Chapter 421: A Battle of Wits and Hearts (6)

Lee Wangchul’s mind spun quickly.

Strategist Bang was already finished.

The twisted arm alone was bad enough—something that would cripple him for life—but even that only mattered if he survived at all.

The wound to the neck... it had been made by a killer well-versed in slaughter, a cut meant to kill without question.

How could one possibly stop such bleeding?

Press on the neck to stem the flow?

That would kill him faster than the blood loss.

So Wangchul’s concern was not how to save Strategist Bang.

“Damn it. The strategist the Demonic Alliance loaned us...”

The real problem was the Demonic Alliance.

They’d lent him one of their chief strategists, and instead of giving him proper treatment—hell, instead of even guarding him properly—he’d ended up dead. (Well, not dead yet.)

No excuse would work. Even if they claimed they’d found him dead after going to the privy, it would never fly.

“You let a frail strategist go to the privy alone? You’re just some backwater local sect, and yet you dared to send a chief strategist off without escort, without even laying out silk so fine that dust itself wouldn’t dare land on him? And you call that an excuse?”

The scolding was inevitable.

No one in their right mind wanted to follow a man to the privy, but this was the misery of being a small fry sect.

Which meant there was only one way to avoid outright wrath.

Revenge.

They had to find the culprit and punish them so thoroughly that they could shout to the world: This is what happens when you lay hands on a man of the Demonic Alliance!

Only then would the Demonic Alliance have reason to temper their judgment.

Fire lit in Wangchul’s eyes.

Of course, it wasn’t out of any personal grudge over the strategist’s death.

He was Unorthodox through and through—and Unorthodox men naturally despised scholars.

He’d never liked that mouthy strategist with barely third-rate martial arts skills, and now that he’d been taken out like this... well, that just proved he was an utterly useless idiot.

No, Wangchul’s anger came from the damage to himself.

Shit. Now I can’t ask the Demonic Alliance for more help. One more crate of elixirs and we could’ve broken into the county-level and become a major sect in one leap. And now? All because of that useless scholar and whatever bastard did this.

“Find the bastard. Even if there isn’t one, find him.”

That last line wasn’t a call for grit—it meant make one up if you have to.

The Killing Moon Sect fighters began throwing open every sliding paper door in sight.

****

On the outer side of the Ocean Pavilion’s guest rooms lay the balcony railing.

Which was why Qing’s Sworn Sister could pull off a magic trick of sorts—slipping in through a door on the far side after stepping out for fresh air.

“What the—why are you coming in from there?”

Gyeon Pohee smiled shyly, leaned close to Qing’s ear, and whispered sweetly:

“I just went to pee.”

Mm. Information I really didn’t need.

And you had to tell me right in the middle of sipping this hot herbal broth?

Ah well. Refreshing, isn’t it?

But this was Hee-Sister. She could absolutely say things like that—because she was Hee-Sister.

Qing wasn’t the type to get squeamish over something so minor anyway.

In fact, she chuckled and asked,

“So. Feel better?”

“Mm-hm.”

“How’s the place? Clean?”

“Yeah. Must be ‘cause it’s a nice inn.”

Good news. Clean privies were a rare treasure.

I’ll have to go later myself, Qing thought—

—when the crash came.

A chaotic racket from outside—smashing, shattering, the clang of metal.

Someone shouted in anger, someone else screamed in terror.

The Fire Dragon Squad froze as one, falling silent.

Jo Hakche, who’d been glaring daggers at Chang Bin over a cup of poison, suddenly turned solemn and tapped the table.

Young men seated at the outer tables slid open the balcony doors, letting the night air in.

A thick haze of drunken breath rose up—thirty Fire Dragon Squad members venting their alcohol all at once—filling the air with mist.

It didn’t linger; the night breeze quickly dissolved it.

Oh, that was slick.

Qing was impressed.

Not the “strength of the Orthodox” kind of impressed, mind you—just the result of having a table with two of the Six Flowers of the Martial World plus one extra beauty.

If it had just been men, or if there’d been courtesans at the table, they wouldn’t have snapped into battle readiness so elegantly.

In other words, this was arguably thanks to Qing barging in uninvited.

Or thanks to her gluttony—her habit of sticking her face into any table with wine and food.

The crashing and screaming drew nearer—until, bang! A sliding paper door was blown right out of its frame.

A Killing Moon Sect fighter strode in, ignoring Central Plains etiquette to slide sideways, shoving the door forward instead.

“Kneel! You bast—uh?”

He trailed off, staring at the thirty-odd weapons pointed at him.

Thirty Fire Dragon Squad members, plus three more.

Dozens of blades and sword auras offering a deadly handshake.

The man began edging backward as naturally as if time itself had reversed—

—when something sliced past his ear with a vicious hiss. He didn’t even see what it was.

He froze, then slowly asked, in a grim voice,

“Shall I kneel?”

Jo Hakche nodded gravely.

The man dropped to his knees and laid down his saber.

Except for two people at this table, everyone here was an Orthodox knight-errant.

Which meant they weren’t about to slaughter a man who’d already lost his will to fight.

Jo Hakche spoke in a calmer tone.

The man might have been lecherous whenever women were around, but at his core, he was the sort of solid figure all Orthodox young men respected.

All Orthodox young women, however, ranked him first in Most Unpleasant to Look At, Most Uncomfortable to Be Around, and Most Likely to Avoid Meeting in Public.

