Chapter 372: I Told You to Go Have Some Fun, Didn’t I? (2)

Before she left the sect, Qing had once seen an amusing illustration—

A cheerful festival on an unnamed island country. A traveler asked a local,

“What festival is this?”

To which the islander replied,

“It’s not a festival. It’s a funeral.”

The traveler, of course, could excuse their blunder as a product of unfamiliarity with a foreign culture.

But Qing had now seen enough of the Central Plains to know better.

And so, even someone like Qing could do nothing but feel blood rush to her head and burn with shame, her face flushed beet red.

Boiled pork, pressed pork, Dongpo pork, of all things!

She’d blurted out something so utterly imbecilic it sounded like a half-witted idiot’s first words.

Sure, boiled pork, pressed pork, and Dongpo pork are delicious.

Add soy-braised pork to that list—ah! soy-braised pork! She wanted some too, but this wasn’t the time.

There was, at least, a sort of rational justification for why Qing had boldly shouted out the three famous meat dishes of the Central Plains.

Feasts are meant to be noisy, after all.

Even if someone loudly shouted out “five-spice pork” or “soy-braised chicken,” everyone would just burst out laughing.

She’d arrived late, and rather than awkwardly crashing the gathering, she figured she’d give everyone a good laugh and join in boldly.

But... yeah. This was a funeral.

“Please excuse me. I am Eonyeonyeong! Eon! Yeon! Yeong! The meat-hunting beauty who scours the martial world in search of meat. But this isn’t a feast! Well then, I’ll be off—‘May you all be blessed with Baekunjeosu.’”

Qing cleared her throat and delivered the lie in a rich, resonant voice, smoothly and naturally.

She’d grown so accustomed to peddling the Eonyeonyeong persona, it practically rolled off her tongue.

She had achieved enlightenment—Eonyeonyeong was Qing and Qing was Eonyeonyeong. Truly, she had reached the Eoncheong-i realm.

With a shuffle-step retreat and a dramatic BANG! of aggressive momentum, her coat fluttered behind her as she launched into the sky and vanished.

A deep silence fell over the hall.

What the hell was that? Is she insane? No—she is insane, but did she say... what was it, Jinju Eon-something?

Was it Eonyeon-nyeon? Eonyeong-nyeon?

What kind of name is Eonyeonyeong?!

Boiled pork, pressed pork, Dongpo pork? Tasty, sure, but seriously?

And what the hell kind of farewell is Baekunjeosu?

For reference, Baekunjeosu is a specialty dish from Guangzhou, the capital of Guangdong Province—white braised pig’s feet.

So what are you supposed to call a woman who storms in yelling about meat and calls herself beautiful?

This might be the moment the infamous “Meat-Hunting Madwoman Eonyeonyeong” began to spread throughout Guangxi... or maybe not.

Regardless, the twenty-year-old Ximen Qing, who had walked in through the wide-open main gate and fled by leaping over the wall instead of using the window, now bolted across the main road in a flurry.

She headed toward a shadowed alley corner, where a parked carriage stood.

Jayu and Yeon Pa saw Qing dive hastily inside.

She had gone out to ask the Gyerim Sword Sect’s permission to allow a prince into their residence.

(Of course, she had insisted—even if it was a prince—they couldn’t just barge into a place like that without consent, though the sect technically had no right to refuse.)

“You’re back quickly. Are we leaving now?”

“No, it’s not that. I just realized this outfit isn’t right. I’m a Sect of Divine Maidens disciple, so I should be wearing our uniform. Can you close your eyes for a second while I change?”

Jayu’s expression shifted subtly.

“You want me to close my eyes?”

No matter how progressive things got, men and women still had boundaries—(further internal moral conflict omitted).

It was a dilemma every man who traveled with Qing eventually had to contemplate at least once.

“Why? Want to wait outside? It’s cold.”

“The lady is right. It’s cold—you must preserve your divine body,” Yeon Pa chimed in, siding with Qing.

