I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 247: The Appearance of the Divine Dragon (3)

In fact, a greatsword is more powerful than a longsword, and a glaive more devastating than a greatsword. The longer the weapon, the easier it is to beat down an opponent from a distance where they can’t reach you.

Of course, because longer weapons require bigger movements, if you close the distance completely, they become useless.

But assuming identical skills and conditions, you’d be mortally wounded by a long-weapon user before you could even close in. That’s the destructive power of long arms.

However, in the era when the government exercised absolute control, it was illegal for individuals to carry such "deadly weapons," so swords naturally became the weapon of choice for martial artists.

The sword, being just the right length and weight, perfectly balanced the ability to fight at both close and moderate ranges, which made it the "king of all weapons" and the most preferred weapon among martial artists.

Other options included things similar to swords but with only one edge, like sabers, or short spears that could combine into a long spear or even a glaive.

Or staves and rods, praised for their innovative multifunctionality—both weapon and tool.

Speaking of multifunctionality, you couldn’t leave out axes, which doubled as tools for chopping firewood on the spot.

However, those who were too poor to afford weapons—or simply a little less intelligent—chose not to use weapons at all.

These were the so-called “martial idiots” (무도가).

Even back in Qing’s homeland, the famed fighters would always say: If you see someone with a weapon, don't fight them—run.

For these "martial idiots," distance didn’t exist beyond point-blank range, where you’re so close you’re practically breathing into each other’s faces.

And then they’d spout nonsense, claiming that at close range, no weapon could match a martial artist's fists.

Which was absurd from the start, because if you couldn’t even get past the opponent’s weapon to begin with, what good was your close-quarters skill?

However, Shaolin had splendidly overcome this obstacle.

Even if it wasn’t all the way to the Diamond Invincible Body Art, they trained resistance to weapons with countless external techniques like Iron Armor Three Layers, Shell-Breaking Force, Bamboo Leaf Hand, Golden Bell Shield, Meteor Palm, Iron Thread Skill, Friction Technique, and even names Qing found suspect like Nail-Pulling Art and Cactus Skin.

Since they drilled these methods from childhood, it was only natural that Shaolin monks aged quickly on the outside.

Then suddenly, Qing had a huge realization.

Ah. That’s it.

It wasn’t a matter of cleverness versus force.

The problem was that she’d been trying to engage these dimwit martial artists seriously through martial conversation.

What even is that supposed to be? Martial arts, my ass.

Qing smoothly sheathed her sword.

At that, Wolbong asked in confusion.

“Shiju? Are you intending to forfeit?”

“No. Now I’m really going to do it properly.”

At the same time, Qing took a stance.

One fist lightly curled in front, the other positioned in front of her solar plexus, her body slanted toward the opponent—a peculiar posture.

Yeah. When it comes to Koreans, it’s gotta be Taekwondo.

If they’re going to play games in a sacred duel ground, do I really need to take them seriously?

“Then—I’m coming.”

With that, Qing shot forward.

In just three steps from close range—tap, tap, tap—she stomped the ground and thrust her fist powerfully forward.

Without any tricks, a straightforward straight punch, and Wolbong met it with his own straight punch.

Boom! A thunderous crash—unbelievable for a simple collision of fists.

Fist Qi wasn’t about sharp killing intent, but the destructive force like being clad in steel.

And Qing’s forearms, partially hardened through her inferior version of the Diamond Invincible Body Art, could handle fist qi—even if they couldn't handle full sword qi.

Goddamn, it hurts like hell.

Still, pain was unavoidable.

But seeing Wolbong’s face turn serious was satisfying—he clearly hadn’t expected this overwhelming force.

Qing threw her aching fist out once more.

Wolbong’s forearm blocked Qing’s fist outward while his opposite fist shot across from afar, aiming for her flank.

Qing opened her palm to catch Wolbong’s punch.

And so, the slugfest began.

They deflected each other’s punches, collided fists, sometimes exchanged knife-hands and wrist strikes, their elbows slashing through the air and knees clashing midair.

