Combat Starts

Shaolin, one of the largest temple sects globally and a revered sanctuary in the Central Plains since Master Dharma introduced Buddhism to the region, was buzzing with activity. Its sacred aura and massive scale made it a significant cultural landmark, attracting countless devotees. Today, however, the temple was even more crowded than usual, packed with factions eagerly awaiting a rare event: a competition that hadn't taken place in a century.

Participants were numerous, but the spectators dwarfed them in number, all desperate to witness the event. Jo Gul from Mount Hua was wide-eyed at the sheer number of people.

"Wow, look at the number of people," he remarked, astonished.

The area for participants and spectators was separated by a mere red line, providing some semblance of order. Jo Gul, noticing the smaller-than-expected sparring hall, inquired about it.

"The competition is in the sparring training hall?" he asked.

"Right," Yoon Jong confirmed.

Jo Gul narrowed his eyes, surveying the hall. "The hall is smaller than I thought. I expected more from Shaolin."

"Gul," Yoon Jong said, "look to the side."

Jo Gul turned his head to see several marked areas on the ground designated for sparring. "… we will use all that?"

"Looks like it," Yoon Jong shrugged.

"There are nearly twenty sects with the platinum invitations. That's about four hundred participants. If you include gold, silver, and bronze invitations, participants would exceed a thousand."

"A thousand?!" Jo Gul's jaw dropped.

"That's why they needed invitations. Without them, it would take three and a half months to finish," Yoon Jong explained.

"Wow…" Jo Gul muttered, feeling the weight of the event. 'A thousand participants. When will all of them get their chance?'

"It seems the preliminaries will take two days. After that, the finals move to the central training hall with around a hundred participants left," Yoon Jong continued.

"A hundred." Jo Gul gripped the sword at his waist, his mindset. 'I need to be among them.'

Despite the intimidating presence of other prestigious disciples, Jo Gul felt different this time. His daily training with the formidable Chung Myung had bolstered his confidence.

"Is it strange to say this, but don't they look easy?" Jo Gul asked.

Yoon Jong smiled. "Of course, they look easy. Is there anyone like Chung Myung among them?"

"… there can't be two such people in this world."

"Right. We live with that bastard every day. Why would we fear anyone? Even if we saw a monster with three heads, we wouldn't be scared."

"Right…" Jo Gul nodded, reassured.

As the competition was about to begin, a Shaolin monk named Gong Cho, known as the 'Immovable Fist' for his high skills and rare but strong displays of violence, welcomed everyone and announced the start.

"I am Shaolin monk Gong Cho. I express my gratitude to the disciples and spectators here. Welcome to the Worldly Murim Competition."

Cheers erupted from the sect leaders present, including Hyun Jong of Mount Hua.

"Sect Leader must be in a good mood," Yoon Jong remarked.

"No, senior brother. He must be uncomfortable, sitting between Kongtong and Wudang Sect leaders," Jo Gul pointed out.

"Right. We need to make sure he stays there comfortably."

"Yes."

Baek Cheon, feeling the weight of representing Mount Hua's sword to the world, was advised by Chung Myung to stay calm and avoid making mistakes.

"You're doing pretty cool things, huh? Calm down. Don't make mistakes trying too hard," Chung Myung advised.

"Chung Myung, you're being called," Baek Cheon pointed behind him.

"Mount Hua's Chung Myung! Is Chung Myung here?" a monk shouted.

Startled, Chung Myung raised his hand, "Here! I am here!" He rushed into the circle, his opponent waiting.

"Hello… uh?"

"Damned Mount Hua bastard! You forgot me already?" Kwak Hwan-So from the Southern Island Sect fumed.

"Oh, right! The one who flew back with one hit. No wonder I didn't remember," Chung Myung said.

Kwak Hwan-So's eyes narrowed. "Where did you sell your sword?"

"Uh?" It was only then that Chung Myung noticed his empty waist with no sword tied. "Ah…" He spotted Baek Cheon holding his sword. "Here," Baek Cheon tossed it over.

Kwak Hwan-So was stunned. "A swordsman always carries his sword. Didn't Mount Hua teach you that?"

"How about you mind your own sect," Chung Myung retorted.

"Let's start," Kwak Hwan-So drew his sword, determined to restore his honour.

The crowd's attention shifted to their circle. Everyone remembered their recent altercation and was eager to see the outcome.

"BEGIN!" the monk announced.