At the same time, she kept winking furiously at Jayu. His eyebrows twitched hard.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Was she... telling him to peek?

“Ahem, well, it’s just a moment. What could possibly happen?”

Jayu stepped outside, pulling down his face veil, while Qing—rustle rustle—stripped off her clothes as easily as peeling away soggy tempura batter.

She was a master of quick changes.

Even while wielding the famously sharp Celadon Sword, she could change without issue.

So with both hands free, a change of clothes took mere seconds—faster than lightning.

Once she’d donned the Sect of Divine Maidens’ robes, Qing stepped out again.

“Oh. Jayu, can you change my veil for me?”

After swapping veils, she was now a completely different person, and headed out past the alley.

****

Meanwhile, back in the Gyerim Sword Sect compound, where tension had reached a peak—silence lingered.

They had yet to recover from the shock of the meat-crazed madwoman’s sudden craving outburst.

“Ahem. Now then, back to our earlier discussion.”

Yomin, the third son of Yogyayeombang and its disowned waste of a child, tried to recover the mood.

“It was clearly stated we’d let things slide until the end of this year. If we don’t want bloodshed during the auspicious Spring Festival—”

Murmuring arose behind him.

Should we try making Dongpo pork this year? Nah, that stuff’s a hassle. Pressed pork’s easier. Or how about huiguorou? Actually, Baekunjeosu sounds good now that she mentioned it. Want to get drinks later?

“SHUT THE HELL UP, WILL YOU?!”

Yomin snapped, barking explosively.

He’d come to thoroughly humiliate them, having been ordered to drag out the bystanders and make a grand spectacle—

But then some lunatic had butted in and completely wrecked the atmosphere.

“If you’ve nothing else to say, then leave. Seems like you didn’t have a real reason for coming anyway.”

It wasn’t Qing’s intention, but thanks to her, even the Gyerim Sword Sect disciples had regained their composure.

Some had even recovered their appetites, swallowing their saliva and smacking their lips.

Which was still far better than shaking with rage, faces flushed crimson.

“Tch. Fuckin’ bad luck. Ptui!”

The provocation had already fallen apart.

Yomin clicked his tongue, spat at the ground, and started to turn away—

When another veiled woman pushed through the crowd.

Tall. Wait, wasn’t that the same crazy bitch from before?

Definitely looked like her—

But her tone was anything but gentle.

“Who taught you that filthy habit of spitting on another sect’s sacred grounds? You dare spit on a holy Daoist hall—do you also spit on your own family’s ancestral altar?”

The Gyerim Sword Sect was still, technically, a Daoist sect.

Any sect with ‘-pa’ at the end generally was.

“What the hell is this now? What, more Tianhua disciples? That Tianhua Sword bitch starts a trend, and now every mutt’s running around with a veil over their face.”

He looked more carefully and realized this wasn’t some nutcase—this was a Daoist priestess in proper uniform.

“Hmph.”

This time, to avoid a repeat of the earlier disaster, he discreetly leaned in and asked someone in the crowd what was going on.

Apparently, that lunatic had been swinging by the Gyerim Sword Sect almost daily, pestering and mocking them nonstop.

“So what you’re saying is—you’re calling this girl a mutt. Can you take responsibility for that?”

“Ha! Try me. But do you think you’ll survive messing with me? Right now, in the Da Namnyungyo region, we’ve got backing from the elders of—ARGH!”

Qing brought her sword’s scabbard down squarely on the top of his head.

The Moonlight Sword (Model Ten) was a heavy broadsword, and it only got heavier with the scabbard on.

“There. I messed with you. Now what? Is lightning going to strike me down? Will something terrible happen to the girl?”

“You little—! YOU’RE DEAD!”

“Wow. I’m dead? This is the afterlife? Doesn’t feel any different from the living world. Everyone, did you know you were in the underworld? Though they say the road to hell is cold and bleak, it’s surprisingly warm for winter. Nice weather, huh?”

