I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 250: The Appearance of the Divine Dragon (6)

She always kept her hair neat out of habit, though she rarely bothered with makeup.

In the Central Plains, there were as many makeup styles as there were robes.

Qing preferred a classic, traditional approach.

First, the brows: delicately thin, angled with a hint of sternness.

Then the eyes: she darkened the outer edges to make them seem larger, accentuating the outer corners with a style called Jejang—the soft flush under the lower lid mimicking someone who’d just finished crying.

The blush on her cheeks was kept faint and gentle.

For her lips, she avoided the crisp “cherry-shaped center” style. Instead, she blurred the color outward, fading softly toward the corners of her mouth for a more natural, graceful effect.

“Wow... you’re gorgeous. I think I might fall for you.”

“Lady Ximen, don’t say things like that...”

“Well, I’ve got the benefit of being from the Divine Maiden Sect. You don’t even practice our art and still look like this. Isn’t that a waste? With a face like yours, why not learn just one technique?”

“M-maybe later... someday...”

Even though the only areas she applied color to were her eyes, cheeks, and lips, Gongsun Yoye’s entire face had turned beet red. She bowed her head low, completely flustered.

Just then, one of the tournament staff from the Murim Alliance came to hurry them along.

“Are you not ready yet?”

“Ah! Yes, we’re ready now! Let’s go.”

“Y-yes! Right away!”

And off she went—stiff-legged, moving like her joints had rusted shut.

What is with her now?

Qing gently took Gongsun Yoye’s hand.

“What’s wrong? Are you nervous? You’re not even going out there to fight—why the nerves?”

“Aren’t you nervous, Lady Ximen? I mean, I’m... not exactly the kind of person people tend to like...”

“So what? I can’t stand most of the people out there either. But who cares?

They’re strangers now and they’ll be strangers forever. What does it matter if they like you or not?

As long as your friends like you, isn’t that enough?”

“R-right! Um, I... no, it’s nothing...”

Gongsun Yoye suddenly raised her voice, then quickly shrank it down to a barely audible whisper.

“What? Don’t stop mid-sentence like that. You know there are only two things that really piss people off? One of them is stopping right in the middle of what you’re saying.”

Gongsun Yoye waited for the rest, but Qing just kept grinning. Yoye tilted her head, puzzled.

“See? You stopped. That’s what I mean. Now, what were you going to say?

What secrets are you keeping from me, huh?”

“Um... it’s just that... Lady Ximen, you have so many friends, and I’m... not really special, am I? I figured you were just being nice to someone you kind of know...”

Her voice dropped lower and lower until it was nearly inaudible again.

“That’s ridiculous. We share a bed, don’t we? That makes us friends.

I’ve only got you and Arang.”

“Wait... then I’m only one-third—”

“Oh! I guess Jangmyeong and Yimae count too.”

Gongsun Yoye’s face dimmed.

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

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“It’s nothing. Just thinking... I guess I’m one-fourth. Or twenty percent.

No, no, wait—never mind. Lady Ximen, um, how many people have you—no! Never mind! We’re late! We should go, right? They’ve already been waiting!”

“Oh. Right.”

Her words might’ve been a mess, but at least she was moving normally again.

Qing tightened her grip on Yoye’s hand and led her up the stairs to the stage.

****

The crowd at the martial arena wasn’t so much waiting in anticipation...

as sharpening their knives.

How stunning could a girl be for a Shaolin monk to throw away his dignity over her?

Most assumed it was just a case of a young monk being overwhelmed by a pretty face. A classic virgin's weakness.

Rumors swirled. Supposedly she covered her face because her looks were “too distracting” for combat. (Qing had never said any such thing.)

The public scoffed. Oh sure. Must be such a dazzling face if you have to hide it.

People joked: Was she afraid enemies would drop their weapons in surrender the moment they laid eyes on her?

If she were truly that beautiful, would she really have to put up with being called “Scarface,” “Sword Hag,” or “Pockmarked Freak”?

Wouldn't she just shut everyone up by showing her face?

But when Qing finally stepped onto the stage, the entire audience... simply nodded.

Yeah. Even a wise old monk would've made a fool of himself.

Yeah. With a face like that, hiding it made sense.

Yeah. You don’t even think about laying a finger on a woman like that.

Go ahead and insult her looks now—she’d just ignore you with that serene, divine expression of hers.

They were all struck dumb, wide-eyed, jaws slack.

It was one of those moments that made you question how facial features—just a pair of eyes, one nose, one mouth—could come together to create something so unreasonably beautiful.

And just like that, the crowd was swept up in a silent frenzy.

Each person was mentally composing an eloquent description of Qing’s beauty, rehearsing it in their heads.

Because that was the kind of thing worth boasting about later.

After all, back in ancient Murim, village entertainment mostly involved rock-throwing contests and raiding each other’s storage sheds or women.

That, or bragging about wild battle stories—real or made-up.

So now ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ they were preparing.

Let me tell you—I saw her with my own eyes, the beauty of the century, and let me tell you what she looked like...

****

The entire martial world knew one bitter truth:

The Tathagata’s Palm, one of the greatest techniques under heaven, had been lost.

And that was deeply strange.

Ordinarily, the loss of a supreme technique would signal the fall of an entire sect—

And while Shaolin was overflowing with divine arts (or as Qing once described it, "a buffet of purple-colored techniques"), even a sect that prestigious wouldn’t advertise such a failure lightly.

Ximen Surin dismissed the story, saying Tathagata’s Palm had simply vanished because no heir had been found.

