I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch

Qing stood still, blinking once. Then again.

Huh. Aren’t we headed for outer space this time? Hm? Space? Why space? When have I ever gone to space before? What is this—something feels like it’s on the tip of my mind.

But no. I mustn’t remember.

If I do, I’ll end up crossing some irreversible threshold. That’s the feeling. No—more than just a feeling. It’s a certainty.

And yet, somehow, I can’t stop thinking.

Like something is forcing my thoughts forward—

“Oho! You saw the sword insight, didn’t you?! Yes! That had to be one of the Nine Forms! It was one of the Nine Forms, right?!”

“Gah—!”

A voice boomed like thunder as two massive hands suddenly grabbed her forearms. Qing’s thoughts were violently cut off, just like that.

“I, uh—urk.”

Her beautiful face crumpled in pain.

For someone born with a face so divine, Qing certainly had a habit of putting it to all the wrong uses.

“Wh-What’s wrong?”

“Master Muak, my arm, my arm...!”

“Your arm? Huh. Looks fine to me. Forget that—what about the sword insight? It was one of the Nine Forms, wasn’t it?”

“Aaah! M-My arm!”

Her right arm began to spasm uncontrollably.

No wonder.

It had taken the full weight of the world in that vision.

Even if it was just an illusion, the sensation remained vivid in memory, and memory has consequences.

From the rotator cuff at the shoulder, through the deltoid, biceps, triceps, down the radial brachialis and iliopsoas, deep muscle layers, all the way to every tendon in her fingers—everything had seized up all at once.

To put it simply: from her shoulder to the tips of her fingers, her entire right arm had cramped in perfect unison.

“Oh dear. What on earth is this.”

Muak Dae-sa pressed into her right arm in alarm, then quickly jabbed at her acupoints. The goal was to block the flow of energy to the limb entirely—numb it before it got worse.

“Aaagh! Ow! Ow!”

“What in the—why won’t her meridians respond? And can’t you turn off your Bodyguard Qi? I’m not trying to hurt you here.”

“Ahk, th-that’s... automatic. I can’t... nngh—!”

Qing’s Bodyguard Qi—!

Now evolved into a Guardian Force in step with her cultivation level, it roared to life beneath her skin, violently fending off the world’s strongest monk with all its might.

Not that it mattered—her meridians were already shot through. Whether it was Muak or her Guardian Qi trying to help, neither had any effect.

“What! She’s already trained her Bodyguard Qi to the level where it activates in a state of No-Mind and No-Self?! Just what kind of secret art did Surin teach her?! Did she actually have talent for raising a disciple?!”

Damn it, this hurts!

While Qing was drowning in hellish pain, drooling and sniffling uncontrollably, the old monk beside her was busy gawking in admiration.

No wonder people called her master a damned bald fraud.

This was already the second time she’d nearly torn herself apart trying to follow the Heavenly Martial Emperor. If you counted her first encounter at the Sword Wall, it was the third.

Back then, during Thousand Transformations, her cultivation had been too low—barely at Peak Stage. Compared to the Heavenly Martial Emperor, she’d been like a bug. She couldn’t even see, feel, or comprehend what had happened, so the recoil hadn’t been too bad.

But now that she was in Supreme Peak Stage... she understood. Vaguely, just enough. And that’s what triggered the backlash.

And so, Qing sat there leaking spit and snot.

At least she didn’t cry. Maybe that was something to be grateful for. Or maybe not.

What mattered was that her once-lovely hand—one of the world’s most wickedly beautiful treasures—had swollen up to double its size, looking like a pig’s trotter.

It was like every part of her arm had grown a centimeter of flesh outward in every direction.

Hidden beneath her sleeve, her whole right arm—starting from the shoulder—must look like that too. She could feel it in the dull, constant throb of pain.

Seeing this, Muak asked, “So. What did you see in Shaolin’s sword form? It was one of the Nine Forms, wasn’t it?”

“Could you, maybe, pretend to care about my arm—urk. Glrk.”

Something suddenly shot into her mouth.

It smacked the roof of her mouth hard, then dropped deep into the back of her throat.

