Chapter 300: The Fire in Chang’an (2)

When a bone cracks, it really, really hurts.

If you so much as bump into something, the breath gets knocked right out of you and your whole body just goes limp.

To give you an idea—if your ribs are cracked, even just breathing hurts so bad that your eyes start watering, and once you realize crying makes it worse, you just let the tears stream silently down your face.

So if she’s got cracks in her arms and legs all over, it makes sense Seol Iri’s been hobbling around like a centenarian or a terminal patient.

But still—going around like that without even a single complaint, lips sealed tight—that’s seriously impressive. Makes you wonder if she’s even human.

“You were walking around like that? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Yes. A little.”

She’s surprisingly obedient when asked to answer one thing at a time.

Yes to the walking around part, and only “a little” to the pain.

But if there’s not a single bone intact in her limbs, and her muscles are just barely holding on short of completely melting, how the hell can it only hurt a little?

Then the thought struck—

Right, wasn’t this the same girl who didn’t even wake up when her forehead was burning in her sleep?

“Is that another side effect of binggong? Dull pain perception?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“But you were hobbling because it hurt, right?”

“No.”

Then what the hell for?

Qing waited for her to continue.

But nothing came.

“Miss Seol. Normally, that’s the part where you explain why you were shuffling around like a centenarian. ‘No’ isn’t a full answer.”

“Moving slowly helps me heal faster.”

Hmm. Qing tilted her head.

For someone claiming it didn’t hurt much, she sure looked like she was in pain.

Sure, she was up and walking, but hadn’t she been trembling just trying to lift her spoon?

Saying she moved slowly to heal faster sounds plausible when you hear it, but people generally go back to their usual habits the moment the pain’s not unbearable anymore.

Of course, Qing wasn’t one to let suspicion slide.

So she raised a finger and gave Seol Iri’s side a sharp poke.

If she really wasn’t in pain, she wouldn’t react. But if she was, and just holding it in, then one good jab should show the truth.

“Kkyaak!? H-hhkk...! Hhup... hhrrk...!”

Seol Iri flinched violently and recoiled.

Naturally, every muscle in her body spasmed all at once, and she started choking and gasping like she was dying, doubled over and unable to breathe.

Cold sweat poured down her face in an instant.

Qing narrowed her eyes.

“You are in pain. You can’t even breathe right now.”

“Hkk, nghk, I-it’s bearable. Hhhup.”

“No, it’s not. If it hurts, you should say it hurts. Why are you trying so hard to hide it?”

“It doesn’t.”

She listens so well one moment and then gets impossibly stubborn the next.

“Doesn’t, huh? Want me to poke you again?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Did you just say yes? You really want me to?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Qing let out a deep sigh.

She’s basically half-dead, and yet she’s still saying go ahead and poke me. What the hell is wrong with her?

“At this rate, you won’t even be able to walk around.”

“That’s not true.”

“Whatever. We’re staying in the city anyway, so just rest for now. Get your clothes off so I can apply the medicine.”

“Yes.”

And then she starts tugging at her clothes, groaning and stumbling like she’s climbing a damn mountain.

Qing watched for a moment and sighed again.

“Ugh. Just stay still already.”

****

Qing had only meant to stay until Geol Taran tracked down the key engineer for the reconstruction.

But once she’d stayed a bit, there was no turning away.

The city was a wreck, hands were short, and what she thought would be helping for just a few days turned into staying put to assist properly.

Qing’s brute strength had already passed the bounds of human capability.

Add her supreme martial prowess on top of that, and she was doing the work of thirty men all on her own.

If she just disappeared, it’d leave a massive hole.

Besides, Seol Iri was in no condition to do anything.

So might as well go all in. Finish helping here, head to Chang’an to wrap up things with Jangheung Sangbang, swing by Zhongnanshan and Mount Wudang, then head home.

Sichuan... honestly, that’s a bit far.

It’s already hot here—Sichuan will be even worse.

So during her time in Naknyeong, Qing’s days were packed.

Wake up in the morning, splash some water on her face, drag Seol Iri out and wipe her down, then breakfast.

This useless, helpless girl couldn’t even eat properly on her own.

Her hands were shaking like mad, and it was clear she was pushing through the pain.

