Chapter 374: I Told You to Go Have Some Fun, Didn’t I? (4)

“You, y-you fucking little bastard...!”

Yohwancheol, once of the Old Salt Flame Guild and now head of the Southern Naknyeong branch of the Yohan Clan, raised his fist high.

“Hiiik.”

His third son, Yomin, threw up his arms to shield his face.

Judging by Yomin’s instinctive reaction, it was clear that Yohwancheol had a habit of striking his cheeks with his fists.

But shielding or not, there was no way he could hide that face—both sides were swollen and blackened with bruises.

“Useless piece of shit. Can’t even earn his keep. Dumbass bastard, goddamn idiot.”

Yohwancheol didn’t land the punch.

No matter how pathetic the bastard was—one he refused to acknowledge as his own son—his face was already so black and swollen it looked close to festering. If he struck him again, it might actually lead to a funeral.

And there was no gain in letting it spread that a father had beaten his son to death.

He was a worthless child anyway. Best to squeeze out what use he had left, then toss him aside. Killing him in a fit of rage? That would be a loss.

Yohwancheol, master of Salt Flame, had salt coursing through not just his title but his very heart.

But more than anything else, it was just absurd.

How the hell does someone’s face end up looking like that from a slap?

Sure, a heavy blow to the jaw could cause swelling—but for a wound to turn black and necrotic like that, it was as if poison had been applied along with the strike.

Well, that’s because it was the Poison of the Little Hand.

The venomous feminine art itself—Little Hand Poison—when infused into the body, ruptures blood vessels and meridians alike.

Not just ruptures them—freezes them solid like frost before shattering them into pieces.

“You—ha, whatever. What did I ever expect from you. I can’t even stand to look at you. Get lost. Now.”

Yohwancheol waved him off in disgust.

It was baffling how such a moron had come from his bloodline.

If only the boy had any talent in martial arts.

If only he had the mind for business and could earn some money.

But the way he moved his body was laughable—he’d never reach first-rate status, much less master martial arts in this life.

And on top of that, he was painfully dull. Shallow-thinking, indulgent, all flash and no substance—a parasite who only knew how to waste family wealth.

To think such a thing was his own son.

Just the sight of him made Yohwancheol’s insides boil with fury.

“...Yes.”

Yomin answered in a tear-choked voice.

Of course he was on the verge of tears.

What had he done wrong?

He’d followed orders, showing up every day and flipping the bitch’s clothes. He’d braced himself for the day someone would beat the shit out of him for it.

Sure, licking the dirt in front of strangers was humiliating enough to make him want to die, but it’s not like he could just throw his life away over it.

That may have been exactly what his father was hoping for—but Yomin had never imagined his father would send him specifically to die.

So yes, it hurt.

And if you thought about it, that precious eldest brother of his—so loved and coddled—was just as hopeless in bodywork. They were cut from the same worthless cloth.

It was all because of her—their mother, who ran off with some vagabond.

So he hated them.

He hated his cold-hearted father. Hated the mother who abandoned her child and left without a second glance. Hated the warriors and servants of the Salt Flame who treated him like discarded trash.

Both cheeks burned like fire, but over that pain, tears hot as molten iron streamed down.

With body and soul in agony, where else could he go but to the medicine ward?

And then—

“Hey. You there. You’re the third son, right?”

Yomin hastily wiped his tears.

But it was too late.

“A man, crying like that? Tsk tsk. No wonder your father can't stand you.”

Yomin’s chest clenched.

But so what if it did?

This man wasn’t someone he could answer back to—he was Sasaui, the "Snake Scholar."

Physician and poison arts expert.

Master of the Blood Nourishment and Heavenly Snake Poison techniques, and the renowned head of the Medical Hall of the Sado Association.

“But hey, what the hell happened to your face? The Salt Flame master’s hand is that cruel? I mean, really? Even if a son doesn’t live up to your expectations, you beat him like this? Hm? No? Then what the hell happened here?”

Bo-yeol stepped forward, grabbed Yomin’s chin, yanked it left, then right—and then lifted his left sleeve.

From his sleeve, a snake shot out, its tongue flickering.

“Hiiik, hiiik...”

Yomin froze in sheer terror.

He couldn’t even breathe. Leave him like this a moment longer and he’d piss himself.

“No need to tremble so much. I’m only checking the wound.”

