The Incompetent Hero and the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament (5)
Why does one learn martial arts?
The answer, of course, boils down to a single reason.
To become stronger.
Then what martial art should one learn?
That, too, is simple. Since the goal is strength, one naturally learns the strongest art available.
So among the martial arts of the eight great sects and five great clans spread across the Yeom Kingdom — at least thirteen styles in all — which is the strongest?
That question had gone unanswered for ages.
Each sect and clan had its own disposition, its own unique character. And yet people still insisted on ranking them.
"Still…"
"If the Elders clash with each other…"
"The bloodshed would be considerable, wouldn't it…"
Beyond the damage of a full-power collision, winning was one thing — but losing would be a catastrophic loss of face. So they devised a clever workaround. Instead of fighting themselves, they would pit their juniors against one another.
"Look over there! The plum blossom crest — that's the Huashan Sect!"
"Whoa! Zhongnan! Of all people, those two had to run into each other…"
"…"
"…"
The mutual conviction that one's own martial arts were superior bred rivalry, and when that rivalry grew fierce enough, it curdled into outright hostility.
"It's been a while, Wi Yang-cheon."
"Indeed it has, Hwa Gun-yeong."
Each was a Second Generation Disciple of their respective sects — Huashan and Zhongnan — and among the disciples entered in this Dragon-Phoenix Tournament, both stood head and shoulders above the rest.
Geographically close and philosophically opposed even in the nature of their swordsmanship, the two sects were famous throughout the Yeom Kingdom as bitter rivals.
"My, my. Looking at this, one might think the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament belongs to Huashan and Zhongnan alone. Do not forget that we of Kunlun have proud disciples every bit their equal."
"Amitabha."
Jeong Gong-baek, Second Generation Disciple of Kunlun.
Mu Cheon-hon, Second Generation Disciple of Wudang.
Wherever the sword was concerned, none of them would yield an inch — so the mutual wariness was only natural.
"If we're talking about the sword, leaving out our Namgung Clan would be rather unfair. It's been a long time since the last Dragon-Phoenix Tournament, everyone."
"…Sword Dragon Namgung Do-gun."
The appearance of last year's champion — son of Namgung Clan Head Namgung Do-ryong — put everyone present instantly on edge.
Reading the atmosphere, Namgung Do-gun deliberately laughed too loud.
"Hahaha. Why so tense, all of you? The Dragon-Phoenix Tournament exists so that we may measure each other's skill, find our shortcomings, and hone our strengths further, does it not? This Namgung Do-gun sincerely hopes to witness the full might of every sect without reservation."
With that, he led his fellow entrants and attendants inside ahead of the rest.
"Ugh, what a smug bastard."
"Young Lady Seollin! If you don't compose yourself, the Clan Head will be furious again!"
"Hmph. What do I care what Father says?"
Watching Namgung Do-gun swagger about as if he were the absolute strongest, Dan Seollin of the Dan Clan — herself a tournament entrant — clicked her tongue and scowled. The attendant fretting at her side tried desperately to rein her in, but to little effect.
One by one, the people of each sect and clan gathered. And into that throng stepped a black-haired man wearing a mask.
"Granny Wang, I might not be able to help with lunch… or dinner, for that matter."
"And where are you off to?"
"Got something to watch."
"Something to watch… heading to the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament, are you?"
The day of the tournament.
I said it while helping Old Man Wang with the lunch prep. Recalling that I was a swordsman who carried a blade, he figured out where I was going and why almost immediately.
"That's where the finest disciples of every sect gather. Will you be all right? I've heard that when the matches get heated, serious injuries aren't uncommon."
"If I get hurt by a bunch of kids, I might as well just go die."
I meant it.
Over the past two weeks I'd run into sect disciples now and then, and if I lost to those guys I'd genuinely have to go die — their skill was that pathetic.
…No, wait. Not pathetic, exactly. They were still stronger than Abel.
The average disciple's stats hovered around 100.
Pre-cheat Leon's specs couldn't even compare, and even Hero Abel or Hero Ragna would have struggled against them. That much was true.
But right now I'd recovered roughly half my power, which meant even raw stats put me at five times theirs.
If I lost to kids like that? Then I really was hopelessly talentless and there was no saving me.
By that logic, Elders and Sect Masters probably average around 200.
The Sword King's stats averaged around 300, so he was at least a cut above any Elder or Sect Master.
Baekryeon was roughly on par with a sect Elder, or maybe a little short of one.
Of course, that was pure stat comparison. In actual combat, the Sword King had over three hundred years of experience and the perfected extremes of the sword known as the Sword King Secret Arts — putting him well beyond ordinary Sect Masters.