Aside from the Seventy-Two Supreme Arts, Wolbong was a master who had thoroughly trained in supreme martial techniques like Arhat Fist and White Lotus Divine Fist.

Qing’s clumsy imitation of basic fist techniques she had learned from cheap manuals couldn’t compare.

And yet, surprisingly, their fight remained evenly matched—two tigers clashing, a fight between equals.

Because Qing was a woman.

In fact, Wolbong was quietly dissatisfied with the duel from the start.

After all, there were restrictions when fighting a female martial artist.

He could only strike the arms, legs, and shoulders—non-lethal, tough areas—and even when targeting the abdomen, he had to aim above the navel.

Meanwhile, Qing, with her near-invulnerable defense over her solar plexus, could go all out.

By contrast, Qing had no such restrictions, freely targeting Wolbong’s jaw, eyes, even his head.

Wolbong’s dissatisfaction was steadily growing.

As Qing’s fists, which had been delivering sharp, linear strikes, suddenly shifted into smooth and strange curves, they wrapped around Wolbong’s forearms.

Qing could lift two hundred catties with one arm. Pure arm strength without recoil.

With both arms, four hundred catties.

And if she engaged her entire body, she could unleash strength matching legendary figures who could uproot mountains.

Wolbong’s body was lifted into the air. BOOM!! With an explosive crash, he slammed into the duel stage floor, carving a massive arc.

Even amid that, he executed a fall technique to lessen the impact, a habit ingrained from Shaolin’s brutal training.

But Qing’s grip on Wolbong’s wrist remained unbroken.

Wolbong soared again—a brief flight, tracing a half-circle before crashing—but it was enough to make the entire audience gape in shock.

Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! His heavy body slammed into the stage again and again, shaking it like it would collapse, causing the crowd to gasp and scream yet unable to look away.

Qing had clearly made up her mind—she spun Wolbong and slammed him viciously.

Suddenly, golden qi surged from Wolbong’s fist and he smashed it into his own wrist like a hammer.

“Ack!”

Struck by Fist Qi, Qing screamed.

You'd understand after getting hit once—take a few more of those and your bones wouldn't just break, they’d shatter.

Read 𝓁atest chapters at fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm Only.

Wolbong’s fist gathered strength again. Only at the very last moment, right before the trajectory of the Fist Qi reached her, did Qing release his arm.

“Huff.”

Wolbong, who had struck his own wrist with his Fist Qi, let out a short groan and was rapidly blown back.

But only for a moment—he regained balance using the technique of the Thousand-Catty Hammer and landed while bringing his palms together.

“Huuh... huuh...”

Qing caught her breath.

Swinging around someone who was actively resisting, rather than a simple iron ball of the same weight, required an entirely different level of strength.

It was at that moment that Wolbong’s fist shot out in a sudden sneak attack, and Qing, startled, tried to stomp the ground—

But she was sent flying through the air with a smack and tumbled across the ground. Ow! Why—why is it the chest again! This bastard! Now he’s not even pretending—he’s going straight for my chest in a friendly duel!

And then, suddenly, a shadow fell over her.

At the rare sight of a gleaming bald head blocking out the sun, Qing urgently rolled away.

Using a movement technique known as Descending Cloud, Qing, who had reached master-level proficiency from countless drills on her sickbed, twisted away expertly.

A vicious fist, like a hawk snatching prey, smashed into the ground where she had just been, cracking it open.

Even amidst the spinning chaos of the world, the chill that ran down Qing’s spine told her: This isn’t a friendly duel—this is an assassination.

As she rolled up from the momentum, Qing caught a glimpse of Wolbong’s bloodshot eyes.

It was the gaze of someone truly, properly enraged.

“Huuh... Shiju... it seems this humble monk had greatly underestimated you. From now on, I shall not hold back.”

“Hah.”

Qing let out a scoffing laugh, incredulous.

What the hell? Why is he angry?

