Chapter 425: A Battle of Wits and Hearts (10)

The only thing unbefitting a Buddhist monk about Wolnyang was that his temper burned hotter than a fire, but aside from that, being dragged around by him wasn’t actually much of a bother.

Getting up in the morning and, before breakfast, devoting himself to ma-bo while training external arts.

Then, after breakfast, training external arts again.

Even his duty shifts were arranged together, so that after going on duty and returning—more external arts.

If you asked why he spent the whole day training the body, Wolnyang would say this:

Internal arts were trained while others slept, so it wasn’t as though he was spending all day only on external arts.

And external arts were, in his words, the steadily growing strength of one’s true body.

Sword-swinging types only trained the parts they used, so if they failed to gain enlightenment, they ended up with nothing but an unbalanced body.

But if you trained the whole body evenly through external arts, then even if you never reached a higher realm, you’d still have a solid, powerful physique to put behind your weapon.

And the workings of the human body were the workings of the universe; the path to understanding the body was, in itself, one of the paths to enlightenment—so how could people neglect external arts? He simply could not understand it.

This was something Qing had heard herself by asking.

And she’d had to pay the price for asking.

“Right, you do it too while you’re at it. Female martial artists need external arts all the more, but they avoid them, saying it’ll ruin their figure or make them muscular. But what could be more important to a martial artist than their body? And the muscle talk is laughable. Do they think a few basic strength drills will make hulking bulges pop out? Come on, get ready.”

Dragged off like that, she arrived at the training yard to find Jo Hakche, shirtless and dripping with sweat, sending her a desperate look.

Lady Seo Mun? Have you come to rescue me?

No. I just came over because I was bored.

In terms of sheer physical ability alone, Qing’s body was already the best under heaven—and in all of history.

“Oh-ho, you’ve done some external arts before? This is no ordinary body.”

“Of course. My master always said the importance of external arts can’t be overstated.”

“I see! The Great Mother leaves no gaps!”

So, while Wolnyang exclaimed in admiration, he began piling on more weight—one pair of sandbags, then two, then three, then four—until Qing looked less like the Heavenly Flower Sword and more like a sandbag rack, with only her pretty face sticking up above.

But she showed no sign of strain—not a single drop of sweat—and, bored, ended up yawning, only to get caught in the act.

Wolnyang burst into booming laughter.

“As expected! Splendid! Such a sturdy body—indeed, the successor to the Tathāgata Palm! You’ve inherited the spirit of Shaolin!”

“Hehe. Don’t they say all the world’s learning came from Shaolin?”

“Splendid, truly splendid! To think I was foolishly nagging a giant who’s already reached a realm in external arts. Now I see why the Abbot cherishes you so! Indeed, a genius of the martial world, a treasure of the orthodox!”

“Hehe. You flatter me.”

Thus Qing received lavish praise for external arts she’d practically gotten for free.

But Wolnyang’s admiration was genuine.

Female martial artists usually loathed external arts.

They worried about getting hulking muscles, and even if they didn’t go that far, the truth was that the flesh under their skin would thin out, revealing the hard contours of muscle.

They’d said she was a genius who’d reached Peak Realm at the youngest age in history, but now he thought she must have paired her natural talent with sweat-and-blood effort in the grueling discipline of bodily training.

This misunderstanding sent his opinion of Qing skyrocketing.

Wolnyang untied the black cord from his own wrist and held it out to her.

“Here, take this. There’s a group in the Alliance called the Diamond Great Strength Society that trains external arts together. Next time you’re in Kaifeng, come sweat it out with us. Black means instructor level, but you’re more than qualified.”

“Ah. Yes.”

Since he was giving it, she accepted it—for now.

But her gaze, without meaning to, drifted to Wolnyang’s glossy, gleaming bald head.

What is this? Did he become a monk because he shaved his head, or did he shave his head because he was a monk? Did he oil it? It’s really shiny.

And “Diamond Great Strength Society” made her picture a bunch of bald, muscle-bound freaks, sweat steaming off them as they worked out—a scene she found oddly off-putting.

Perhaps sensing her irreverent gaze, Wolnyang grinned and added:

“There are plenty your age, so don’t feel burdened about visiting.”

“People my age?”

“Of course. First, there’s that brat Jegal Ihyeon, who set the record for youngest instructor. And then...”

Starting with Jegal Ihyeon, Wolnyang rattled off an endless list of the society’s younger members.

The truth was, the weaker mid- and small-sized sects understood the importance of external arts all too well, and equally understood the value of connections.

So the Diamond Great Strength Society, where you could hone your body and build your network at the same time, was naturally very popular.

It just had to start with Jegal Ihyeon.

The guy had a full head of hair, sure, but still, she couldn’t shake the image of sweaty, muscular freaks in a haze of steam.

Qing stared down at the black-cord bracelet of the Diamond Great Strength Society.

It felt a bit damp—she’d have to wash it first.

But as a token of membership, it had a certain appeal. Maybe our Half-Sword Twin Sabers Club should have one too?

Thus ended the so-called “external arts training” session—really just a test of her physical limits—but they didn’t have enough sandbags to push her, so the test was a failure.

“Lady Seo Mun? Could you spare me a moment?”

Perhaps Wolnyang’s “external arts–mind–enlightenment” theory—that tiring the body would dispel lustful thoughts—had some effect, because Jo Hakche’s eyes looked a little less oily.

Still, it was Jo Hakche.

Even if the women had seduced him, could he really strut off, leaving his squad behind, to go screw around?

And Qing’s hearing wasn’t exactly ordinary.

From the floor below came those bizarre sounds—for example, Now behold the conqueror of Heilongjiang Province, the soaring Black Dragon of the Black Dragon Clan! or

Thus the great man’s Black Dragon—ah, ahh— She’d listened without thinking and kept listening because it was so damn funny.

