I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 229: Even a Ronin Has the Loyalty of a Ronin (2)

From that point on, they all began to share descriptions of the suspect.

Cheon Yuhak pulled out some paper and a stick of charcoal and started sketching as they talked, gradually refining the image together.

“Oh, you’re an artist? I didn’t expect you to go this far. Miss, I didn’t realize you were this serious about it.”

The warriors’ gazes softened noticeably.

After all, who in this world actually gives a damn about unaffiliated martial artists?

They were used to being treated as cheap blades—expendable meat shields. If they weren’t being hired for dangerous jobs, they were often dismissed as little better than robbers. So, even a sliver of compassion was enough to hit them where it hurt.

Even if Qing wasn’t the highest-ranked disciple of the Divine Maiden Sect, she was still a respected heroine from a prestigious orthodox sect.

She could’ve run straight to the Murim Alliance and tattled—easy. But instead, she chose to look out for them, saying she didn’t want them to take the fall.

Of course they were touched.

“Heh. I’m always serious,” Qing replied smoothly, soaking up the praise.

Cheon Yuhak’s eyebrow twitched as he worked on the facial composite, but he knew better than to start snapping at her here.

Everyone gave slightly different descriptions, so the reliability of a sketch based purely on witness testimony wasn’t very high—just like with the Black Spot incident.

But unlike the half-assed sketches back then—thrown together by people who barely cared and only wanted a few coins—this time, the unaffiliated martial artists were genuinely invested. After burning through a stack of paper, they finally produced one portrait everyone agreed on.

“Hmm. Just... a normal pig nose, huh...”

There wasn’t much to it. The only standout feature was a slightly upturned nose. And since even those who’d seen the guy in person didn’t recognize him at the time, there was no way anyone was going to identify him from this sketch alone. Qing, naturally, had no sharp insight here either.

“For now, let’s assume that bastard’s gonna show his face in front of you again.”

“Why’s that?”

“Uh... because criminals always return to the scene of the crime?”

“Ah! Of course!”

“Miss Qing’s divine deduction shines again!”

Gasps of admiration echoed around the room.

The warriors had been buttered up just right and were now completely on her side.

At this point, Qing could say anything—any absolute bullshit—and they’d cheer and clap. Again, remember: unaffiliated warriors are fundamentally starved for kindness.

“Well, there’s also the fact that your weaknesses are already in his hands. Sleepfire Pills don’t come cheap, and I doubt this was just a money grab. More likely, it was meant to blackmail you into doing something shady.”

At that, the warriors' faces turned grim.

Now that they were hearing it laid out, it hit them just how reckless it had been to swallow some sketchy drug just because it was called a miracle pill.

Still, even if this were some regression fantasy where they got to go back in time, it’s not like their decisions would’ve changed.

That’s how desperate they’d been to enter the Hidden Dragon Martial Tournament.

Desperation makes people easy to manipulate.

“Would be nice if you could catch the bastard, but it’s dangerous. Don’t try anything stupid. Here—take one of these each. It’s called Trace-Seeking Incense. You all know what that is, right?”

Qing passed around a bottle of pills that Cheon Yuhak had prepared.

“If you meet him again, just splash a bit on him. You don’t need to throw it in his face—just a dab on his pants or something.”

And that was the plan they landed on.

If he shows up again, smear him with Trace-Seeking Incense.

Even if one person fails, if enough people try, someone’s bound to land it.

Then they’d all swarm in and take him down.

After that, they’d get the information they needed—who he was, what his goal was, and if he had anyone working with him—and handle it properly to keep things quiet.

The plan was... a little sloppy. Not exactly rich in detail.

But for Qing, this level of planning was downright brilliant. Honestly, they should’ve been giving her a standing ovation.

“Um... excuse me, but...”

King of the Chair—no, Chair Wanderer Wang Nopil—spoke up hesitantly.

“If everyone suddenly drops out, won’t that raise suspicion? I mean, he’s made it all the way to the round of sixteen. Wouldn’t it be weirder if he didn’t take the pill? I just thought... not that I’m saying I will take it or anything...”

The end of his sentence trailed off into cowardly mutters, mostly because Qing’s aura had turned deadly.

“What, you’re saying you’re gonna take another Sleepfire Pill? What is this? Is this a death wish? You want me to beat the shit out of you?”

