upside down with one hand planted on the ground, or held himself up with both hands until his body trembled from exhaustion.
Dan Woo-sung didn't rely on weapons.
To seize the fleeting moments in battle—when swordsmen, blade masters, or demonic practitioners least expected it—his body needed to be impossibly flexible, his movements defying conventional logic.
Though he was called the Fist King...
He couldn't defeat every master with punches alone.
He had no intention of neglecting his study of body techniques. The stronger his body, the more efficiently he could wield his internal energy. Most masters could be crushed with a combination of body techniques and external martial arts.
That was how Dan Woo-sung planned to win the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament.
By fighting with as little internal energy as possible.
As three separate skirmishes unfolded in the Pre-Festival, the crowd burst into laughter. Then, absurdly, Cheol Myung-ho's voice pierced Dan Woo-sung's ears.
"Stop laughing. Do I look like a joke to you?"
"You've been cursing nonstop—how about showing us some of that 'umbrella' skill of yours?"
"I'm in the middle of training. I can't just demonstrate it carelessly."
Another wave of laughter erupted from all sides.
Dan Woo-sung relaxed his stance and stood.
'That bastard's ruining my focus.'
Looking out the window, he saw Cheol Myung-ho standing in the center of the Pre-Festival stage. It was baffling, but from Cheol Myung-ho's perspective, it was unfair.
While pushing through the crowd to find lodging, he had accidentally stepped on someone's foot or bumped a shoulder—petty grievances that escalated. After Cheol Myung-ho unleashed a torrent of curses, a man shoved him onto the stage.
"This guy's weapon is an umbrella."
"Oho... Fascinating. An umbrella, you say? Show us a move."
Cheol Myung-ho's expression was priceless. Furious, yet grinning like a madman. He scanned the crowd and spoke.
"What? Did the Murim Alliance ban using umbrellas as weapons or something?"
Dan Woo-sung smirked.
'This crazy bastard.'
Regardless of skill, Cheol Myung-ho's attitude never changed. This was the Murim Alliance, packed with masters, yet he acted the same.
Cheol Myung-ho brandished his Black Iron Umbrella and addressed the crowd.
"Fine. I'll fight once. Sixty days of training in downward strikes—Cheol Myung-ho. Anyone confident, step forward."
A man scoffed.
"Sixty days of downward strikes? That's a ridiculous joke. You think you can compete in the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament with that?"
"I never said I was competing. Don't put words in my mouth."
"Seriously? You only trained downward strikes?"
Cheol Myung-ho shrugged.
"No? Today, my master taught me horizontal slashes and thrusts too."
"The Threefold Sword Technique? Anyone can do that. Your master must be truly impressive."
Cheol Myung-ho smirked.
"No? Not just anyone can do it."
'Especially not when you're planning to practice it a million times...'
The atmosphere was bizarre.
Every time Cheol Myung-ho told the truth, people laughed.
Dan Woo-sung watched with quiet amusement. It was strange hearing this odd man call him "master," but since the Fist King had taught him, he was indeed his disciple.
"Pathetic. I'll handle this fool."
A spearman stepped forward.
"Yang Il-ho of the Yang Family Spear Technique. I wasn't going to intervene, but I can't let an umbrella-wielder disgrace the main tournament."
Cheol Myung-ho didn't bother with formalities. Yang Il-ho, the only one who had bowed, flushed red and charged with his spear.
Whoosh!
Cheol Myung-ho immediately began spinning in circles, umbrella in hand, fleeing like a coward. It was a disgraceful sight, unbecoming of a martial artist.
"Hahahahaha—!"
To the spectators, it was pure entertainment.
Yang Il-ho, chasing him, turned red with embarrassment.
Dan Woo-sung watched impassively, arms still crossed.
He was likely the only one here who knew Cheol Myung-ho wasn't just running away.
Yang Il-ho shouted.
"Hey! Stop running—!"
The moment Yang Il-ho lost his temper, Cheol Myung-ho suddenly turned and recklessly rushed forward, blocking the spear with his entire body.
Startled, Yang Il-ho thrust—only for Cheol Myung-ho to trap the spear against his left side and deliver a downward strike straight to Yang Il-ho's skull.
Yang Il-ho barely raised his arms in time.
Crack!
"Ugh!"
He had underestimated the Black Iron Umbrella's weight. It shattered his wrist instantly before crashing into his head, knocking him out in one hit.
Both the unconscious man and the victor were equally stunned.
As Yang Il-ho collapsed...
Cheol Myung-ho checked his arm and side. A thin trickle of blood seeped through his clothes where the spear had grazed him.
