Chapter 390: Let’s Have Some Real Fun (6)

A true warrior of the Unorthodox Alliance should retreat without a moment’s hesitation.

Because a retreat is not cowardice—it is merely a vow to return, a passionate resolve to endure the jeers of the present, build strength once more, and exact revenge in the future.

Therefore, this is absolutely not running away or fleeing.

It is not turning your back on the enemy—it is a hopeful march toward a brighter tomorrow!

“Retreat! Retreat!”

“That’s the retreat signal! Let’s go!”

“Scatter and regroup at Flame Hill!”

This is where the difference between the White Bear Battalion, White Tiger Battalion—both White-Rank combat units—and the Black Bear Battalion, a Black-Rank combat unit, becomes obvious.

Unlike the Black Bear idiots who flail around in panic and get caught by the enemy, the White-Rank units respond like, “Oh, we’ve been waiting for this! Charge—by turning around!” and immediately scatter in every direction.

“They’re fleeing! Kill them! If we let them live, they’ll come back to bite us later!”

Kang Suyang, knowing well the petty nature of the Unorthodox bastards—never forgetting a grudge—shouted to alert the rest of the situation.

“WAAAAAAH!!”

With that, the morale of the Orthodox warriors surged.

It goes without saying, but if you’re going to swing a sword, it’s much easier to slash someone’s back than their front.

Because people’s eyes can’t see behind them, and their joints can’t put up resistance backwards.

So you can just stab and stab without worrying about counterattacks.

A strange glimmer bloomed in Qing’s pupils.

At a glance, it looked red, but upon closer inspection, it was red tinged with blue—like a fire demon blooming in a lush forest, the twisted hue of blood, the color of a beach built from the corpses of hundreds of thousands of fish, the dead sheen in the upturned eyes of a lifeless fish staring blankly at the sky.

Despite the murderous light in her eyes, her lips were parted in a cheerful smile, showing neat, white teeth.

And so she slashed. And slashed again. Oh? Where do you think you’re going?

Suddenly, Qing had a thought—there was something oddly familiar about the back of one of the fleeing Unorthodox warriors. That turned back... that retreating figure...

In that moment, Qing stood somewhere else.

A world drawn only in black and white outlines. Was this a marketplace?

The back of someone standing confidently atop a spilled pile of vegetables, and an old woman flailing and weeping.

Kill me. Just kill me, you bastard. You got no mother or father? How could you do this?

Then a sword sheath, full of rage, slammed down on the old woman’s head.

Her aged body crumpled between the scattered vegetables, and in that black and white world, only the blood flowing from her head shone vividly red.

The bright crimson blood crept across the market floor, splitting, curling, bending, meeting, and intersecting—eventually forming a character people called a number.

One hundred seventy-two.

And under that, the back of someone running for their life, tail between their legs. So familiar. So familiar it hurt.

“...Huh.”

Qing tilted her head at the disorienting déjà vu.

Why does it feel like I’ve seen that before?

Well, all the little rats fleeing for their lives look the same from the back. You never get to see a fleeing bastard’s face.

Qing swung her great knife wide.

The blade entered the outer thigh and exited through the outer thigh.

The body, now missing a leg—not an old woman’s, but the Unorthodox warrior’s—tumbled violently to the ground.

Qing froze again.

What was that? Something just... zipped through her mind?

But like a dream already passed, she knew she had seen something—but the content slipped away, leaving behind nothing but a frustrating, uneasy aftertaste.

Something...

Qing reached deep into her mind, trying to grab the dream.

Yes, there was definitely something I saw... it was—

BEEP BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP!

At that moment, a shrill signaling flute screeched in her ear.

The faint memory that was just within reach shattered like glass, and Qing’s gaze flared with fire.

“Which motherfucker.”

Qing had deep, violent resentment toward signaling flutes.

How dare someone blow a flute during sacred combat?

And if you’re going to blow it, at least do it well!

Noisy neighbors! Absolutely unforgivable!

And so Qing suddenly picked up her speed.

“Lady!”

Changye screamed after her in desperation, chasing as fast as she could—but Gnat grabbed her by the ponytail and yanked her back.

“You bastard! You dare grab a lady’s hair—?!”

“Let her go. It’s not like she’s in any danger with everyone retreating. Let her enjoy herself.”

“What are you even saying? Enjoy herself? You make it sound like Her Ladyship’s some kind of sadist who gets off on butchering people. Should I tell Yeon Pa what you said?”

“Yeon Pa... No, never mind. You really are the densest woman alive. Forget it. I’m not wasting my breath.”

Gnat shook his head in disbelief.

Changye’s face twisted in a vicious scowl.

Whatever the case, Qing ran.

The Unorthodox warriors were running too, so no one blocked her.

But someone kept pace beside her—and when she looked, it was one of them.

Hmm, ninety-nine points. Damn. One point off.

Qing slammed the butt of her great knife into the warrior’s side.

He let out a grunt and tumbled to the ground, but Qing left him behind. That noisy bastard blowing the flute—that one could not be forgiven.

Every last flute-blowing fucker had to die.

Finally, Qing’s body stretched long across the road as her voice rang out, seething with irritation.