Qing counted to see how she was doing—ten full seconds just to lift a spoon to her mouth, and another ten to scoop up a bowl of porridge.

Chopsticks? Completely out of the question. She couldn’t eat any dishes or side items—just porridge and soup.

Left alone, she’d be eating straight into lunchtime, then just keep going into lunch.

So what choice was there? Qing had to feed her.

At least she didn’t complain about the food, didn’t fuss about the temperature, and opened her mouth like a little baby bird whenever food came her way—cute in its own way.

Honestly, if it weren’t for that face of hers, Qing would’ve dumped her corpse in a ditch somewhere a long time ago.

But nooo, her face had to be Qing’s type, and just seeing her made her damn heart melt...

After feeding her, Qing would head out to the flood recovery site.

Digging up corpses, clearing debris, laying new foundations, and raising beams.

At noon, she’d come back to the Sangbang, eat lunch, feed lunch, rest a bit, and go right back out to help with recovery through the afternoon.

If it didn’t rain, it was rebuilding.

If it rained, she’d be digging drainage ditches, blocking and redirecting water—honestly, it was tougher when it rained.

And the damn rain still came down hard from time to time.

When the sun set, she’d come back, bathe, and wash Seol Iri, too, since she’d be drenched in sweat just from doing nothing.

Last time she let her bathe alone, she disappeared, and when Qing went looking, she found her floating in the bath, too weak to get out, all swollen up in cold water.

Then came the ointment, then fresh bandages.

And only after that, dinner.

Feed dinner, eat dinner, think maybe now she can finally lie down—

Then the old man shows up to be a damn nuisance.

“Aigoo, my eyes are going with age. Good, good, you’re stitching well. I thought you were just some musclehead brute, but turns out you’ve got nimble hands.”

Qing’s always had a weakness for old folks.

Especially ones with high karmic merit—those, she can’t say no to.

And this old man? He was no ordinary case.

Turns out he was a famous doctor, known as the Great Langjung.

Langjung meant wandering doctor.

And among wandering doctors, ninety-nine out of a hundred were quacks. No skills, no place to settle, always running from the backlash of their botched treatments.

So “Langjung” was a slur just as much as a title—meant charlatan, fraud.

But this one was the one-in-a-hundred exception.

The Great Langjung.

He only showed up in cities ravaged by plague or great disaster, practicing medicine free of charge—hence “Great.”

So Qing ended up playing nurse—a role not even in her fate line—and would pass out from exhaustion, only to wake up to another morning.

Then she’d wash up again and scrub Seol Iri’s face clean, since the girl just stared at her water basin with trembling hands.

Then back to reconstruction.

“Lady Cheon’s here!”

“Aigoo, Lady Cheon, thank you so much!”

“Wow! Lady Cheon! Lady Cheon!”

The local brats were singing her name as they ran after her.

Every damn person in Naknyeong was bowing, rubbing their hands, praying to her the moment they saw her.

She was basically a walking, talking shrine.

But it made sense.

From the townsfolk’s point of view, a stunning beauty had descended out of nowhere—feeding them, bringing in doctors, rebuilding their homes, and casually tossing around logs bigger than grown men.

She was nothing less than a heavenly goddess.

A seonnyeo is basically a fairy’s maidservant, and a cheon-nyeo is a female immortal—so the way people were calling her “Lady Cheon-nyeo” was the kind of reverence where, if she claimed a donkey was a horse, they’d believe her.

Well—maybe not believe, exactly. But if Lady Cheon-nyeo said it was a horse, they’d nod and start calling it one.

At first, when she started helping out, they all called her whatever came to mind—miss, young lady, warrior-nim, nari, each person with their own title.

But after she conducted the joint funeral and a makeshift heavenly rite, it was suddenly “Lady Cheon-nyeo” from everyone, as if they’d all agreed on it in advance.

Frankly, it was kind of embarrassing, because the cheon-do ritual had been half-assed at best.

Qing was technically part of the Daoist sect, and had assisted Ximen Surin with enough memorial rites to fake it convincingly.

She just did what she remembered: burned some ghost money, recited a few incantations, waved her sword around in a makeshift ritual dance, and sent the souls off with a sloppy “rest in paradise.”

But the townspeople didn’t know that.

