I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 249: The Appearance of the Divine Dragon (5)

Qing was from the Divine Maiden Sect, a sword sect. She was a swordswoman.

Yet, this swordswoman had cast aside her sword, fought with bare fists and grappling arts, and broken through the sacred techniques of Shaolin. She had overpowered and humiliated the disciple of the strongest man in Murim using her hands.

Yes, the ending had been a bit awkward. But to the eyes of the common folk, it had looked like Qing was dazzlingly graceful—effortlessly dodging, striking in clean, elegant lines, utterly dominating the fight.

Even the martial experts in the crowd saw it the same way. Aside from Wolbong himself, no one questioned the outcome.

As Qing disappeared into the tunnel beneath the dueling platform, the cheers and excitement still hadn't died down.

She wasn’t expecting much applause, but—well—this wasn’t such a bad feeling after all.

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“You’ve always been excellent, but today you outdid yourself. Are you injured anywhere?”

“Of course not! You know how tough your disciple is, right?”

Qing tried to insist she was fine, but her answer ended in a sharp wince.

Because Surin Ximen had jabbed a finger into her chest.

“If you’re in pain, say so. Foolish child. You always say you’re fine, even when you’re clearly not.”

“Hehe... I mean, I’m not great with cuts or stabs, but when it comes to blunt force, I’m kind of built for it, you know? My body acts like a shield—it distributes the impact and—”

Thunk.

Surin gave her a light flick to the forehead.

“It actually puts me at ease to see you so nonchalant. In a duel, anything can happen. Getting struck in the chest or face is nothing unusual. I was only going to tell you not to hold a grudge.”

Surprisingly, Surin didn’t seem to resent Wolbong for his attacks.

In fact, she’d found it far more irritating when, in the early stages of the duel, he had deliberately avoided striking any vital areas—as if she were some fragile maiden.

Surin had always found that kind of behavior insulting.

Back in her youth, when a man tried to treat her “like a woman,” she’d simply drive her foot up between his legs. The stories about her viciousness were not exaggerations.

So when Wolbong finally started fighting seriously, Surin had actually felt relieved. She thought: Ah, finally—someone with the right mindset. He sees my disciple as a fellow warrior.

Of course, it turned out he only fought seriously because he thought Qing was ugly behind the veil—which made him incredibly, incredibly detestable.

“Hmm. Now then, time to fix your face. Let’s get you cleaned up before the introductions. Honestly, what’s the rush? Tch tch. Typical of the Murim Alliance. All men—no sense of delicacy.”

Surin clucked her tongue in disapproval.

After the semifinals, the next scheduled event was the formal introduction of the finalists to the public.

The Dormant Dragon Martial Tournament had kept names and backgrounds hidden until now, so that participants would be judged by skill alone.

But now, before the finals, they would stand proudly before the world and announce who they were.

“Wait, do I really have to wear makeup? I mean, I’m appearing as a martial artist. Shouldn’t I look the part?”

“As your master has told you many times—true masters must be graceful and beautiful. Even that little monk said so, didn’t he?”

Surin began dabbing makeup onto Qing’s face with brisk, practiced hands.

There are no men or women among martial artists.

But there is beauty—and there is ugliness.

No matter how powerful you were, if you looked and acted like a troll, the world would never respect you. This was true for men and women alike.

Ugly? Then you better be damn good at martial arts.

Otherwise, all you’d earn was ridicule—pitied as someone so grotesque and alone they had no choice but to bury themselves in training, unfit even for romance.

They said martial arts didn’t discriminate between genders. But if we’re being honest, female warriors still got the shorter end of the stick.

An ugly man, once he became a master, could marry a beauty, gain fame, and live a life of wealth and prestige.

An ugly woman who became a master? She’d live out her days alone. Better that than marrying a man who’d beat her—and she sure as hell wasn’t going to become someone’s punching bag. So, yes, that’s just how the world was.

As Surin applied makeup, she spoke again:

“Come now. You have to show the world. Let them see that the next strongest under heaven... is this beautiful woman.”

****

Wolbong couldn’t lift his head.

Qing’s beauty had left him shaken, and the shame of his rising yang energy only made things worse. His mind was fogged with embarrassment and guilt.

“I’m sorry, Master. I have brought disgrace to our temple and to you.”

Master Muak let out a hearty laugh.

“What nonsense is that, boy? You disgraced your name and your face. Leave Shaolin and me out of it. Keh keh keh! I knew this would happen, you fool.”

“Master...?”

“So what if you lost the duel and made a fool of yourself? Does that mean Shaolin is no longer the greatest sect? Does that make the Divine Maiden Sect the best in the world? Because you lost, does my cultivation fall? Am I no longer the strongest? No, you idiot. I remain the greatest—unshaken. It’s you who’s been humbled, not Shaolin, not your master.”

And it was true.

The one who got humiliated was Wolbong—not Muak, and certainly not Shaolin. Their reputation was not so fragile.

Just like Mount Tai, they stood firm no matter how fierce the winds blew.

“You were always arrogant, and I knew one day you’d be thoroughly humbled. Do you know why they call us ignorant mortals, boy? Because we’re actually ignorant. You can’t teach fools with words alone—they have to suffer. So? How does it feel?”

“I... It’s shameful and mortifying...”

“Good. Everyone has a memory or two they wish they could erase. Now go, straighten your robes, and prepare to present yourself to the people. Tch. That palm print on your head... Looks like your disciple inherited my temper.”

And indeed, the mark from Qing’s slap had seared itself into Wolbong’s forehead and skull, practically a brand.

“Master, how can I face the crowd after making such a fool of myself? I’m afraid. I’m terrified they’ll laugh and mock me.”

