Chapter 15. You Hated Giving Up the Grand Pill That Much?
The reason the Dark Moon Society could stand against the martial world of the Central Plains.
While the strength of the absolute being, Baek Cheon, was a factor, the existence of Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang Tamarang also had a massive impact.
After all, she was the previous generation's Number One Under Heaven.
The title of Number One Under Heaven is no mere symbol. Every single step the holder of that title took drew the eyes of the entire martial world of that era.
Beomcheon and Baek Cheon are regressors. Naturally, they should be in a cooperative relationship, even if they aren't exactly comrades. After all, they can't kill each other.
Still, to think it's Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang. I should have realized when Beomcheon said someone other than Hwapyeong and me would be participating in the tournament.
“You cheap bastard. Did you hate the idea of giving up the Grand Pill that much?”
A faint, hemispherical barrier of qi had already formed around Beomcheon and me. A barrier so thin and exquisite that even the Shaolin Elders couldn't detect it.
No sound could escape it. Which was why I could speak so freely.
Beomcheon glanced at me before turning his gaze to the tournament stage.
“Amitabha. To see such a young disciple of Buddha be so skilled, I have high hopes for the future of our temple. The departed ancestors of Shaolin must be watching over him”…
What a hypocrite.
In any case, should I take comfort in the fact that the Small Pill is still within reach? Though it was obvious that even if I got it, it would go straight to Hwapyeong.
‘Well, a life has to be saved.’
There's no grand reason I'm trying to save Hwapyeong's mother. It's because, long ago, I received a bowl of warm noodles from her when she ran a rundown tavern.
I still haven't forgotten that warmth and wish to repay it. This is why people should live good lives.
That damn Elder Hwa. To think not a single person was sad when he died. Then again, considering I also killed his son, the flounder, I don't have much room to talk.
The flounder had it coming. How dare he mess with Geolshin while he was in the throes of an inner demon? Besides, the flounder was destined to become the main culprit, along with Elder Hwa, in ruining the Beggars' Sect. It's not like I split him in two with my sword energy for no reason.▲
In my past life, my master was Elder Hwa. Everything I did was with the thought, ‘I must not become like Elder Hwa.’ He was a perfect teacher by negative example, and for his sins, he's probably rotting in the Eight Hot Hells now.
But now, it seems I'm about to face the karma for brutally murdering the flounder's family. According to the Traceless Divine Beggar, the leaders of the Dark Moon Society know about the regression.
If that's the case, Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang must know about me too. She obviously came here to crush me.
Moreover, he's concluded that a master of Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang's caliber could protect me from the attack of the Peach Blossom Land.
Just then, a tremendous roar erupted from the right side of the stage. It was the gamblers who had bet on Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang. The odds on the underdog must have been astronomical.
“I’m rich now! Kugh, I can’t believe a day like this has finally come!”
“Ha! I should have bet more. I just threw in a little for fun, and now I’m full of regret.”
Where there are winners in gambling, there must be losers. The jeers and curses of the gamblers who had bet on the Eighteen Arhats reached all the way here.
“Agh, you bald bastard! It’s my fault for trusting you.”
“The Eighteen Arhats, you say! One of Shaolin’s greatest forces, my ass!”
Frowning, Beomcheon flicked his sleeve, and the man who had cursed the baldies collapsed on the spot. He had fainted.
“…I simply struck his upper dantian with the Banseonsu. He’ll wake up soon.”
It was an uncharacteristic excuse.
The Shaolin Elders and the other monks on the platform all wore stiff expressions, clearly displeased by the overheated atmosphere of the gambling.
It was only natural. This tournament was an exception, where the patrons were allowed to gamble. I was the one who requested it.
‘You need this kind of excitement to draw a bigger crowd.’
In truth, many people come to watch the monks' duels. It’s not often one gets to see a high-level fight between masters of the martial world. But Shaolin gains no financial benefit from that.
The price for allowing the gambling was that Shaolin would take a ten percent cut of the profits. Even Shaolin can't live on air alone; they needed money.
As for me, I was used to such sordid, worldly scenes.
The only bald head smiling on this platform right now belonged to the head of the Finance Pavilion, the one in charge of Shaolin's finances.
I stared at the broken tournament stage for a moment. My eyes met Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang's. Even her arrogant gaze suited that young body. It shouldn't have, but it did.
Those black pupils and upturned eyelashes. Was it because Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang was a master of Lightning Qi Art? Her next words were just as sudden as a thunderbolt.
“I will come for you soon.”
No, just don't come at all.
My heart was in such turmoil, yet the damn gamblers were incredibly boisterous. A fitting display for those living at the bottom, I suppose. They chanted Ilgyeokmujeok Tamarang's alias, ‘Yeonghwa,’ over and over.
Since I was one of those rock-bottom lives myself, I had no room to criticize. The clouds drifting in the sky and the rising sun offered no comfort to my soul.
I let out a deep sigh and stepped down from the platform. It was almost time for me to get on stage.
“Begin!”
And so, my match, refereed by one of Shaolin's Four Great Vajras, began. But the scene that unfolded before me was entirely different from what I had expected.
A trembling Shaolin monk met my eyes. The lapis lazuli stones of the stage were temporarily patched up, some still slightly broken. I had expected a confident Shaolin disciple to appear.
