Chapter 45: The Fist King Throws Two Punches
The Fist King Throws Two Punches
Chapter 45: The Fist King Throws Two Punches
As Hwa Eun-wol glared at him, Dokgo Han, visibly irritated, retorted:
"Can you take responsibility for those words?"
"If responsibility is what you want, then say something interesting. Go on."
"I'll wager ten thousand nyang of my personal fortune that the winner will come from either the Murim Alliance or the Imperial Assembly. And for the witness, let's pick Namgung Wi—someone I don't get along with. How about it?"
When Dokgo Han proposed the bet, Hwa Eun-wol flicked open his fan and replied:
"Ten thousand nyang? Let's make it thirty thousand—I'll add twenty thousand more. I'll also name Namgung Wi as the witness. Turns out he's useful after all."
Dokgo Han smirked.
"The Hwa Clan must be swimming in spare cash."
"No need to worry about my finances. I am the young master."
Dokgo Han, who had yet to be officially recognized as his clan's heir, stood up with a face twisted in fury and looked down at Hwa Eun-wol.
"Young Master Hwa, you've just given me another reason to fight harder. Much obliged."
"Don't mention it. Best of luck."
Dokgo Han grabbed his heavy sword, turned away, and left with a final remark:
"Have the money ready."
As Dokgo Han walked off, fanning himself, Hwa Eun-wol watched him go with a faint smile.
'Annoying bastard.'
Hwa Eun-wol had taken the bet too. Dokgo Han and Namgung Wi were manageable, but Dan Woo-sung's limits were unpredictable—making this gamble all the more reckless.
"Please state the alias or title you'd like written on your nameplate."
Guided by Baek Han-gyeong, Dan Woo-sung arrived at the registration desk and studied the nameplate held by the attendant before responding.
"Aliases or titles are allowed?"
The attendant, holding a brush, explained:
"Of course. Preliminary rounds don't require your real name."
Dan Woo-sung stared at the nameplate.
He wanted to write Fist King. But he couldn't. The current Dan Woo-sung hadn't yet surpassed his past self—it would be disrespectful to the title of King.
The attendant smiled.
"You can write anything. Collect three nameplates from other participants, and you'll advance to the main tournament. Then, return here to complete your registration."
Dan Woo-sung said:
"Write Fist Guest."
The attendant carefully inscribed Fist Guest onto the nameplate with a thin brush before handing it over.
"Best of luck."
"Thank you."
The attendant watched Dan Woo-sung head toward the preliminaries, intrigued. Fist Guest was an unusual title—not unheard of, but certainly rare compared to common ones like Sword Guest.
'He'll probably pass.'
After registering countless participants, even this low-ranking attendant had developed a sense for these things.
When Dan Woo-sung arrived at the preliminaries, participants were scattered around the waiting area. Some rested after victories, others hesitated nervously. A few sat cross-legged, meditating, while others jogged in place to burn off tension.
Nearby, an irritated judge scolded a participant.
"Hey! The match was already decided!"
"My apologies."
"Medics, hurry! The bleeding's severe."
The voice belonged to an elderly man.
Then—snap—a participant pleaded desperately.
"No! Judge!"
The old judge had apparently broken his nameplate.
"You lack both the skill and character for the main tournament. Disqualified. If you cause more trouble, I'll have to call enforcement. Leave quietly."
Murmurs rose from the waiting area.
"I won—how is this fair? Please, have mercy. I traveled all the way from Shanxi!"
The judge barked:
"This is the Murim Alliance! Disqualified! Out!"
The old man's temper was legendary.
Dan Woo-sung chuckled despite himself.
'Feisty old man.'
When Dan Woo-sung presented his nameplate to an attendant, he was immediately guided forward.
"This way."
Entering a corridor shielded by white drapes, Dan Woo-sung asked:
"Can I go to the arena where that shouting judge is?"
"Huh? Oh, sure, that's fine."
The attendant scratched his head before leading Dan Woo-sung to the preliminaries overseen by the loud elder.
Pushing aside the drapes, Dan Woo-sung bowed respectfully to the white-haired judge.
The Old Judge's stern expression seemed to declare, I am an obstinate old man. He radiated the kind of rigid integrity earned through decades in the Murim Alliance.
Though unfamiliar with Dan Woo-sung, the Old Judge returned the courtesy before extending his hand.
"Young man, hand me your nameplate."
"Here."
The Old Judge read the inscription.
"Fist Guest—best of luck."
"Thank you."
As Dan Woo-sung turned, another participant entered the arena and handed his nameplate to the Old Judge.
The judge recited it in a stiff tone, though his eyes flickered briefly.
"Seven Herbs Ascension—best of luck."
Perhaps finding the title ridiculous, the stubborn old man clenched his teeth. A black-robed man clutching a sword turned—then froze upon spotting Dan Woo-sung.
"Gah!"
The Old Judge said:
"Injuries from matches are unavoidable, but deliberate harm will—"
Before he could finish, the black-robed man interjected:
"—I forfeit."
The Old Judge's eyebrows shot up.
"What? Why?"
The elder had a habit of slipping into blunt speech when agitated—not that anyone would dare call him out, given his seniority.
The black-robed man replied:
"Ah, I saw his skills at the Pre-Festival. I'm no match."