One more pill, and he’d go from “pitiful dumbass who got used” to “pitiful dumbass who keeps getting used.”

“What if... I got a different Sleepfire Pill somewhere else...”

“Then don’t bother asking me for permission. Use your own damn judgment. But if you’re running around Kaifeng trying to get your hands on another Sleepfire Pill, you really think people won’t notice? Better to let the bastard suspect the guy who splashed him than to make him think it’s weird you didn’t take the pill. Then he’ll come back to you anyway.”

Qing sighed deeply and left it at that.

****

Honestly, there was only one person she could even show the sketch to.

“Jegal Ihyeon, do you recognize this person?”

“Hmm. Is this some kind of test? Hmmm...”

Jegal Ihyeon stared at the sketch for a while, then suddenly snapped her fan shut with a loud clack.

“Oh? You recognize him?”

“No, I do not. Facial composites are rarely reliable to begin with. But I can say this—the style of this drawing is... unusual. The brushwork is strange. The artist’s lines are intriguing.”

Jegal Ihyeon was still technically a junior martial commentator.

If it had been a name or a title, she could’ve rattled off all the details. But identifying someone from a sketch? Not her strong suit.

“Then why the hell were you smacking your fan like you figured it out?”

“My lady, surely I’m allowed to smack my fan if I want.”

Jegal Ihyeon replied with a sunny smile.

Qing tilted her head.

What the hell? Is she messing with me?

Still, not enough to warrant a nuclear response. This was, after all, the infamous strategist of the Jegal Clan—its most promising, muscular prodigy.

To be honest, Qing wasn’t that desperate to find the one who spiked the pills.

It wasn’t like this was her lifelong blood vendetta or anything.

She just happened to spot some asshole doing something shady and figured, "Might as well track him down and kill him."

Also, she hated the idea of the Hidden Dragon Martial Tournament being tainted while she stood at the top.

So no, she wasn’t exactly on the edge of her seat waiting for the villain to show up again.

In the meantime, she focused on prepping for ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) her match, mingling with the paired-sword duelists, wearing demon silk, and enjoying the slicing pain against her skin.

And before she knew it, she was standing among the top sixteen.

Her opponent for the round of sixteen was someone Qing already knew.

“...A request... from Mount Hua...”

Now that she thought about it, it was Changbin—the guy who never once showed up when she invited him to Wucheon Pavilion.

Still, she considered him one of her few decent conversations among the women in the martial world.

Hadn’t seen him in a while... and it seemed like they were back to square one.

Qing snickered and gave a cheerful greeting.

“But hey, Changbin. Why is it that you haven’t once come by to pay respects to your elder? I specifically told you to stop by.”

There was a smile laced in Qing’s voice, and it helped ease some of the tension in Changbin’s face.

“T-That... it felt a little improper. Visiting a lady’s lodging and, well, rumors... you know, it just didn’t seem appropriate...”

Changbin fumbled through a muddled excuse.

To sum it up in one word?

“Not easy.”

“Ah. Sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

She hadn’t considered how fragile Changbin’s heart could be—how he turned into a complete coward the moment anything involved women.

If she’d stormed the Mount Hua guest pavilion and dragged him out, he probably would’ve come quietly. But inviting him over to hang out? There was no way a shy guy like Changbin was showing up on his own.

“Come on then. Let’s go.”

“Alright, comin’.”

Changbin barreled in, answering with speech that wasn’t quite polite or casual—somewhere in the middle.

Mount Hua’s “Hwa” uses the character for “flower.”

In Qing’s hometown, “Hwa” is usually written with the character for “shining,” but in ancient times, the characters for “flower” and “splendor” were used interchangeably.

In old Zhongyuan, “shining” didn’t mean glowing light—it meant so beautiful it left you dazed.

But the actual Mount Hua Qing saw?

Just a stupidly steep pile of rock.

It was infamous as the roughest, most brutal stone mountain in the land.

So calling that a “flower” meant the ancestors of Zhongyuan either had poetic souls or were blind as hell.

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So the swordsmanship of Mount Hua—what they called “the flower”—actually resembled a cliff’s edge. Sharp. Cold.

Changbin’s sword swayed gently, then suddenly—white-cold sword energy bloomed in bursts, scattering like exploding petals.

The sword energy drifted like flower petals on the wind. But the true essence of Mount Hua wasn’t in the pretty visuals—it was hidden in its brutal killing intent.

