Chapter 445: Every Treasure Has a Sad Legend (6)

The man’s name was Jang Bubum.

Originally, he had been named Jang Beom, but he disliked the Beom character—meant to “just stay in the middle wherever you go”—so he changed it himself to Bubum.

His hometown was a small village tucked away in Seorim County, and he had family there he hadn’t shown his face to in over ten years.

Fortunately, he had martial talent, and while drifting as a vagrant he managed to pick up a few lessons that let him grasp the basics of inner strength. With that skill, he gained entry into the Tyrant Dragon Sword Sect in Wui County, Guangxi Province.

****

“Tsk. Who asked about your personal history? What, why, where are you from?”

Cheon Yuhak clicked his tongue.

That stock introduction of “I am so-and-so from such-and-such place” was in fact one of those little-known methods in the martial world for begging one’s life.

After all, there’s a difference in weight between killing some nameless foe of unknown origin, and killing a man with a birthplace, a family, and a life you can picture.

Startled, Jang Bubum hurriedly spilled every word he could think of, true or false.

“Back in the sixth month, I took part in the Martial World Tournament. There, my senior brother picked up information—that a great hidden treasure was buried on Mount Lao in Shandong Peninsula...”

“Martial World Tournament? What Martial World Tournament? The one at the end of last year?”

“This year’s. Ah! Not the Orthodox Martial World Tournament—this was the Demonic Union’s Martial World Tournament.”

Cheon Yuhak’s face grew grim.

He didn’t care whether the heretical scum of Sapa held a tournament or a grand athletic meet, but with their typical bluff and posturing, they would have tried to gather the largest crowd possible.

“And information like that was going around at such a big event? Just who the hell leaked it? How public did it spread?”

“T-that, I don’t know. My senior brother heard it—I don’t know. Thanks to that, I slipped out quietly in the middle of the tournament...”

So that explained why the Demonic Union’s tournament lost so many participants halfway through. Qing’s party hadn’t even known such a tournament was happening.

Cheon Yuhak’s expression turned even more severe.

“You said a hidden treasure. Do you even know what it is?”

“My senior brother said he had an idea, that if his guess was right it would be a supreme divine art...”

“Ha. Of course. Your senior brother wouldn’t have told you. But—you went asking after a tomb, didn’t you? Why?”

When they first crossed paths, hadn’t he asked whether they knew of a tomb or any suspicious cave? Asking about caves was one thing, but specifically about a tomb was hard to ignore.

Because the Treasure Map had pointed exactly to that: the tomb of the Shin clan in Shin City.

Sure enough, that was what came out of his mouth.

“They said the Shin clan’s tomb in Shin City points the way, that the hidden treasure is there.”

As expected.

Cheon Yuhak let out a long sigh.

So this damned Treasure Map had proved lighter than a feather’s down, chattering its secret to the whole world until everyone knew there was something vicious buried here.

From then on, every question Cheon Yuhak asked—how many others had come, how many seemed to be converging on the treasure, and so on—was answered with ready compliance.

Having overheard the monstrous conversation of Grand Devils, Jang Bubum obediently spilled everything, trembling.

At last, Cheon Yuhak fell silent.

Jang Bubum rolled his eyes nervously.

It was then—

“Have you asked everything you wanted?”

“Well, yes. I never really expected you’d know much, but I’ve gotten plenty out of you.”

“Then—now, please tell me the method of breaking a dantian without killing. We’ve even got a handy practice specimen ready.”

At that, Jang Bubum went ashen and babbled frantically.

That he’d told them everything he knew, that he begged for mercy just this once—the usual desperate pleas.

Cheon Yuhak cut him off with a sharp tsk and crooked a glance at Qing.

“What’s this? Practice specimen? You call that something to say?”

Maybe her word choice was off?

Qing gave a sly, girlish smile.

“Aw, Master. Didn’t you see him swing his blade just now? Not a flicker of hesitation—those were hands that have killed before. What’s he losing if a few herbalists climb the mountain? No, he’s used to treating common lives like grass.”

“Mhm.”

Cheon Yuhak’s expression softened.

“As Master Confucius would put it, he’s a man squatting to shit in the middle of the road. The sort of man words won’t reach, right?”

Qing had even begun writing characters now.

Confucius once saw a man squatting in a roadside ditch, hiding to relieve himself. He rebuked him:

“You shameless scoundrel, have you no shame?”

The man, embarrassed, begged forgiveness. Though, given that Confucius was just under seven cheok tall, a muscle giant and martial master, the man would have begged even if he felt no shame.

Later, Confucius saw another man squatting squarely in the middle of the road. He wrinkled his brow, eyes regarding him as filth, and quietly took another path.

His disciples asked: “Master? That man shits right in the middle of the road, yet you say nothing? Is it fine as long as he does it openly?”

Confucius answered:

“The one who hides in the ditch knows it is shameful, which is why he hides. Because he knows shame, I rebuked him to correct him.

But the one who shits in the middle of the road is a bastard beyond words. No use wasting my breath.”

There was no way Cheon Yuhak didn’t know such a classic anecdote—famous, often told to children when teaching Confucianism.

“Boy. Still, calling him a practice specimen? That’s something only a Grand Devil would say.”

“Hehe. You’ll teach me then, won’t you?”

Jang Bubum cried out in fright.

“Wait! I’ve told you everything!”

“What? You don’t want your dantian broken?”

“Ah, Great Hero, you know this! For a martial artist, the dantian is more precious than life itself!”

“Is that so? Then I’ll just kill you instead?”

“Please...!”

“Then you should’ve lived righteously. I can tell just by looking what a violent life you’ve led.”

Qing looked up at the number above his head.

Sure. A number wasn’t some absolute arbiter of life and death.

But it could be a reference, couldn’t it?

