Chapter 376: I Told You to Go Have Some Fun, Didn’t I? (6)

Spring Festival.

More commonly known as Lunar New Year during the Qing dynasty, it was without question the most important holiday of the Chinese people. Then again, it wasn’t just the Chinese—no people on earth could resist celebrating the end of one year and the arrival of the next. In ancient times, there was said to be a horned demon named Nian, a monstrous beast that would crawl up into the human world on the first day of the new year to devour people. What Nian feared most, however, were the color red, lantern light, and loud, explosive sounds. And so, to drive it away, the Chinese would paste red paper onto their gates, fill their villages with lanterns, and strike bamboo poles together to make loud cracking noises. And once gunpowder came into play? Gunpowder produced light, and that light—bursting with deafening roars—drove demons away with far greater force. It was something even the Watermelon Doctrines had recorded. So, on the eve of the New Year, thousands of lanterns lit up the streets of Namnyeong, turning the land bright as day. For just a few days each year, the law allowed for nighttime revelry—and so, drunkards were already cheerfully wasted and shouting in the streets, children ran laughing through the alleys, beggars lounged about for once with full bellies, lovers strolled hand in hand, and married men walked the streets surrounded by wives and concubines. Even the loneliest men and women, just for this night, dared to reach out to someone. It was a night of abundance, joy, and fertility, spilling across the cold earth. But not everyone was thrilled to see the good people enjoying themselves. There were those with twisted minds and mangled personalities, who found this joyful night absolutely disgusting.

“Don’t celebrate.”

They didn’t say it out loud. But the way they glared—like they’d kill the first person who looked too happy—spoke for itself. These were the warriors of the Yoga Flame Hall. Fucking hell. Some people were looking at dying first thing on New Year’s morning. Brats were running around like it was paradise—every one of them ought to be thrown into hellfire. That couple holding hands? Burn them. That guy laughing? The drunk next to him? Torch them all. Of course, it wasn’t like Yoga’s warriors had always been this mentally unhinged. But you could still understand where they were coming from. They were the vanguard in the fight to come—in other words, the first ones thrown into the meat grinder. So naturally, their nerves were stretched thin. They were grinding their teeth, steeling themselves for the battle ahead, wondering if they’d live to see the morning sun on this sacred day of Jeongdan—an older name for the Spring Festival. Though of course, that only applied to the low-ranking warriors.

Behind them were three full combat units from the Unorthodox Alliance. Whether they were bluffing or actually confident was unclear, but they were already chuckling among themselves, saying that spilling blood right after New Year’s meant the year would be a lucky one. This was the advance of the Yoga Flame Hall. A truly heretical move—exactly the kind of stunt you’d expect from the Unorthodox Alliance. I mean, come on. Just because the deadline said “by the end of this year,” who the hell actually launches a surprise attack the moment the year ticks over? But then again, war wasn’t about common sense. It was strategy. And this particular strategy had come from the mouth of Jo Gwangang, commander of the White Bear Battalion and self-proclaimed master of warfare—more famously known by his epithet, Iron Fist of a Hundred Lotuses. Not everyone agreed with the idea at first. But Jo Gwangang had a way of shutting people up with a single line.

“What, you scared?”

Or in Qing’s native dialect:

“Yo, you chicken?”

It was the ultimate cheap shot among men—a line that had been the cause of countless injuries, broken bones, and outright disasters. So now, Yoga Flame Hall Master Yo Hwancheol, backed by elite warriors from the Unorthodox Alliance, was marching straight ahead, his ordinary disciples trailing behind with grim faces. Behind them were the Unorthodox Alliance’s combat detachments, eyes sharp and scanning for any fool who dared run. And so, the night before battle—no, the very night of battle itself—had arrived.

Yo Hwancheol led the way into Namnyeong, heading straight for the manor of the Rooster Forest (Gyerim) Sword Sect Manor, which his sect intended to claim as its new base. The Rooster Forest Sword Sect Manor would never have expected such a swift and brutal strike. Even if word had reached them, by the time they scrambled to shut the gates and gather their disciples, they’d be swept away by Yoga’s battle-hardened (allegedly elite, according to Yo Hwancheol himself) warriors and the reinforcements of the Unorthodox Alliance. Or so they believed.

“Hmm?”

But what was this? Far from preparing for battle, the manor’s massive gates had been thrown open wide, and the grounds beyond were lit up with extravagant lanterns. Through the open gates, they could clearly see a lavish banquet already laid out, and people sitting around laughing with bright, cheerful faces.