And in truth, funerals were for the living.

What good would a ritual do the dead who’d already passed on?

So, two weeks passed.

It’s astonishing what people can get used to.

Qing was now a junior carpenter.

And not just in name—Naknyeong’s master carpenters personally vouched she’d surpassed the skill level of any regular craftsman.

Once she learned how to join wood without nails, she was cranking out ladders, chairs, and bedframes like nothing.

Not even hammering.

When she sliced timber with her Sword Aura, it went shwick, and her inhuman strength slotted the pieces together so cleanly, there wasn’t even a need to hammer—it just slid in place.

And still, they were calling her a junior.

Apparently the carpenter’s path was no joke...

She’d also gotten used to playing the healer.

Stitching wounds, splinting limbs, basic care—she could do it with her eyes closed.

And with her keen senses and dexterous hands, it really was like doing it with her eyes shut.

Not that the old doctor gave her any slack—he kept scolding her for being green.

The path of medicine, too, was long and full of thorns.

From a patient’s perspective, from the words of the Great Langjung himself, she learned just how hard it was to truly save someone.

So she found herself, night after night, flipping through medical scrolls, telling herself she’d read just a few pages... and then a few more.

And on that same note, she’d gotten used to caring for Seol Iri.

Now she could wipe Seol’s face without soaking her whole collar, work up a good lather with byeokgam (that old primitive soap), scrub her down till squeaky clean, and not leave a single trace of foam behind.

At night, she’d carry her in, wash her, dry her off, reapply medicine, change bandages, then feed her dinner...

A pain in the ass, sure, but a fulfilling one.

There’s that warm feeling you get from caring for a wounded animal and watching it slowly open up to you—a classic tearjerker, certified by countless tales from Qing’s hometown.

At some point, Seol Iri’s eyes began to soften just slightly when she looked at Qing, her greetings started coming first when Qing returned, and...

Just three days ago, she’d leaned into Qing’s shoulder on her own.

It was pure, undiluted emotion.

This was the same girl who used to pitch a fit about sleeping in the same room, who couldn’t bear skin contact, who’d grumble about the heat and ask her °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° to move away—

the one who used to grumble once an hour about things Qing had no intention of ever doing.

Now she was leaning in on her own?

That’s not a personality shift—that’s a full-on metamorphosis.

And now, a full month in—

Qing, by now, expertly washed, dried, and applied ointment while checking Seol Iri’s condition.

Martial artists healed faster than average, and according to the Great Langjung, Seol Iri had gotten banged up in a very “well-distributed” way, with no one critical part taking a direct hit.

Her bones were probably all fused back together by now, and her bruises had faded into a light, dull brown.

“Looks like there’s just a little bruising left, so starting tomorrow, no more ointment.”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Let’s go eat dinner?”

“Yes.”

Seol Iri looked at Qing and opened her arms.

Qing picked her up with practiced ease.

She had become completely used to caring for Seol Iri.

And Seol Iri had gotten pretty used to it too.

When Qing wiped her face in the mornings, she blew her nose on cue, clung to her naturally when picked up, shifted positions automatically when bathed so she was easy to wash—

really, they’d gotten into a seamless rhythm.

So Qing, used to taking care of her, found that Seol Iri was getting easier and easier to care for.

“Wait.”

Wasn’t this something she shouldn’t be getting used to?

And wasn’t Seol Iri someone she shouldn’t be getting used to either?

“Miss Seol? You shouldn’t be in pain anymore, right? No—since it’s just bruises left, it probably stopped hurting a while ago?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Wha—”

“Oh.”

Seol Iri let out a little “oh” of realization, as if just now understanding something.

Oh, my ass.

This was why familiarity was so terrifying.

When you get used to something, it starts to feel natural.

You keep doing it mindlessly, and before long, forget why you even started.

Hadn’t Qing once been on the other end of this?

Back in the Demonic Cult, when she’d faked a crippled leg, her adopted sister had dressed her, bathed her, carried her, tucked her in—done everything.

And now Qing snapped back to her senses.

Wait—why am I doing carpentry again?

Why was I happy to be certified as a junior carpenter?

And medical study?

Why the hell was I naturally lighting a lamp each night and reading medical texts like it was a normal thing?