Chapter 308: The Fire in Chang’an (10)

There were ranks even in the world of assassins.

Surprisingly, assassination requests weren’t that common in the Central Plains.

Because if someone really wanted to kill someone, they’d just go ahead and kill the bastard, then run.

That was the end of it.

The Central Plains were vast—once someone ran, they couldn’t be found.

And if the dead man happened to be some no-name commoner, the authorities wouldn’t even pretend to investigate.

So you didn’t even need to run far.

That’s why the Zhonghua people were descended from a wild-blooded line that didn’t think "I want to kill him," but rather, "I’ll kill him and vanish."

Only when one didn’t want to run, but still had someone to kill, did they bother hiring someone else.

Those clients were the entry-level types.

Entry-level requests didn’t require real assassins.

If the target was a regular citizen, there were plenty of ruined lives willing to kill for free—failures from gambling dens, swindled debtors with tragic sob stories.

If not for Qing, Naknyeong would’ve seen plenty of them too.

But if the target looked like they had money, or if the request clearly wasn’t for killing an average commoner, the job went to the Silver-grade level.

The room Qing had entered was Silver-grade.

Then came Gold-grade.

That was when real assassins got involved—professional killers whose full-time job was murder.

Jobs handled by assassin organizations that controlled a region. Expensive work.

And above that was Special-grade. But there were no public reception windows for those.

Because Special-grade clients were decision-makers at major trading houses, high-ranking officials, or the heads of regional martial offices.

They didn’t come to you—you went to them, made introductions, established relationships. No need for windows.

From Qing’s perspective, there was no way that information was worth more than a single silver.

This kind of assassin ecosystem trivia? If Zegal had been here, he’d have been babbling about it just to kill time.

Mm. A shame.

But if you can’t pay for your own life, you can’t save it either.

And the more she heard, the more disturbingly systematic it all sounded.

Just how long had these murder-for-hire bastards been around to get this organized?

Crime of insolence. Sentence: death.

As a result, the two thugs kneeling and trembling in fear pissed themselves.

“Ugh. Gross. You’re grown-ass men—what’s with the public urination? Actually, wait. This is indoors, so it’s indoor urination?”

“S-Spare us! Please! We’ll live good lives from now on, we swear!”

“Hmmm. Fine. Live a good life. Since you say you’ll live a good life, I’ll let it slide this once. But there won’t be a second. Got it?”

“Yes! Yessir! We’ll live righteously!”

Really, they ought to have been complaining, not feeling grateful.

Both of them had fallen just short of perfect failure scores.

Ugly mugs, sure, but they hadn’t done anything too vile—mostly just stood there playing scenery.

“Didn’t seem like truly evil guys to me, so I let you off.”

“Yessir!!”

“Th-Thag yew berry mush!!”

Their teeth were chattering so hard the pronunciation was a mess, but upon hearing they’d be spared, they dropped from kneeling to full-on prostration.

Qing knocked on the door.

From outside came the sound of thugs unlocking the latch and swinging open the iron door.

Among the bits of intel bundled in the “price” was that the room was soundproof.

Sure enough, it was only after the door opened and the stink of blood and piss wafted out that the guards outside turned pale.

One hundred twenty-one. One hundred seven.

Barely—but still passing.

She had no weapon, but Qing’s body was already beyond human—a walking weapon in and of itself.

Right hand, Girl’s Delight. Left hand, Ice Demon Force.

Two techniques from the Ten Great Demonic Arts, both executed from one body—an unbelievable sight.

Mm. The grip feels a bit better with Ice Demon Force.

Wait—was it from the left? Or the right?

As she was wondering which direction they’d come from, Seol Iri gently tugged on Qing’s sleeve to guide her.

An unexpectedly helpful Seol Iri.

With every step Qing took down the underground corridor, corpses lined the way—either guards or patrols.

Though, a few were still alive.

“Ah. Shhh. No, wait—tsk. Gunyeong, don’t. Not him. Let him go. He’s one we’re sparing.”

Seol Iri, who had been gleefully punching some thug’s face bloody like she was enjoying herself, looked over at Qing in confusion.

Also... why was she punching people instead of using her Ice Technique?

“Shhh. He’s fine. That guy bites. No, hit him.”

“Yes.”

She never argued, just followed instructions obediently. So cute.

Unless she was being stubborn, Seol Iri generally followed orders well.

“I don’t like being called ‘Gunyeong.’”

—And there’s the rebellion.

Still, Qing figured the girl had mellowed out a lot.

Before, she would’ve snapped, “Don’t call me that.”

There was a huge difference between “Don’t call me that” and “I don’t like being called that.”

“We’re using fake names right now. Just bear with it a bit.”

“You said Gunyeong, not Gun-yeong.”

“It’s hard to pronounce. Gu Nyeong. See? That better?”

“You said Gunyeong again.”

Suddenly, Qing felt mischievous.

Her way of doting on others—especially animals—was always on the mischievous side.

But seriously, wasn’t it just too perfect?

In a group, the weakest one is always the ‘hole.’

Gunyeong really was a hole in every sense—an embarrassment in every department.

She wasn’t just any hole. She was a prime hole.

A disgrace of a beauty, even if she looked stunning.

If only her face wasn’t so much Qing’s type...

“It was supposed to be a cute nickname. Gunyeong. Isn’t it adorable? Can’t I just call you that?”

Seol Iri thought for a moment before answering.

“I still don’t like it.”