As for Baekryeon… I had no idea. In the game, every Elder and Sect Master had already been slaughtered by the Heavenly Demon long before you got any useful data on them.
"I've come to escort you, Young Hero Leon."
"You're here. Granny, I'm heading out~"
True to his word, Yang Ja-mun had come to fetch me. I followed him to the tournament grounds.
As expected, a massive crowd had gathered — people come to watch, people come to hawk wares to the watchers — a sea of humanity.
"Crowded."
"The expectations riding on Young Master Cheon-woo are considerable."
"…Leave it to me."
Already starting, huh.
Well, with this many people, there were plenty of eyes watching. Better to be careful.
I adjusted the sword at my hip.
I'd already decided on the concept.
Silent soldier. Soldiers don't talk. They show it through action.
Says the guy who did public service instead of the military.
"The tournament will run over three rounds. Victory matters, of course, but so does managing your strength."
"Understood."
"…This is as far as I go. I'll be rooting for you."
So beyond this point was for entrants only?
I gave Yang Ja-mun a slight nod and stepped into the hall.
Whoa… the stares are intense.
Everyone else was dressed in the colors and crests of their sects and clans. I was in the kind of plain clothes you'd see on any street corner, so I stuck out even more.
…Plus the mask that completely covered my face.
"What the hell is that? Some random no-name wanderer? And what's with the mask?"
"Young Lady Seollin! Your mouth! Your mouth!!"
"…"
Well now. There's a young lady who doesn't mince words.
Heh.
Not that I had any interest in getting deeply involved with anyone here. I found an empty seat in the corner and sat down.
"Which side is he with?"
"Doesn't look like he has any companions."
"The sword at his hip says swordsman."
"But what does that mask mean?"
Come to think of it, if this tournament had long since devolved into a pride match between sects and clans, most of the people here would have met each other countless times. A complete third party suddenly showing up would naturally draw that kind of reaction.
While that was going on, one person came jogging toward us.
Probably from the organizing committee.
"To confirm that everyone is present, I will call the roll for each sect and clan. When your name is called, please respond!"
One by one, affiliations and names were announced, and I got a look at who was who.
And last of all—
"Representing the Yeom Army — Jang Cheon-woo!"
"…"
Instead of answering, I stood.
The moment my identity was revealed, every pair of eyes filled with confusion and surprise.
"The Yeom Army…?"
"They're sending someone? The Yeom Army has never entered before."
"Interesting. Very interesting."
I'm not finding it interesting, you bastard.
That Kunlun guy looked like he had a serious competitive streak.
"The Dragon-Phoenix Tournament will be held over three days. As you know, the match order will be determined by drawing lots. Matches are single-bout. Continuing to attack after a surrender will result in disqualification. Victory conditions are forcing a surrender or rendering the opponent unable to fight. However — killing is not permitted. Please exercise caution."
Having delivered the bare minimum of rules, the organizer spun on his heel and left.
"Yeom Army, huh… Guess they don't have any real talent. Sending a nobody like that, and just one of him."
"Young Lady Seollin!… Please, watch what you say!…"
I'll bet anything that the auntie looking after this Seollin girl is a living saint.
Nothing short of sainthood could handle a personality like that.
I'd only just met her and I already had her temperament pegged. The fact that someone stuck by her side day after day…
I'd have quit a long time ago.
"?"
"Jang Cheon-woo of the Yeom Army, was it? A pleasure. I am Namgung Do-gun. Though I am still lacking, they call me the Sword Dragon."
While I was thinking, a rare specimen decided to strike up a conversation.
Namgung Do-gun, entrant of the Namgung Clan.
I just stared at him in silence. The other Namgung people behind him started grumbling about how their young master was being ignored, but Namgung Do-gun raised a hand and stopped them.
"Unable to speak? Or unwilling?"
"…"
"Hmm… awkward. Well, a true swordsman converses through the blade. I look forward to crossing swords with you."
He extended his hand as if requesting a handshake.
Frankly, snubbing him any further might provoke the people behind him into doing something stupid, so I decided to take it.
No point making unnecessary trouble.
"…Hmm. Indeed."
"…"
Tak.
"Oh."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Is this guy insane? Why is he twitching his hand during a handshake? Has he lost his mind?…
A sudden chill ran through my entire body.
And the way he looked at me, smacking his lips as if disappointed — I found myself rising from my seat without thinking.
"We will now draw lots!!! The first match is… Hye-ang of Shaolin versus Jang Cheon-woo of the Yeom Army!!"
The elevated viewing stands, built to overlook the entire arena, were packed with Sect Masters and their proxies from every sect and clan. When the first matchup was announced, they chuckled among themselves.
"Hah. Shaolin right out of the gate."
