Everyone carries within them the potential for change.
The range of that change can be extreme enough that a man might become a woman.
If that was possible, then martial arts could be changed too.
That was why Sirin had no qualms about applying the techniques she’d acquired in whatever way she pleased.
Utterly free of prejudice—or common sense—Sirin had cheerfully repurposed the Sun-Piercing Sword Art into a Star Killer Punch, and the Dragon-Subduing Eighteen Palms into a Beggar’s Kick.
Once you grasped the core principle, the applications came easily.
Pierce—concentrating all force into a single point, a fast and precise thrust that skewers clean through.
Unyielding Force—loading the full weight of the body into a strike, a heavy, crushing blow that destroys everything in its path.
So the third principle she’d acquired, Flow, could surely be used in other ways as well.
The Twenty-Four Plum Blossom Sword Art.
A sword art so fluid it seemed like watching a hallucination.
Like plum blossom petals scattering unpredictably in the wind, it was a current of endless variation that human logic simply could not keep pace with.
The human body carries an inevitable inertia called telegraphing.
The faint tremor of shoulder muscles before an arm swings, the lowering of the center of gravity before a body launches forward, the gaze locking onto a target before a thrust—all of it, unavoidable.
Masters read those split-second signals and predict the future.
But the Plum Blossom Sword Art broke every one of those rules as if laughing at them.
Because petals scattered by the wind cannot be predicted.
What looked like a downward slash became an upward cut; what seemed like a thrust suddenly reversed into a guard stance with the blade already withdrawn.
And yet every movement flowed without a single hitch.
Because petals scattered by the wind are never hindered.
That was why those who faced it fell into a delusion, as though they were seeing things.
It was inevitable.
When people witness something that defies their common sense, they don’t simply accept it.
They’d sooner distort their own memory.
‘That is not a movement a human being can produce.’
‘Did I see that wrong?
Yes—I must have seen it wrong.’
‘No, I couldn’t have seen it wrong.
I’m not wrong.
I have no fault.
There is nothing wrong with me!’
‘That woman is the problem.
That Witch made me see it wrong!’
‘It’s a hallucination.
A wicked sorcery!’
A variability so extreme it disrupts the opponent’s very perception.
In the end, the opponent loses their way before a tide of infinite possibilities and collapses under their own confusion.
Sirin had been curious what would happen if she applied this principle not to the sword, but to footwork.
Waltz of Flower.
The results were glorious.
The extreme dizziness sent Sirin thoroughly emptying her stomach that day.
Still, it wasn’t as though she’d gained nothing.
That day, Sirin learned how to use the Poison Elixir Core.
She had become a Hydralisk-human.
That was how Sirin had been growing—improvising, developing, and applying martial arts in her own idiosyncratic way.
But at some point, her growth had stopped completely.
The suffocating sensation of a massive wall blocking the path ahead.
No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t reach the level Bjorn had shown—heat shimmer rising from a blade’s edge—or Gordo’s, where bare fists could split boulders.
Come to think of it, in those wuxia stories, people would coat their blades with some kind of energy to cut through steel and do all sorts of things—but Sirin couldn’t even begin to imagine how that worked.
Thanks to that, Heres’s sword had ended up snapped in half.
‘They say an object follows its owner’s fate.
How tragic.’
Heres’s sword had broken against a rock.
Sirin was not the sort of person who blamed herself.
Anyway, if she couldn’t even properly use the martial arts she already had, what was the point of acquiring new ones?
[ Through reflection and insight, you have grasped the principles of martial arts with your mind! ]
[ You have partially fulfilled the acquisition conditions for the True Flame of Samadhi! ]
True Flame of Samadhi.
What, was it telling her to throw fireballs?
Sirin lifted the beer she’d ordered earlier and took a long pull.
“Haah…”
The carbonation hit first, then the alcohol climbed to her head.
But the buzz didn’t last.
Before the alcohol could even spread through her body, the Poison Elixir Core had already absorbed it on its own.
Sirin had become a body that could no longer get drunk.
Was this what it meant to master martial arts?
Losing small pleasures one by one in exchange for growing stronger?
‘Sword-obsessed monkeys, the lot of them.’
Sirin was mistaken about martial artists.
They could get drunk just fine if they wanted to.
They simply used their Inner Energy to drive the intoxication away afterward.
Yes.
The problem was Inner Energy.
Sirin didn’t know how to use Inner Energy.
She hadn’t even known such a thing existed.
And honestly, even if she had known, she had no master, so she wouldn’t have been able to use it anyway.
As long as Sirin couldn’t use Inner Energy, she was doomed to keep spinning in place.
That was why she hadn’t even crossed the threshold into the second tier.
