Chapter 309: The Fire in Chang’an (11)

Qing did not see the world with sight alone.

Thanks to the awakened core’s divine art, she could read the flow of air through her skin, perceiving a narrow range all around her body with touch alone.

The assassin’s movements—his daggers striking up and down—registered within her sensory field.

Two blades were aimed at her neck. And then, two more.

It was as if the assassin had fused with another, two more hands emerging tightly from beneath his armpits.

Those extra blades shot toward her lower abdomen and her right flank.

It was an impressive composite technique, like a four-armed assassin thrusting four blades all at once.

A precise attack targeting nothing but vital spots—the neck, lower abdomen, and spleen.

But Qing had only two hands to defend with.

Still, two were enough.

She raised her left hand to guard her throat, tensing her abs at the same time. Hup!

Qing had already surpassed human limits in bodily resilience. Having cultivated her internal defense against bitter cold, she had reached a state of no-self—automatic defense.

As long as she blocked her vulnerable nape, which couldn’t be protected by inner defense alone, the rest... she’d just let it come.

Finally, the cold, blue edge of the dagger pricked.

A finely honed blade stopped against Qing’s palm. The two daggers aimed at her abdomen couldn’t pierce her abs either, halting with nothing more than shallow scratches.

And Qing still had one hand left.

Her elbow drew back, fingers extended straight—then she drove a flawless stroke forward, a single stab.

Iligwanji.

One principle pierces through all.

Despite the grand name, it was merely the third form of the Three Elements Sword.

By Qing’s standards, the Three Elements Sword was third-rate among third-rates—low-tier, barely a Class Nine technique. So it was unreasonable for Iligwanji to pierce “everything” in a single move.

But it could pierce through two people at once.

She drove through well-trained abs, then soft, jiggling visceral fat, past the internal organs that brushed against her palm and knuckles, and out through the flesh of their backs—Wah! One more time! And those abs again!

Truly, it was a joy of one stone, two birds; one strike, two corpses; one thrust, two kills—a double-play delight.

The assassins were mortified.

Their daggers had been blocked by a palm, couldn’t even pierce abs—and yet Qing had pierced both of them with her bare fingers.

If they were that upset, they should’ve used qi.

That’s the rule—if you’re bitter, get stronger.

One might say they simply hadn’t put in enough effort to reach transcendence.

“Haah.”

Qing couldn’t help it—a bit of joy over her double kill slipped out.

But it wasn’t over yet.

She raised her arm horizontally, lifting the men skewered on her fingers in a single motion.

Lifting the weight of two grown men one-handed—an absurd strength that could uproot mountains.

Humans are naturally heavier on top, so the assassins’ bodies tilted downward.

Perhaps instinctively, the assassin grabbed Qing’s shoulder to brace his body from tipping further.

The one in front had something to hold onto. The one in back, skewered from behind, had nothing—so he instinctively wrapped his arms around the one in front.

The weight of both ended up clinging to one man.

Thus, the bodies flipped—two heads dangling downward, and between their legs, the collector finally showed himself, rising from the floor.

Qing curled her hand like a claw and let her arm fall. The man in the back hit the floor with a thunk, followed by the one in front.

Once the two men slipped off her arm, two ropes of intestines dangled from her grasp, unspooling across the bellies of the collapsed bodies.

While she was at it, Qing tied the intestines together nice and tight.

Now they were bonded by innards—a connection more intimate than blood, perhaps the closest physical bond two people could ever share.

Qing turned to the collector with a triumphant smile.

Now what?

Even after seeing that, will you still charge at me with resolve?

Or cry for revenge over your comrades?

Or maybe beg for your life?

Too bad—your karma’s too dark for mercy.

But the collector did none of the three.

With grim resolve, he pulled something from his robes and gulped it down.

“Now then, shall we—HEY!”

Startled, Qing stomped forward with explosive acceleration, Heavenly Demon Step style, and grabbed him by the collar.

“Keuk, I’ll be waiting for you in the afterli—GHUUUK!!”

It was meant to be a scornful last line, delivered with a smirk. But as Qing yanked on his jaw, he couldn’t stop himself from screaming.

Qing didn’t care for last words.

With practiced ease, she dislocated his jaw, then shoved her long, pale, elegant fingers deep—deep—into his mouth.

“Ghk—ugh—GUUAAHH—UUUUGHK!”

The dry heaves escalated. Qing sensed the trembling deep within—the prelude to vomiting—and quickly withdrew her hand, tossing the collector aside.

The poor man collapsed and puked out everything inside.

Qing grimaced. Ugh. Gross.

She spotted a teapot on the desk and, figuring he could use a rinse, lobbed it in a graceful arc toward his head.

Clatter. Glass shattered, tea splashed across him. He looked slightly cleaner.

“What, you think a suicide attempt makes you noble? Trash who live off devouring people clinging to loyalty and honor unto death? Give me a break.”

“Keugh... y-you... who the hell are y—”

“The guy who tried to kill himself sure is loud. Listen, buddy. If you’ve got the guts to die, use them to live. No matter how painful or hard it is, grit your teeth and live through it.

Of course, I’ll make you wish you were dead, but that’s no excuse to give up. Hang in there through sheer willpower.”

“...?”

“You know what happens when you flip the word ‘suicide’?”

