I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 248: The Appearance of the Divine Dragon (4)

Even if none of the hits were fatal, one good strike could leave someone bedridden for months. And now that his disciple had started aiming for her face without hesitation, if he broke her nose or cracked her jaw, she’d hold a grudge for life.

Even so, Master Muak endured it.

He figured it was just because the boy had always trained in the mountains, with no one his own level to challenge him—he’d never known real frustration.

But this time, he couldn’t take it.

With a sudden glare, Master Muak shot to his feet, strode to the railing, leaned his body over, and craned his neck out.

On either side of him, Shaolin monks in golden robes moved into line, mimicking his posture like a ripple through the ranks.

Then Master Muak murmured, almost entranced:

“The grand voice of heaven spreading across the cosmos. No matter how massive the titan beneath Brahma, it still lies in the palm of the Buddha’s hand...”

It was a lost record—one that described Shaolin’s highest technique.

When he first read it, Muak had scoffed, thinking it nothing more than poetic nonsense. Why not describe the technique's characteristics directly? All it offered was some vague riddle. But now, confronted with it in reality, he realized it was absolutely precise—there couldn’t have been a more accurate description.

In Buddhist cosmology, “Brahma” refers to all the heavens and realms of the Three Thousand Great Worlds. The toll of the Brahma Bell, then, is a Dharma that spreads enlightenment throughout all existence.

No matter how great a person may seem, in the grand scheme of endless reincarnations, they’re just another grain of dust. Compared to the vastness of the Buddha, they are nothing. That divine palm—the Buddha's hand—embodies the will of the heavens. And when the heavens speak, they ring out with the sound of the Brahma Bell. It is only right.

“Isn’t that...! The Tathagata’s Palm?!”

The monks in the front row broke into murmurs, a ripple of stunned whispers.

“The Brahma-Tathagata Demon-Vanquishing Palm! That’s... that’s it exactly...!”

“But how could Shaolin’s ultimate technique be used by that girl...?”

Yet, flustered as everyone was, the ones most dumbstruck were the monks of Shaolin themselves.

It was as if the long-lost family register—burned to ash generations ago through their ancestors’ negligence—had resurfaced in someone else’s hands, polished and gleaming. The absurdity of it left them speechless.

****

Wolbong took a step back. Then another. Three... four... five steps—only then was he able to dispel the internal shock to his meridians, caused by Qing’s strike.

By contrast, Qing stood perfectly still with her palm extended.

The discrepancy in their reactions made it clear to all who watched who had come out on top.

Wolbong had learned all of Shaolin’s Seventy-Two Supreme Arts and inherited a vast library of secret techniques. By variety alone, he was practically a walking scripture hall.

But breadth does not equal depth. Having trained broadly but not deeply, his achievements in each art were limited. Even the peerless “Hundred-Step Divine Fist” remained unpolished in his hands.

Qing, on the other hand, had absorbed her knowledge through some shady shortcut—but had nevertheless mastered every technique of the Twelve Great Sects in perfect form. The result was now before them.

Wolbong closed his eyes and took a slow, endless inhale—fwoooooo...

Qing watched him calmly.

If this had been a bursting-type attack, I would’ve blown him up right then. But since it’s a blunt-impact technique, he’s hanging in there.

Still, the blow had clearly landed hard. She decided to wait, letting him gather himself.

This wasn’t a duel to the death, after all.

Finally, Wolbong exhaled just as long and deep as he had inhaled—huuuuuuuuhhh...

His body trembled from the lingering force of the Buddhist technique. His internal organs ached. Every joint screamed in pain. But his mind, at least, was clear. As if something had been washed away.

“Amitabha... I’ve brought shame upon myself. I, this humble monk...”

He trailed off.

Because now, Wolbong was staring directly at Qing’s unveiled face.

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It was the sad fate of a man to be blindsided like this.

What... was this the temptation of Mara?!

Wolbong had entered Shaolin at the age of five. For the past twenty-two years, he had never once set foot outside the temple. He hadn’t even seen a woman in all that time, let alone touched one.

And even before the finals, his master had forbidden him from leaving the monastery.

Sure, he’d realized Qing was a woman—but with her face covered, he hadn’t paid her any mind. He simply regarded her as a martial artist with a different body shape.

But now?

A stunning, peerless beauty had suddenly appeared before him. For a man with zero immunity to women, his heart raced, his focus shattered, and his body boiled with awkward, shameful energy. He could barely stand.

Qing hesitated. What the hell? Is he trying to piss me off?

There were many ways to infuriate a person.

But the match wasn’t over yet. She stomped forward across the arena floor.

Her fist shot out—smack!—landing on Wolbong’s ribs. He staggered backward. Another punch—wham! smack! thud! crack!

Gone was the unstoppable juggernaut from before. Wolbong was reeling, barely blocking, constantly retreating.

He couldn’t even hold his stance. His posture wobbled, uncertain. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He kept glancing up, or down, anywhere but at her. And even when he tried to focus, his gaze landed on her brow or her nose—never her eyes.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

This bastard... still screwing around?

Her hand rose high into the air.

SLAP!!!

The sound rang out loud and sharp.

Her open palm smacked right onto Wolbong’s shiny bald head. The echo was divine.

Soon enough, instead of the Buddha’s hand, his scalp would be branded with a crimson print—Qing’s hand, in full.

