Chapter 334: The Showdown Between Man and Ximen Qing (2)

Man, being a fool, always repeats the same mistakes.

This means even when someone has already made and left behind those mistakes as lessons in history, their successors still fail to learn from them.

In that sense, one could argue the Green Forest bandits shouldn't be blamed for their foolishness.

After all, a mistake that was never passed down isn’t a real lesson.

It’s a blind spot—no ordinary person expects to get hunted in their own backyard.

You’d feel so wronged, you might go whining to a grim reaper on your way to the afterlife, yelling “Does this even make sense?!”

For the record, the Demonic Cult once tried this tactic for fun, but ended up crushed under their own hostage crisis and sighed their way into the sky.

At any rate, Qing was claiming her rightful rewards as the victor.

Of course, the Green Forest never treats their third-rate martial artists and bandits—who don’t even have proper techniques—with any real value.

Would-be young heroes who dream of becoming bandits always come knocking at mountain strongholds, so they’re seen as disposable.

Still, they are lives, so they weren’t sent in recklessly. Even if the terrain was already mapped out, the rookies were given enough to avoid coming back empty-handed.

At the very least, they were given three meals' worth of rations to survive until tomorrow.

“Mmm. The cook from this lot sucks too.”

Qing muttered to herself, biting into a rice ball wrapped in some broad, unidentifiable leaf.

Her body was twenty, but perhaps because of her roots, she’d recently started to hum and talk to herself like an old woman.

Every time she noticed, she tried to suppress it in surprise—but eating was different.

Meals deserved to be enjoyed.

They say jungles may look lush but are actually barren.

Where’d she hear that? Something she saw past a screen, probably.

Either way, it turns out mass media can’t be trusted.

This land? Barren? Get outta here.

Kill one bandit, get three rice balls.

She’d taken down three groups, and while the wrapping, flavor, and fillings varied, there was no such thing as “fun” in picking between them.

Let her run into those sorry-ass camp cooks again.

Calling this a rice ball?

What a disgrace to rice balls everywhere.

“Ugh, tastes like shit. Worst of the three.”

She kept stuffing the big, poorly made rice ball into her mouth anyway.

After all, food’s not at fault.

It was born with the original sin of having been made by a shit cook, sure—but Qing didn’t believe in original sin. So: not guilty. Bang bang.

She tossed some scraps to the dogs, who were panting with tongues lolling, drooling everywhere.

In the Central Plains, pets usually doubled as garbage disposals.

So even a shitty rice ball was wolfed down with loud, satisfied chomps.

Watching the dogs for a moment, Qing then turned her gaze toward the rest of the bandits' loot.

****

Before entering the martial world, Qing had come from a thoroughly class-based society.

She was born to a lower-class manual labor family.

And at some point, theater became a luxury reserved for the middle class and up, so the films Qing remembered were all old.

They were often interrupted by ads for funeral plans, bed upgrades, or home doctor visits.

One of them always played on the birthday of some twice-dead Western saint who claimed to be the son of heaven.

In it, a bratty little kid stayed home alone and defeated invading robbers with courage, traps, and wit.

But Qing could never understand why, after soloing all those enemies like a one-woman army, the story suddenly turned into a tearful plea about the importance of family.

Wasn’t it supposed to be a celebration of a child’s independence, adventure, and the destructive power of proper tools?

She didn’t know why that story came to mind now.

But Qing’s ability to act was world-class.

She was even qualified to earn day wages as a carpenter wherever she went.

And so, bandits were about to face the brutal justice of unfair traps!

Bandit Gap was leading the charge through the jungle, chasing the barking dogs—the sacred sign of glory: Ximen Qing.

Then something caught his ankle.

He tripped violently.

His palm stung from the fall, and then a stabbing ache bloomed in his solar plexus, upper stomach, and lower gut—like his intestines were twisting.

“Ughh...”

Why does my stomach hurt from falling? Oh god, my gut—

Just as he reached for it, a heavy wind sliced through the air just above his head, chilling his spine.

Bandit Eul was trailing behind his comrade Gap and watching his back.

Suddenly—bam!—Gap tried to hug the ground like his life depended on it.

He’d always nagged them to watch their step in the mountains, whacking heads whenever someone didn’t listen.

So Eul quietly felt a bit smug—serves him right.

But then, several sharp wooden spikes burst out of Gap’s back.

In an instant, the slapstick comedy turned into a horror story.

Just as Eul rushed forward to check on Gap—

SWOOSH!

A splitting sound followed by SPLAT!—

A log, swinging from above, impaled him horizontally through the chest.

He didn’t die instantly—his consciousness flickered for a moment, enough to realize what had happened.

And then—gone.

Byeong suddenly felt like he’d reached enlightenment—until Eul’s backheel smashed into his jaw midair.

He went flying.

“You bastard, what the hell is wr—”

“AARGH!!”

He didn’t finish.

Not because of Gap’s screaming, but because Eul—impaled, leaking bodily fluids—came hurtling back like a puppet, spraying gore.

Then—splurt! more fluids.

Then gone.

Then—splurt! again.

Eul went swoosh—splurt.

Byeong’s pants went drip drip drip.

Standing a few steps behind them, Jeong was frozen like a Buddha statue, not believing what he was seeing.

Then, far above, someone stood atop the flying log Eul was skewered to—perfectly balanced.

Jeong’s eyes followed the log soaring into the sky.

And just as it peaked and fell back, the person jumped off, landed WHACK on Byeong’s head—and stomped it flat as she came down.

Then she stood still, clenched her fists hard enough to tremble, and looked off into the distance before letting out a long sigh.

“Haah... Mmm. But this isn’t quite how I imagined it. Hey, Bandit Jeong.”

