Chapter 409: When Mom Follows the Shamans to the Hills (5)

A new plaque was mounted at the Jin Family Manor.

House That Shakes the World.

Four characters, filling the frame in grand, imposing strokes.

She had written it for them, but still... Qing remained cautious.

People were making a fuss about how beautiful her handwriting was, but from Qing’s perspective, wasn’t this just the standard style she’d grown up seeing back home?

She’d never studied calligraphy; there was no philosophy, no imagery behind the form—just a superficial shell imitating the surface.

Sure, she’d absorbed martial arts in a way that differed from most warriors, practically stealing it for free—but the actual realization at the peak, that enlightenment itself, hadn’t been someone else’s. That had been hers.

So when people raved about the Transcendent of the Transcendent of the Transcendent of the Transcendent Realm, she could allow herself to feel a bit of pride—just a little—for having accomplished something on her own.

Even with carpentry, though she relied on her monstrously enhanced body, the techniques themselves had been learned through observation and practice. The same went for her work as a physician.

But writing? She’d never put in a shred of effort. She just wrote whatever came to her hand—and yet the people around her acted like they wanted to slam their foreheads against the wall in awe.

It was absurd, really. As if just breathing made her a genius. The embarrassment was inescapable.

But the head of the Jin Family was beaming.

He always had a warm, smiling face, but this time? This was the happiest Qing had ever seen him.

“Are you sure it’s okay for a plaque inscription?” she asked.

There were only a handful of calligraphic styles traditionally used for plaques. It wasn’t a law, exactly, but violating it was enough to be called out for being tasteless—or worse, disrespectful—especially for something that served as the public face of a clan.

“This is the finest inscription I’ve seen in my entire life,” Jin Jakang said with confidence. “I guarantee it.”

Of course, to people of the Central Plains, Qing’s standard script from her homeland must’ve looked like a revelation. It wasn’t just some stylized imitation meant to look imposing—every stroke carried the weight of a long, settled tradition. A script whose form had been refined over centuries.

Even if there were established plaque styles, wasn’t a piece personally inscribed by a respected high monk or the Emperor himself considered more precious?

Qing’s writing had that kind of value.

And besides, even if she were the worst calligrapher in the world—if her writing were barely above the level of meaningless scribbles—wasn’t it still the script personally bestowed by the Divine Lady herself?

“If I had my way, I’d hold a formal ceremony and treat you as the master artist we invited. But... would the Heavenly Flower Sword find that too burdensome?”

“Yes,” Qing replied.

Jin Jakang smiled as if he’d expected the answer.

This modest, straightforward young genius was completely unassuming about her talents. She always insisted she was just barely scraping by.

None of the arrogance or entitlement one might expect from a young martial prodigy. No cocky airs, no smug confidence.

How could she not be precious?

How in the world had Senior Yeo Gwanggyeon (Master Mad Hound) ended up with a disciple like her?

What divine luck had brought the Heavenly Flower Sword under Master Mad Hound’s tutelage?

So envious he could scream.

Among all blessings under heaven, none were greater than children. And there was little difference between children and disciples.

During the martial arts assembly, the Grand Matron had never once slipped into her usual mad-dog temperament—smiling like a wise elder the entire time. Surely that was thanks to the overwhelming disciple-blessing she’d received late in life, mellowing her spirit.

Jin Jakang's own children had inherited his gentle and dignified demeanor. He often heard people praise their upright personalities.

But as a father, when someone says, “Your child has a great personality,” it always sounds like a veiled insult about everything but their personality.

The look in Jin Jakang’s eyes as he gazed at Qing sparkled like the diamond shapes you’d only find in fairytale books from her homeland.

Feeling uncomfortably pressured, Qing slowly averted her gaze.

Still, Jin Jakang’s response wasn’t excessive.

The eyes of the Jin family members staring up at the plaque were tinged red.

The old, crooked plaque had symbolized not just a loss of spirit—but a memorial to the kin they’d lost.

