Chapter 437: Journey to Taewon (8)

This little brat?

Already trying to escape study?

“Jangmyeong?”

Qing’s eyes twitched as she extended her hand.

Jin Jangmyeong stared at the pale, slender fingers offered to her—then suddenly—

“Ah! A butterfly!”

She whipped her head around, chasing after an imaginary butterfly.

This kid? So that’s it—she doesn’t want to study, huh?

Her cheeky attempt at an academic jailbreak would have to be punished later.

“Oh, right. Master, here—a gift from your disciple.”

“Heh. Why’d you bother bringing something like this?”

Cheon Yuhak snatched the box from Qing’s hands before she could take it back and flipped it open. Inside were three brand-new brushes, one thin, one thick, one very thick—never once used. Running his hand over them, he chuckled.

“Ah, sable hair, eh? Not cheap.”

“Eh, I just picked them up along the way.”

“Hah. Only my disciple would ‘pick up’ something like this. Whose arms did you pick them out of?”

“Nothing like that.”

They were brushes a scholar had pulled out now and then back in Guangxi, when Qing had been hanging around some bookish old fellow beside a loan shark.

In other words, recycled gifts.

No, not recycled—redistributed.

After all, Qing had little reason to write. On the rare occasions she did, a brush and paper were always provided. She had no real use for fine brushes. Better they end up in the hands of someone who would actually use them—better for the brushes themselves, too.

“Thanks. I’ll use them well. Though you should’ve brought something more extravagant—say, coral handles with gold leaf. You know, the flashy kind.”

“Eh? You like that gaudy stuff? All shiny-shiny?”

“No. But then people would ask, wouldn’t they? ‘Where did such a vulgar brush come from?’ And I’d get to brag that it was a gift from my disciple.”

“So you want ugly brushes just to brag?”

“Heh. That’s filial piety—giving your teacher something to show off.”

Even tossed out so casually, it carried weight.

Qing grimaced.

“Mm. Strange. You keep sounding like a proper learned man—it doesn’t suit you.”

“True learning never comes from puffed-up posturing. If someone’s always flaunting how much they know, bragging about their brilliance, it’s nothing but vulgar.”

Faces floated into Qing’s mind.

Right—Jeogal Ihyeon was plenty vulgar.

And Sama Chunbong—or was it Bongchun?—that one was so pitiful it was almost sad.

And compared to them? Look at that Seol bastard. Always insisting he wasn’t clever, yet every word out of his mouth dripped with the refined fragrance of scholarship. Except, of course, when he was busy sexually harassing people.

Hmm. Was the future of the Orthodox martial world really in good hands?

If those two were the brightest they had...

Qing sighed, heavy with concern for the Orthodox world’s bleak future.

Well, not her problem.

Shaking off the thought, she pulled out another item.

“Oh, right. This too.”

“Hm? A handkerchief? Too ornate for a man’s... Oh, this is a Treasure Map?”

“Wow, you recognized it right away?”

“Let me see. No, at first glance, I can’t tell. Where did you get this? With treasure maps, provenance is everything.”

“Why?”

“Because only when a heavy-weight figure possesses one can people believe, ‘Ah, this is the real thing.’ Go to any night market—you’ll find three or four charlatans selling so-called treasure maps. Who’d trust that?”

“Oh? Then how about this—the Chief of the Green Forest had it.”

“The Green Forest Chief? Heh heh.”

Cheon Yuhak’s smile bloomed wide, far brighter than when she’d given him the brushes.

“What’s with that grin? Happier than you were with the brushes by tenfold.”

“How could I not be?”

“You like treasure maps that much?”

He curled his lip and spoke.

“Fool. You think I’m happy just because you gave me a treasure map? No—I’m delighted because my disciple took this from the Green Forest Chief himself. That’s what makes me proud. You’ve grown into a proper thief! Treasure maps bring nothing but bloodshed—it’s the work of a true grand thief to steal them away and hide them. You’re a thief now through and through. I chose my disciple well. I can retire in peace.”

In other words, as a veteran brigand, he was praising his fledgling brigand for snatching a treasure map from the Green Forest Chief.

“So then—let’s hear it. How’d you get it? How did you know he had one? You mean you actually slipped into Mount Tianzi to steal it? Heh heh!”

Indeed, Cheon Yuhak was delighted.

Proud, moved.

His still-training disciple had stolen a potential blood-soaked treasure map from the chief of all bandits—how could that not thrill him?

Surely she’d heard rumors of its existence, realized her brigand’s duty, and risked her life to infiltrate Mount Tianzi to—

“Mm. I just took it.”

“...What?”

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

“‘Just took it’? What do you mean?”

“Well, I was sightseeing in Zhangjiajie. Ah, do you know it? The scenery’s insane—like something out of another world. Thousands of mountains rising like—”

“Hey! Put that hand down! People will see! What are you, describing dicks?”

“Ah.”

Qing quickly lowered the obscene hand gesture she’d made to show the mountains shaped like fists.

At least she’d learned something new: in the Central Plains, they called that shape “horse-dicks.”

Then she recounted the battle with the Green Forest bandits—an upright tale of a righteous heroine smiting the scourge of the world head-on.

