Chapter 13
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: The Dragon-Phoenix Tournament Finally Begins.
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BOOM—! BOOM—! BOOM—!
The majestic drumbeats that shook heaven and earth tore through the morning mist cloaking Mount Wudang.
With three peals resounding like thunderclaps, the heavy gates of Purple Cloud Palace, which had been firmly shut, swung wide open.
Hundreds of flags fluttered in the wind, tracing the dance of dragons and phoenixes.
Beneath them, a crowd gathered like clouds filled the plaza to the brim.
The auras of heroes and heroines from all corners of the world intertwined, making the air around Mount Wudang vibrate with tension, taut as a drawn bowstring.
"Today, the prodigies of the realm gather in one place to test their mettle!"
From the platform, the white-haired Wudang Sect Leader, Xuanhe True Person, infused his voice with qi, his shout echoing thunderously through the arena.
"This is not to seek the pinnacle of martial prowess, but to tread the path of chivalry! Compete honorably and raise your names high across the land!"
Rooooar—!
The cheers of thousands of spectators blanketed the mountains and rivers.
Disciples from each sect, clad in robes emblazoned with their faction's emblems, gazed up at the platform with resolute expressions.
I swallowed dryly amid the throng.
Standing beside Senior Disciple, I scanned my surroundings, and the sharp intents emanating from every direction pricked at my skin like needles.
Far off, Peng Soyeon—with her massive saber strapped to her back—dominated the crowd with haughty eyes.
Beside her stood the Nangong Clan young master with his piercing gaze, while on the opposite side loomed Wudang's eldest disciple, upright like a solitary crane.
My heart pounded fiercely.
This was the jianghu.
This was the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament.
A battlefield where countless stars blazed to devour one another.
"Don't be nervous, Yi Yi."
Senior Disciple, who had sidled up to me unnoticed, gently covered the back of my hand with hers.
Her palm was warm, and that warmth soothed my trembling fingertips.
"You are Mount Hua's plum blossom. You can bloom more beautifully than anyone."
Meeting her steadfast gaze ignited a hot surge from deep in my gut.
Right—I was a disciple of Mount Hua.
There was no reason to cower in this vast current.
I gripped the hilt at my waist tightly.
The cold metal touch sharpened my mind.
The training grounds boiled like a massive cauldron.
Every time Wudang Elder Qinghe intoned the matchups in his booming voice from the platform's center, the crowd's eyes surged like waves.
I shrank half a step behind Senior Disciple's shadow, watching the brutal scene in breathless silence.
"Match Three! Haenam Sect's Red Pine versus lone wanderer Dugomu!"
At the call, two figures leaped onto the arena stage.
One was a young man neatly dressed in Haenam's signature blue martial robes; his foe was the self-proclaimed 'Mad Wind Sword,' Dugomu.
No sooner had he mounted the stage than he flung open his tattered robe, tracing bizarre footwork in the air.
His flashing eyes through disheveled hair and feigned leisurely smile evoked the image of a reclusive master who had survived countless brushes with death.
"Haenam Sect, huh... Do seaside monks like you even grasp the ruthlessness of the jianghu?"
Dugomu clicked his tongue and pointed his wooden sword at Red Pine.
"My blade has eyes of its own. If you don't want your bones broken, forfeit now. I don't make a habit of crushing tender sprouts."
His arrogant demeanor stirred murmurs through the crowd.
A sense of anticipation flickered—perhaps he truly was some hidden eccentric.
Red Pine merely straightened his sword with an expressionless face.
"Begin!"
At the referee's cry, Dugomu's form blurred.
His flashy footwork shook left and right as he charged, looking convincingly formidable.
With a beastly shout, he swung at Red Pine's lower body.
"Hah!"
But that was it.
Red Pine's eyes cooled to ice.
Senses honed through tens of thousands of repetitions caught his opponent's flaw.
The sloppy center of gravity hidden in the showy steps, the posture riddled with openings behind the flashy sword path.
It was no battle-tested skill—just third-rate posturing obsessed with flair.
Pop—
Red Pine stepped back half a pace and flicked his wrist lightly.
A concise, restrained strike. The wooden sword tracing the arc of Haenam Sect's foundational sword art, Wave Slash, slid along Dugomu's blade and pierced inward.
Crack!
A dull impact rang out as Dugomu's hand was struck dead-on.
He dropped his wooden sword without even a yelp.
It spun through the air and thudded into the training grounds' floor.
Dugomu stared blankly at his empty palm.
The arrogance from moments ago had vanished, replaced by utter bewilderment.
His 'mad wind' charge, full of bluster, fizzled into nothing—not even a breeze.
A pathetic defeat, failing to surpass even the basics of a righteous sect.
"See that, Yi Yi?"
Senior Disciple's voice came low, like a chill autumn breeze.
Without tearing her eyes from Dugomu's dazed figure on the stage, she whispered softly.
"This is the jianghu. And this is why the 'Dragon-Phoenix Tournament' is called a feast for famed clans and the Nine Great Sects."