“Y-Yes, ma’am?!”

“Who else would I be talking to?”

“M-Maybe someone behind me, ma’am...”

Jeong looked back—and flinched.

His fourteenth brother and twenty-seventh little brother had been right behind him... but now, gone.

“They ran as soon as the screaming started. Smart move—quick thinking and bold action save lives. We missed Mu and Gi.

Anyway, Jeong—”

“I’m not actually Jeong—”

“Tsk. Do I need to know your damn last name?”

WHUMP. The log with Eul’s corpse rose into the air again.

Jeong panicked and shouted,

“Y-Yes! I’m Jeong, absolutely!”

“Good. Not gonna run?”

“Could I... even if I wanted to?”

“Sure. Mu ran that way, Gi ran that way. If you go either direction—”

She pointed.

“I’ll only chase one. So you’ve got a two-in-three chance of surviving.

Unless you’re planning to follow your bandit buddies—then I’ll pick whichever path lets me kill two at once.”

“I’ll go that way! That way!”

“Good. Leave everything you’ve got first. Out of kindness, I might prefer to chase in your direction less. Or give it lower priority.

Or something.”

“Here you go!”

Jeong took off his satchel and gently laid it down.

It had food, water, and gear to last until tomorrow in the jungle, but between that and dying—easy choice.

“Can I go now?”

“Yup. Run.”

Jeong bolted in the direction Qing had pointed, glancing back every few steps with that classic Is she following me? panic face.

You should be looking ahead, she thought. Oh—

Suddenly, Jeong sank into the ground.

Qing walked over.

He’d fallen into a pit about half a chang deep—and unfortunately, it was full of sharpened wooden spears.

So he now hovered in the air, skewered like a tragic kebab.

“Kugh... guhhrr...”

One must’ve pierced his lungs.

He tried to speak, but only blood bubbled out.

Qing clicked her tongue and tapped the side of her mask with a tok tok.

“See, this is what happens when people aren’t educated. You get led right into a trap and don’t even get suspicious.”

Her gesture and tone were oddly furious.

But with both lungs pierced, Jeong had lost the ability to speak—or survive.

“Mmh. Not how I pictured it.”

This wasn’t the mischievous little boy with antisocial tendencies and a house to protect.

This was more like a soldier, loyal to his country, driven mad by cold rejection and ridicule.

Though, thinking it over, maybe there wasn’t much difference between the two.

One’s for all ages, the other’s rated 18+.

But at their core, they’re both stories about a trap killer brutally murdering intruders.

The kid didn’t kill anyone, technically.

But he tied them up, tortured them, dropped heavy objects on them, laughed like a maniac—and loved every second.

Wasn’t that more vicious?

Honestly, the kid had the makings of a fine, righteous martial hero.

Anyway—traps? Not really Qing’s thing.

For one, no tactile satisfaction.

Other minor flaws: traps don’t move.

Your enemy has to walk into them.

Also, they take a ton of effort.

That pit trap? A real pain to dig.

Even with freakish strength, digging’s still tough.

The four dogs helped—thinking it was playtime—but c’mon. How much help is a dog?

Even four large ones?

Maybe one-thousandth of a Qing. Or one full Seol Iri.

The log trap’s better.

Hang it once, done.

Still annoying, though.

That said, tying some vines near ankle height and hiding spikes near tripping zones? Worth setting up.

Takes almost no effort. Vines are everywhere. Just break a branch in half and boom—two stakes.

Qing gave a cool, dispassionate critique of her own craftsmanship, then moved to loot the corpses.

Pulling out another rice ball, she chewed as she disappeared back into the jungle with a steady tak tak tak...

****

Of the six forward scout squads, barely a handful made it back to the temporary base at Goldmask Valley.

Not that they’d expected much.

They were third-rate at best, a few idiots with high ranks for no reason other than knowing how to handle dogs.

No big loss.

They were sent just to avoid total annihilation anyway.

Even one or two survivors bringing back a report would be considered a win.

So when the report came in, strategist Ajan Deok was at a loss for words.

In the Central Plains, the name “Ajan Deok” was infamous—mocked as “Sagalpyeonja,” a filthy con man. (편자骗子: swindler)

No one had seen him in ages, so people figured he got stabbed to death somewhere.

In truth, he now held the title of strategist for the Green Forest.

A scammer making good in life—remarkably successful, really.

“Traps? She already set traps?!”

Doh Usam shook his head.

“I told you. She’s brutal, cunning, and sharp as hell. She probably laid them out last night and baited them in.”

“A twenty-year-old girl, how could—?”

Usam held out his hand.

Ajan Deok scowled, pulled out a gold coin, and slapped it into his palm.

They’d made a bet that morning.

Usam had claimed Qing had come in deliberately, with blood in her eyes.

But Ajan Deok had scoffed—she was barely twenty and from a noble house.

No one from a respectable family would’ve taught her to be wary of some random bandit stronghold.

She probably just wandered by, thought Mount Cheonja was pretty, and stumbled into trouble.

If Qing had heard that, she’d have told him to open a damn fortune-telling booth.

But of course, to leave your name as a scammer across the Central Plains, you needed that kind of insight.

Usam insisted again:

Of all the human hunters he’d seen, she was one of the smartest—terrifyingly clever.

“Then let’s bet.”

“Fine. In gold. You in?”

“Who says I’m not?”

And now, Ajan Deok was handing over a gold coin without a word.

Meaning he admitted it.

Ximen Qing was a vicious, brilliant, and calculating bitch.

As a tactician himself, he’d now chosen to face her properly.

In other words—Doh Usam had just successfully conned the greatest con artist in the land