Wolbong staggered back, clutching his forehead—or was it his scalp? There was no telling where one ended and the other began.

Qing raised her voice.

“Monk. What do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you fighting me properly?”

“Th-that is... ahem. I, this humble monk... I forfeit.”

The arena, which had been buzzing with noise, fell silent.

“Ahem. Due to the opponent’s forfeit, the victor is—”

“Hold it.”

Qing interrupted the referee.

“Monk Wolbong. Could you be a little more specific? You're not surrendering. You're not admitting defeat. Did you just say... ‘forfeit’?”

“But, benefactor... isn’t this an unwinnable situation? Surely the match cannot continue under such conditions?”

“An unwinnable situation? Why’s that? Did you run out of internal energy? If that’s the case, isn’t that a defeat, not a forfeit?”

“That’s not it! It’s just that... how could you, benefactor—!”

“How could I what, exactly?”

Qing’s voice turned razor sharp.

And then Wolbong, voice thick with indignation, cried out:

“Sorcery! It’s sorcery, I tell you! A demon incarnate—no, the very Mara himself! Amitabha, Amitabha...”

“...?”

A deep furrow formed between Qing’s brows.

“Sorcery, you say? And what, exactly, have I done to warrant such a disgraceful accusation?”

“How can this possibly be a fair duel? You’re clouding my judgment with your beauty! Your stunning appearance alone is enough to bewitch a man—it is sorcery! And how... how could I possibly raise my hand against such a delicate woman?!”

The audience collectively lost the ability to speak.

Coming from the same Shaolin monk who had just moments ago been pounding the dueling stage like he meant to demolish it, launching savage strikes with full killing intent, the words sounded nothing short of bizarre.

“That's a strange thing to say. When this girl was covering her face just to stay focused on the duel, you attacked her like you were trying to kill her. Now suddenly you say you can’t hit me?”

“It’s different now! Who among men could bring themselves to strike a woman of your unmatched beauty? An ordinary man wouldn’t even be able to meet your gaze. How could this possibly be called a fair match?”

The dueling platform was enormous. Even with Qing’s face now exposed, the average bystander still couldn’t make out her features clearly from afar.

Most had assumed she was hiding some deformity or scars. But even from a distance, her porcelain skin, small face, and sharply defined features were visible.

They hadn’t seen her up close, but now they were starting to think—maybe she was a beauty.

And when Wolbong declared her to be a peerless, otherworldly beauty... curiosity exploded.

If even a Shaolin monk—famous for treating women like stones—was backing out of a duel because he couldn’t bear to strike her, then how stunning must she really be?

“Your words are truly appalling, Master Monk. So what you’re saying is, it’s perfectly fine to pummel a woman with an ‘unattractive face’—to slam her chest, punch her in the face without hesitation—but the moment that ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) same woman happens to be beautiful, she suddenly becomes too delicate to lay a finger on?”

“Th-That’s not what I meant...”

Master Muak could no longer bear to watch. He covered his face with both hands.

Because of Qing’s question, Wolbong had effectively said it: ugly women can be beaten, but beauties must not be touched.

That was the kind of thing even a worldly man ought to be ashamed to admit—let alone a disciple of the Buddha. Even physical appearance, after all, was just another illusion bound to the Saha World, tied to a transient, mortal body.

From across the arena, Surin Ximen was inwardly beaming with pride.

Well said, my disciple. A clean, righteous blow!

She didn’t voice it, but she silently applauded Qing’s response. That was how the world worked, wasn’t it? A woman deemed ugly or heavyset would be shoved, struck, insulted without hesitation. But a beautiful woman? People would fawn over her like she’d grown an extra liver and gallbladder to give them.

The spectators, too, couldn’t help but agree—deep down, they sympathized with Wolbong.

Because yeah, if a woman was ugly, wasn’t it okay to beat her up?

Still... that wasn’t the point.

After all the beatings he’d handed out up until now, for him to start whining about “sorcery” at this stage—let’s be honest—it was pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

Meanwhile, in one corner of the dueling platform, where most of the crowd had been shouting “Veil-Snatching Sword Maiden” for fun, one particular group had remained eerily silent.

Not because they were especially well-mannered or enlightened.

It was simply because the moment anyone even whispered the word veil, a thick killing intent would erupt from that group. Several of them had already started fondling their weapons.

The vibe was clear: Say it again. I dare you. I'll kill you.

The wandering swordsmen all nodded in approval.

With looks like Surin Ximen’s disciple, it was only natural even a Shaolin monk would lose his composure. No man could remain unmoved.

As the chaos on the elevated platform slowly died down, the referee—a martial artist—finally stepped forward.

“Sigh... Wolbong, how much internal energy do you have left in your dantian? You’ve used your Fist Qi pretty freely out there—surely you’ve burned through most of it. Do you even have enough to continue?”

“That... No. I do not.”

“What about you, Lady Ximen?”

“I haven’t even used half of mine yet.”

“You still have that much left in reserve?”

“Would you like to check my pulse yourself?”

Qing held out her wrist politely.

The referee shook his head. There was no clearer proof than a martial artist confidently offering their pulse for inspection.

“Judging from the state of energy consumption, even if this duel had continued without interruption, the outcome was already obvious. Therefore, I hereby declare the victor to be Ximen Qing, disciple of the Divine Maiden Sect!”