“Y-yes, but this snake...”

“Don’t worry about it. Even if it bites, I’ve got the antidote. No need to worry.”

Not reassuring at all.

If he had the antidote in case it bites, that just meant he expected it to bite.

A white snake with crimson eyes and a sharp triangular head—anyone could tell it was venomous.

The snake poked its head out, slithered closer—and then, with a sharp hiss, darted back into Bo-yeol’s sleeve and vanished.

Just as Yomin was about to sigh in relief, Bo-yeol’s face grew serious.

“Who hit you? That doesn’t look like something Yohwancheol did.”

“T-the Celestial Flame Sword... that bitch...”

“Celestial Flame Sword? Shinryong? You mean the woman who won the Dormant Dragon Martial Meet? No, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s true. A lot of people saw it...”

Yomin couldn’t say more.

It was too shameful to even speak aloud.

Bo-yeol’s eyes glinted sharply.

“So that’s how it is, huh...”

----

Qing didn’t know just how high a place the imperial family occupied in the Central Plains.

That was simply because of where she came from.

The country Qing had lived in didn’t even have a king, and even globally, kings existed only as symbolic figureheads at best.

Of course, even in Qing’s homeland, the Central Plains were known as a theocratic autocracy.

An empire ruled by a terrifying iron-willed man bearing the title of Zhu Xi, a fusion of Emperor and Pontiff, who governed billions of people alone.

But at the time, Qing had not been one of the Zhonghua people, and thus had no way of understanding the power wielded by the Zhonghua Emperor.

That’s why this inherent, god-given difference in status—and the existential terror of a million-strong army descending in a storm of arrows and artillery if one dared cross them—was something Qing didn’t comprehend at all.

So even when people called her “Princess,” it didn’t really mean much to her.

But then she saw Kang Suyang, Sect Leader of the Gyerim Sword Sect, prostrating himself completely to welcome Jayu.

That... made it feel a little more real, even to Qing.

Granted, Kang Suyang had been a bit dramatic.

Still, seeing a sect leader receive someone with such reverence was quite a sight, and having the leader of the city's most prestigious martial sect bow his crown to a royal prince was, in its own way, something like a noble anecdote.

So why would Kang Suyang have refused?

And that meant any attention Qing might have received was inevitably pushed down the priority list.

Thus, once she was shown to a guest room and had unpacked her things, it was still far from dinnertime and she had absolutely nothing to do.

Normally, she'd be expected to sit with the Sect Leader for tea, exchange some polite words, be introduced to the disciples—but since a royal prince had deigned to arrive, well, what could anyone do?

And so Qing was left idle.

Not that she minded—if anything, she liked it better this way.

No one would dare mess with her when she was walking around with a royal prince. It was honestly great. She lay sprawled out on the bedding, lazily enjoying the peace, when—

—“Uh, Celestial Flame Sword-nim? Are you in there?”

“Ah. Yes.”

—“I’m Woo Naram, second-generation disciple. If it’s not too much trouble, I was hoping to greet you—may I come in?”

“There’s no trouble at all. Please, come in.”

With that, creak—the door opened and Woo Naram stepped inside.

Whoa! Brown skin! Healthy beauty! Fitness queen!

Back in Qing’s homeland, skin that beautifully tanned would’ve cost money to achieve. A true bronze-skinned beauty—well, probably a beauty?

Her eyesight had improved a lot, but people still appeared split into six. Still, that was far better than before, when they left dozens of ghostly afterimages.

Woo Naram stepped in carefully and, with a swift motion, gave a respectful fist-and-palm salute—then stood perfectly upright at attention and practically shouted:

“G-Greetings! I’m Woo Naram, second-generation disciple! Though it’s embarrassing, I currently serve as Head Senior Sister!”

Her voice was impressively booming.

“I’m Ximen Qing. Nice to meet you. And my ears are fine, so you don’t have to shout.”

“Th-This is an honor! A great honor!”

Woo Naram’s eyes sparkled dazzlingly—if Qing had known what they looked like, she would’ve found it seriously overwhelming.

“It’s not that much of an honor—”

“No! You are truly beautiful! And powerful! And elegant! A disciple of the greatest martial woman of our time! Even your alcohol tolerance is legendary, and your spirit is bold and gallant! You have a generous heart and show compassion to others—a true hero among heroes!”