'To restore the honour of the Southern Island!' Kwak Hwan-So told himself. He calmed down, ready to fight.

Chung Myung stood still, a bored expression on his face. Kwak Hwan-So rushed forward, his sword aimed at Chung Myung's chest. Just as he was about to strike, Chung Myung vanished from his sight.

'What? Where did he go?' Kwak Hwan-So panicked, his eyes darting around. Suddenly, his vision darkened. 'What?'

It wasn't the world going dark, but the sole of a shoe blocking his sight.

Chung Myung's foot struck him with an impactful sound, sending him flying across the hall, crashing into the wall at the end. Dust and debris flew everywhere as Kwak Hwan-So's body impacted the wall with a thunderous crash.

Everyone stared in shock at the figure stuck in the wall.

"…"

Chung Myung shook his head, mumbling, "You didn't learn from the first hit. Did you want to die?"

He looked at Gong Cho. "I won, right?"

"… Uh?"

"It's over. Can I leave?"

"… Ah, ah!" Gong Cho announced, "Mount Hua's Chung Myung wins!"

Cheers erupted from the crowd but Chung Myung shrugged, ignoring it and returning to his fellow disciples. "Saw that?"

"Uh?"

"You need to do just that. Just catch them off-guard."

"… yeah, that was helpful. Thanks, Chung Myung."

Chung Myung shrugged and walked past the crowd. "I need to see how the other participants are doing."

Chung Myung pushed through the crowd, seeking a good vantage point to observe the other matches. His eyes scanned the participants, eventually settling on Tang Wei of the Tang Clan, who was about to face off against Peng Sun of the Habuk Peng Clan.

The match began with a tense silence. Tang Wei appeared timid, his shoulders hunched and his eyes downcast. In contrast, Peng Sun stood confidently, his cleaving blade poised for attack.

"Look at him," one spectator muttered. "He looks like he's about to run away."

"I don't blame him. Who here could even block such a heavy cleaving blade? Not with bare hands."

"Yeah, Peng Sun will finish this quickly," another added.

Peng Sun lunged forward, his blade slicing through the air with precision. Tang Wei moved just in time, dodging the strike by a hair's breadth. He continued to evade, his movements fluid and meandering.

"He's just running away," someone in the crowd jeered.

Chung Myung, observing closely, noticed the subtlety in Tang Wei's movements. He had a past life experience with battling members of the Tang Clan so he could understand what Peng Sun was going through.

[ Phantom Serpent Steps ]

It was like fighting a ghost; the Phantom Serpent Steps user seemed to just pass through your blade unharmed. It was a signature of the Tang Clan who operated more like unorthodox assassins than orthodox warriors despite being part of the alliance.

Peng Sun, growing frustrated, increased the ferocity of his attacks. His blade came at Tang Wei from every angle, but each time, Tang Wei managed to slip away unscathed. The crowd began to murmur, recognizing that this was not simple evasion but something more.

"Stand still, you coward!" Peng Sun shouted, lunging again and raising his blade over his head. This time, Tang Wei didn't just dodge. He countered, squeezing his eyes shut, pulled his palm back and then he moved putting the whole body in motion as green qi manifested around his palm.

[ Venom Dragon's Claw ]

Tang Wei's voice rang out, though his eyes were tightly shut. His hand shot forward in a spinning motion, fingers extended like a dragon's talons, foot stomped and the whole body worked in action. Peng Sun barely took the blow to the stomach and was pushed back several steps. He felt a wave of nausea and fell on his knee, his blade supporting him so his body did not topple over falt as he coughed blood on the floor.

Tang Wei's nervousness was apparent, but he didn't back down. Instead, he continued with a planned attack. The Green Qi around Tang Wei's arm took the shape of a serpent and sped towards Peng Sun with menacing speed.

Peng Sun's eyes widened in shock as the serpent-shaped qi bore down on him. He tried to block it with his blade arm, but the force was too much. The illusory serpent struck, stripping his skin; a serpent-shaped scar as it ran across his arm leaving it twisted, broken and disjointed before dissipating. Peng Sun stumbled back, clutching his arm in pain and fell to his knees.

The crowd gasped in awe and horror. Despite his timidity, Tang Wei's techniques were lethal and precise.

"You... you monster!" Peng Sun spat, fear evident in his eyes.

Tang Wei didn't respond, his timid demeanour unchanged. He stood there, eyes still squeezed shut, his hands trembling slightly.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to."