Yo Hwancheol, Jo Gwangang, and elite Unorthodox warriors like Bo Yeol all exchanged glances.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Don’t ask me.”

They hadn’t even bothered to post guards at the gate. In fact, clearing the gatekeepers away during a feast was a symbolic gesture: a sign that anyone was welcome to enter without hesitation. At this point, they were too dumbfounded to even speak. These people should’ve been terrified, looking like they were about to flee in the night, or at least standing tall and defiant, ready for a life-or-death battle. But instead... they were throwing a party?

“Ah, the old saying—no one can spit on a smiling face! The Rooster Forest bastards must be playing tricks!”

Declared Jo Gwangang, nodding to himself, satisfied with the explanation he’d made up.

“They thought if they smiled and acted cheerful, we wouldn’t be able to strike them. Cute. Naive! But the path of the Unorthodox is the path of domination! Sentiment is a luxury! We walk the path of blood!”

Jo Gwangang shouted it like a triumphant war cry. Black Bear Battalion commander Sa Heun and First Sword of Bokju, Mun Jeongyeok, commanders of their respective units, hadn’t agreed to walk this “path of blood” at all—but oh well.

Jo Gwangang charged in, dragging the vice commanders of the Flame Hall, the two other battalion heads, three deputy commanders, and every half-decent fighter right through the gate.

And there, in the center of the vast manor courtyard, seated at the highest and grandest table, was Kang Suyang, sect master of the Rooster Forest Sword Sect Manor, who turned toward them with a face of surprise.

“Why, if it isn’t the salt merchant from Yoga. What brings you here?”

A mocking tone. Calling him the “salt merchant from Yoga,” as if he were some peddling lowlife. A mere commoner who used to sell salt—how dare he? Right from the first line, Kang Suyang dug deep under Yo Hwancheol’s skin. This was how the Orthodox sects operated. Too refined for open insults, they always found clever ways to sneak them in. Qing, by contrast, was far more heretical—hell, even the heretics would’ve called her a venomous, foul-mouthed witch.

“Ah, so you’ve come to pay your respects! Wonderful. Since you’ve made it all the way here, at least have a drink, won’t you? It’s only proper.”

“What? Who said anything about paying respects?!”

“Hm? You didn’t come here to greet the host? But you brought your entire force, so I naturally assumed this was a formal visit.”

“Cut the bullshit—!”

“Enough.”

Jo Gwangang suddenly cut Yo Hwancheol off. Yo Hwancheol’s jaw tightened. Sure, the guy was a top expert from the Unorthodox Alliance—but Yo Hwancheol was still the head of his own sect. Cutting him off mid-sentence like that—what happened to dignity? Not that Jo Gwangang cared in the slightest.

“Ha ha! It seems the sect master hoped to defuse this with trickery, but I’m afraid you’ll have to study your strategy books a bit more. A ruse, by nature, falls apart before the straightforward blade. As Master Sun said, the supreme defense lies not in deception, but in readiness. True defense is to always stand prepared for war!”

Kang Suyang looked at Jo Gwangang with a flat expression, ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) as if to say: I have no idea what you’re talking about, but go on.

“Ha ha! So you’re flustered, now that your clever little plan has been seen through? But don’t let it bother you. There’s no shame in losing to the legendary strategist Jo Gwangang, Iron Fist of a Hundred Lotuses.”

Qing’s eyes suddenly lit up. One, two blinks.

“Iron Fist of a Hundred Lotuses!”

She shouted it out on impulse. And of course, her voice carried. All eyes turned toward her with puzzled expressions, and Qing immediately started to sweat.

Shit. So apparently there’s some kind of local rule about when you’re supposed to repeat someone’s nickname out loud. Guess that wasn’t the right moment.

“Oh, uh, I just thought it sounded familiar. You two go ahead and keep talking. Ah, this, I just really wanted to try this—my favorite, uh, some kind of soup, yeah... looks delicious.”

“Miss... that’s not soup. That’s the oil scum skimmed off a hotpot—”

“Shh. At least try to read the room.”

With an awkward smile, Qing scooped up a spoonful of the oil—set aside earlier to be used in cooking—and forced it into her mouth, mumbling nonsense like, “Mm, just as I thought, this is the tastiest part. So oily—must be because it’s oil, huh.” All in a desperate attempt to act natural.

And so, Jo Gwangang thought to himself:

Is she just... dumb? Well, whatever.