It’s a reflex—when something touches the back of your tongue, you swallow before you even know what happened. And so Qing did just that.

“It’s a Half-Huan Pill. Just a leftover lump from crafting a Summoning Pill. So? How do you feel?”

“I wasn’t trying to ask for a favor, you know. And, uh... it wasn’t one of the Nine Forms.”

“Not one of the Nine Forms...?”

Muak’s shoulders slumped.

He had been hoping. Even though he’d acted like he didn’t care.

“It was the First Form of the Heavenly Solitary Sword: I Alone Am Supreme.”

Muak went quiet, sinking deep into thought.

“Yes, the First Form is better. All swordsmanship stems from Shaolin in the end. Of course the First Form would be the foundation. But still... I Alone Am Supreme. Are you capable of interpreting that?”

“Well... if I just describe what I saw...”

Qing began explaining the vision from her mind.

At the end of her account, Muak lightly slapped himself on the forehead with his palm—smack.

This, in fact, was a venerable tradition of Shaolin, passed down from the one-armed Grandmaster Hye-ga.

“The cliff came to you and cut itself against your blade. Stillness became motion, and in motion, union. Incredible. Truly incredible.”

“Uh... isn’t that kind of nonsense? You’re just going to accept that at face value?”

Muak only smiled.

“When you swing your sword and cut an enemy—what if you thought of yourself not as a person, but as the blade itself? Wouldn’t the sword feel like the enemy approached it, and offered up their body willingly?”

If Qing had studied the sciences in her homeland, she might’ve found this exchange fascinating.

There were people back home who argued that a moving object crashing into a still one, and a still object being struck by a moving one, were fundamentally the same—impossible to distinguish.

Professionally, those people were called physicists, insurance investigators, fraudsters staging accidents, and vermin in human form who tried to tow parked cars for profit.

“But I’m not a sword.”

“And yet you’ve already experienced Unity of Sword and Self. A weapon is an extension of the body—it is the body. That’s not incorrect.”

This is what made martial arts so difficult.

The deeper one went, the more it brushed against philosophy, metaphysics, and abstract ideology—things too vague to grasp with words alone.

If you didn’t realize the truth for yourself and internalize it completely, you’d never understand. That’s why they called it enlightenment.

“Hm...”

“To think you can no longer distinguish between no-self and self. No-self—because you erase yourself from the world. Self—because erasing the world leaves only you.”

Muak’s expression twisted oddly.

It was like he had a sneeze just about to come out—but it never quite did.

“Ah well. I’ll need to meditate to sort this out. I wish I could escort you, but I fear missing this thread of insight. This old monk must be off.”

“Well, I guess there’s no helping that. Take care.”

“Thank you for understanding. Farewell, then.”

And with that, he leapt.

Not just a small hop—he soared, clearing ten feet in a single bound, kicking off the cliff face again and again. With each push off the walls of the ravine, he rose higher and higher, until he vanished from sight.

And so, Qing was left alone before the Sword Wall.

The medicine—this “Half-Huan Pill” or whatever it was—was already flowing refreshingly through her body. Meanwhile, the pain in her grotesquely swollen right arm grew worse.

But none of that mattered.

Before her stood the great sword insight left behind by the Heavenly Martial Emperor.

And Qing had just realized something of utmost importance.

She was... she was starving...

Grrrrggkk!

Her stomach answered with a mighty roar.

Seomun Surin always called the monks of Shaolin a bunch of bald frauds.

And to be fair, Shaolin really had long since stopped feeling like a ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) temple. These days, it wore the mask of a Murim sect more than that of a monastery.

What tranquil mountain temple? The entire city of Deungbonghyeon had grown and stretched right up to the foot of Mount Song, its main street leading straight to the front gate of Shaolin Temple like a red carpet.

And just beyond the temple walls? An entire tourist trap. Teahouses, restaurants, upscale inns for wealthy pilgrims—everything a martial arts pilgrim or curious visitor might want, all crammed up against sacred ground.

Of course, Seomun Surin didn’t call them bald frauds because of that.

