I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 222: Dormant Dragon Martial Contest (4)

Since Cheon Yuhak had abruptly taken off, saying he had business elsewhere today, Qing stood around wondering what to do. Then, as always, her signature no-back-button impulsiveness kicked in, and she wandered off to find a large fabric store.

Why? Because she’d been completely convinced by Cheon Yuhak’s "deal with it" logic.

He’d basically said, “What’s the point of awakening your senses if you’re going to stay wrapped up like a corpse?” So now that she was out in the city anyway, she figured she might as well look for some breathable clothing.

“Are you looking for anything in particular, miss?”

“I’m after some muslin. Do you have any high-count fabric? The highest you’ve got.”

“Oh, you’re in luck! We just got in a rare shipment—180 thread count, six-ply twist. Would you like to take a look?”

A thread count of 180 meant very fine fibers—higher numbers meant thinner threads. And six-ply referred to the number of threads twisted together before weaving.

So what the clerk was offering was an ultra-fine, six-ply muslin—an extremely delicate, soft cloth.

“Ohh, you carry that? Can I see?”

“Of course!”

Just hearing it described was enough to guess how soft it must be, and the moment she touched it, Qing could tell—light as air and smooth as silk.

Which, ironically, made it a bit of an awkward choice.

At that point, why not just wear actual silk?

“Nice... How much is it? And how much do you have in stock?”

The clerk’s face lit up.

A big spender! Jackpot.

Qing, who had no real concept of saving money, went ahead and bought out the entire stock of high-grade muslin. After that, she lingered among the outfits hanging around the store.

“Miss, is there a particular outfit you’re interested in?”

“Just browsing, thanks.”

Which, in shopper-speak, means: Please leave me alone.

The disappointed clerk backed off, and Qing began examining the clothes on her own.

But she’d never really paid attention to clothing before, so she had no idea what she was doing. All the thin garments felt uncomfortably revealing, but Cheon Yuhak’s words kept echoing in her head.

She wandered back and forth, indecisive, until something caught her eye.

Oh? What’s that?

It was a stiff-looking hemp robe, rough and scratchy even from a distance.

“Hey, that hemp outfit over there...”

The clerk, still watching his big customer with regret, practically leapt over.

“Heheh, quite an unusual piece, right?”

He explained that it had been commissioned by the wife of a high-ranking official, originally intended as mourning attire. But before it was even finished, she’d remarried—so the whole thing became pointless.

It was top-tier hemp, custom-woven for formal mourning, so they couldn’t just throw it out. Instead, they dyed it and hung it up on display.

“What do you think? The black has such a soft, refined luster, don’t you think? And not a single snag or imperfection in the entire robe—our dyer’s skill is top-notch. If you have any garments you’d like to dye...”

Qing listened to the explanation and realized—this wasn’t meant to be sold. It was just a display piece to brag about their dyeing technique.

In the Central Plains, black didn’t mean pitch-black like back in Qing’s hometown. It referred to a deep, charcoal gray—the kind modern mothers might call “dark mouse-gray.”

It shouldn’t be too bright, but it also couldn’t be a flat black. The perfect shade of black was elegant, solemn, and quietly beautiful.

And it was beautiful—but that wasn’t why Qing’s eyes lit up.

“How much is that one?”

****

Mourning clothes are designed to be uncomfortable. They’re meant to express grief for a lost parent, teacher, or even an ungrateful sovereign—people for whom no amount of tears could prove the depth of your sorrow.

So, in the absence of a visible way to show emotional pain, you wore it—through garments that made you physically suffer.

This robe didn’t look like mourning wear, thanks to the luxurious dye job.

But the discomfort? Oh, that part was very real.

“Khhhrrk...”

Qing’s logic was simple.

If the problem was that everything felt too good, then why not go all the way and get used to something bad?

If silk brushing lightly against her skin was overstimulating, then what if she wore something that scraped at her like sandpaper?

So she tried it on, heart thumping in anticipation.

And immediately regretted everything.

Hemp fibers are naturally coarse and stiff, but when you soak them in starch and beat them repeatedly to flatten the texture, you remove the stiffness—but at the cost of turning every fiber into a tiny hooked blade.