So why was this guy shaking so much? With his stance wavering, he couldn't manifest the Immovable Mind characteristic of Shaolin, which meant his intent wouldn't be properly imbued, and his techniques would surely be weakened.
I briefly circulated the energy in my upper dantian and then realized. This was the bald monk whose head I had slammed into the training ground floor.
Seeing him so terrified made me feel a bit sorry for him, but a match is a match. Meaning, I had no room to go easy on my opponent.
Feeling the wooden sword in my grasp, I pointed it at him.
Only then did the monk plant his feet firmly on the stage. His name was Hyemun, I think. If he learned anything from me, that was the right thing to do.
‘Shaolin’s characteristic sturdiness is still there.’
Hyemun's entire body became enveloped in a golden radiance. It was the divine art of the Shaolin Temple, the Supreme Great Power. A martial art that overwhelms the opponent with immense spiritual power. It could be used not only for fist and palm techniques but for kicking arts as well.
The moment Hyemun put his palms together, his figure vanished and then suddenly reappeared before my eyes. The Shaolin Diamond Immovable Body Technique. Surprisingly, his achievement in movement arts was higher than in his fist arts.
Hyemun drew back his waist, and a massive fist flew straight toward my abdomen. It was a fist art that all Shaolin monks learned, called the Arhat Fist. A straightforward punch with no mystical variations or special tricks.
Its power depended entirely on how much one had trained.
I blocked his fist with a reverse grip on my wooden sword. Still, was he truly a prodigy of the thousand-year-old Shaolin? The wooden sword was pushed back half a chi, and my body was sent flying, hovering in the air for a moment.
The force of Hyemun's punch made even my wrist throb. This is why I want to learn the Muscle-Tendon Change Classic. I'll have to modify it to suit my body, but a sturdier frame would enhance my sword energy and make it much easier to defend against an opponent's attacks.
‘Though learning spiritual power is also a reason.’
That was just a bonus.
Did Hyemun think he could beat me? He didn't charge at me as I was pushed back but calmly held his ground. I had been preparing a counterattack, so his stillness was almost a waste of my effort.
Shaolin is often compared to a great, ancient tree. A mindset of movement in stillness, quietly holding its ground like a deep-rooted tree, only occasionally moving its branches.
For the first time in a long while, I bared my teeth in a grin. It had been decades for me, too, since I'd had a one-on-one duel in the Orthodox Faction style. I immediately readjusted my grip on the sword and thought.
My Sun and Moon Heavenly Art is thick with killing intent. That's because it's a sword art honed on the battlefield. Could these Shaolin fledglings properly receive my sword?
With that thought, I took a step forward. The rustling of fallen leaves tickled my ears, and the Sta Moon Sword Energy flared to life from my extended blade.
The aftereffect of the Ten Thousand Chasing Wind Steps belatedly surged up as a gust of wind. Footwork, movement arts, and lightness skills were collectively called the Body Preservation Realm, and the Beggars' Sect was the most famous under heaven for it.
Hyemun was startled by my unexpected speed. But he instinctively swung his thick hand upward, and my wooden sword shot up with his movement. Unfazed, I grinned and immediately brought the sword down on his shoulder.
Even though it was a wooden sword, I had drawn out my sword energy, so the blade embedded itself in him. A spray of blood, *pwahak*, obscured my vision. I must look quite hideous. With that idle thought, I kicked Hyemun's sturdy shoulder to pull out the sword and create distance.
The outcome was already clear. The difference in skill was obvious even to the eyes of the common folk. I turned my gaze from Hyemun, who was about to charge again, and looked at the referee. This was, after all, more of a friendly match. There was no reason to continue now that blood has been drawn.
The referee met my gaze and nodded. He understood my look.
“I declare that Drunken Sword Wangcho of the Beggars' Sect is the victor of this match!”
At the same time, the referee spoke to Hyemun, his voice low enough for only him to hear.
“It was a fight you couldn't win from the start. Hyemun, did you really think you could face a Heavenly Martial Body? There are things that are possible in this world and things that are not. The duty of us monks is to sever the worldly afflictions of the people, not to get into brawls with martial artists.”
Of course, with my sharpened hearing, I heard every word. Is he subtly dissing me by calling me a 'martial artist'? You can forget about ever becoming the sect leader. I'm going to snitch on you to Beomcheon.
The dejected Hyemun seemed to pull himself together at that paltry consolation, puffing out his chest before descending the stage. I watched him for a moment, then.
“You beggar bastard! We were counting on you!”
“Is a beggar even allowed to be this strong?!”
I gave a light wave to the gamblers cheering for me and went back up to the platform to sit. Even if a beggar's martial arts were strong, he was still just a beggar bastard. What a goddamn world.
The next match was Hwapyeong's, so I couldn't very well sleep. His opponent was a second-generation disciple of Shaolin. He wasn't one of the guys I'd taught, and his energy seemed the weakest, so it looked like Hwapyeong might just be able to win if he played his cards right.
Before I knew it, the con-artist gambler and the Shaolin monk were on the stage. The referee was the first to announce the start of the match.
Hwapyeong, who was distracting the Shaolin monk with his fussy footwork, immediately thrust his sword, but his opponent easily dodged and landed a light punch to his solar plexus.
Kooong!
That was when the con-artist gambler's back bent like a scythe. It was, likewise, a complete defeat with no room for argument. I couldn't help but sigh at the futile and miserable sight.
“That idiot.”
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