Chapter 411: When Mom Follows the Shamans to the Hills (7)

“Tch.”

The word “-you bastard” was forcibly cut off.

Gyeon Pohee’s palm slammed into the man’s solar plexus.

The guard who’d been blown back by the blow didn’t even manage to stagger a full foot before collapsing in place.

Because even as she struck him, she’d snatched up his robes and gently laid him down.

Which might have made one wonder—what the hell kind of act was that?

But in truth, she’d cleanly broken only the ribs that formed the chest cage and pressed the sternum inward.

It was a kindness—laying him flat so the shards wouldn’t puncture his organs, so he wouldn’t die... just suffer for a long time.

Qing, a killer already peerless in the art of murder, could’ve sensed it instantly.

But right now, she was too busy simmering in cold rage to notice anything else.

CRACK.

The front gate swung open hard enough to shatter.

The two women stepped inside.

Qing was already holding the plaque of the Gwangju Zen Hall, torn from the entrance and gripped tight in one hand.

“Wh-who—huh?!”

One unlucky martial artist, stationed by the gate, jumped in shock and reached for his saber.

But he was too late.

The edge of the vertically held plaque was already crashing down onto his crown.

SPLUTCH.

Like a watermelon cracking, the oil- and salt-soaked wooden plaque smashed into his skull, driven by Qing’s strength.

The red lettering of Gwangju Zen Hall blurred beneath the bloom of crimson and white.

Qing’s eyes on the collapsing martial artist were no different than if she were watching a pebble tumble down a road.

Her only thought:

I knew a few of those bastards tried to sneak off when I crushed that guy at the market.

How worthless must they think I am, that even after seeing that, they came back here with zero preparation?

Then again, this was the Gwangju Zen Hall—a coalition of local lords, shipyard heads, and coastal guild chiefs.

Those who fled had likely scurried off to warn their own faction’s higher-ups—racing off to the estates of their various executives.

Which meant no one had delivered the news to the main compound yet.

But Qing didn’t know or care.

She’d simply closed her eyes for a moment and, hearing the chorus of “HAH!” from the training yard, thought,

Ah. Must be morning drills. How peaceful.

Hammer in one hand, plaque in the other, Qing followed the sound.

Out back, on the stone-paved training ground, shirtless martial artists of the Zen Hall were immersed in serious practice.

“One! Like the tide, strike forth!”

“Like the tide, strike forth!”

“Two! Mutual rise and fall!”

“Mutual rise and fall!”

“Three! Transcend—hah!”

The instructor shouting commands in the center suddenly panicked and swung his saber.

CLANG!

It collided with the hammer’s head—and promptly shattered to pieces, fragments raining down over the instructor.

Even worse, the blade shards scraped across his face, leaving long red lines.

“Who dares—!”

But there was no answer—only the start of a scream.

One disciple, his forearm gone, was howling with everything he had.

A contagious scream.

Another, whose knee had bent the wrong way, screamed as he collapsed.

Another, clutching spilling intestines, begged for his life.

Every time the hammer swung, screams followed.

Blood sprayed the Gwangju Zen Hall plaque—smearing until droplets of red formed puddles in the sand of the training ground.

“STOP THIS!”

The instructor yelled again.

But it only made things worse.

At his command, the disciples flinched back—only to be torn apart faster.

Qing and Gyeon Pohee moved without a word—ripping, smashing, piercing.

One target after another. Again. Again. And again.

At last, the instructor charged in.

From the weapon rack at the edge of the field, he seized a greatsaber and lunged with grim determination.

“I’ll take him.”

Pohee stepped forward, speaking calmly as she passed Qing.

Qing dipped her head beneath the veil in answer and turned back to another target, swinging the plaque.

The Gwangju Zen Hall plaque—once gold with red lettering—was now red-on-red, barely legible.

Cries and groans filled the training ground.

Which, really, meant no one had died yet.

The dead don’t make a sound.

Qing wasn’t striking fatal points.