Now dye that same outfit—not by coloring the thread beforehand, but by soaking the already-woven fabric in fixatives and pigments.

The result?

This was no longer cloth.

It was a scrub brush.

No—worse than that. It was a sanding block. The kind carpenters used to plane wood in her hometown.

Now she was walking around with super-sensitive skin, wearing a full-body sheet of sandpaper.

Every movement made her feel like her skin was being shredded off.

“This is... a lot. Like, from zero to hell in one go.”

But at least pain was better than overstimulation.

Each time her body moved, the fabric tore at her just enough to jolt her awake. Her awareness sharpened.

And it was practical for training.

Hemp robes like this were extremely breathable.

The stiff fabric stuck out and caught on things, pulling up so that her stomach had a two-fist gap of open air. Wind flowed in and out freely.

Plus, it was starting to heat up outside. At least this was cool and breezy.

“Ghhhaaaah.”

All she had to do was get used to the searing pain and discomfort.

According to Cheon Yuhak, there was no real technique to mastering perception through skin sensitivity.

It wasn’t something you trained with exercises—it was something that built over time through lived experience.

Walk around for a year or two with air constantly brushing against your skin, and eventually, your brain would start to build a map of everything around you.

If you wanted to rush that process? You’d have to walk around butt naked.

Since that wasn’t an option, the next best thing was wearing the most breathable clothes possible and exposing yourself to as many environments as you could.

Strong winds, stagnant air, cluttered areas, wide-open spaces, crowds, confined places—you had to experience them all.

That was the only way to expand your sensory perception faster.

Of course, that was still a long way off for Qing.

Right now, she couldn’t even handle the senses she had. Who had the bandwidth to think about airflow?

So as she wandered through Kaifeng’s night streets, Qing’s thoughts were simple:

I think my skin’s been flayed off. Am I bleeding? Maybe I should just give up and go to bed.

But she didn’t.

Even with her face twisted in agony, she walked the city until late at night, managing to endure it all.

And so, Qing couldn’t help but feel proud.

Wow. Another productive day. Pretty much every waking moment of my life is training now, huh.

This kind of dumb, hollow pride wasn’t exactly healthy—it was more like self-delusion dressed up as perseverance.

But still, it was better than running away from it all just to chase comfort and pleasure.

So yeah. In that sense, she was doing better than before.

The Grand Assembly was a meeting where the higher-ups of the Murim Alliance gathered to discuss the major direction of the organization’s future endeavors.

Technically, anyone attending the Murim Tournament could sit in on the Grand Assembly. But in reality, all the truly important decisions got made behind closed doors like this—just the big shots huddled up, running the show.

And in this shady little gathering of powerbrokers, Ximen Surin made her voice loud and clear.

“How much longer are we going to sit back and watch the Black Spot bastards run wild? Their depravity gets worse by the day, and you’re telling me the righteous Murim Alliance should just sit on its hands and do nothing?”

Ximen Surin was a grandmaster from two generations ago—so her tone, unsurprisingly, pulled no punches.

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom.

The expressions of those listening weren’t exactly cheerful.

“But Senior, not everyone in the Black Spot is pure evil. A lot of common folks rely on it for their livelihood. If we go in swinging, won’t that just cause chaos?”

The Black Spot was indeed a cesspool of illicit dealings—but it also served as a lifeline for traveling merchants and peddlers who didn’t have shops of their own.

Encouraged, others began chiming in one by one.

Some righteous martial artists were regular clients of the Black Spot. If it disappeared overnight, it’d become a huge hassle to acquire rare goods or operate discreetly without drawing the authorities’ attention.

And besides, the Black Spot wasn’t entirely uncooperative. When something truly crossed the line or posed a threat to the martial world, even they had been known to play ball. If anything, they had a firm grip on the criminal underworld—it made things easier to track.

The final word came from Great Master Muhak.

“Senior Ximen, what do you propose we do with the Black Spot? You can’t exactly throw them all in prison for reform, and wiping them all out in one go isn’t a realistic solution either.”