True to his ruthless nature, he had the heart of a gambler.
Compared to the beatings his "master" had given him, this was nothing.
The crowd buzzed with shock, some mocking Yang Il-ho for his carelessness. A master nearby lectured his disciple.
"See? That's what happens when you let your guard down."
Meanwhile, Cheol Myung-ho spoke.
"Got lucky. I'm not skilled enough—I'll stop here."
Dan Woo-sung smiled.
Anyone could see Yang Il-ho was stronger. But battles often ended like this—the careless one lost.
As Cheol Myung-ho tried to slip away, he ran into a group blocking his path.
Their leader sneered.
"No manners, no skill—why should we let you through?"
Cheol Myung-ho glared, eyes sharp.
"Oh? Then let's fight."
Losing didn't scare him, but being disrespected? Unbearable.
The man laughed.
"Do you even know who I am?"
Cheol Myung-ho scoffed.
"How the hell would I? You never introduced yourself."
Thud!
The man kicked Cheol Myung-ho square in the stomach, sending him rolling. It was too fast to dodge. The strike was deliberately light—so Cheol Myung-ho would get back up.
The man approached.
"I'm Jo A-sol of the Wolf Fang Fist."
Clutching his stomach, Cheol Myung-ho muttered.
"Pfft—what a childish title. Hurts to laugh."
Jo A-sol's face darkened.
"What did you just say?! Get up!"
Cheol Myung-ho rose, still running his mouth.
"Oh, NOW you want me to stand? After kicking me?"
The crowd burst into laughter.
"Hahahaha—!"
"I'll smash that mouth first."
Cheol Myung-ho had completely forgotten Dan Woo-sung's advice about watching his tongue around masters.
He gripped the Black Iron Umbrella, instinctively analyzing Jo A-sol's stance. The title was childish, but Jo A-sol was undeniably stronger. And unlike Yang Il-ho, he wouldn't underestimate him.
The tip of the umbrella trembled slightly.
Nerves.
And those nerves fueled his anger.
'Should've practiced a million strikes, not just a hundred thousand...'
Then—the sound of fluttering fabric.
Dan Woo-sung, silent until now, leaped from the window and landed between Cheol Myung-ho and Jo A-sol.
It was obvious Cheol Myung-ho stood no chance. If Jo A-sol unleashed his Wolf Fang Fist, Cheol Myung-ho would be beaten to a pulp.
Cheol Myung-ho blinked.
"Huh? Why'd you come down?"
Dan Woo-sung answered simply.
"To enjoy the Pre-Festival."
Cheol Myung-ho grinned so wide his cheek scar vanished, stepping back. Then he tilted his head, taunting Jo A-sol with his eyes.
'Heh. You're screwed now.'
Jo A-sol glared.
"Who the hell are you, barging in?"
Dan Woo-sung's reply shut him up instantly.
"A Dragon-Phoenix Tournament participant."
Cheol Myung-ho chimed in.
"Yeah? Well, I'm not a participant. He started it."
Dan Woo-sung tilted his chin slightly, locking eyes with Jo A-sol.
Just seeing Dan Woo-sung's broad back made Cheol Myung-ho's blood boil. He was the most exhilarated man at the Pre-Festival. He'd tasted victory, however lucky.
A strange thrill ran through him.
'Getting stronger... is the greatest thing in the world.'
Jo A-sol tensed the moment he saw Dan Woo-sung. But as a rising star, backing down would be shameful.
"Fine. Let's fight."
The two stared each other down. Dan Woo-sung analyzed Jo A-sol's stance, focusing on body techniques.
Jo A-sol, meanwhile, felt cold sweat drip down his back. He couldn't gauge Dan Woo-sung's strength—yet saw no openings. The longer he hesitated, the more he realized he was psychologically outmatched.
Jo A-sol lunged, fist shooting forward like a hurled stone.
Dan Woo-sung mirrored the motion perfectly. Their arms crossed, each aiming for the other's face—
But Dan Woo-sung's stride was longer, his momentum unstoppable.
He shoved Jo A-sol's arm upward with his shoulder, grabbed the back of his neck with his left hand, and—
Wham!
—slammed him into the ground after a full mid-air spin.
Before Jo A-sol could react, Dan Woo-sung pinned him with a knee and drove a fist into the ground beside his face.
BOOM!
Jo A-sol's eyes rolled back—knocked out without even being hit.
The sheer terror of death had overwhelmed him.
As Dan Woo-sung stood, silence fell over the Pre-Festival.