“Why? Gunyeong. It’s cute.”

“Not even a little.”

“It is to me. Doesn’t that count?”

“...Still don’t like it.”

She was hesitating a little—Qing could probably push harder and win.

But she seemed genuinely displeased, so Qing decided to leave it there.

And thus, Qing advanced through a path carved in blood.

Normally, the term “carving a path in blood” meant creating a road at the cost of one's or one's allies' blood.

But here, even if it was the enemy’s blood, a blood-soaked hallway was still a bloody path.

Then, as she turned a corner—

There it was.

A dazzling golden door, exactly as described.

She recalled the words of that now-deceased receptionist—“You’ll know it when you see it.”

And yeah. She definitely knew.

The guards in front of the golden door, seeing the two blood-drenched women, immediately shouted,

“Who the hell are you bitches?!”

“It’s me!”

“INTRUDE—”

One of them immediately reached for his throat and yanked a cord, pulling something out at the end of it.

Qing, seeing its shape, instantly kicked off the ground like a cannonball.

Her palm flashed, trailing a streak of dim silver as it cut through the air—

Guk!

The man looked down in disbelief.

Right at his solar plexus—where Qing’s pale wrist had driven deep into his flesh.

But Qing didn’t care.

She yanked the whistle off the man’s neck.

A tiny, black whistle.

Just the size of two knuckles.

“Wow. This thing. Yeah. I remember now. The moment I saw it, it all came back.

God. The memories. And none of them are good.”

Qing had a trauma about whistles.

Whistles blowing from every direction like she was some kind of animal to be herded—filthy memories.

And here it was again. That whistle. From that day.

“Khuh!”

Another man was fumbling for his necklace.

Qing quickly threw the whistle in her hand.

“ACK!”

If she’d had time, she would’ve aimed for the eye—but in her rush, it ended up hitting his forehead instead—SMACK!!

The impact was incredible for something the size of two knuckles.

The guy’s head snapped back violently.

At that moment—

She heard a whooshing sound and felt silver hair brush her cheek.

A frigid wind bloomed from Seol Iri’s shoulder.

White frost blazing like fire swirled into the form of a dragon, shaking off crystalline scales as it wrapped around her arm.

Then, BOOM!

A refreshing explosion rang out as Seol Iri’s palm struck the enemy’s chest—

And the frost dragon drilled into the man’s body.

Whoa. What the hell? That was cool as shit!

Qing forgot to even pull her hand out of the first man’s chest, letting out an involuntary “Ohhh.”

A beauty flying alongside a frost dragon and striking her enemy—it was a picture of peak badassery.

If it were winter or raining, maybe she’d have seen this ice dragon before.

But the last time she saw Seol Iri in action, the girl had only run away, gotten her hair pulled, and been dragged around like a dog.

Qing had appreciated her mental vengeance via feeding her limbs to snowcones...

But as a martial artist, she’d been worthless.

And now—our Seol Iri?!

“Guh!”

The man hit by the Ice White Palm staggered backward, not from the chill, but from the raw impact.

Then, from Seol Iri’s other shoulder, another frost dragon appeared—

Her left palm struck forward again, slamming into the enemy’s solar plexus.

CRACK.

The sound was so sharp it was visible.

The guy collapsed, chest caved in, vomiting blood.

Wait... Isn’t this supposed to be Ice Technique? Shouldn’t he be freezing, not getting his ribs shattered?

“Ghh...”

A groaning sound broke Qing’s thoughts.

Ah. Right.

She suddenly yanked her Girl’s Delight hand out of the man's chest.

The man had been desperately clinging to her wrist, but against the sheer physical strength of a female war god at the peak of humanity, he never stood a chance.

“Wow. Iri. Just now? You actually looked like a martial artist. That was badass. Kinda changed my view of you. Just a little.”

“...?”

Seol Iri tilted her head.

“An actual martial artist? Then until now—?”

“Okay okay, that’s enough. So that’s the Ice White Palm? Damn, it’s cool. Why are there dragons? If I use Tathagata’s Palm, will a Buddha pop out?

Honestly, I’m kinda jealous. No wonder they call it divine technique.”

A faint smirk curled at Seol Iri’s lips.

To the Qing who specialized in raising Iri, that expression said it all—smug satisfaction.

And Qing wasn’t just flattering her.

Seeing it with her own eyes, she really was jealous.

Damn. That was cool.

Not sure what the frost dragon actually did, but who cares if it looks that awesome?

Maybe the technique’s power just didn’t come through since Iri’s internal energy was only first-class level?

“Can you show me again?”

“Yes.”

With a whoosh, Seol Iri summoned tiny frost dragons—

Cute little ones that swirled around her arms, twirling up her fingers before fading like mist.

“It’s supposed to be an ice dragon. But the weather’s too warm.”

She didn’t blame her pitiful internal energy—just the temperature.

Just as she was about to say something, Qing cut in.

“Mmm. Show me again later when we’re back. Let’s finish this first.”

And with that, Qing shoved open the golden door.

Inside, a Gold-grade receptionist was reclining with both feet up on the desk and arms behind his head.

He jumped in surprise.

So much so that he fell off the chair.

Guess the room was soundproof—he’d had no idea his comrades outside were being slaughtered and had been dozing off.

At the same time, two men who had been standing behind him with arms folded lunged at Qing.

They moved so fast that, by the time the receptionist hit the floor, her entire field of vision was already full of enemies—

as if they’d burst straight from the earth.