“Hmph. And why couldn’t we wipe out the bastards? Don’t start spouting tired nonsense about pacifist doctrines—”

“Then where do we draw the line, Senior? Do we kill the smugglers and meat vendors too? What about the distributors? Are they as guilty as the suppliers? What about the fence who handles stolen goods? Do we execute the muggers but let the pickpockets live?”

Ximen Surin’s expression darkened.

Damn that sly old monk. Always with that slick, respectful tone that pissed her off.

What was the point ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ of drawing fine lines between who deserved death and who didn’t?

If someone was caught doing evil, they got the blade. Maybe they got lucky and lived; maybe they changed their ways someday. Or maybe they stayed rotten and died later.

The Murim Alliance wasn’t some divine court of heavenly sages. Just because you set a standard didn’t mean you could enforce it to the letter.

So asking her for a “standard” was a coward’s move.

All she could do was sigh and drop a warning.

“Keep avoiding the hard choices and eventually we’re going to have a disaster on our hands. These bastards are getting bolder every day. They’re bound to cause serious damage sooner or later. And when that happens? It’ll be too late. Never mind the disgrace—that’s nothing. But how will you restore public trust then?”

“If they cross the line, we punish them. Simple as that. It’s not like the righteous sects are the ones backing their crimes. Why would the people blame us?”

And just like that, her proposal was shut down.

“Click.”

Ximen Surin clicked her tongue in disgust.

This is exactly why I didn’t want to come to this damn tournament.

Still, whether she liked it or not, the Grand Assembly moved on.

“Next topic—this is from Master Cheonbija. Regarding the proposed opening of the Unified Martial Academy...”

****

Day Two of the Murim Tournament.

Today’s Dormant Dragon Matches featured the second and fourth brackets.

Qing had taken a seat in the stands, mostly because Ximen Surin had told her to watch the Shaolin disciple Wolbong’s duel.

The point was to observe the famous martial arts of Shaolin—allegedly the best under heaven—and prepare for the upcoming semifinal.

To Qing’s right sat Jegal Ihyeon, who was serving as match commentator.

To her left, her honorary best friend Tang Nanah handled the “social” duties.

And squarely in her lap, curled up and handling the “cute” department, was little Jegal Hyang.

Qing basically had the dream setup: right-hand protector, left-hand guardian, and a living mascot in her lap.

Except...

“Ughhh...”

Jegal Hyang was a child—even by Korean standards, a small one—so naturally, the tournament wasn’t exactly her idea of fun.

She wiggled nonstop in Qing’s lap, kicking her feet and squirming, unable to sit still.

And every time she moved, the fabric of Qing’s scratchy-as-hell mourning robe rubbed even rougher against her skin like a coarse scrubber.

As Qing let out a pained grunt, Jegal Hyang arched her back and looked up at her with wide eyes.

“Gaga unni, am I heavy? Ooh, you’re squishy.”

Then she leaned back and bonked the top of her head into Qing’s chest, back and forth like a little wrecking ball.

Qing’s heart nearly stopped.

What is this creature? How can anything be this cute?

“No, you’re light as a feather. But... are you not having fun, Hyang?”

“Mmm... kinda boring. Yawwwn...”

She let out a huge yawn.

Qing smiled and pulled her into a gentle hug, adjusting her so she could lean back and rest.

Yeah. Better to let her nap.

All that fidgeting was rubbing Qing’s nerves raw—literally.

“Then take a little nap. Lean on me.”

“I’m not sleepy...”

Even as she said that, she was already dozing off.

Kids always fall asleep fast, after all.

Now that her lap had finally gone still, Qing could focus on the match with some semblance of comfort—until something caught her attention.

“...Wasn’t that Wang something? Did he always fight like that?”

“The chair’s different, isn’t it? His got destroyed during the last match, so he had to borrow a new one. Normally, those chairs are forged with reinforced steel for dueling, but they’re still vulnerable to dulled blades like the ones used here.”

“No, that’s not what I meant...”

Qing narrowed her eyes, watching the martial artist known as Wang.

She remembered him—he’d stood out for using a strange weapon. Ranked somewhere in the top ten, maybe seventh or eighth?

But what had he done to suddenly give off such a sleazy, villainous vibe?