Laughter bubbled up.

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

Eyes wide and white, Yomin drew his blade and charged.

If he were a peak master, maybe he had a chance—but this was just first-rate-level arrogance.

SMACK!

A crisp sound rang out. Yomin twisted at a right angle and crashed to the ground.

It wasn’t just a slap—it was a venom-infused slap imbued with Qing’s brutal Minor Demonic Technique.

“ARGH, YOU BITCH!”

He shot back up and lunged again.

SMACK!

This time, the other cheek. His white teeth flew from his mouth as he tumbled again.

Only now did Yomin realize—he was facing a master.

A master far beyond anything he could handle.

Only now, which proved just how utterly stupid the child Yogyayeombang had thrown away truly was.

“If you lay a hand on me—”

“The girl’s name is Ximen Qing, wielder of the Tianhua Sword.”

The crowd burst into whispers.

Tianhua Sword! Number One Beauty! One of the Three National Disasters!

Qing’s eyebrow twitched.

Why do they keep adding titles?!

Three National Disasters? Who the hell came up with that one?

She committed the voice to memory. Just wait till I catch you.

She was in a foul mood now.

Fortunately, the perfect target to vent it on stood right before her.

“You dared spit on sacred ground? Things from a person should return to a person—so would you kindly lick up what came from your tongue with that same tongue?”

“Wh—”

Qing raised what was indisputably the most beautiful hand in the land. No sane soul could argue otherwise—flawless jade fingers gleamed.

“Right here, look. Sparkle sparkle.”

And with a golden glint of inner strength—

“What do you think happens when a slap is reinforced with energy? Aren’t you curious? I certainly am.”

“Hiiik.”

Face drained of color, Yomin dropped to his knees and began licking the ground.

He scraped up a layer of dirt with his tongue, grimaced, and swallowed the mouthful of gritty sand.

Then, just as he started to rise—shnk—the tip of the Moonlight Sword lowered before his eyes.

“I-I did what you said...”

But Qing simply nudged her sword slightly to the side, pointing at a different spot.

“Oh? Was it over there? No, it was right here, wasn’t it?”

“Wait—here? This lump—is that sand or a rock?”

“Ah. Here it is. My mistake.”

“Actually, it doesn’t really matter. Just keep licking the ground until I say you can stop. They say even a shit-pit in the living world is better than the underworld, right? Better to live licking dirt than to die, don’t you think?”

And so Yomin kept licking the ground.

From this day forward, he could never escape the shame of being the man who crawled on the floor, licking earth.

His nickname would probably be Earth-Licking Worm—nothing grander.

Of course, this humiliation wasn’t just personal.

It brought disgrace to his entire sect and clan.

Any typical warrior would have rather died than suffer this.

But this dimwit—too stupid to realize he’d been sent to die—apparently still wanted to live.

Still, even after all that, why are they just standing around watching?

Qing shot a glance at the Gyerim Sword Sect disciples.

They looked stunned, mouths slack, just watching Yomin crawl.

“Ahem.”

Qing gave an exaggerated cough and locked eyes with the largest man among the disciples.

She was clearly signaling him.

The big guy finally snapped out of it and stepped forward.

“That’s enough. You’ve made your point—please stop now.”

Senior disciple Do Daljeon spoke with a smile practically radiating off his face.

Then he added,

“If it were me, I’d bite my tongue and die before crawling and licking dirt to disgrace my sect and shame my family. So please—let it end here. I ask this of you.”

The words sounded like a plea, but they were clearly meant to be heard by all.

“Well, since the sect master himself is asking, I suppose I have no choice. I shall graciously forgive him.”

Qing matched his tone with a flourish.

Now it would seem that the Gyerim Sword Sect had intervened to save Yomin.

Meanwhile, Yomin had come to pick a fight and ended up showing the world the ugliest side of himself—only to be spared on top of it. A humiliating yet somehow astonishing display of... talent.