So the new inscription meant more than just acquiring a beautiful piece of writing—it became a symbol of vague hope, of a future where things might be okay again.

Whether it was because they truly admired the calligraphy, or because they wanted to flaunt that the Jin Family was still alive and kicking, they did something unusual—they flung the main gates wide open.

For a noble household of their stature, it was nearly unthinkable to let commoners or laborers through the front gate carrying tools.

It was an astonishing move.

“Wow, that handwriting’s incredible. How much does something like that cost?”

“Dream on. You think it’s about money? It’s all connections. Connections!”

“I didn’t say I wanted one. I’m just curious how much a single scroll with one character would go for. Why didn’t our ancestors leave behind even one scrap?”

“Please. With greedy heirs foaming at the mouth to sell it off, who’d leave anything behind? Damn, those letters look like they’re staring right into your soul. This is what they call one of the top three styles in Guangdong!”

And with that, the Jin Family’s reconstruction began in earnest.

****

Restoring the Jin Family Manor started with the outer wall.

The old roof tiles were taken down, and brand-new, glossy ones—unused since they came out of the kiln—were installed.

They sprayed seawater along the walls to wash away the dust, then brushed on ash paste for a clean finish. From the outside, even if the inside still reeked of rot, it would look like a newly rebuilt fortress.

It was a full-scale mobilization of manpower—as if the Jin Family itself were stretching out its limbs, waking from a long slumber.

The so-called “son” had vanished without a trace somewhere along the way. Qing suspected it was because he didn’t want to help with the restoration.

After all, wasn’t he the one who went around calling himself “the One”?

She couldn’t even imagine that bastard mingling with workers, hauling tiles and stacking bricks.

Pohee, on the other hand, was clearly enjoying herself just by being near Qing.

But Qing found none of this fun.

There was no technical skill involved. No rhythm to enjoy from hammering and crafting.

Painting walls brought back bad memories. And setting tiles was just... dull, mindless repetition.

And then there was her so-called sworn sister’s Merit Score, now inching dangerously close to 500. That was bothering her more than she liked to admit.

Back when they first met, Pohee’s evil karma had barely crossed 100.

Now she was almost at 500 good deeds?

But Qing had to admit—even if Pohee was slow-witted, she wasn’t inherently evil.

Still... when Qing saw Pohee’s numbers, she couldn’t help but think of Yeom Hwiyeong.

And what about the “son”?

Could a thousand points of evil karma really be balanced by a thousand points of merit?

If someone committed 1,000 evil acts, then accumulated 1,100 merits and came out with a net 100—could she really call that person good?

Or the reverse—if someone built up 1,000 merits, then committed 1,100 evil deeds and ended up with a net red score of 100... did that make them fair game to torment and kill?

Could a person’s worth really be boiled down to simple math—like a jeweler chalking up a 30-gold loss and calling it a day?

She recalled the scoffing tone of the late Martial Emperor—or was it the Heavenly Martial Emperor?—laughing at her “naïve nonsense.”

How could that old man so confidently dismiss her doubts as idiotic?

Her hand, mid-placement of a roof tile, slowed... then stopped completely.

Qing stood still, staring blankly into space.

Her hand was trembling.

Pohee’s face turned worried as she asked, “Sister? Are you sick?”

“Huh? No. Just. A little... off.”

“Off? That’s not good! What should I do? Want me to hold you?”

“Huh? ...Yeah.”

Being wrapped in Pohee’s arms made her feel a little calmer.

But was she just planning to keep putting this off?

After learning Yeom Hwiyeong’s true nature, she’d been deliberately avoiding thinking about it.

Thankfully, the whole “Mom” thing had been shocking enough to override it. Ugh, damn it, just thinking about it gives me chills.

Or... was I the one in the wrong? If Gu Nyeong or Nan Ah had called me “Mom,” would I have felt this disgusted? Is this just me hating men?

No. No, don’t start dodging again.

Qing forced herself to rein in the instinct that made her mentally run far, far away.

She had to make a decision somehow.