She just hated them for the simpler reason: they were a bunch of bald bastards who barred women from entering.

Still, the situation worked out in Qing’s favor.

It meant she didn’t have to set out on some epic journey across three thousand li just to find a bite to eat.

She didn’t even need to think too hard about what to eat.

Qing, for all her general lack of intelligence, had occasional moments of brilliance.

Setting aside the sudden genius she displayed in combat (which was probably thanks to that celestial omen, the Heavenly Killer Star), there was one area in which her brain worked with laser focus and never forgot a single detail.

Food.

And that meant only one thing.

Buddha Jumps Over the Wall.

A dish so delicious that even monks would leap over the temple walls just to sneak a bite. That’s what the name meant.

Originally a delicacy from Fuzhou, capital of Fujian Province, it had become one of those dishes you could find near every famous temple—because it was luxurious, prohibitively expensive, and outrageously good.

It used nothing but the finest ingredients. The kind of food where every element could be its own delicacy. Toss it all in a pot, pour in a generous helping of Shaoxing wine, and slow-cook it to perfection.

How could it not be good?

So the question was: who makes it best around here?

Thus began Qing’s solitary hunt across Deungbong for culinary ecstasy. Like a lonely gourmet drifting through back alleys and shopfronts.

The dish was so ingredient-dependent that any place with subpar supply couldn’t hope to do it justice.

As she wandered, stomach growling, she pacified herself with a random street-bought meat dumpling—and somehow that alone was enough to send rumors flying through the city.

A celestial fairy had descended on Deungbonghyeon, people whispered.

So now, wherever she walked, heads turned. She was at the center of every gaze.

And in the middle of it all, Qing suddenly spotted someone unexpected.

There she was, sneakily trying to eat alone—Seol Iri.

Even more shamelessly, she was trying to eat meat.

And frankly... she looked a little pitiful.

Standing awkwardly to one side, glaring at something with intense focus. Following her line of sight led Qing’s eyes to a small street stall selling wonton noodles.

Wait—was that it? Why was she staring like that? Was it some super famous local spot? A hidden gem?

But if it was famous, business sure wasn’t booming. The vendor was shouting himself hoarse about his wonton noodles, but nobody was lining up to eat.

Then what was it? Someone she knew?

Qing grew curious. So she asked.

“Miss Seol. What are you doing?”

“You.”

“Huh? Why are you staring like that? You know the owner or something? Or is the food that good?”

Seol Iri opened her mouth. Clenched and unclenched her fists. Took her time.

And finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she confessed:

“I don’t have money...”

Well, that made sense.

Binggung had never been wealthy. It was a land of nothing but ice—surviving the cold alone was considered a miracle. No resources, no exports. Just snow.

At least while she’d stayed under the Murim Alliance’s umbrella, she’d had lodging, meals, the occasional allowance. Not that a woman in Murim had many places to spend money, anyway.

And whatever meager funds she’d gotten had gone straight to basic needs. There was never anything left.

But now here she was—chasing Qing on a wild goose chase under the noble banner of justice—only to run headfirst into the brutal reality of poverty.

Seol Iri was broke.

Qing couldn’t believe it.

“You went on and on about eating meat, strutted off so confidently—and you don’t even have money? What kind of meat were you planning to eat, exactly? Wait—where are you going now?”

“Hunting.”

Her words were clipped, as usual. So it was unclear whether she meant she’d go catch meat herself or hunt something down to sell for meal money.

But there was something that was abundantly clear.

“You’re seriously thinking of hunting on the mountain next to a temple? Shaolin’s front yard?”

At that, Seol Iri froze in place.

“Is that... not allowed?”

“Of course it’s not allowed.”

Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

Qing tilted her head, watching her.

What the hell. Was this girl just... a complete airhead?

To be called an airhead by Qing, of all people—if anyone from the Seol Clan or Jeongak Yihyeon had heard it, they’d probably bite their own tongue out of shame.

Then again, biting one’s tongue doesn’t actually kill you. So they’d likely just cuss her out for being exactly the kind of person who deserved to be called an airhead by Qing.