Of course, she did have her reasons—being a woman, she already bore a grudge against Shaolin for being a male-only sect, despite its claim to be the greatest in the Central Plains.

And to be fair, her account was technically accurate.

Still, behind the vanishing of that technique... lay a tragic tale.

Years ago, a catastrophic flood turned the world upside down.

Shaolin Temple, nestled high atop a mountain, emerged mostly unscathed.

But the common folk in the valleys below suffered unspeakable ruin.

In response, Shaolin opened its doors and its vaults to offer relief.

They unlocked enormous storehouses—filled using years of donations, land holdings, and profits from selling sacred elixirs—and gave it all away.

The stockpiles seemed bottomless.

People were fed, clothed, and given hope.

All of Murim praised Shaolin’s boundless compassion.

But the Emperor didn’t like it.

He, the Son of Heaven, ordained by divine will to rule the center of the world—why were monks getting credit instead?

While Shaolin was rescuing the people, the Emperor had been twiddling his thumbs at banquets, claiming natural disasters were “heaven’s will.”

And now the monks were getting all the glory?

He accused them of rebellion and pointed cannons at their gates.

Still, Tathagata’s Palm had never been intended for public eyes.

Shaolin had a copy, of course—transcribed in case of disaster.

The original was kept in the Scripture Hall, the largest and most revered martial arts library in the world.

The spare copy was hidden in a vault beneath the Secret Pavilion, sealed away for emergencies.

But the technique was never popular—not compared to Hundred-Step Divine Fist, at least.

Even within Shaolin, monks preferred other styles.

That one was easier to learn, compatible with foundational Shaolin arts, and had famous variants like Great Force Diamond Palm and Primordial Energy Palm.

By comparison, Tathagata’s Palm was considered cumbersome.

So they left the manual in the Scripture Hall and figured: someday, someone with the right affinity would come along and master it.

Shaolin never forced techniques on disciples.

If there was no connection, then it wasn’t meant to be.

That was their Buddhist teaching.

But then... the cannons came.

The Scripture Hall burned.

The Secret Pavilion burned.

And the fate of the Tathagata’s Palm was sealed.

The monks consoled themselves, saying it must not have been meant to survive after all.

Until now.

Until that very technique appeared again—revived.

“We must reclaim it!”

“That technique is our heritage—it must be recovered at any cost!”

“How can a Shaolin divine art be wielded by an outsider? Investigate it thoroughly!”

“Send someone to the Divine Maiden Sect—no, I’ll go myself!”

The Shaolin monks erupted in outrage.

But Master Muak just clicked his tongue.

“I know the personality of that old tigress. If the technique had been in the Divine Maiden Sect’s possession, she would’ve returned it ages ago—and squeezed us for a truckload of healing pills in return.

She didn’t.

Which means the girl must’ve come by it through personal fate.”

“But... she is the former head of a major sect. Surely she wouldn’t have ignored such a treasure—”

“She’s not the kind to hoard something like that.

Honestly, it’s the people who don’t know her who are making all this fuss.”

He sighed again.

“Still... a lost treasure has been found. We should bring it home.

But tell me: how exactly do you plan to ask for it?

That technique’s been gone for over two hundred years.

If we suddenly barge in saying it’s ours, who’s going to agree to that?

What will you offer in return?

What is the proper price for a divine technique?

If we’re not careful, we’ll end up reducing a priceless heirloom into something with a market tag.”

A priceless treasure has no monetary value.

Put a price on it—and its sanctity is gone.

If they traded ten golden relics for the technique, then that’s all it would be worth: ten golden relics.

“What about offering Great Restoration Pills?

We could hand over our entire stock.”

“Hah! So we’re trading pills for scrolls now?

What is this—ten pills for a divine martial art? What a joke.”

“Then... what about offering another divine art in return?

If we promise never to pass it down—”

“Have you lost your mind? You’re suggesting we hand over the core of our sect to outsiders?”

“Please, Master, try to be reasonable—”

“What? You think my words don’t matter?

What about you, then—what do you have to offer?

Or are you planning to spend fifty years as her servant in exchange?”

“Ugh...”

The monks argued on.

Whispers floated around—maybe offer the Reversal Muscle Sutra, or Shadowless Buddhist Steps, or Nine-Tier Cloud Flow, or even the White Lotus Divine Fist.

Master Muak clicked his tongue again.

“Unbelievable. Look at you all. Not monks, but merchants.

Putting a price tag on everything—why even bother joining a temple?

You’d all make fine traders. Such talent. Truly.”

“Then... what should we do?”

“You don’t buy it—you repay it with gratitude.

Offer the pills. Offer the arts. Offer everything.

Let the world see Shaolin’s honor.

If anyone ever finds something of ours again, they’ll return it in kind.

Out of respect.”

“But what if the technique leaks out?”

“Then the day the Tathagata’s Palm leaks...

The One Hundred and Eight Arhats will descend the mountain.

Let the world see what happens when someone exploits Shaolin’s kindness.

Let that be a lesson to them.

But if it does leak—well, we’ll deal with it then.

What use is it to panic over a storm that hasn’t come?”

Some monks looked moved, murmuring in awe.

Others still wore stiff, bitter expressions, unconvinced.

But when Master Muak spoke, that was the end of it.

“...If you’re still worried, then look into the girl herself,” he said.

“If she’s greedy and reckless, we won’t entrust her with anything.

But if she’s that kind of person—well, she’ll sell her soul for coin anyway, and that’ll be the end of it.”