I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 245: The Appearance of the Divine Dragon (1)

We’re currently investigating whether the victims had engaged in any misconduct under the influence of Gu poison."

"Hm. Fine."

Jo Hyeonryang nodded.

If they were going to handle it themselves, he wondered why they even bothered reporting it.

But such was the fate of the Alliance Leader: even if others managed the operations, he had to know everything that happened within the Alliance.

"And here’s the result of the Great Assembly’s decision.

Please review and approve it after reading thoroughly.

And please don't just stamp it blindly like last time and then claim you never agreed to it."

At this point, why didn't she just become the Alliance Leader herself?

Jo Hyeonryang let out a huge sigh.

****

The fervor of the Grand Martial Tournament was reaching its final peak.

With most side events wrapping up, the results of the Great Assembly’s decisions were announced just before the semi-finals of the Dormant Dragon Martial Competition aboard the floating stage.

Even minor martial clans from the provinces had cast their votes — this was the collective will of orthodox Murim.

Dressed almost like an immortal, Jo Hyeonryang used his internal energy to project his booming voice across the arena, declaring the future official activities of the Murim Alliance.

First, there was news about supporting the orthodox martial clans in the southeast regions of Zhongyuan, specifically Yangzhou and Jiaozhou.

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Those regions had long suffered under the pressure of the Demonic Union, so the plan was to help them regain their strength.

The establishment of the Murim Alliance’s Honam Branch was also part of this plan, as it would serve as a strategic point to quickly reach both Yangzhou and Jiaozhou.

But the real news that set the crowd on fire was the revival of the Eui-Jeong Martial Academy.

In simple terms, the Eui-Jeong Martial Academy was the Murim Alliance’s non-permanent training institution.

Its purpose was to gather talented boys and girls and raise them into top-tier martial artists.

Whenever it opened, they spared no expense, offering secret techniques from minor branches of the Nine Great Sects, auxiliary arts from the Ten Great Families, and even rare elixirs — creating a surge of future martial masters every time.

Of course, for famous sects, it wasn’t particularly attractive.

If you already had your own system and sacred arts, why would you send your prodigies away to be trained by outsiders?

However, for young unknowns or martial artists from smaller clans who dreamed of joining the orthodox forces, it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance — a dragon rising from a muddy brook.

"Ooooh!! Waaah!!"

Even from the waiting room beyond the starting gate, Qing could hear the roar of the crowd loud and clear.

"What is it?

Did some famous restaurant start handing out unlimited food vouchers or something?"

"Seriously.

How does your mind always circle back to food?"

"I mean, what else could get people that excited?

Unless the Alliance Leader threw a party and shouted, 'Drinks are on me!'"

Waiting to compete, Paeng Daesan let out a small laugh.

The semi-final matchups were Gongsun Yoye vs. Paeng Daesan, and Wolbong vs. Ximen Qing.

In the end, it was the ones with the highest cultivation levels who remained.

"Hey, San.

What should we eat after the matches?

Since either you or Yoye is going to win today, I’ll treat — a celebratory drink for the winner and a consolation drink for the loser.

Maybe some Sahongchun wine?

I heard it’s pretty popular these days."

"You’re not even nervous?

Tsk.

If you lose, you’ll be the one drinking to drown your sorrows."

"No way.

The great Ximen Qing, who transcends the peak, isn't going to lose at a minor tournament like this."

Paeng Daesan smirked slightly and asked,

"Then, who are you rooting for?

Me or Gongsun Sojeo?"

"What’s with the childish question?

Are you seriously asking, ‘Do you like Mom or Dad better?’"

"You better not just say you like both to avoid picking.

So?

Who?"

"Hmm..."

Qing stroked her chin, pretending to ponder seriously, then gave a clear answer.

"I guess I’ll root for you, San.

We’ve known each other longer, after all."

"Are you sure?

If Gongsun Sojeo were standing here, I feel like you'd say something different."

"Nope.

Based on our previous sparring results, if you advance, you’ll definitely win the whole thing.

Yoye’s... well, she’s tricky.

Feels like she’s still hiding her real strength."

At that, Paeng Daesan’s eyebrow twitched.

Basically, Qing was saying he was easier to beat.

"You normally say that kind of thing to someone’s face?"

"Heh.

If you don’t like it, win and prove me wrong."

"Hah.

Just you wait.

If you underestimate Shaolin techniques, you’ll get your nose broken.

But don’t worry — even if you lose, I’ll drown you in booze until you forget everything."

"Hmm.

Not sure if that's a blessing or a curse."

While Qing tilted her head in amusement, it was finally Paeng Daesan’s turn.

He stood, heading out of the waiting room, but paused at the door and turned back.

"Make sure you win.

I want to face you properly in the finals."

And with ears turning slightly red, he strode out.

Qing immediately sensed the outcome.

Saying something like that before a match?

Yeah, he was definitely doomed.

And sure enough, as if by cosmic law, that’s exactly what happened.

Qing wasn’t surprised — she’d already expected it.