She wasn’t aiming to kill—just destroy.

“AAARGH! DIE!”

One martial artist charged in, fury blazing.

Maybe he’d just watched his brother or master fall. His rage was explosive.

Qing looked at him from behind her veil.

One glance at his feet told her his range.

One look at his arms told her when he’d strike.

One look at his eyes told her where he’d aim.

And when you know range, timing, and target—there’s nothing easier than countering.

To the untrained eye, her movement looked like a careless swing.

But in the instant he planted his foot to lunge forward—

the plaque twisted at a perfect angle and slammed into his thigh, bending his knee sideways.

The laziest sword in the world—the true essence of Royal Sword Form—unleashed via an enemy sect’s own signboard.

CRUNCH. Bone disintegrated.

The man swerved off course, crashing into his own comrade’s shoulder with his saber.

Qing didn’t care.

Her uncaring movements sliced the air again and again.

Martial artists tumbled across the ground—none of them dead, but many about to die, or live on as cripples.

After all, how skilled could a bunch of disciples in morning drills really be?

Before long, Gyeon Pohee returned to back Qing up.

And so, the training ground filled with blood and tears.

“STOP! STOP THIS AT ONCE!”

Another shout rang out—this one deep, steady, laced with real internal energy.

Still, how funny that all these sect bastards bark the same lines.

Qing tilted her head, throwing a crooked glance at the newcomer—a master-level figure.

Her look said: Let’s hear what dumbass excuse you’ve got.

Her face was masked with talismans on all sides, save the front.

Thinking they’d made eye contact, the man quickly pressed his fists together in a respectful bow.

“I don’t know which departed spirit you might be, but I beg you—please calm your anger and—”

“So what—you wanna talk it out? When I’ve got a perfectly good weapon right here?”

Qing’s voice curled into a drawl.

Instructor Bi Seongnak, the Zen Hall’s lead trainer, broke out in a sweat.

The training ground was a slaughterhouse—filled with moans and gasps—but few actual corpses.

Killing was easy.

Crippling was harder.

And the woman standing before him had just done the latter—repeatedly—without even breaking her breath.

Two of them, at that.

Bi Seongnak tried to choose his words carefully.

But what could a Dark Sect scumbag even say?

Predictably, what came out sounded like a cheap threat.

“This hall... is under the protection of the Demonic Alliance.”

Qing scoffed.

“Yeah? And where’s your precious little cult now? Should I go looking for my ancestors next? Maybe they’ll save you. Where is the Demonic Alliance right now, huh?”

The Demonic Alliance was far.

Qing was close.

Realizing that the Alliance’s authority meant jack shit to this woman, Bi Seongnak quickly changed tactics.

“I-I didn’t mean that. I just—if we’ve somehow offended you in any way—”

“You seriously don’t know who I am? I’m the Earthwork Immortal Lady. Today, multiple laborers died—including carpenters.

And you’re telling me you still don’t know what offense you’ve committed?”

“But what does that have to do with us—?”

“I already know everything, so don’t waste your breath lying.”

Bi Seongnak’s heart sank.

Technically, the Zen Hall had a Head, but he was just a representative. Orders came from a whole mess of bigshots.

One of them had clearly pulled something behind everyone’s backs.

Bi Seongnak tried explaining all this, nearly begging.

“Then please... allow me to find the one responsible. I’ll hand them over. Please... put away your wrath.”

“I got bit by a mosquito once.”

Qing’s comment came out of nowhere.

Bi Seongnak blinked in confusion.

And Qing, utterly calm, finished the thought—

“Should I track down the exact mosquito that bit me and kill just that one?”

“Or should I just smash every last one I see?”

Bi Seongnak’s expression hardened.

Qing gave a lazy flick of her fingers.

“Go ahead. I’ll give you three moves. You’d better put your soul into them.”

Bi Seongnak quietly drew his blade.

Wuuuum.

Energy shimmered across the blade’s edge—a genuine aura.