But this was a fantasy world—a jumbled stew of ancient, medieval, and early modern, where magic, spirits, miracles, and blessings all coexisted.
And ⟨Using Martial Arts in Fantasy Land (Working Title)⟩ was a system that converted the magic, divine power, mysteries, and techniques of this fantasy world through the filter of wuxia.
It took certain properties of a source technique and transformed them into a martial arts form.
So surely, somewhere out there, there was a “source” that could generate the Inner Energy she lacked.
Sirin drained her beer in one go and stood up.
She needed to go to the guild.
What would create Inner Energy?
What had the most similar properties to “Inner Energy”?
The answer was obvious.
“A mage.”
#
The Adventurers’ Guild.
Just hearing the word “adventurer” might conjure up embarrassingly romantic notions—dreams, adventure, wanderlust—but the reality was a gutter.
A profession was supposed to be dull, repetitive, and stable.
In that sense, “adventurer”—a job that required risking your life every single day—was never a real profession to begin with.
In any properly functioning society, it would be impossible.
But this was a fantasy world, a jumbled stew of ancient, medieval, and early modern.
The Empire had expanded its territory recklessly, with no regard for its own capacity, and could no longer manage the resulting security demands.
The result was the remarkable spectacle of individuals wandering through cities carrying unlicensed weapons.
No license required to carry arms.
Which meant any Tom, Dick, or Harry could walk around armed.
And the place where every Tom, Dick, and Harry congregated was the guild.
Those who gathered at the guild were, as a rule, far removed from anything resembling a reasonable human being.
Guild receptionist Lina silently swallowed her tenth sigh of the day.
“Lina, do you have any idea what I dealt with yesterday—ugh—what I dealt with? These weren’t ordinary goblins. They were Goblin Warriors! Two of them, charging at me with spears at the same time—if I’d let my guard down for even a second, my heart wouldn’t be in my chest right now! I risked my life for the Empire, and for that kind of contribution, the minimum I deserve is…”
There was the man slurring through a tongue pickled in alcohol, inflating the capture of two small goblins into an epic saga.
“Hey, receptionist. You know who I am? I’m ‘Lionel the Flash’! Forget those pathetic kobold-hunting jobs—I could take down a wyvern’s nest. Give me a decent mission before my sword rusts, will you?!”
There was the greenhorn brandishing a sword bought from a blacksmith less than a week ago, proudly announcing a nickname he’d given himself.
“Shh! Lina, did you hear? That merchant caravan that disappeared in the eastern Empire. Everyone’s saying it was monsters. Naive fools. According to my intelligence network… this is the work of the Shadow Cult. They’re trying to awaken a forgotten god using the hearts of virgins… So about that—could the guild advance me fifty gold coins as operational funding?”
There was the conspiracy theorist inflating rumors he’d eavesdropped on at a tavern the night before.
“Lina! You be the judge of this! This quack—when the ogre was swinging its club, he used ‘Holy Shield’ on that archer woman instead of me! I almost died because of him! The reward should be split ten to zero in my favor. I suffered emotional trauma, so I should receive their share as compensation!”
And there was a specimen that defied all description.
Dealing with that sort of garbage was Lina’s job. Get faster updates on g.com.
—Creak.
The sound of the door opening turned heads.
When the adventurers saw who had entered, they fell silent as one.
Sirin stepped into the hall and tilted her head.
‘Unusually quiet today.’
She gave a small nod.
“Lucky me.”
Sirin thought it was luck, but it wasn’t luck at all.
It was the product of her ongoing work as a specialist in gender reassignment surgery.
Her reputation was climbing in real time.
The dream of opening her own practice was not far off.
The adventurers began whispering, very discreetly.
“Heard she got another one today. That wanted man, apparently…”
“Good lord…”
“Inhumane treatment. How could anyone do something so terrible…”
“I kind of want to experience it once…”
“What did you just say?!”
Short, unembellished sentences and sighs—distinctly un-adventurer-like—drifted from every corner of the room.
Sirin walked through the library-quiet hall toward the reception desk.
No one met her eyes, but gazes followed her relentlessly from the corners of eyes—pretending to nurse drinks, pretending to chat with companions—tracking her retreating figure with stubborn persistence.
Like herbivores who had wandered into a predator’s territory: fear and wariness tangled with a curiosity they couldn’t quite shake.
“Sirin!”
Color flooded back into Lina’s face.
As Sirin approached, the difficult customers in front of the desk hastily stepped aside.
Lina quickly pulled a sheet of parchment from the pile of documents.
“The confirmation just came in from the Imperial Army! The arrest of the ‘Five Bloody Fingers’ gang—confirmed! That’s incredible! How did you even find their hideout?”
Lina’s praise continued.