Qing approached, placing a hand under his shoulder, asking and answering her own question.

“The answer is ‘murder.’”

“AAAGHH!”

She dislocated his arm at the shoulder, then his leg at the hip with a smooth, fluid motion.

Bones may pop out, but muscles and tendons remained intact—meaning he could still move, technically.

But the pain was blinding. When all four limbs are like that, the agony is enough to keep you from passing out, forcing you to scream until your throat gives.

“Tch. So noisy.”

Qing tore off his sleeve, twisted it roughly into a rope, and looped it from his dislocated jaw over the back of his neck, yanking it tight into a knot.

“Mmph—mmf!”

Might cut off his air if she blocked his mouth entirely.

This way, a little noise still leaked out—but not enough to be annoying.

She moved to grab his hair, then grimaced at the leftover vomit and instead grabbed his ankle.

With the leg already dislocated, the pain must’ve been excruciating.

But Qing had no intention of empathizing.

“First time I’ve seen someone try to swallow poison without hesitation. You know you’re gonna die, yet still cling to this trash life?

Come on, Gunya, let’s go.”

“You said Gunya again. It’s Gun-Yeong. Gun. Yeong.”

“Gunya and Gunya, phonetically, they’re the same. Liaison rule? Some kind of grammar thing.

But in my heart, I clearly pronounced it Gunya.”

Seol Iri narrowed his eyes.

Qing grinned, wiped her left hand on her waist, and held it out.

“Alrighty. Let’s go back. Here—hand.”

And Seol Iri obediently took her hand.

“But seriously, can’t I call you Gunya? It’s really cute.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Then how about ‘Hole-y’?”

A vein bulged on Seol Iri’s forehead.

He tried to pull his hand away, but Qing held on tight—so his hand just flailed uselessly.

“Oi. What’s with the tantrum? Don’t need my hand anymore, is that it?

Fine. I’ll let go.”

“No, no, no!”

“Good. That’s a good boy.”

Dragging a man by the ankle, heading back like a couple of kids after a fun outing.

****

When Qing dragged the collector back to the surface, his head thumping against the stairs on the way up—though that part was kind of funny—Choi Riong was waiting and clicked his tongue.

“Look at this mess. You’re like a foal fresh out of the womb.”

“Eh. I was pretty tame this time, honestly. This is clean for me.”

“Clean, my ass.”

Qing was offended.

It’s not like she bathed in blood or chopped any arteries this time. Just got a little splash on her face.

No blood dripping from her chin, no soaking her hair like usual.

Apparently prepared in advance, Choi Riong wiped Qing’s face gently with a warm towel.

It wasn’t just warm—it was soft, careful, like he was afraid of hurting her. It made Qing smile without realizing.

“Hehe.”

“What’s with that stupid giggle?”

“Come on, Grandpa. What dignity do I even have to uphold? Should I laugh all stern and solemn like this—huhu?”

“Hmph.”

Choi Riong might have wished she carried herself with more poise and gravitas, as the leader of the cult.

But he said nothing.

Then she felt it—a quiet gaze upon her.

Not just a gaze—there was a faint tightening of the hand holding hers.

“Keep him alive—we’ll question him later.

Also, got any more of those wet towels?”

“Anticipating this, I prepared extras.”

Taking a new cloth, Qing scrubbed Seol Iri’s face, who was gazing at her like a puppy waiting for snacks.

She wasn’t trying to be mean or rough.

It’s just—maybe now she understood why her mom used to scrub her skin raw during bath time.

“That hurts.”

He said that, but the subtle flick of his eyes told Qing, supreme tamer of Seol Iri, that he was completely pleased.

Still, what—no hands? No feet? Can’t clean your own damn face?

Back home, hungry, Qing scarfed down some midnight snacks like a starving pig, then headed down to the Sun and Moon Courier Guild’s basement.

“Might get a bit loud.”

“No need to worry, young lady. This warehouse—warehouse, yes—is perfectly soundproof.

Even if hundreds screamed at once, no one would hear a thing. Ha-ha.”

“Ooh.”

Then Qing tilted her head.

“Why’s a warehouse soundproofed?”

“Ah, well. Yes. That is... hmm. That is indeed a mystery. It’s always been that way. Even I don’t know. Ha-ha.”

“Hm.”

Always been that way, huh. Probably built for something shady.

But whatever—worked out for her.

In the basement, the warehouse manager of the Sun and Moon Courier Guild was feeling around the wall instead of using the perfectly fine door.

With a clunk, he opened a cleverly hidden iron door.

Damn—that thing was at least an inch thick.

Now Qing understood “perfect soundproofing.”

A normal person couldn’t even open something that heavy. No way sound could get through it.

“Wow. Secret vault.”

“This way, young lady.”

Lighting the lanterns on the wall, the warehouse manager held two in his hands, illuminating Qing’s feet—both of them. Twice as bright. And he walked backwards to lead her down.

Well, her feet were plenty lit, but still—why two lanterns?

“I’ll carry one.”

“No, no! This is my life’s joy!

Lighting the path for you, young lady, brings me immense happiness. Nothing else behind it—truly!”

Well, if he insists.

Thanks to his reverent lighting, she descended the stairs, down a long corridor, to yet another iron door.

Inside, the collector lay nicely strapped to a pedestal—secured and waiting.