Chung Myung watched with a satisfied smirk. 'Good. Looks like there's more to this competition than meets the eye.'

The monk overseeing the match stepped forward, raising his hand. "Tang Wei of the Tang Clan wins!"

As the crowd erupted in applause, Tang Wei finally opened his eyes, looking around nervously before giving a small, shy bow. Chung Myung turned away, his interest piqued. 'This competition might actually be interesting.' He made his way back through the crowd, eager to see what other surprises the day held.

Despite Tang Wei's victory, the competitors in the audience seemed more relieved than worried. They exchanged glances and murmurs, assessing the match.

"Well, he won, but he looked scared the whole time," one participant whispered.

"Yeah, if that's all he's got, we don't have much to worry about. Just watch out for that palm attack," another replied.

Chung Myung overheard these comments and smirked. 'They're underestimating him. Classic mistake.'

The legend of Tang Clan's Venom Dragon's Claw technique says that when fully mastered, the serpent-like qi will churn the victim's flesh and bone spiral like a squeezed wet rag. It was clear to the experienced eyes in the crowd that Tang Wei wasn't at that stage yet.

'His body, mind and qi aren't in proper sync, resulting in some delay between the palm attack and the qi serpent attack.'

As Chung Myung watched, he couldn't help but feel a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Tang Wei's timidity was evident, but so was his potential. 'He's got a long way to go, but there's something there,' he thought. 'What if he is actually hiding his skills?'

The next match was called, but Chung Myung's mind was still on Tang Wei's performance. 'This competition is going to be more interesting than I thought,' he mused, moving to find another good spot to observe the next bout.

He was particularly interested in this one because of Raiden, who had managed to land a blow on him during their accidental scuffle earlier.

'Let's see if that was luck or you are actually that good.'

He found a spot near the front and settled in, folding his arms and watching intently. Raiden stood in the ring, his foreign appearance making him stand out. His opponent, a gaunt boy with sharp eyes named Zhao Ling, wielded a spiked metal chain, the links glinting menacingly in the sunlight.

Zhao Ling smirked a hint of challenge in his voice. "Draw your blade if you want to survive this, Raiden."

He spun his chain slowly, the speed and spikes made its lethality apparent.

Raiden looked at Zhao Ling with mild interest. He yawned casually as if bored by the threat. "No need for blades. Let's see what you've got."

The audience started chattering.

"He's crazy not to draw his blade against that," someone muttered, watching Raiden's calm demeanour.

"White hair thinks he can handle anything without a sword," another voice chimed in, shaking their head in disbelief. "Spiked chains are a bane of any melee fighter."

Chung Myung among them said nothing but watched.

The monk overseeing the match raised his hand. "Begin!"

Zhao Ling wasted no time, swinging his chain in a wide arc, the spikes whistling through the air. Raiden stood his ground, his eyes focused and body relaxed. The chain came at him in spiral motion with deadly speed.

The chain hurtled towards him, but Raiden moved with binding speed, closing the distance between them in a blink and dodging the initial attack. With a powerful and precise motion, he swung his arm, his palm slicing through the air. The force of his strike met the chain, snapping the spiked links as if they were made of paper. The broken pieces scattered, and Raiden's momentum carried through, his open palm connecting solidly with Zhao Ling's cheek.

The slap was devastating. Zhao Ling spun and dropped into a heap. The crowd gasped in astonishment, watching as Zhao Ling fell limply to the ground, the remnants of the broken chain scattered around him.

Raiden stood over his opponent, his expression calm and unbothered, as if he had done nothing extraordinary. The monk overseeing the match quickly stepped in, checking on Zhao Ling and declaring Raiden the winner. "Raiden wins!"

The crowd's cheers grew louder as Chung Myung turned to leave, satisfied with what he had observed. The competition was shaping up to be more intriguing than he had expected. Returning to the Mount Hua quarters, he found the other disciples in high spirits, animatedly discussing their victories and sharing insights about the matches they had witnessed. Jo Gul approached him, excitement was evident in his eyes.

"Did you catch White Hair's match?" Jo Gul asked eagerly.

"I did," Chung Myung replied, nodding thoughtfully. "He's formidable. Most here wouldn't stand a chance against him."