“At least twenty people were robbed and murdered, and there’s evidence that some of the missing children from nearby villages were sold into human trafficking by those people… They were truly the dregs of humanity. The Empire had them classified as a top-priority threat…”
Listening to Lina, Sirin felt something strange stir in her chest.
She shot back curtly.
“Hmph. It was nothing.”
Lina barely managed to suppress a smile.
One hand twisting her hair, one foot scratching the back of her calf.
Anyone could see it—the telltale squirming of someone trying to hide embarrassment.
“Sirin. Your ears are red.”
“Wh—what?!”
Sirin startled and clapped her hands over her ears.
“It’s because I had a beer on the way here! It’s hot out, and… the alcohol went to my head!”
An obvious lie.
Sirin’s Poison Elixir Core had already processed the alcohol long ago.
But Sirin was the kind of person who only needed to survive the immediate crisis.
Instead of pressing further, Lina smiled with softly curved eyes.
“Of course. Will you be collecting your bounty now?”
“…No. I’ll collect it later. Just confirm it for me.”
“I’ll do that.”
The guild also served as a vault.
The guild had been born to fill the administrative gaps left by the Empire.
For adventurers traveling through the Empire’s dangerous frontier lands, the Empire’s banks and official post offices were too distant and inefficient.
Naturally, the guild had become the adventurer’s bank, vault, and communication network.
Lina flipped through the parchment and said, “Sirin. One moment.”
She gestured for Sirin to lean closer.
A private matter.
“A request came in from the Pantheon, specifically asking for you.”
“The Pantheon?”
“Yes. They said they’d like to meet and talk…”
Sirin had conducted a few discreet transactions with the Pantheon in this city before.
The Pantheon priests seemed to dislike her, yet they occasionally sent requests her way like this.
Their attitude was grating and unpleasant, but the pay was decent enough.
As far as Sirin was concerned, she didn’t care how unpleasant they were as long as the money was good.
But right now…
“Not interested.”
“But the compensation is quite substantial…”
“Too much trouble. I’m tired. I’m exhausted.”
The crash hadn’t fully worn off yet.
She wanted to rest for a few days.
“Anyway, forget that.”
Sirin changed the subject.
Time to get to the point.
Her martial arts growth had hit a wall, and she needed a new breakthrough.
“I’m looking for a mage.”
“Pardon? A mage?”
Lina’s eyes went wide.
Why a mage, all of a sudden?
“Yeah. I was thinking of learning some magic.”
“You want to learn magic? Aren’t you already more than capable?”
“Self-improvement.”
“…Excuse me?”
Lina tilted her head at the unfamiliar phrase.
The more she learned about Sirin, the stranger she seemed.
Lina thought for a moment, then began rummaging through the pile of documents.
“Hmm… just a moment, please. Let me see if I can find someone suitable…”
Lina stood up.
She couldn’t recommend just anyone to Sirin.
She needed to find someone with a decent track record.
Sirin, bored almost immediately, wandered over to the guild’s notice board instead of waiting.
Wanted posters, extermination requests, and escort mission announcements were plastered across it in a chaotic mess.
Most weren’t official Imperial forms—they were scrawled by the guild in whatever hand was available.
Many were barely legible.
‘Barbaric, as expected.’
Civilization and penmanship were proportional, after all.
Sirin scanned the board from top to bottom.
[ URGENT! Wanted: Gilbert, ‘the Hairless Ogre’! ]
Description: Enormous muscular build.
Head as bare as a barren hilltop.
Crimes: Pillaging and arson across multiple villages.
Indiscriminate assault of anyone who mocks his baldness.
Note: Any remarks about his hair are strictly forbidden.
He reacts violently to words such as ‘chrome dome,’ ‘shiny top,’ and ‘rice paddy head.’ Exercise extreme caution when reporting.
“…”
Sirin was briefly at a loss for words.
The Empire was a barbaric nation that oppressed the rights of the follicularly challenged.
After all, the bald couldn’t even use a Travel Pass.
The oppressed had no choice but to rage.
Perhaps this Gilbert was a revolutionary.
His methods were a touch aggressive, admittedly.
Sirin silently cheered on Gilbert’s struggle and moved her gaze to the next notice.
[ Escort Recruitment: Widow Seeking Companion ]
Title: The noble and wealthy widow, Lady Evelyn, seeks a long-term escort knight (or adventurer) for a journey to her distant southern estate.
Requirements: Able-bodied male, ages 20–30.
Presentable appearance.
Strong conversational skills preferred.
Special note: Prone to loneliness at night.
Inquiries: Guild, 2nd floor, Room 3.
‘…They’re posting a host club recruitment ad like this?’
Sirin was speechless.