“Oh—so you were at the Yongbong Assembly? You should’ve come and said hello.”

“I wasn’t just at the Yongbong Assembly! I witnessed every moment you stepped into a martial match! That divine realm in which you felled mighty men in a single strike! That move in the finals—I heard it was a technique born of the myriad transformations, an enlightenment left behind by the Heavenly Martial Emperor! That radiant Sword Aura that filled the world like a flower storm—I can still see it clearly before my eyes! And even before that, when you faced Monk Wolbong from Shaolin, you were not yielding—you were strength incarnate! It was truly—”

Woo Naram’s mouth poured out a reverse-order blow-by-blow retelling of Qing’s every martial match. Her recounting was so vivid, so detailed, that it was clear this wasn’t the first time she’d gushed about it.

“—And so, I wish to emulate you! You are the true star among martial women—no, the blinding sun! I have longed for your arrival like a day that felt like a year! And now, now that I’ve finally seen you, my heart is pounding, and this emotion—!! It cannot be expressed with mere words!!!”

Apparently hoping to express with volume what couldn’t be expressed with language, her voice had risen steadily to the level of a full-blown shout.

“Um, could you calm down a little—”

“Great Hero! I, the humble Woo Naram, a mere wanderer of the rivers and lakes, have one lifelong wish! If I may be so bold, may I serve you—may I call you hyeongnim?!”

The title hyeongnim is used even between women.

Just like an older brother is hyeongnim, an older sister can be addressed the same way.

Not that it’s a commonly used form—but still, it was a valid construction.

Qing’s expression turned a bit complicated.

“Um, Miss Woo? Forgive me, but—how old are you?”

If she was the Head Senior Sister of this generation, she had to be in at least her mid-twenties, even at her youngest.

The Sect Leader had looked relatively young, so maybe the disciple generation had only recently turned over, but still.

“I, Woo Naram, will be thirty after the Spring Festival the day after tomorrow! However! Age has nothing to do with calling someone hyeongnim! What matters is respect! Integrity! Strength! How else can I express the burning admiration I hold for the Great Hero except by calling her hyeongnim?! That is truly what my heart desires!!!”

Qing thought to herself.

Wait—if age doesn’t matter, shouldn’t it matter?

Still, Qing more or less understood.

It was the same principle as older fans screaming “oppa” at younger male idols.

Of course, the fact that Woo Naram would be thirty in a couple of days didn’t bother Qing in the slightest.

She wasn’t the type to get hung up on age—if someone was older, she spoke casually by rank; if they were younger, she used age to her advantage.

“You can just call me Qing. Miss Woo, right? You’re not Miss Woo-na, are you?”

“If the Great Hero wishes, I shall be Miss Woo-na. And how could I dare speak the honored full name of the Great Hero so lightly...?”

“Come on, don’t be like that. Let’s just talk casually. How about it, Naram?”

“Ah! An h-honor! A true honor!”

“C’mon now, I said casually, right? Friends? We’re friends now? We’re day-one besties from today? Drop the surname, drop the honorifics—just Qing and Naram, yeah? Agree? You agree, right?”

A flawless, flowing declaration of friendship.

But Naram did not flow with it.

“Th-that cannot be! The Great Hero is my idol! My shining ideal! How could a firefly stand shoulder to shoulder with the sun!! If I can just serve you as unni, it will be the wish of my life, the glory of three lifetimes!”

Qing paused to think.

Well, hyeongnim might be better than “Great Hero.”

That whole “Great Hero” thing was just too much.

“Then... could you just call me Lady Ximen or Swordmaster Ximen...?”

“That wouldn’t be enough to express the flames of my respect!!”

“...?”

Shouldn’t respect not be on fire?

If it’s burning, wouldn’t there only be ashes left in the end?

Qing asked cautiously.

“Um... you’re not asking to become sworn sisters or anything, are you?”

Previously, she'd been tricked by that sly fox Gyeon Pohee into exactly that—ending up with a big sister out of nowhere.

Pohee had just asked if she could use the same surname, and then suddenly burst into unnie declarations—and before Qing knew it, it had just sort of happened.

“I would never dare! Such insolent, presumptuous, arrogant, and out-of-line thoughts have never once crossed my mind!”

“I mean... it's not that big a deal... If you really want to, I guess it can't be helped.”

Well, if she insisted—what else could Qing do?