I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 220: Dormant Dragon Martial Contest (2)

A total of sixty-four participants were set to compete in the first round—twenty-four who made it through the preliminaries, and forty who entered by recommendation from their respective righteous sects.

Today featured matches from Bracket 1 and Bracket 3, which meant that you had to sit around endlessly, waiting for your turn that could come at any time.

Qing’s plan to find Cheon Yuhak and ask him, “Isn’t this side effect a bit too intense? Is there seriously no alternative?” got shoved all the way to the back of her priorities.

Damn it, she didn’t even know where her Master was right now.

She had heard him muttering something about “selling tonics,” so he was probably at the marketplace, but once he sold everything with his trademark mystical (read: predatory) sales tactics, he was practically impossible to track down.

So here she was, anxious as hell, forced to sit through some low-tier nobodies flailing at each other in the arena—what a situation.

...Though, admittedly, it was kind of fun.

Fights between rookies were usually way more entertaining than fights between masters. After all, high-level fights were so fast and technical you couldn’t even tell what was happening, but rookies? You could see every move, every blunder, every shift in momentum—it had that nerve-wracking edge-of-your-seat thrill.

Ooh, Young Master Ma from Jidang Fist made it through?

The seasoned martial artist from Jidang Fist, Young Master Ma, was currently fighting a disciple from the Guiyang Sect, Young Master Chae—and repeatedly crawling across the ground.

Normally, “crawling” would be a sign you were getting your ass handed to you, but Young Master Ma was known for his ground techniques. This actually meant he had the upper hand.

The poor Guiyang Sect disciple just kept flailing, completely lost. Clearly, he had no clue how to deal with someone crawling beneath his knees.

Well, yeah—practically no sword technique in all of Jianghu accounted for dealing with an opponent slithering around your shins like a snake.

Eventually, Young Master Ma slid in like a serpent, pinned the backs of Chae’s knees, and twisted his legs into a pretzel, forcing him down and subduing him.

Young Master Chae struggled desperately to escape, but every time he moved, Ma jabbed a pressure point with the precision of a bone-cracking spear. He barely managed to stifle his screams through gritted teeth.

The Murim Alliance master acting as referee observed Chae’s repeated escape attempts before quickly making his ruling.

It wasn’t favoritism—he’d simply watched to see if there was any possible technique that could’ve let Chae break free.

“Victory! From Shinyeo—Ma Onsa wins!”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Young Master Ma waved happily, while the pitiful Guiyang Sect disciple slumped his head and trudged off the field. He couldn’t even put on a decent performance—his opponent had been just that weird.

“Tsk, tsk. How unfortunate. How’s he supposed to show his face after that? Then again, you can’t exactly tell that boy not to use Jidang Fist, either.”

Ximen Surin spoke with a sigh of genuine pity.

She had advised before: even if your opponent was weak and had no skill, you should at least exchange ten moves with them.

This wasn’t a death match—it was a righteous sect gathering. You should at least give them the chance to demonstrate what they had.

The fame Young Master Ma had just earned was... well, being a creepy martial artist who crawled on the ground really well. Meanwhile, the loser became the guy who got beat by someone crawling like a snake.

There was no glory in that win—and what’s worse, now the Guiyang Sect disciple would probably resent him like he was some mortal enemy.

That was why Jidang Fist was shunned in the martial world: it just leaked drawbacks from every angle.

The fights continued, and occasionally, familiar faces appeared. Gongson Yoye easily defeated Sang Baeksong of Seocheon Merchant Guild, and Jegal Ihyeon knocked out someone from Cheonghae with a whipping strike from her steel thread.

And just like that, Qing’s turn was up.

A Murim Alliance warrior, acting as the tournament usher, came to escort her from the waiting room, saying her match would begin shortly.

The waiting area was actually a ship moored beside the floating arena on the canal. As soon as she stepped inside—

Hmph. A snorting laugh rang out.

Actually, no—it was less a laugh and more like someone was straight-up blowing snot out of their ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ nose.

Qing turned toward the source of the noise.

“Well, well! Miss Ximen finally reveals her true colors! What on earth are you wearing?”

There was only one woman in the world who’d pick a fight with Qing on sight.

Moyong Juhee jabbed a finger in Qing’s direction.