“Pah. You’ve still got what, fifty years left to live? You think this is going to stain your entire life? With time, it’ll become a funny memory. You’ll look back and laugh—and remember your own foolishness.”

“But still...”

“Come on. That girl was astonishingly beautiful. Kehh! Hahahaha!! You called her Mara! Truly a masterpiece! Mara Papiyas! What are you, the Buddha himself? As if the Sixth Heaven Demon King would descend from the heavens just to tempt a lowly monk like you! Hahaha!”

If Mara were to tempt anyone, it would have to be someone like the Buddha—not some greenhorn monk from Shaolin.

Muak burst into laughter.

And the other Shaolin elders either chuckled or smiled, clearly mocking him. Wolbong stood there, red-faced and lost.

“See? That’s what I mean when I say you’re arrogant. And when a man screws up, he should be embarrassed. So go—go and be properly humiliated. A man can make a dumb comment or two. And hey, maybe, maybe the people will understand you. After all... that girl’s beauty really was something.”

That last line, laced with stacked possibilities and hypothetical maybes, was classic Muak.

His master’s attitude deflated Wolbong’s shame like a popped balloon.

“Now go get changed. And don’t go hiding your face under a hat, either. If you do, the people up front will just gossip even more. Better to just show it.”

So Wolbong slumped his shoulders and went to fix his clothes.

Only then did Master Muak’s smile fade, his voice dropping low and serious.

“Hmm... The Tathagata’s Palm, huh. What... could possibly be worthy enough to match the value of a divine technique like that? One must take care not to cheapen a priceless treasure with mere price tags...”

****

As soon as the duel between Qing and Wolbong ended, people shot to their feet.

Up next was the formal introduction of the Dormant Dragon Martial Tournament’s remaining heroes—a showcase before the finals. The ones rising now were those who had paid a fortune for prime standing-room spots nearest the elevated platform.

The Murim Alliance, of course, was not above milking money wherever it could. And it was doing so with admirable efficiency.

Alliance staff barked orders: “Gap-seat, Eul-seat, over here!” People shuffled into place on the tiered platform without commotion, even amid the chaos of a major event.

But this wasn’t because people in Zhongyuan had an unusually refined sense of order.

No, it was because all the Alliance staff wore swords.

And in this uncivilized age, listening to the guy with the sword was considered good manners.

Thus, the seats nearest the stage—the ultra-expensive Gap seats (which, mind you, were standing room only)—were quickly filled.

Those without money or who didn’t feel the need to get closer remained in the spectator stands.

Still, many of them couldn’t help but think: If I’d known it would come to this, I should’ve just spent a few more coins and moved closer.

They were all dying of curiosity.

The beauty of the Divine Maiden Sect disciple who had managed to charm even a Shaolin monk? That was something they had to see for themselves.

And so the introductions began—starting from the early-round eliminations, moving forward one by one to formally present the tournament’s rising dragons to the world.

Not just their name and origin—no, the announcers gave full profiles. Age, region of activity, martial nickname if they had one, sect background if applicable, and the name of their master if they had one.

Naturally, the ronin had the sparsest introductions.

But that was to be expected. Most ronin didn’t have much to boast about in the first place.

Wang Nopil and Ma Yeongjeon, having made it to the quarterfinals, were introduced much later.

As the four quarterfinal losers stood side by side, Wang Nopil and Ma Yeongjeon exchanged glances—and both subtly shook their heads.

They had originally planned to reveal a slightly sanitized version of their encounter with the Blood Sect here. Maybe spin it so that Qing had been taken as a hostage, and that they had bravely rescued her. Just a one-night tale—enough to earn them honor and prestige, to elevate themselves while also portraying the Blood Sect as evil incarnate.

They’d even practiced the story together.

And afterward, they had gone to Surin Ximen to ask her permission, assuring her that it wouldn’t harm Qing’s reputation in any way.

They were each rewarded with a hard flick to the head and a flat refusal.

So... that plan had died right there.

And then, came the semifinals' losers—Wolbong and, of all people, Ok Girin, the most handsome man in the world.

Screeeeeeeeech!!!

Shrill, high-pitched screams split the air. The ground quaked. People grimaced, covering their ears. Several women outright fainted.

“Ok Girin! I love you!!”

“You’re so handsome, Ok Girin!”

“Take my body! Take my heart! Take all of me!!”

Despite the romantic words, the volume and pitch made it sound like a banshee’s wail. Even Wolbong, standing next to him, was visibly unnerved.

There was something about those voices—something beyond infatuation. An obsessive, almost ghostly madness. Wolbong found himself glancing sideways at his fellow semifinalist, Paeng Daesan, wondering, Is he okay?

He wasn’t.

Paeng was grinding his teeth, his brow twisted into a thunderous frown.

Once Paeng Daesan’s introduction was over, it was finally Wolbong’s turn.

“This year, he turns twenty-seven! The youngest Arhat Monk in the history of Shaolin! A rising master, disciple of the greatest man in the world—Master Muak of Shaolin!”

“Waaaaaaah!!”

The cheers that erupted at the announcer’s words wrapped around the arena like a tidal wave.

Wolbong, who had been stiff and tense, found his shoulders relaxing just a little.

“Hah! That’s not a brand on his head—it’s a spiritual seal!”

“I forfeit! I’m forfeiting too if I run out of qi!”

“Haha! I’ll now fight # Nоvеlight # with everything I’ve got!”

Of course, there were jeers mixed in with the cheers.

But Wolbong had been terrified that he’d be drowned in mockery, left standing alone in disgrace. Compared to that, this was manageable. He could take it.

And now...

It was time for the grand reveal: the finalists of the Dormant Dragon Martial Tournament.