“I—I’ll live righteously. Truly.”

Qing snorted in laughter.

“You think I haven’t heard that a hundred times? That’s why I’m going to help you live righteously. As a cripple with no inner strength, you’ll still be a person someone can use. Live diligently, buy goodwill with goodwill.”

“Wait, cripple? What do you mean, ugh—”

Qing smoothly shoved the gag back in his mouth.

The sayings of the sages she had learned in Taewon still floated vaguely in her head.

But it was different now from before, when she refused even to think about them.

Fine. Admit it.

Murder was only the most intense way of delivering pain.

What she loved was the act itself—despair, sorrow, loss, torment.

Yes. Honestly—she was a sadistic pervert killer.

Whether it was the Heavenly Killing Lonely Star, or side effects of the demonic arts—who knew? She was just properly insane.

But what could she do with a brain already broken?

So she cleaned up trash while feeding her own appetite. Was that so wrong?

And after paging through the Hundred Schools in this age of chaos, well—

The lesson was clear enough: if you don’t remove the wicked, the good will suffer.

Every one of the Hundred Schools’ teachings was, in the end, a different answer to the same question: how to get rid of the wicked.

The Legalists said: establish law, weigh guilt, kill or torture accordingly.

The School of Names: pry into the law’s loopholes and fix them.

The Confucians: create a social climate that scorns evil, so men are ashamed to act badly.

The Militarists: first, strong force! Unify.

The Diplomats: first, stop war! Make peace treaties.

The Mohists: if everyone treats everyone as kin, wickedness will vanish.

The Agriculturists: euthanize all who don’t produce—unearned income parasites. Kings, nobles, gangsters. And landlords (important).

The Miscellaneous and Novelists: record the age.

The Yin-Yang theorists: study why the world is in chaos to begin with.

And the Daoists... well. Honestly, they were morons. You know the type—

They don’t do anything themselves, just pick fights over what others do.

That was Daoism, spending all its effort mocking the other Schools.

But when asked what to do instead, they spouted nonsense like “Everyone should abandon desire” (wuwei ziran).

So their thought collapsed as a philosophy, and they slunk into the mountains, clinging to religion and cultivation until Daoism faded, and only Daoist priests remained.

Anyway, if Qing summed it up her way:

The one who judges men has always been men.

What qualifications did anyone need to remove trash?

Trash is what anyone can throw out.

That’s why people must learn.

Before, even thinking about it made her chest ache and feel guilty. Now, she faced it.

****

“Mhm. Like this? Hm, it’s leaking now?”

“That’s because I opened a crack. Remember carefully the meridian where the true energy leaks. At that spot—think of gently breaking and cutting away the entrance and exit. If you’re in a hurry, you can smash anywhere, but then you wreck the viscera.”

“Ohh.”

At the Hanlin Academy, the Grand Academician presided.

Beneath him were two coequals: the Senior Instructor and the Senior Reader.

The Senior Instructor was the best teacher in the world. The Senior Reader, the man who had read the most books.

Cheon Yuhak was the Senior Instructor. And he proved he deserved it with every lesson.

“Let’s see... mm. You’ve crippled him cleanly.”

“Hehe.”

The mood between master and disciple was warm.

But Jang Bubum, having lost the inner strength of a lifetime, only stared blankly into the void, tears streaming endlessly.

Qing smirked at the sight.

What a lovely expression.

“Ah. Now for the leg. The leg hurts, though. Endure it.”

Jang Bubum’s empty gaze snapped back into focus.

“Mmph!”

“Ah-ah. Don’t move. One slip and you won’t just be a cripple—you’ll be one-legged. At least you’ll need to be able to walk.”

“Mmphhh!”

But against Qing’s overwhelming strength—the might of Xiang Yu the Mighty turned into a Heavenly Flower Sword—what could a thug, now fallen to third-rate with his inner strength gone, do to resist?

The master of anatomy deftly popped his knee joint free.

Surprisingly, his gagged mouth stayed silent. Because the pain of dislocation was so excruciating no scream could even come out. His muscles quivered, transmitting the agony.

Wow. How much must that hurt? He must wish for death.

How could she live without this kind of fun?

Qing twisted delicately, snapping one ligament strand with a soft tok. Then slotted the leg back into place.

Jang Bubum, trembling on the edge of fainting (though pain this severe wouldn’t let him black out), sagged limp, drained.

“There. Don’t put weight on your right leg anymore. It won’t ruin your daily life.”

Qing smiled brightly as she asked:

“So? You think that senior brother of yours will protect a crippled, inner-strengthless junior? Hm? I know Sapa bastards well—they’ll just treat you like garbage and kick you out.”

His eyes clung to her with raw hostility.

What? Why glare so fiercely?

But for Qing, that was a prize. She liked it.

“With that leg you won’t be running. From now on, if I see you again—I’ll kill you. And not nicely. I’ll skin you and roll you in sand until you beg for death.”

True conviction had its own resonance.

And Qing never hid her expressions.

So Jang Bubum’s eyes, brimming with venom, softened and sank down. He had decided resisting would mean death.

A thrill shivered down Qing’s spine.

Not killing had its charm too, didn’t it?

Maybe that was why even those dark and twisted men practiced nonlethal methods.

“Now then. Run along. What was it? Tyrant Dragon Sword Sect, was it? Wow, Master, how do you remember everything after hearing it once? Anyway, don’t even think about rejoining those Tyrant bastards. You know what’ll happen if you get caught.”

Jang Bubum nodded violently.

Qing pulled the gag out and said:

“Go home, or settle somewhere else. I won’t tell you to live righteously. Just—don’t live wickedly. With that body, you won’t get far if you try. A cripple can’t fight. Just remember: make enemies, and you’ll die.”