“That scandalous sash—what is that, exactly? Are you trying to flaunt your body to all of Zhongyuan? In that case, why not just go out topless?”

The term sash (채대) here referred to any kind of belt a woman might wear. In Zhongyuan, belts came in all kinds of styles, and anything that wrapped around the waist visibly was called a sash.

To prevent stimulation against her skin, Qing had tightly bound her waist with a wide cloth. Since her waist was unnaturally slim and her upper and lower body were comparatively... not, the exaggerated curves stood out more than she’d expected.

Qing sighed deeply.

Was that her idea of a greeting or something?

“Miss Moyong, don’t you get tired starting arguments with everyone you see? Now people are comparing us, you know. Excuse me, everyone—please stop staring, it’s a bit rude.”

Sure enough, the others in the waiting room were glancing back and forth between Qing and Moyong Juhee.

“Eeeugh...!”

Moyong Juhee’s face turned bright red. She scowled and swept a sharp glare across the room.

Everyone instantly averted their eyes—some pretending the floor or the ceiling had mysterious patterns they absolutely had to study.

And then it happened.

“KYAAAAAA!”

“EEEEEE! AHHHHHHH!”

Suddenly, a wave of piercing screams exploded from outside the waiting room.

The kind of screams that sounded like someone’s soul was being torn in two.

Startled, everyone in the room leapt to their feet and rushed to the door.

And outside—

“KYAAAAH! YOUNG MASTER PENG! PLEASE LOOK OVER HERE!”

“JADE QILIN! KYAAAA!”

“Oh my god, we made eye contact—what do I do? Aaah...”

Thud. Girls were dropping like flies.

The Most Beautiful Man in the World had destroyed their minds with a single look, causing them to faint on the spot.

Even with all the recent bad rumors, his popularity hadn’t dropped a bit. If anything, women in Kaifeng had started dressing in rags just to emulate the trend.

...Well that was anticlimactic.

Qing slumped into her seat, totally uninterested.

Surprisingly, even Moyong Juhee scowled and turned away.

When Qing turned her veiled gaze toward her, Juhee bristled.

“What? Surprised I’m not drooling over the Most Beautiful Man in the World? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not pathetic enough to cling to a man who doesn’t like me back.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your eyes said it all!”

“You can see my eyes? You must be in the Haegyeong stage or something.”

Qing had no clue how it worked, but apparently, if you were high enough in the cultivation hierarchy, you could see through veils like they were glass.

“Tch.”

Moyong Juhee turned away with a sharp flick of her head, clearly not interested in continuing.

Which was fine, since Qing wasn’t interested in engaging either. It wasn’t like they were going to be seeing each other regularly.

Just then, another round of Kyaaaaaah! erupted from outside.

Once was enough—Qing didn’t even need to check. That meant San had won his match.

After that, Moyong Juhee was called for her turn. She headed out through the corridor, and in less than a minute, the announcer’s voice echoed:

“Victory goes to Moyong Juhee!”

Then it was Qing’s turn.

She followed the ship’s interior, stepped across a few planks onto another platform, then climbed a short staircase leading onto the stage—where a launching pedestal and a handrail awaited her.

So that’s why everyone had been jumping up from the floor and showing off their movement techniques.

With that setup, even someone bad at lightfoot skills could probably make one good leap.

Qing activated her Moon Maiden Step, the semi-anti-gravity footwork, and gently sprang onto the launching platform.

She landed softly and gracefully on the arena stage, her feet touching down without a sound.

“I am Hwan Yuk, disciple of the Wudang Sect. I have mastered the Taiji Divine Sword and Cotton Palm.”

He displayed a half-sword stance with his right hand and a half-palm stance with his left—the signature Taiji greeting.

Qing responded with a calm demonstration of her own, showing the basic forms of the Divine Maiden Sword and the Yue Maiden Sword.

Then, out of nowhere, Hwan Yuk asked:

“Miss Ximen? Have we... met before? You seem familiar somehow...”

What the hell is he on about now?

What kind of stunt is this supposed to be?

Was this some weird Zhongyuan tradition too—like pre-fight mental warfare using irritating small talk?

Qing, who never lost in that department, shot back instantly.

“Aren’t those words a little inappropriate for a disciple of Wudang to be saying aloud?”