Jo Gul chuckled, thinking Chung Myung was jesting. "Sure, his palm technique is strong, and he managed to land a blow on you but—"

"It's not just about that," Chung Myung interrupted, his expression serious. "Notice how the monks are reacting to him."

Jo Gul suddenly remembered the monks nearby still staring in shock towards Raiden's direction.

"In that single move, he shattered the chain and beat his opponent unconscious. The force could have easily shattered the guy's jaw, yet he knocked him out instead without causing unwanted harm. What does that tell you?" Chung Myung asked pointedly. "He possesses a level of control over his power flow that surpasses most monks here. To be able to shift power behind the move without stopping the attack is something Wudang Sect disciples train their entire lives to achieve. That's why I said he's beyond the reach of many competitors."

Jo Gul's expression shifted, realizing the depth of Chung Myung's observation. He nodded slowly, absorbing the implications of Raiden's skill.

"His control... it's something else," Jo Gul murmured, impressed.

Chung Myung nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Keep an eye on him."

Jo Gul, curious about Chung Myung's assessment, asked, "Do you think you could beat him?"

Chung Myung considered the question for a moment, then replied confidently, "If Raiden has some surprises hidden, it might make things interesting."

"But would you lose?"

"No. I'd win."

Jo Gul nodded, understanding the conviction in Chung Myung's words. "I see. So, you're that confident?"

'If you knew how embarrassing it is to admit a kid might give me some trouble.' Chung Myung smirked. "Always."

Jo Gul chuckled, reassured by Chung Myung's unwavering confidence. "Got it. I won't worry then."

With a shared sense of readiness, they continued discussing Raiden's prowess and potential challenges in the matches ahead, preparing themselves mentally for the competition.

Around the same time, Tang Wei was taking a solitary walk along the quieter paths of the Shaolin grounds. He often sought these moments of solitude to calm his nerves amidst the bustling atmosphere of the competition. As he rounded a corner near the outskirts of the temple, he found himself unexpectedly confronted by several disciples from the Iron Hands school.

"Well, if it isn't a Tang Clan coward," one of them sneered, blocking Tang Wei's path.

Tang Wei, instinctively nervous in such confrontations, tried to step back and avoid trouble. However, two more disciples from the Iron Hands school quickly flanked him, cutting off any route of escape.

"You Tang Clan folks are all talk, claiming to be orthodox when you're just a bunch of glorified assassins," another disciple mocked, cracking his knuckles in a threatening gesture

Tang Wei said shuttering, "Leave me alone. D-Do you know what T-Tang clan will do to you?"

"Yeah, hiding behind reputation is all you do," added another, circling Tang Wei with a menacing glare. "Let's see if you can really back up your clan's name."

Tang Wei, feeling the weight of their intimidation tactics, tried to remain calm, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He glanced around, hoping for someone to intervene or a way to defuse the situation peacefully.

"You think you can just walk away, Tang Wei? Show us some of that 'legendary' Tang Clan technique," the leader of the group taunted, moving in closer with an aggressive stance.

As they lunged at Tang Wei with aggressive intent, he initially dodged their attacks with his usual nervousness using the meandering footwork of Phantom Serpent Steps. Their blows grazed past him as he desperately tried to evade, feeling the pressure mounting with each passing second.

"You're nothing but cowards!" Tang Wei shouted, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and frustration as he ducked under a swing aimed at his head. But quickly found himself against the wall and feeling threatened from all sides.

"Dodge this, you bastard!" The disciples charged himself with qi and attacked.

[ Mountain Crush Fist ]

A while later, a senior Shaolin monk, on his routine patrol through the outskirts of the temple, stumbled upon the spot and saw a chilling scene.

"AMITHABA!"

The bodies of teen boys lay sprawled across the ground like broken dolls tossed aside after play. Their limbs were twisted at grotesque angles, some bent backwards in unnatural contortions that spoke of immense force and violence. Dark bruises and lacerations marred their flesh.

One disciple's arm protruded at an awkward angle, the bone visibly fractured through the torn sleeve of his robe. Another lay face-down, his neck twisted to an impossible degree, eyes wide open in a frozen expression of agony. The air carried the metallic tang of blood mingled with the scent of permeating incense.

Their robes symbolic of their allegiance to the Iron Hands school, were torn and stained with dirt and blood. One disciple's robe had been shredded, revealing deep gashes across his chest and abdomen where the fabric had failed to protect. The condition could only be summed up in the sentence: Flesh and bone squeezed like a wet rag.