I swallowed hard, staring at her profile.
Her eyes were deep as an abyss.
The futile bout seemed utterly predictable to her.
"People in the world often misunderstand. They think snagging some heavenly opportunity or holing up in a cave for ten years of solo training will make them the best under heaven. But Yi Yi, martial arts aren't that simple."
Senior Disciple slowly turned to look at me.
Her gaze held the pride and weight of Mount Hua's centuries.
"Why are famed sects famed? It's not just big buildings or hordes of disciples. A sect's martial arts aren't the creation of one genius in an age. They're a towering edifice, built by dozens, hundreds of prodigies with blood and sweat, upon which more geniuses carve their bones."
Her eyes shifted back to the arena.
The victorious Red Pine descended with courteous bows.
Centuries of history infused his every restrained motion.
"No matter how brilliant a lone wolf is, no matter how tirelessly they study day and night, they can't surpass the refined essence polished and perfected by countless predecessors over centuries in one leap. That's the power of 'systems' and the terror of 'lineage.' In the entire history of this Dragon-Phoenix Tournament, the upsets where nameless wanderers scaled the walls of famed houses... number just three."
"Three... times?"
"Yes. Just three."
A bitter yet oddly enigmatic smile flitted across Senior Disciple's lips.
"Aside from those three miracles, victory has always gone to the prepared. So Yi Yi, trust in Mount Hua's weight. Never forget that the souls of centuries of Mount Hua ancestors reside in your sword tip."
The sun climbed toward midday.
The matches that followed were mercilessly one-sided.
"Match Five! Kongtong Sect's Qingji Taoist versus Yellow River Stronghold's Jo Chil!"
The rough thug from some no-name stronghold charged with axe swinging fiercely, only to be flung away like a fallen leaf by the Kongtong priest's light palm strike.
Jo Chil slammed into the ground with a thud, not even managing a death rattle.
The bouts continued in the same vein.
"Match Seven! Nangong Clan's Nangong Hwi versus Iron Fist Hall's Demon Fist!"
Iron Fist Hall's hulking brute clenched his fists and rushed Nangong Hwi, but a pale sword gleam cleaved the sky, shredding his robes to tatters.
Nangong Hwi sealed his acupoints with a casual flick, as if dusting off his blade, then descended the stage with arrogant eyes.
It was like a colossal sieve.
This merciless stage called the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament relentlessly filtered out worthless pebbles.
Wanderers, disciples from obscure minor sects, cocky jianghu upstarts who threw down challenges—all shattered against the mighty wall of famed houses.
The blood and sweat they shed mingled with the arena's dust and vanished without trace.
As time passed, the names left on the bracket grew ever more concise and illustrious: Wudang, Shaolin, Emei, Nangong, Zhuge...
The small fry were swept away, leaving only massive dragons and phoenixes to glare at one another.
The noisy chatter around the grounds hushed.
"Same as always this year. Wonder if another dark horse like Cheng Soyeop four years ago will show up to topple a famed sect."
An old martial artist's sigh buried itself in the fading murmurs.
"Next up?"
As if answering, Qinghe Elder's heavy voice cleaved the arena.
"Match Thirteen! Mount Hua Sect's Yi Yi versus Black Dragon Hall's Iron Ox!"
The moment my name was called, my heart dropped—then pounded with vigor.
Senior Disciple's firm gaze pushed my back.
I flung my robe and soared onto the platform.
The firm feel of the grounds under my toes, the earth and faint blood scent filling my nostrils.
Everything came alive.
But there was no fear.
The overwhelming prowess shown by my famed sect brothers boiled my blood.
I too was a Mount Hua disciple.
Centuries of essence gathered at my sword tip.
My opponent, Iron Ox, was bearishly massive.
His bronze-muscled arms gripped a heavy cleaver, fierce eyes glaring at me.
"Mount Hua pretty boy. With that delicate face, you'd suit a brothel better than wielding a blade!"
His mocking sneer fell on deaf ears.
Instead, my eyes tracked his hands precisely.
His grip on the cleaver was subtly twisted.
His wrist angle overbent, making full power impossible.
Intimidating on the surface, but unpolished demonic cult rabble with no fundamentals.
A scoff escaped me.
"Die!"
Iron Ox bellowed and charged.
His massive cleaver sliced the air toward my head.
But the move looked sluggish and crude to my eyes.
I didn't budge an inch from my spot.
I merely infused light inner energy into my sword hand and let it drop downward.
Mount Hua Swordsmanship's foundation: Falling Petals.
Thud!
A dull clash, and Iron Ox's wrist snapped.
The cleaver he held flew into the air and crashed into a corner of the grounds.
It was over in a flash.
He stared dumbly at his empty hand, then crumpled with a grimace as pain hit late.
Of course—his basics were rotten from the start.
I sheathed my sword and looked down coldly at the loser.
This was the gap between famed and rabble.
My fingertips proved Senior Disciple right.