Bear the Black Dragon’s child—no, what the hell. Ascend! Ride the dragon and ascend!—pfft.

“Pffft—”

In the end, she burst out laughing.

Whether the women were humoring Jo Hakche’s delusions or truly impressed by something worthy of the name “Black Dragon” was impossible to say.

How would you even know if it was a black dragon or just a black earthworm?

“Lady Seo Mun?”

Suppressing her laughter with effort, Qing replied:

“No, no. It’s just, now that Jo Hakche’s asking, I suddenly have a feeling I’m about to get extremely busy. What is it?”

“It’s... about Rangrang.”

“Miss Rangrang?”

Jo Hakche’s expression darkened.

“I’d like to ask you to look after her. After losing her entire family, how deep must her wounds be? How great a shock must it have been to change her manner of speech so drastically?”

“Huh? That’s not how she normally talked?”

“Of course not! She must’ve taken a terrible blow to the head or something.”

In other words, he was saying she’d gone mad.

Qing herself had thought she might be a little off.

“Still, she’s a truly good girl. In all my life, I’ve never met anyone as kind-hearted as Pyo-mae. She can’t bear to ignore another’s suffering—so much so that there’s not a soul in Jilin ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) who hasn’t been touched by her kindness. She squandered half the Hah Hu family fortune on charitable works.”

A girl who lived only to give, foolishly generous.

They said there wasn’t a single moneylender left in Jilin because of her.

After all, usury was something common folk resorted to only as a last, tearful choice when life became unbearably hard.

It wasn’t that peasants were stupid and willing to be bled dry by high interest and endless pretexts.

On the contrary, if life wasn’t that hard, there was no reason to use moneylenders at all.

If she saw orphans, she built houses to raise them.

If she saw the sick, she summoned a crowd of physicians, covering not only house calls but prescriptions and medicinal ingredients.

It was only lucky that no famine struck—otherwise the Hah Hu family might have gone bankrupt trying to feed all the peasants.

“These days she does seem a bit... simple, I’ll admit. Hm.”

“I see...”

Qing’s agreement lacked conviction.

For all that, her Virtue was only one point.

From the sound of it, she should be comfortably in the triple digits. Where had all the rest gone, leaving only a single point behind?

Jo Hakche didn’t seem to be lying, but he was talking about family, and Central Plains people... well, if a worm is even a little big, they’ll claim they’ve seen a dragon.

Hmm. Black dragon, black flood dragon, black earthworm. Whatever.

“You there, Jo-gaya! It’s time for the evening meal!”

Jo Hakche’s expression turned pleading.

“Lady Seo Mun, might you grant me the honor of sharing dinner with you?”

“Come on, with Venerable Wolnyang calling, who am I to sneak you away? Ah, he’s waiting.”

With that, Qing turned and walked off.

“Miss! Lady Seo Mun...!”

Jo Hakche called after her in a pained voice, but it was his own noose he was tightening.

He was only suffering for his own conduct.

****

The fight at the Ocean Pavilion had, in truth, been unjust.

Ambushing and killing the leader of a sect, bludgeoning him to death with a pork trotter—annihilating both his body and his honor—was a vile, brutal act.

And yet, to be honest, the Jin Family Lord couldn’t help but find the outcome deeply satisfying.

How much did they owe that Heavenly Flower Sword girl by now?

She could be enshrined as the family’s benefactor for generations to come, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

In any case, the Jin Family Lord decided to take this opportunity to uproot the demonic forces in Gwangju entirely.

Of course, the orthodox could not act like the demonic—striking wherever, whenever, however they pleased, without regard for time, place, or circumstance.

That was the way of the demonic (plus Seo Mun Qing); the orthodox had to uphold the righteousness befitting their name.

So, at least until the sect leader’s funeral was over, they would wait quietly.

When it ended, the Killing Moon Sect would receive their final notice:

Those who did not leave would face the law of the martial world.

Hmm. If they gave them a week to leave, wasn’t that too long?

The Demonic Alliance might just have time to interfere.

But three days was too short.

Four? Five? That was the question.

While the Jin Family Lord pondered the deadline for the ultimatum, the Killing Moon Sect’s new boss, Wang U, was worrying over exactly the same thing.

How much time would the Jin family give them?

Being orthodox, they’d grant a week, surely.

If that sniveling Chosu cried and wailed properly, could reinforcements make it in a week?

Or should he rush over right now, kneel, and beg for mercy?

The orthodox, if you apologized in public with enough witnesses, usually wouldn’t go so far as to exterminate your clan entirely.

Not because they were soft-hearted.

But because the banner of “orthodox”—name, virtue, honor—was a yoke and set of shackles they’d put on themselves.

Still, begging for forgiveness usually came with a price: the life of the leader and several top officers, or else the destruction of their cultivation—crippling them by shattering their dantian or cutting off their arms.

If he died or was crippled, what use was it for the Killing Moon Sect to survive?

So Wang U could only keep worrying.

And thus, on the third day after the death of former sect leader Lee Wangchul—on the second night of his funeral—the hour grew late...

****

In the Killing Moon Sect compound’s Small Dragon Hall.

The quarters of their newly accepted third-generation disciples—called “juniors” in Killing Moon parlance.

The future of the sect, the seedlings nurtured by the Demonic Alliance’s favor, fed on elixirs that had driven their cultivation soaring.

Yet they were tormented by an inexplicable, hideous thirst, unable to sleep.

Originally, Sect Scholar Bang was supposed to administer the final elixir today to complete their regimen.

But that elixir had been replaced by the internal energy of the Killing Moon Sect’s executives.

Their throats burned.

A searing thirst.

No matter how much water, wine—any liquid—they drank until their bellies were fit to burst, they could not quench it.