The Old Judge glared, scrutinizing him before roaring:
"Out! Disqualified! Try again in ten years! What kind of attitude is that for the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament? You think this is a joke?"
"Why are you—"
"Out, now!"
As Dan Woo-sung crossed his arms, the dejected challenger trudged away.
The Old Judge huffed.
"Fist Guest, victory by forfeit. Rest or continue?"
"Continue."
"Not much to rest from, I suppose. Lunatics are plentiful this year."
He barked at an attendant outside:
"Bring the next participant!"
While waiting, the Old Judge studied Dan Woo-sung intently.
'Hm. Strong for his age.'
Still irritated from the last contestant, he muttered:
"Forgive the idiots. Seven Herbs Ascension—more like Seven Steps Back Home."
This time, Dan Woo-sung stifled a chuckle.
The elder cleared his throat habitually before asking:
"Ahem. Judging by your demeanor, you don't strike me as the type to show off at the Pre-Festival."
He was probing Dan Woo-sung's involvement.
"You read faces?"
"Comes with age."
"A friend was about to get beaten, so I stepped in."
"Ah."
The Old Judge's expression brightened, satisfied.
"Good. That's the attitude of a true martial artist."
Dan Woo-sung smiled.
Occasionally, orthodox factions like the Guyang Clan infuriated even the Fist King. But elders like this—and the occasional righteous heroes—made it impossible to despise the White Path entirely.
The next participant entered and handed over his nameplate.
The Old Judge announced:
"Life-Stealing Strange Staff—best of luck. No forfeits allowed."
The disheveled challenger tilted his head.
"Huh?"
"Deaf, are we? No forfeiting."
"Oh, I wasn't planning to."
"Good. Manly. Bow, then begin."
Life-Stealing Strange Staff looked like a beggar from a wandering sect. Having missed the Pre-Festival, he showed no reaction to Dan Woo-sung. After a perfunctory bow, he leveled his twisted staff and asked:
"Ready?"
Dan Woo-sung assumed a neutral stance.
"Ready."
Life-Stealing Strange Staff frowned.
'Hm.'
Against an unpredictable opponent, he had to rely on his weapon's reach.
He lunged.
Whirling his staff overhead, he kicked off the ground and closed the distance with a sharp thrust.
Dan Woo-sung stepped forward and threw a straight punch.
CRACK!
The staff's tip met his fist head-on.
Life-Stealing Strange Staff's eyes bulged. Who blocked a weapon barehanded like this? But in that instant, the staff's tip swelled—then split apart with a rip as the entire shaft splintered into dozens of strands, forcing him back.
Grimacing, he clutched his right arm. Pain like a torn shoulder seared through him.
The Old Judge, startled, raised a hand toward Dan Woo-sung.
"Victory! Halt."
Dan Woo-sung nodded.
"Understood."
The Old Judge turned to Life-Stealing Strange Staff.
"You alright? There's a medic outside—get that arm checked."
"Right."
Limping away, the man suddenly paused and glanced back at Dan Woo-sung.
"Learned something today."
Dan Woo-sung bowed politely.
"Apologies for the staff."
"N-no, if it were my body... Anyway, later."
With Fist Guest's second victory, the Old Judge stroked his beard, pleased.
"That's refreshing."
Not exactly judge-like commentary—the elder had a childlike streak.
"Continue?"
"Yes."
"Good. Bring the next opponent. And you—come here."
The Old Judge beckoned Dan Woo-sung closer, examining his gauntlet with fascination.
"What's this? I've been in the martial world over fifty years, yet I've never seen gauntlets like these."
Dan Woo-sung extended his hand.
"A gift from the Hwa Clan's young master. I'm not sure of the material."
"May I?"
"Go ahead."
The Old Judge marveled as he prodded Dan Woo-sung's hand.
"The texture... reminds me of the Heavenly Silkworm Silk the Baek Clan occasionally produced. If so, these are priceless. Can't be sure, though. Probably blade-resistant."
"Hm."
Hwa Eun-wol had given them so casually that Dan Woo-sung was more surprised than anyone.
The next participant froze upon entry—the judge was kneading Dan Woo-sung's hand like dough.
The Old Judge blinked at him.
"Ahem. Come in. Nameplate."
"Y-yes."
"Nothing unusual. Just inspecting his gauntlets."
"Understood."
"Let's see... Barehanded Young Master. Fist practitioner?"
"Yes."
"This'll be good. Bow, then begin."
The new challenger, Barehanded Young Master, clasped his fists toward Dan Woo-sung.
"You made quite an impression at the Pre-Festival."
He smirked confidently. Dan Woo-sung returned a neutral nod.
The Old Judge raised a hand, paused, then swept it down.
"Begin!"
Both fighters closed the distance instantly, fists flying.
BOOM!
A thunderclap echoed as Barehanded Young Master shot through the drapes. Dan Woo-sung had deliberately condensed his internal energy into his fist—using the Iron Wall principle—so the man was sent flying by his own force.
The Old Judge's jaw slackened.
"Hah! In all my years, you're the first to clear preliminaries with two punches."
He handed Dan Woo-sung three nameplates and boomed:
"Advance! See you in the main tournament!"