“Shut up! Stop that goddamn flute-squealing!”

Mun Jeongyeok, who had been loudly signaling the retreat, flinched at the sudden shout and instinctively raised his sword.

CLANG! Sparks flew as the blades clashed.

“You—!”

“A! PUBLIC! PLACE! SHUT UP! PLEASE!”

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

With each word, a spark burst, and Mun Jeongyeok was pushed back a step.

With each step back, his face grew increasingly grave.

It was the expression of a man restraining the urge to scream, What kind of crazy bitch is this strong?!

There was no technique in her swing—just raw, overwhelming force.

A seasoned swordsman excels at deflecting an enemy’s strength with softness, redirecting the attack to create openings.

But saying you’ll counter a thousand pounds with just four ounces—sure, go ahead and try putting your sword at an angle against a rolling cart. The cart doesn’t turn; either the sword breaks or you go flying.

And Qing’s swing didn’t bend. Mun Jeongyeok’s sword was the one pushed aside.

There was no choice but to keep stepping back.

“Wait! I am Mun Jeongyeok—”

“Munjeong? Then I’m Beijing Station, you bastard!”

______________________

TL note: “Munjeong” is also the name of a subway station in Seoul; Qing is mocking his name by comparing it to a train station.

______________________

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Mun Jeongyeok couldn’t understand Qing’s fury.

What the hell was this? Why was she so mad?

Did he somehow piss off the Heavenly Flame Sword without realizing it?

But in a warrior’s life, grudges can stack up from the strangest places.

Maybe he’d accidentally cut down one of her friends?

Of course, the truth was that the real reason was just the goddamn flute squealing—but even the most imaginative martial artist wouldn’t have guessed that.

“Have you no respect for your seniors in swordsmanship?!”

“Hah. ‘Senior’ my ass. I’ve never considered some Unorthodox bastard my senior. It’s always those losers who do jack shit but want all the respect that go on about seniority.”

“What did you say?!”

“All right—no talking! Moonlight Sword—no, Hell—no, wait. Yeah. Crescent Moon Blade! That’s perfect!”

Qing slapped a name on her now-familiar oversized kitchen knife: Crescent Moon Blade.

“Let’s go, Crescent Moon!”

Mun Jeongyeok saw Qing’s waist twist.

Her right shoulder rotated in a bizarre motion.

Her right hand holding the blade peeked out from beyond her left shoulder.

Even if it was technically possible with flexibility, the sheer power she was about to unleash after twisting her entire body...

Mun Jeongyeok reinforced his sword with his left hand and angled it forward.

CLANG!! A violent impact.

“...Huh. Crescent Moon?”

The blade snapped clean in half, leaving only an inch above the handle.

A top-tier swordsman never uses any random weapon.

But Qing’s Crescent Moon Blade was a cheap piece of junk hammered out by a village blacksmith.

When it’s energy against energy, the quality of the weapon becomes crucial.

Qing roared, filled with rage.

“You dare break my beloved weapon?! UNFORGIVABLE!”

If the Crescent Moon had a soul, it would’ve cried, “Wait, what? Beloved weapon?!”

And its original owner—now surely in the afterlife—would’ve clicked their tongue at this thieving woman.

But weapons don’t speak, and the dead speak even less.

“Hmph! All bark and no bite without your weapon!”

Mun Jeongyeok’s eyes gleamed.

Now’s his chance! The swordmaster had lost her weapon, so—wait. Swordmaster? Why did a swordmaster call a butcher knife her precious weapon?

The sudden question made his blade falter just a little.

But whether he hesitated or not hardly mattered.

Because the Heavenly Flame Sword reflexively reached for her sword with her right hand.

So much for being a genius of the era—she panicked with her dominant hand empty.

Should’ve lost your left hand instead.

Mun Jeongyeok smirked viciously.

CLANG!

...Clang?

Mun Jeongyeok’s face went blank.

There’s no way someone—even wrapped in internal energy—could grab a full-powered, peak-tier blade swing with bare hands.

But Qing’s left hand had already slammed into his gut.

Mun Jeongyeok’s body flew backward in the shape of the character 匕 (dagger).

As he soared through the air, an image rose in his mind: the wrinkled, miserable face of the intelligence officer who’d screamed in despair—

“She’s the Heavenly Flame Sword! She’s really the Devil of the Minor Western Region! I’m telling you, she’s real! She’s real!!”

Ah.

Mun Jeongyeok finally realized.

Why was that the truth? How did that make any sense?

He felt so wronged.

But he had no time to feel wronged.

The Heavenly Flame Sword was suddenly upon him.

Her pale, long fingers—rumored to be the most beautiful hands in the world—flashed.

From beneath her veil, a ghostly flame flickered.

Those who knew would call it Wheel of Rebirth—the cursed side effect of a forbidden technique.

“Wait, are you really the—Wheel of—”

That was as far as Mun Jeongyeok got.

He had never trained himself to keep talking after a hand chopped into his skull.

If he had any real guts, maybe he could’ve smoked a paper charm and reminisced about the good old days even with a shard of steel embedded in his brain.

This is why people should develop grit.

Mun Jeongyeok of the White Bear Battalion. Skull split. Deceased.