“Ahem, ahem. In any case, Sect Master. A ruse is still just a ruse. Once a man draws his sword, there’s no turning back. Best not to leave behind the idiotic precedent of dying while drinking at a banquet in the face of an ambush—”

Jo Gwangang was in the middle of puffing himself up when suddenly—

A voice rang out, sharp and commanding, yet rich with heavy inner energy. It shook the entire courtyard.

“His Highness has arrived! Prince Deokhyeon takes his seat—kneel and offer your utmost respects, as one would to their own father!”

At the announcement, the disciples of the Rooster Forest Sword Sect Manor, clearly having rehearsed beforehand, immediately cut off their merrymaking and dropped to their knees with solemn, respectful composure.

They had already bowed when the Prince first arrived. According to custom, one must never bow twice to the same living person in a single encounter—so a kneeling posture alone was deemed sufficient.

This, however, sent shockwaves through the ranks of the Flame Hall and Unorthodox Alliance elites.

A prince? A direct son of the Emperor? Now?!

What kind of divine thunderbolt had just struck?

And then, Jayu stepped out from the main hall and took his place behind Kang Suyang, seated on a platform slightly higher than even the head table.

Apparently, there had been a raised dais behind the top seat—an extra throne prepared in advance for someone of the highest rank.

Resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hand, he glanced lazily toward the intruders and said:

“Hm? What’s this? Who are these people standing upright in front of the Son of Heaven’s bloodline, and why are they not kneeling?”

“Your Highness, the man standing at the front is called Yo Hwancheol, a salt seller from the Yoga Flame Hall. It seems he came to pay his respects after hearing word of your arrival.”

“Oh? Really? Strange. I could’ve sworn I heard him raising his voice a moment ago, shouting about how he wasn’t here to bow to anyone.”

It was at that moment that Yo Hwancheol went pale.

You goddamn bastards! We told you to vacate the manor and you went and summoned a royal prince?! Do you not even care about sacred protocol between martial clans and the court?! Cowardly pieces of shit!

Midnight hadn’t even arrived. The old year hadn’t technically ended.

And yet here was a man who dared invade, now screaming inside his head at how low the enemy had stooped.

Still—pathetic or not, he had to survive. A living man must live, no matter how shameless the means.

“N-not at all! I’ve always admired His Highness Prince Deokhyeon more than anyone. I simply couldn’t miss the chance to offer my New Year’s greetings! Your Highness, may this year bring you fortune and longevity!”

Yo Hwancheol moved to bow—but paused mid-motion.

Because Kang Suyang, still seated in front of the unknown Prince now lounging on the throne, made no move to stand aside.

If he bowed now, it would look like he was bowing to Kang Suyang too.

“Hmm, Sect Master. Is this how martial artists greet royalty? So insolent. Are you suggesting that not even the blood of the Emperor deserves a bowed knee?”

“N-no, Your Highness! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years, ten thousand years more!”

Throwing himself forward, Yo Hwancheol raised both arms and bellowed the imperial blessing like his life depended on it.

Jayu’s eyes shifted to the elite warriors of the Unorthodox Alliance, who were still frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

“Bo of the Kangho Wolf Pack humbly greets Your Highness! May you live ten thousand years!”

“Hwa of Bokju greets Your Highness!”

“Sa of Hyeju offers her greetings!”

“Jo Gwangang of Hyeongyang! I pray for your health and peace!”

Led by Bo Yeol, the Unorthodox elite threw themselves down one after another.

Seizing the manor was now irrelevant. The moment a Prince of the Blood resided there, it had become imperial sanctum—a sacred ground of the Central Plains.

“Very good. The new year hasn’t officially arrived yet... but may all of you be blessed nonetheless. Hmmm. Though... it seems the crowds outside are quite large, doesn’t it?”

At that, Kang Suyang swiftly responded.

“They must have all gathered in hopes of offering greetings to Your Highness on this most auspicious night.”

“Is that so? Truly commendable people. But if I were to receive each of them one by one, this precious night of the new year would be wasted. Hmm... yes. I suppose I’ll have to go out myself and accept their greetings in person.”

And so, the benevolent Prince Deokhyeon rose from his seat and made his way outside to greet the crowd that had gathered.

“Long live Prince Deokhyeon! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years!”

“Prince Deokhyeon! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years more!”

The martial heroes of the Kangho, moved to the core, dropped to their knees and elbows, pressed their foreheads to the earth, and cried out the royal title until the heavens shook.

The entire Southern Capital rang with the sound.