She simply lit up, delighted at the new ammunition she had to tease him with later.

And then, it was Qing’s turn.

She stepped into the familiar narrow corridor leading to the floating arena, her steps light.

As she prepared to leap onto the Biwu stage, a deafening roar shook the floor beneath her —

the thickly padded ceiling overhead trembling with the sound.

Shaolin’s status in the martial world could be summed up in a single word.

Overlord.

There was even a saying: "All martial arts originate from Shaolin."

Thanks to that, for commoners who didn’t know much about martial arts, Shaolin was practically synonymous with the martial world itself.

Moreover, the strongest martial artist in the world had come from Shaolin.

And now, a young disciple carrying on that legacy was charging forward through the Dormant Dragon Martial Competition with unstoppable victories, so the excitement was only natural.

The crowd was already abuzz, declaring that the next martial world's supreme master had appeared.

It was as if the winner of the tournament had already been decided.

Fueled by this fever pitch, when Wolbong the monk leapt onto the stage with a heavy thud that shook the ground, the roar from the crowd was deafening enough to shake the heavens.

When Wolbong performed Shaolin’s characteristic greeting toward the four directions, the cheers grew even louder.

It was called the "half-palm salute."

Long ago, a virtuous monk named Huike had cut off one of his arms as an offering when he sought to study under Bodhidharma, and the story said that Bodhidharma, impressed by his determination, accepted him as a disciple.

Normally, the greeting was done with palms pressed together, but Huike, having only one arm, used a half-palm, hence the "half-palm salute."

But the cheering dragged on unusually long.

The crowd, excited to witness the rise of the future supreme master, couldn’t contain themselves.

Wolbong raised his half-palm again to acknowledge the crowd.

The spectators, heedless of their own throats, screamed even louder.

At this sight, Ximen Surin scowled.

In official events, when someone received enthusiastic applause, it was customary courtesy ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) to wait until the cheering died down before introducing the next person.

And if the cheering dragged too long, it was the performer’s responsibility to signal for calm.

Thus, Ximen Surin clicked her tongue.

The bratty little monk sure was full of himself.

It wasn’t entirely surprising — he had probably spent his life training in some remote monastery without ever facing a crowd’s adoration.

Still, as a Shaolin monk, whose path emphasized unshakable calm, he clearly had a long way to go.

Ximen Surin didn’t bother hiding her displeasure as she glared toward the VIP seats.

Sure enough, even Muak Daesa — the so-called Divine Monk and current supreme martial artist — looked mortified, his thick eyebrows twitching in embarrassment.

Seeing that, Ximen Surin felt a little better.

Maybe he taught him martial arts well, but clearly hadn’t trained him properly in Buddhist studies.

Finally, the host had to wave both arms to plead for calm.

And only then did the next contestant — like a fairy descending from heaven — step onto the stage.

"Waaah, it’s the Lady of the Silent Sword!"

Ximen Surin clenched her fists tightly.

There were barely any cheers.

Compared to the thunderous roars just a moment ago, it was practically silence.

Even when the Gongsun family's girl had appeared earlier, the reception had been way better.

Granted, that girl was a quiet beauty, and her opponent had been Ok Kirin, which naturally drew more support.

But seeing her disciple ignored like this — no doubt because she wore a mask — made Ximen Surin’s heart ache.

She was used to how women were treated in the martial world, but she still worried that her disciple might be hurt before the fight even began.

Qing didn’t particularly care.

She simply thought, "Wow, Shaolin really is popular," and waited patiently.

Even Qing — who had once known nothing of the martial world — had known Shaolin as "the place where monks fought," so how could the people of Zhongyuan not know?

Though now that she thought about it, she had no idea where that universal knowledge even came from.

Oh well, not like pondering it would help.

"I’m Ximen Qing, of the Divine Maiden Sect."

"Amitabha. I am Wolbong of Shaolin."

Only then did Qing get a good look at Wolbong up close.

Outside of this tournament, he had never once shown himself in public, and Qing — who mostly hung out with her friends at Wucheon Pavilion — had only glimpsed him from afar in the stands.

And so, upon seeing Wolbong, Qing thought:

Huh.

He looks... kind of old.

Is he really a "Dormant Dragon"?

Well, probably.

At a glance, he looked like he was in his mid-thirties.

Which seemed a bit off for a late-bloomer competition.

But Qing wasn’t in a position to judge, either.

She herself had entered the tournament at twenty — she knew very well how easy it was to fudge your age a little.

If Wolbong had known what she was thinking, he would have wept with frustration.

He was, in fact, a bright, fresh-faced twenty-seven-year-old.

It was just that Shaolin disciples tended to look older, thanks to their brutal external energy training from a young age.

Wolbong was simply an extreme case.

Unaware of Qing’s rude thoughts, Wolbong once again raised his half-palm and spoke.

"I shall yield the first move to you, Benefactor."

"I won’t hold back. Here I come!"

With that, Qing charged forward with a burst of explosive footwork.