The sword, once gently curving through the air, suddenly dropped in a lightning-fast arc.

That graceful petal-blade? Total misdirection.

If you didn’t stay locked on his sword, your head would be gone in an instant. A chilling killing move.

Clang! Qing countered with force, snapping the lightning stroke in half.

She shoved the blade away, sending Changbin’s form fluttering like a wave.

Honestly... isn’t Mount Hua’s martial art kinda underhanded?

That’s what Qing thought as she faced him.

That flowing, fluttering movement—it was the Willow Flow Step, a Mount Hua technique she’d already gotten familiar with in previous matches against Changbin.

He moved like a swaying branch, but then—suddenly, he stomped down with weight and precision.

Mount Hua’s Seven-Step Form. Seven-Star Footwork.

Qing stepped back and bent her torso low.

Several strikes from the Plum Blossom Seven Petals Sword narrowly grazed her shoulder.

But the sword energy trailing behind those strikes whipped up violently toward her.

Mount Hua’s martial arts blurred the line between illusion and transformation.

The dazzling petals weren’t just meant to distract you—they were illusions and real blades. They stole your eyes while slicing your throat.

Qing’s iron sword finally flared in a wide arc, glowing like a crimson sun.

The fragile petals melted away in the heat of her dying sun, vanishing without a trace.

Changbin’s sword immediately changed again.

This time, his precise sword dance painted the reaching branches of a plum tree.

The sword energy left lingering marks in the air—that was Mount Hua’s signature. And this time, the blooming branches were reaching for Qing.

Hmm... she could almost see his pulse points.

Mount Hua’s swordplay was coming into clearer focus than ever.

That old man... it was the shadow of the Great Martial Sage of Wucheon, who once stood alone amidst a world overflowing with sword energy.

Everything clicked.

Qing’s basic Three-Element Sword strike pierced the plum branches like a bamboo shoot.

Changbin gasped and leapt back in shock.

“How—?”

Between formality and casual speech, some people just dropped sentence endings altogether. Changbin’s voice landed right in that space.

Qing didn’t bother hiding her smirk.

“Pretty good, right? Come on, try harder.”

“Alright, then... let’s go!”

Changbin rushed in again, a grin spreading across his face.

Say what you will—he was still a martial artist.

And the moment he could go all out with everything he had? That was when he was happiest.

The arena exploded in petals—raining, swirling, rising again like an out-of-season spring breeze in late May.

And at last, Changbin halted.

He pressed his fists together and gave a deep, respectful bow.

“Whew. I lost.”

He’d unleashed all seven forms of the Seven-Petal Plum Blossom Sword, and all fourteen of the Fourteen Petals. Changbin looked satisfied.

“Victory goes to the Divine Maiden Sect disciple, Ximen Qing!”

This time, the cheers came pouring in.

Of course they did—this wasn’t just any duel. It was a sparkling, gorgeous clash of internal energies.

Changbin already knew Qing’s skill level, so he hadn’t even tried to hold back—he’d gone all in from the start. And Qing had answered with her own sword energy.

For regular spectators, there was nothing like watching two top-tier experts go at it with clear, stylized sword energy. You only got that kind of show at tournaments like this.

And Mount Hua’s martial arts were always over-the-top beautiful.

Sword Girl in Mourning Robes! Sword Girl in Mourning Robes! Sword Girl in Mourning Robes!

It was a chant of celebration, though the wording...

It was the same nickname as before, but this time the tone felt almost affectionate.

Not that Qing cared much back then—or now.

As she leapt off the main stage into the hallway below, Changbin hesitantly walked over.

“Um... Miss Ximen? Doesn’t it bother you? I mean, covering up that face. You really don’t need to...”

“It’s not like I’m trying to hide it. But come on—wouldn’t it be super awkward to suddenly go, ‘Surprise! I’ve been gorgeous this whole time!’”

“Well... yeah, I guess that’d be awkward.”

“Seriously though. If you’re gonna talk casually, just talk casually. If not, then don’t. Why keep tiptoeing around it?”

“But, I mean... you’re kind of, well, technically my senior, so casual speech feels kinda, uh, disrespectful, maybe not totally wrong, but still... yeah, not easy...”

Changbin was caught in a delicate emotional crisis.

He didn’t want to speak formally, but he also couldn’t bring himself to drop honorifics completely.