“My good man, what is this vile disturbance in a public establishment? Of course, when a man is angry—especially when he’s drunk—it’s only natural—”

“Ah! These bastards, it’s them!”

The polite lecture was cut clean off by a shout.

The pounding of many feet followed.

Sliding doors shattered, and Killing Moon Sect fighters poured in with blades drawn, forming a neat ring.

And then—the sect leader made his entrance!

Lee Wangchul strode in, playing the part of a master with perfect composure.

Not because he truly was composed, but because he thought it looked impressive.

It was, in fact, a useful intimidation tactic.

But then his eyes fell—not on some never-before-seen peerless beauty—but on the slightly plainer beauty beside her.

Jin Seol?

What was she doing here?

If not for her presence, he might have thought these were just a bunch of armed youngsters.

But with her here, they definitely weren’t just youngsters.

“Ahem. I am Lee Wangchul, Sect Leader of the Killing Moon Sect. It seems there’s been some misunderstanding. My men are agitated, searching for the villain who murdered the Demonic Alliance’s strategist, and in their anger, they appear to have caused offense.”

The sect leader chose a quick retreat.

It hurt his dignity, but what could he do?

He was outnumbered, and crossing the wrong people here would cause bigger trouble than the Demonic Alliance itself.

Jo Hakche considered this.

Killing Moon Sect—definitely Unorthodox.

They had more numbers, but also more old men. As captain, he had a duty to protect his members.

Besides, the Black Dragon Clan unit was meant to give these promising youngsters experience and connections.

If he’d known this would happen, he’d have brought the senior brothers of Bamboo Sabre Hall.

As it was, he had no choice but to play along.

“What’s this about—murdering the Demonic Alliance’s strategist? Are you saying such a tragic thing has happened tonight?”

Wangchul’s eyebrow twitched.

The kid was using “-yo” polite form on him? He was an elder and a senior, for heaven’s sake.

But he caught the hint: this was a “let’s resolve it peacefully” signal.

“Ahem. During the banquet, the strategist stepped out for air—and was found dead. The blood was still fresh, so we believed the culprit to be nearby and began our search. In doing so, we unintentionally disturbed your merriment.”

“Ah, is that so? Well—”

At that moment, Qing cut in, raising her voice.

“Once the merriment’s broken, you can’t patch it back together, can you? If you’re really sorry, why not cover our tab? Just saying ‘sorry’ isn’t much use.”

The Fire Dragon Squad members began to smile faintly.

If word spread that they’d made Unorthodox thugs buy them drinks as an apology, that would be quite the tale.

Wangchul’s face tightened.

This little brat—was she trying to humiliate him?

But between Orthodox and Unorthodox, even the smallest quarrel could become serious.

And he realized he’d already made a slip—his phrasing admitted fault, and her line had driven the nail in.

What now?

If he paid, he’d be seen as a fool who handed over gold out of fear of a youngster.

If he refused, he’d be a petty miser over a single drink.

If he claimed he’d never apologized, it would be outright insult—grounds for an immediate attack.

A true dilemma.

Of course, Qing’s knack for tormenting villains was unmatched.

And in such moments, her brain worked at maximum capacity.

But here, she was just picking a fight—looking for an excuse to draw her sword.

She’d already dealt with two targets. One left.

If she took the sect leader’s head, the rest would be rabble—and she could leave with a light heart.

The Fire Dragon Squad members, of course, thought she was a genius.

They were already imagining bragging about this all over the place once the mission ended.

The Heavenly Flower Sword—a beauty with wit to match!

A huge misunderstanding, of course.

Then—

“Oh. That guy. It’s that guy from before.”

Gyeon Pohee pointed at the body of the strategist being carried behind Wangchul.

“Hee-Sister? What do you mean?”

“He kept trying to make me pour his wine, kiss him, and do ‘what men and women do’—so I broke him.”

Silence fell.

Ah. So that’s what happened.

And yes—Hee-Sister would do that.

...Yeah. This was on our side.

Shit. It really was these bastards.

Everyone had the same thought.

Qing struck first.

“How dare you! To lay hands on my Sworn Sister, the Heavenly Flower Sword’s own! You filthy lechers, blinded by her beauty, tried to drag her off and commit vile acts! Unforgivable!”

“What—”

“No need for words!”

Boom! Black dust billowed as Qing’s figure shot forward.

Wangchul’s eyes widened and he started to raise his saber—

Booong—!!

The deep, resonant toll of a great temple bell rolled through the air.

Heavenly Flower Sword—Naturally that meant the Tathagata Divine Palm.

Tathagata Divine Palm—Naturally that meant the Shaolin Temple.

Shaolin Temple—Naturally that meant the Monk of Martial Learning.

And since it was the Monk of Martial Learning who’d given her that title, one could, however raggedly, string it all together.

Wangchul realized—ah, the heir of the Tathagata Divine Palm.

He’d forgotten, distracted by crude jokes about her triple blessings.

But it was too late. The palm strike, packed with terrifying force, slammed into the floor at his feet—crack!

Martial arts began from the feet.

Which meant, if the ground under your feet collapsed, your martial arts couldn’t even begin.

And now Qing was right in front of him.

Her hand flashed {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} upward.

In that slender, jade-like hand, a weapon—Baegun Pork Trotters—gleamed with sunset-colored qi—

Wangchul’s eyes bulged.

Pork trotters?

He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—die to pork trotters!