Pretending to be a true master, he moved with the kind of solemn weight that was supposed to impress.

But Qing had already declared her intent.

All that remained was the clash of martial skill.

Bi Seongnak ran through all the techniques he’d built over a lifetime—recalling each form.

Perhaps because his life was on the line, the techniques that had only ever flickered in his mind’s eye suddenly crystallized, appearing vividly in his inner vision.

Bi Seongnak’s heart pounded.

He was certain—if he survived today, he’d break through to the next level.

And so, clutching the idealized image of the blade, he launched himself forward—

SLAM.

With full force, he struck the earth in a charging step—

And Qing threw a dagger.

Bi Seongnak went flying.

Arms outstretched, he skidded helplessly across the ground.

He flew so far his fingertips nearly brushed Qing’s shoes.

She quickly stepped back, like something filthy had washed up too close.

From the center of her sole, black demonic energy—the signature of Heavenly Demon Conquest Step—rose like smoke.

THUD.

She stomped down and crushed Bi Seongnak’s elbow underfoot.

“GAAAH! AAAGH!!”

Two screams rang out.

Gyeon Pohee had stomped down on his other arm.

“T-this... this is cheating... You said I had three moves...”

“I don’t talk to bugs.”

Qing’s foot rose into Bi Seongnak’s field of vision.

****

Eradicating a bug nest was disappointingly easy.

And maybe that was why her stomach still roiled.

She’d beaten, crushed, shattered, and torn to her heart’s content—but there wasn’t even a sliver of satisfaction.

Why the hell had she waited this long to deal with something so simple—

letting innocent people die while she hesitated?

By now, a crowd had gathered in front of the Gwangju Zen Hall gate.

Screams had echoed over the wall for a while now, and several Zen Hall martial artists had already fled, white-faced, through the crowd.

But no one dared cross the threshold—they simply clustered outside.

So when Qing kicked the gate open and it came crashing down, the crowd erupted with cheers.

“Oooohhh!”

But despite the applause, they didn’t dare approach—maybe because of Gyeon Pohee.

Pohee was smiling, sure, but she was also dragging a man by the hair.

A man limp as a dead jellyfish, limbs mashed to pulp.

Bi Seongnak.

People kept their distance, but someone still called out warmly.

“Divine Lady! You’re safe!”

And for the first time that day, Qing let a real smile curl her lips.

But her voice was scolding, laced with disdain.

“What, you think this is some kind of show?”

She casually tossed the plaque.

The blood-smeared Gwangju Zen Hall signboard clattered to the wooden dock of the central pier.

“Burn it, dump it—I don’t care. Not a single bastard inside there’s still breathing. If there’s anything worth money, take it or don’t.”

At that, the crowd surged forward into the Zen Hall.

Maybe just looking to loot while the looting was good.

But then again—weren’t Dark Sect bastards just people who profited off grudges anyway?

And seeing trash crawl on the ground like that probably made people want to pay them back, one way or another.

Qing watched the scene for a moment, then turned her gaze to Bi Seongnak.

“Doesn’t it suck?”

“You’re the only one who ended up a cripple. Someone else gave the order, but you—just some slave being used—get to spend the rest of your life fucked.”

“Sucks being a hunting dog for the wrong master, huh?”

She chuckled darkly and went on.

“Which is why we’re off to crush the ones who gave the order.”

“Ah. Right. If you still have some loyalty left, you’re free to keep your mouth shut.”

“But what’s the point in sparing a bastard who wants to die just to protect someone?”

“So. Your answer?”

“Where should I go?”

“Make it close, would you? I’d hate to waste time walking in circles.”

Bi Seongnak’s expression twisted with pain.

But his answer came surprisingly quick.

“To the west of here... there’s a branch hall called Hae Gung Dae Seon.”

Qing reached out her hand, palm open.

Pohee tugged his hair just right so Qing could slap him clean across the face, a few crisp pats.

“Smart choice.”

“Even a cripple’s gotta live, right?”