"And against the Yeom Army, no less. He'll advance without any surprises."
"Though Shaolin only sent one entrant?"
Normally the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament saw a minimum of five disciples per faction, sometimes as many as ten.
This year, only two factions had entered a single fighter: Shaolin and the Yeom Army.
The Yeom Army's situation was something everyone present could roughly guess without saying it aloud, so that was understandable. But Shaolin sending only a single boy was unexpected enough that all eyes turned to the Shaolin Abbot.
The Abbot laughed softly under their gazes.
"That child is more than enough."
"More than enough…?"
"He is still young, but his skill and depth already surpass a First Generation Disciple. If he is given enough time… enough time to fully refine his internal energy… he will be the next Abbot."
"That remarkable?"
A disciple praised so highly by the Abbot of Shaolin himself.
Everyone present fixed their attention on him.
None of them imagining the upset that was about to unfold.
"I am Hye-ang."
"…Jang Cheon-woo."
"So you can speak."
"I simply don't waste words."
We stood facing each other on the arena floor.
…Is this kid a monster?
Is this the strongest guy in the whole tournament? Strength of 156?
That Namgung guy earlier only had around 130 Strength. And overall, this kid's higher across the board? Did I draw the tournament favorite in the first round? Do I have to send the favorite straight to hell right out of the gate?
Sigh… Fine. Your luck's rotten, so don't blame me.
I tore a strip from my clothes and bound the scabbard tight so it wouldn't come loose, letting out a quiet sigh as I did.
Watching me, my opponent tilted his head.
"May I ask what you are doing?"
"Making sure the scabbard doesn't fall off."
"And why do that?"
"Because if the scabbard comes off, you'll get cut."
His expression went blank, as if he'd just been smacked upside the head. Then he let out a short laugh, settled into his stance, and said:
"Then I shall endeavor to make you draw that blade."
Please don't. You'll die.
While I was thinking that, he thrust a fist into empty air.
I was wondering what the hell he was doing when, in that instant, Intuition kicked in.
"!"
THOOM!!
What the hell was that just now? Fist pressure? Did he just fire off fist pressure? I raised my sword on pure instinct and blocked it — something invisible and heavy slammed into the blade and scattered. Similar to the Spatial Slash I use?
But there was a delay before it hit, so probably not quite the same.
"Hundred-Pace Divine Fist. A Shaolin fist technique that can strike from beyond a hundred paces."
"…Huh."
Attacking from beyond a hundred paces…
Given the slight delay between the strike and the impact, it couldn't cut instantly the way my slash did…
Which meant dodging it was totally doable.
"Then I shall continue."
Thung! Thung! Thung! Thung! CRACK!!
He fired off fist pressure in a flowing, natural rhythm, fists thrusting as smoothly as water.
No margin of error for distance — the accuracy was as if I were standing right in front of him.
Some of the pressure that grazed past me hit the arena floor and shattered it like soft tofu. The power was no joke either.
"That's Shaolin for you! He's completely dominating!"
"I put my money on Shaolin to win!!"
Of course the ordinary spectators, who didn't know any of the details, just cheered wildly.
…Wait. There were betting odds?! I want in!! I want to bet on myself!!!
"…Hup!!"
Then he stopped attacking and stomped the ground hard.
The stomp became a shockwave that made the earth itself seem to ripple.
An ordinary person would have lost their balance. It meant nothing to me. The Sword King Footwork was designed to maintain perfect equilibrium in any situation, under any conditions.
"Even this fails to reach you?!"
"…"
"Kh… I shall press on!"
I'd just been standing there watching to maintain the silent-soldier concept, but whatever he made of that silence, he grew impatient and pressed the attack.
A hundred strikes delivered in a single breath — linked with the Hundred-Pace Divine Fist to rain a hundred blows from beyond a hundred paces.
BOOM!!!
"I-If it's this much—!"
"Ah. That line's a death flag."
"!"
I slipped through the smoke of the explosion caused by a hundred consecutive strikes and closed into his guard.
Attacking from a hundred paces, landing a hundred blows in one go —
The Sword King Secret Arts I'd learned had no flashy techniques like that. None at all.
What they had was only cutting and thrusting.
The most basic, fundamental motions a sword can perform.
"Your head."
"!!"
SHHHHHHK!!!
This wasn't a secret art or anything special.
Just a technique everyone knows, everyone can do, and everyone does.
But a technique almost no one trains to the absolute extreme.
"Downward cut."
CRAAACK!!!
Faster than his defense —
Simply, purely faster —
I brought the sword down and cracked his skull open.
"…"
"Uh… W-Winner!! Yeom Army! Jang Cheon-woo!!!"
Yep. I won.