Even if she didn’t want to think about it, there’d come a time when she wouldn’t be able to run from it anymore.

“Lord Jin, I think I’ll turn in early tonight.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look well.”

“Just... a little. So I thought I’d rest early.”

“Hm. I’d offer you the guest hall, but it probably still reeks. Rest well, and if you keep feeling unwell, don’t force yourself to come out. Focus on recovering first.”

Jin Jakang, in his gentle way, encouraged her to rest.

So, still leaning against Pohee, she headed back.

On the soft bedding, nestled in Pohee’s arms, she tried to sort her thoughts.

If you do a lot of good deeds, does that make it okay to do a few bad ones?

If someone racks up a thousand points of merit, can they, out of boredom, kill a few innocent commoners and lose a hundred points—and still be considered as having nine hundred?

Part of her thought this was a ridiculous leap.

Life isn’t some endless series of menu options on a screen where you just pick this or that.

A person with a lot of merit will likely keep doing good because that’s who they are. A good person continues to live a good life.

The same goes for villains. Unless some shocking event flips their world upside down, they’ll just keep being villains.

But... people can change, right?

Haven’t they all changed?

Pohee, that bastard who calls himself her son, the old man, those defectors from the Seol Trading Company.

And all those villains I’ve killed—those people I tortured for laughs and then threw away like trash—did they have any chance to change?

Me. What about me?

Am I a good person?

A killer. A sadist. I just got lucky, that’s all...

“Qing? Qing!?”

“Huh?”

Qing came back to herself at the sound of Pohee’s desperate voice. She was in Pohee’s arms, clinging to her like she’d break if she let go.

“Qing, aren’t you feeling a little too warm?”

“Ah. Are you back with me? You were shaking so hard, Qing. You were drenched in cold sweat. Are you okay? Are you sick? Is this another episode? Like when we were in the Divine Sect?”

The expression in Pohee’s eyes looked as if she was about to cry.

The face reflected in Pohee’s pupils looked the same—but Qing, unable to meet her gaze, kept her head down and didn’t notice.

Damn it, this is exactly why I didn’t want to think about this.

But human thought doesn’t just stop because you don’t want to think.

The dirtier the thought, the harder it is to shake off.

Qing finally made a decision.

“Pohee. Can I touch your chest?”

Embarrassing, yes—but didn’t they say running away can be its own kind of relief?

I really don’t know anything anymore.

Am I supposed to trust these numbers?

Even if I do, why—why the hell do they insist on telling me this person is bad and that one is good?

If you’re going to show me, then show good and evil separately.

Why merge them and make it all confusing and infuriating like this?

Forget it. I’ll just grope some boobs.

****

With the restoration of the Jin Family Manor fully underway, another faction suddenly found itself under pressure:

The Gwangju Zen Hall.

The Killing Moon Sect was still just observing, while the Golden Pavilion had already been struck by disaster—and continued to suffer.

But none of them knew each other’s current situation.

The three sects weren’t exactly friendly.

In fact, “not friendly” was an understatement. Just being lumped together under the term “Three Dark Sects” was insulting to them.

There can only be one tiger on a mountain. (Opinions of tigers may vary.)

Once the Jin Family was removed, only one faction would be left to claim dominance over Gwangju.

So the Gwangju Zen Hall Master had gone into hiding, lying low.

The plan was to stockpile strength while watching things play out—then strike the Jin Family’s back when the time was right.

But that plan was so transparent that the other two factions had basically formed a silent agreement: Once we drive the Jin Family out, that bastard is next.

Still, that was all talk for after the Jin Family was gone.

Now that the Jin Family was stirring, writhing, and ready to rise again, the Gwangju Zen Hall couldn’t just sit back and watch.

People live as they always have.

Just as good-hearted people can’t help stopping to help the unfortunate, those with wicked hearts inevitably repeat the same vile patterns.

So they simply returned to the tricks that had worked for them before.

But this time, the situation was different.

Last time, Qing hadn’t been in the city.

Now, she was.