The one who had been toyed with in this supposedly sacred friendly duel wasn't Wolbong—it was Qing.

Up until now, the only real Shaolin martial art he'd shown was that one Hundred-Step Divine Fist warning shot—he hadn’t revealed a single true technique, hiding even his Fist Qi.

There were limits to looking down on someone, and it was precisely why Qing, enraged, had thrown away refined techniques and simply tried to crush him with brute force.

As if to prove his words, Wolbong now charged in first, stepping hard in a sudden acceleration.

In an instant, his figure multiplied and rushed forward like a swarm.

Qing, raising her inner strength to snatch the incoming attacks and throw him again, watched closely—

Suddenly, five steps away, Wolbong thrust out his palm, and an immense wall of Fist Qi blasted toward her.

It was the Diamond Palm from the Great Force Diamond Palm technique.

Qing urgently stepped into footwork, and in that instant, her figure split into eight forms—

She flew up like a crane lifting its wings,

She spun elegantly while leaping backward,

She dashed low, skimming just above the floor,

She bounced far away using the spring of her legs,

She darted forward nimbly on all fours like a beast,

She whirled like a swallow using the elasticity of Iron Plate Bridge,

She strolled forward slowly in the same spot,

She shot forward in a straight line like a cannonball—

Each illusion scattering in all directions before Qing suddenly vanished four steps away.

Qing spun her body sharply as part of the seamless emergency evasion following Nimble Wave Step.

And immediately, she was greeted again by the dazzling bald heads of the rapidly approaching Wolbongs.

From Wolbong’s hands poured out a storm of Shaolin techniques.

There was Arhat Divine Fist, leaving the illusion of six arms.

There was White Lotus Divine Fist, boasting destructive force enough to shatter cliffs.

There was Great Golden Dragon Mountain Hand, a swirling storm of qi blasting from the edge of his hands.

There were even four arcs of Fist Qi flying at her in curves, which was the technique known as Flicking Fingers Divine Skill.

Qing desperately swung her arms to parry, deflect, and block, rolling, crawling, running, and leaping to dodge the attacks.

What... what the hell is this?!

Only now did Qing realize, down to her very bones, why they said, "All the world's martial arts come from Shaolin."

But Qing’s gaze was as sharp as ever.

Even if he’s "transcendent," how deep could that realm really be?

Qing was the one who could continuously pump out infinite internal energy without fatigue.

No matter how much Fist Qi he poured out, even if he had eaten Shaolin's sacred elixirs, popping Great Rejuvenation Pills like rice, could he really endure endlessly?

And then—whack!

A clean hit to the outside of her knee caused Qing’s body to stagger violently. That bastard! A cheap kick!

Of course, the kick he used was Peerless Angle, the highest-grade kicking technique.

Through her tilted vision, Qing caught sight of a fist positioned alongside that gleaming bald head.

The moment she urgently raised her forearm to block—bam!!

Qing’s figure was split apart again.

Reappearing after her spin, Qing quickly stepped hard, distancing herself in a flash, and landed in a crouch while spitting out the blood pooling in her mouth.

Though she had blocked the punch aimed at her cheek, she had ended up punching herself in the face with her own palm, splitting the inside of her cheek and filling her mouth with the bloody taste of iron.

“So you hit me, huh...!”

Eyes gleaming wildly, Qing charged forward with all her strength.

By the time the audience blinked once, she had already closed the distance by four zhang, shocking them into widening their eyes.

Wolbong calmly drew back his fist.

It was the preparatory movement for Hundred-Step Divine Fist.

And finally, like a towering mountain, he took a giant step forward and extended his fist—

At the same moment, Qing, now right in front of him, thrust her palm forward to meet him head-on.

The moment the fist and palm collided—

DONG—!!!

With the resonant boom of a temple bell shaking the heavens and the earth, a violent explosion of energy tore through the «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» arena, sending a wild gale roaring into the stands.

And amid that fierce wind—

One piece of Qing’s face veil fluttered up and flew into the sky.