When she finished, Jangmyeong’s eyes sparkled like starlight.

“Unni, amazing! You’re incredible! A great heroine!”

“Right? Told you I was.”

“Good heavens. So, disciple, you exterminated the Green Forest?”

“Eh, not exterminated. Bandits are everywhere. But the Chief is dead, and I cut down another Flower Realm master too. They’ll be keeping their heads down now.”

“Dear lord.”

Cheon Yuhak rubbed his forehead.

That wasn’t theft.

Slaughtering everyone and taking the prize wasn’t theft.

That was banditry. No—worse.

Not just a thief, but a highway butcher.

No—an absolute-top-tier highway butcher.

“I told you to become a thief. How did you end up a murderer?”

“Well... what if I say I stole their lives? If the goal is to take something harmful and remove it, then stealing the lives of useless bandits amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

“Mm.”

He sighed deeply.

“Now I see why your Great Master begged me to make you study.”

“But... bandits left alive would’ve just kept pillaging—”

“Enough.”

His stern voice cut her short. The look of displeasure on his face made Qing shrink, trying to bury her head between her shoulders. Her body might have surpassed human limits, but she was no turtle—her efforts only went so far.

Watching her cower, Cheon Yuhak clicked his tongue.

“I never once said you were wrong to massacre those villains. If anything, wasn’t it the right thing to do?”

“Oh? Really?”

Her face lit up.

He continued.

“I’ve read the classics countless times. Some passages, though, I could never stomach. Laozi once said, ‘Heaven’s net is vast and wide, yet nothing slips through.’ Do you know what that means?”

“Hehe.”

Her laugh said: no idea.

“It means that although Heaven’s net looks loose, not even the smallest thing escapes. Heaven’s net—judgment for evil deeds. Loose, as if imperfect. But Laozi insisted, ‘yet nothing slips through.’ In other words, even if it seems otherwise, no wrong goes unpunished. Evil always circles back upon itself.”

But was the world really so?

Did the good truly prosper and the wicked fall?

No. The net was too wide. The wicked slipped through with ease.

Laozi’s words were a blatant lie, a deception. He must have felt the shame himself, speaking it.

“Mm.”

“And so Sima Qian said—no, that’s a tale for later.”

“Sima Qian didn’t say ‘later,’ did he?”

“No. But tell me—if you were truly so proud, why does your voice falter? Why can’t you look your Master square in the eye? Why don’t you boast, shoulders high, nose raised, ‘I butchered the bandits, split them in half so they’d never steal again,’ the way one speaks of family honor?”

“Well... that’s...”

Qing groped for an answer, but it stuck like a thorn in her throat.

The truth was simple.

Because it had been fun.

If one must kill to survive, then killing those who deserved death—reaping virtue while indulging her own delight—what better world was there?

A world good for all, and good for Qing.

Of course, bandits didn’t count as “people.”

Not “the wicked must die.”

But “the wicked may be killed.”

A subtle difference, yet vast.

“Do you think Laozi, no fool, truly believed such drivel? That sins always returned to their owner, that virtue always triumphed? No—he knew it false. But he had to say it. He knew it was a lie, yet in an age when evil overflowed, he spread those words: good rewarded, evil punished. Boldly, without shame, though he deceived the world.”

Cheon Yuhak clapped Qing on the back.

“If you believe it’s right and truly necessary, then even if it means deceiving the entire world, you stride forward without a speck of shame.”

Coming from a Grand Academician of Hanlin, the words sounded lofty indeed.

But seen as the philosophy of a brigand?

One might just say he’d dressed up thievery in grand phrases—bragging about stealing with a clear conscience.

“Mm. I don’t know. If something’s right and necessary—right to whom? Necessary to me? Or to the world?”

Cheon Yuhak’s lips curled in a wicked grin.

“That’s exactly why you must study. Once you’ve walked through the pains of countless ancient thinkers, then you’ll be able to reach your own conclusions.”

Full circle. Always back to study.

Still, after hearing him, Qing couldn’t help but feel... maybe study really was necessary.

This was the trick of famed lecturers. Before the lesson, they’d hook students’ hearts with words that shook their spirits.

****

But.

This was the Hanlin Grand Academy.

The highest institution of learning in the Central Plains—covering everything from the basics to the most advanced, equivalent to a graduate school in Qing’s homeland.

Cheon Yuhak now stood at the back, posture perfectly solemn.

The scholars took turns presenting on the given topic, debating and questioning, exchanging interpretations.

“There is here a white horse. If one calls the white horse a horse, then is the black horse not a horse? The yellow horse not a horse? Thus, can the white horse truly be called a horse? Strictly speaking, a white horse is not a horse. For by adding the whiteness to the horse, it becomes a different category altogether. Therefore—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what kind of horse-shit is that? Do you think just because you’ve got a mouth, every noise out of it is wisdom? I ought to shove a carrot up your ass.”

Qing’s scathing commentary sent the scholars around her into fits, trying and failing to stifle their laughter.

With barely a grasp of the basics, Qing could make no sense of it at all.

“White Horse is Not Horse” might have been elementary study for them, but to her, it was sheer nonsense.

White horse, black horse—wasn’t the best horse just the one that tasted good?