“Eh? What do you—”

Hwan Yuk blinked, not getting it at first—then suddenly realized his mistake.

He’d just told a veiled woman that she looked familiar. Of course that could come off as a sleazy pickup line.

What he’d actually meant was that her unusually distinct body figure had vaguely reminded him of something, but even saying that aloud would have been a total breach of decorum. It would basically translate to: “You’ve got an unforgettable figure—where have I seen it before?”

“My apologies. Please forget I said anything.”

Trying to start a verbal duel when he was completely outclassed...

Qing pursed her lips, unimpressed.

Hwan Yuk couldn’t see her expression behind the veil, which was a shame—it would’ve definitely added to his sense of injustice. He genuinely hadn’t meant anything shady. He’d just asked out of honest recognition.

“I’ll let you have the first move.”

“How could I accept that? It’s only right that I yield it to you.”

“Well, if you insist.”

Qing wasn’t from any of the Nine Great Sects, so she had no obligation to formally greet their elders. The few seniors who did know her cultivation level were the ones she’d coincidentally met—everyone else just saw her as some junior girl from the Divine Maiden Sect.

Same with Wolbong, the Shaolin disciple. He’d been carefully hidden away until now, no big flashy entrance or bragging from his master. Just told to go win and let that be the announcement.

Without further delay, Qing stepped forward lightly, ankle flexing like a spring.

Her Master had said that Wudang’s sword was the art of softness.

Let’s see what he was about to show her.

Qing gave a gentle flick of her sword.

It was Heavenly Maiden, Bold Gentleman—the third form of the Divine Maiden Sword Technique. Ximen Surin’s favorite, and Qing’s too. A simple diagonal slash, clean and straightforward.

In response, Hwan Yuk raised his sword to meet hers. His right arm drew a vertical circle, while his feet carved a wide horizontal arc.

His iron sword twisted at a gentle angle, deflecting Qing’s strike with a smooth circular motion.

Rather than resisting the push, Qing let herself turn with the force, spinning smoothly to face Hwan Yuk once more.

That was one exchange.

And with that, Qing thought to herself:

Ah. So this is how it moves.

To read an attack, you watch the eyes.

To read a technique, you watch the footwork.

She didn’t know all that much about the Taiji Divine Sword, but what stood out right away was how different his stance and steps were.

Footwork, after all, was the art of positioning one’s body to maximize power behind each technique.

Namgung Shinjae’s footwork was solid and unmoving, meant more to support and ground the body rather than initiate movement.

Peng Choryo’s was diagonal, allowing for quick retreats and rotations.

Peng Daesan’s footwork expanded vertically, using large strides to enhance the destructive force of his saber.

But Hwan Yuk’s footwork—he extended sideways, tracing arcs, as if he were revolving around a distant point behind Qing, painting great circles through space.

Two exchanges. Three. Four.

Qing kept thinking, kept observing.

This was more about angles than distance.

He wasn’t just leading her off-balance—he was placing himself in a position to channel her momentum against her. If she got caught in it, the tide of the fight could flip before she even realized it.

Five. Six. Seven.

It was almost like watching a bullfighter.

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He forced straight-line attacks, then slipped sideways, making space and waiting for the moment to climb right onto the enemy’s back.

So what should she do?

Should she push through—faster, harder, overwhelming him in one decisive rush?

Should she use a feint to crash through his flowing circles?

Or maybe she should respond in kind—with a spiral of her own?

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Qing moved like silk on silk, fluid meeting fluid, her sword clashing lightly with his in a graceful whirl.

Then—without warning—she lifted her right foot, slow and smooth.

And in the very next breath—

SLAM!

She stomped it down with thunderous force.

The entire arena shook.

In that one instant, her posture shifted forward—just one step, but everything changed.

And behind it came a brutal, lunging sword thrust.

Hwan Yuk was startled, hastily swinging to parry—CLANG!!

It rang out like iron shattering.

A shadow suddenly darkened his face.

His eyes darted up—under the May sky, something was blocking the sun.

A dazzling white hand.

It tore through the air with a sharp crack.

It was bait. The sword had been bait.

He realized it far too late.

Thwack.

Qing’s palm landed square on the crown of Hwan Yuk’s head.