The sexual mores of this uncivilized fantasy land were far too permissive.
What on earth was the Empire’s censorship bureau doing?
Clearly nothing.
Then again, they were the perverts who’d stolen Sirin’s hair in the first place, so they had no room to talk.
Sirin was far too accustomed to the censorship of her homeland.
Censorship wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place.
She clicked her tongue and shifted her gaze sideways.
This time, a crudely drawn illustration caught her eye.
[ URGENT EXTERMINATION! The Obscene Mushroom of the Forest! ]
Type: A mushroom bearing an uncanny resemblance to the male anatomy.
Damage: Causes extreme humiliation and psychological distress to female adventurers.
Client: Anonymous Female Adventurers’ Alliance.
Reward: 30 copper coins and a heartfelt letter of gratitude.
“…”
What kind of world was this.
That such a creature was roaming free.
Even for an ancient-medieval-modern jumble of a fantasy land, this was utterly without dignity.
Sirin clicked her tongue and moved her gaze again.
It stopped at a worn piece of paper tucked into a corner of the board, half-buried among the other notices.
On it was a child’s portrait, drawn by an unskilled hand.
“…”
Sirin took the notice and brought it to Lina, who had returned to her seat.
“What’s this?”
“Ah, that one.”
Lina pointed to the parchment and said,
“It’s a missing child search request. They’ve been coming in much more frequently lately. Most of the children apparently have magical bloodlines or some kind of talent.”
“…”
Sirin silently read through the rest of the parchment.
Name, age, last known location, and a physical description.
—…Many freckles on both cheeks and nose.
“….”
Sirin’s mood soured sharply and without warning.
“….”
She turned around without a word.
“Never mind. I’ll find a mage later. I need to rest—I’m tired.”
“Pardon? Sirin?”
She left Lina’s bewildered voice behind and walked straight out of the guild.
The moment Sirin was gone, the guild erupted back into noise.
But Sirin had no attention to spare for the commotion at her back.
Freckles.
That one damned word had lodged itself in her mind and refused to leave.
Freckles.
Why did that word suddenly put her in such a foul mood?
It wasn’t her problem, obviously.
Sirin had skin like porcelain—not a freckle, not a blemish in sight.
So what was the problem?
Freckles.
Sirin walked with a scowl, trying to remember.
Where had she seen freckles before?
The adventurers passing near the guild swallowed hard and stole glances at her, but Sirin paid them no mind whatsoever.
Freckles.
What on earth was bothering her.
She retraced her memory as she walked.
The various receptionists she’d passed through at guilds.
The adventurers who’d occasionally asked her to join their parties or whatever.
No, not them.
Who was it.
“…”
Right.
There was that kid.
Freckles.
Vera.
Marta’s insufferable little daughter.
The girl who’d gotten angry at Marta for giving Sirin bread, saying it was embarrassing.
She should have told that brat about the mud facial for calming freckles before she left.
How else was the girl going to catch herself a decent man someday?
Vera’s freckles were absolutely relentless.
Damn it.
What a hopeless little brat.
She was probably driving her mother up the wall over those freckles right now.
Freckles.
Vera.
Marta.
“…..Damn it.”
She should have said goodbye before leaving.
Sirin turned on her heel and walked back into the guild.
She went straight to the reception desk and tapped the worn parchment she’d seen earlier with one finger.
“This one. I’ll take it.”
“Pardon? The missing child search?”
Lina’s eyes went wide.
She was going to take a request with almost no reward and almost no chance of success?
Before Lina could say anything, Sirin spoke first.
“You said she’s a mage? She can teach me in exchange.”
“But she’s still a child… wouldn’t it be better to find someone more experienced?”
“Hmph. She’s a kid. I can work her cheap for a long, long time.”
Human civilization advances linearly.
And throughout that process, child labor is a near-essential component.
Sirin intended to spread the enlightened practice of modern child labor and elevate this other world’s civilization by one more step.
Lina was taken aback.
“But Sirin, it’s not as though you’re short on money.”
“Hmph. It’s a recession. I need to save.”
In this barbaric, uncivilized fantasy land, one couldn’t go throwing money around without savings.
Sirin nodded, satisfied with her own airtight logic.
Lina smiled.
Sirin found that smile inexplicably irritating.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Nothing. I hope you work her as hard as you like.”
“Obviously I will.”
Sirin gave a curt nod.
“So how will you start? There’s almost no information to go on…”
Sirin crossed her arms, thought for a moment, then spoke.
“If I don’t have leads, I just poke around the places they’d come from.”
“Pardon…?”
“Contact the Pantheon. Tell them I’m accepting the request.”
Sirin nodded.
“All I have to do is make sure those people can’t keep their mouths shut.”