Chapter 451: A Sad Legend, What Kind of Legend Is It? (1)

Raindrops had been falling one by one, and Qing thought they’d surely swell into fat drops and bring a downpour. Sure enough, by the time the meal was finished—shaaa...! The sky opened up and poured down in earnest.

Rain heard from shelter always carries a coziness that loosens the nerves.

Maybe it was the day’s climb through the mountains, but after eating, Jin Jangmyeong kept nodding off until at last she collapsed sideways, conquered by the sound of rain.

That was when Qing rose to her feet.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll boil some water. Please wait just a moment. Your disciple will bring you hot water.”

“Khm. On a rainy day, you don’t need to go that far. I was just going to step out and get a little wet myself.”

Though Elder Cheon Yuhak said that, his lips had already loosened in a faint smile.

Both Qing and Cheon Yuhak were used to spending the night outdoors.

But Qing only liked the part where she could soak her body deep in a steaming bath; otherwise, she found washing troublesome. Since they’d be sleeping out again tomorrow and the next day, what was the point of scrubbing clean?

Cheon Yuhak was the opposite—he liked to stay tidy even on the road.

Qing knew her master’s preference, and well, what could she do? A disciple had to see to such things.

“I was going to get wet in the rain too. If I let the dorongi get rained on, maybe it’ll smell less? Washed off a little?”

“Less, my ass. It’ll stink worse.”

When Qing slid the door open, a crisp chorus of shaaaa filled the room. She hesitated a beat, then suddenly vaulted out past the eaves.

This wasn’t just rain—it was like being pummeled by raindrops. A pounding torrent.

Standing in it strangely brought to mind the world before she crossed over.

Why? Because back there, she’d never once been caught in the rain?

Ahh, what a refreshing downpour. Hm, this really makes me crave pajeon. Or haemuljeon. With plenty of chopped hot peppers in spicy soy sauce—haaah.

So thought Qing, belly still full from dinner.

She drifted toward the center of the village.

“Gggghhh...”

“Damn. Tough bastards.”

Unbelievably, all six of them were still alive!

Not as Physician Qing, but as Martial Qing, her judgment had been: no chance of survival.

But from Martial Qing’s perspective, it was delightful—these human filth clinging to life like worms.

Look—weren’t the corpses of the slaughtered villagers piled nearby, smiling wide as if in triumph? Their mouths split ear to ear.

But... how could corpses smile?

Qing rubbed her eyes.

She hadn’t misseen.

The massacred villagers—all of them—had turned their heads to stare at the writhing villains below, grinning with hollow, gaping sockets and grotesque smiles.

Some necks were twisted at impossible angles—well, they were dead already, so they didn’t care about bones and nerves, right?

“Gkkhh, grhhhhh...”

Even through the gags biting their mouths, the villains’ groans of pain cut clear through the roar of the rain.

Clothes clung to blistered skin; raindrops pelted their burned bodies, each strike torture.

Better a swift blade than this.

“Would it matter? Even if they die, they’ll keep suffering. Look—everyone’s waiting to welcome them already. Once they cross over, ohhh...”

Qing snapped her fingers.

“They say when you enter the afterlife, the innocents you killed come out to greet you with blades in hand. The guilty all rot in hell, so only the innocent return for revenge. Not bad, right? That’s how the afterlife should be.”

Her mood soared, and humming a tune, Qing skipped away.

She ducked into an empty house, grabbed a pot. Two here, two next door... ah, this one’s dirty, pass.

There was a pot in the house they were staying in, too, but she hated washing up. And besides, she wanted to check on the human blanket-rolls anyway. She needed clean pots for boiling water.

When she carried a whole pot of hot water to her master, the sun had set completely. The rain kept pouring, and the world was nothing but blackness.

“Then rest well. I’ll sleep next door with Jangmyeong and pay my respects in the morning.”

It wasn’t about keeping propriety.

She just figured, since she’d given him hot water, her master would want to wash.

“Good. At dawn we’ll head straight back to Jimo County. Don’t stay up needlessly—sleep early.”

“Oh right. Do you have soap?”

“Heh. When have you ever seen me without soap? You’re the one who doesn’t wash, not me.”

“I was just going to wash out front in the rain.”

“What’s this? Suddenly eager to wash? But what, afraid I’ll peek, eh? No, wait—you’re going to wash outside? In the rain?”

“It’s pouring buckets. If I lather up and scrub down—”

“What the hell? Girl, are you insane? Dark as it is, still—”

“Come on. The sun’s down, no one’s coming, you can’t see a hand in front of your face. What’s the harm?”

“Tch. Enough. You’re either fearless, or... ha, I don’t even have words. There’s a limit to being easygoing. You’re not some man. How can a girl strip bare and prance outside?”

If Seo Mun Surin had heard that, she’d have been deeply troubled.

So men could strip naked and wash in the rain, but women couldn’t?

Of course women couldn’t. Obviously.

But if men could and women couldn’t—

And this rotten disciple really was going to do it? No matter how dark the night, how could she just... my god.

In the end, one cosmic knuckle-crack to her head would be inevitable.

But alas, Seo Mun Surin wasn’t here.

Cheon Yuhak had no desire to wrestle with his disciple over such an indecent topic.

Qing had done it before, washing in rain during her days in the military.

So from her view, no one would be watching—why not?

And unlike acid rain back in her old world, here in the Central Plains it was pure and clean. Cleaner than hauling water for a bucket bath, even.

So the vision of the most celebrated beauty of the Central Plains frothing soap bubbles and running naked into the rain—this miracle of a scene—passed unseen by all.

The heavens were shrouded, the earth was drowned. One of the most splendid sights in human history slipped away, witnessed by no one.

****

At dawn, Qing opened her eyes.

Lying awake the night before, she’d decided she should probably clear away the burned corpses.

Not exactly what the old and young should be seeing.

Rain had fallen all night and was still falling. The world was dark, but the sun must have been nearing the ridgeline. With her superhuman eyesight, Qing could just make out shapes.

Donning her dorongi, she went out to the square.

The blanket-bundled men had burned through their covers, reduced to blanketless bundles, and now lay dead in the muck.

Shame—they might’ve lasted. Maybe the rain hurried their deaths.

Qing grabbed their ankles and casually flung them over a brushwood fence.

No need to bury or hide them—just get them out of sight along the way.

Then, looking at the pile of villagers’ corpses, Qing tilted her head.

What was this? Yesterday they’d been smiling.

Had they gone back to normal, satisfied with their enemies’ demise?

A little disappointing.

If only they’d kept smiling, she could’ve shown Master and Jangmyeong: look, they’ve found some peace.

But regret was regret, and the dead were dead.

They’d suffered enough—how could she scold them for not smiling anymore?

So Qing pressed her palms together and chanted the rites of a funeral prayer.

Then she went to pay morning respects, and with Jangmyeong—who’d slept like a rock since early evening—she lit a fire to prepare breakfast.

Or rather, Jangmyeong fluttered uselessly around doing nothing, while Qing alone did all the work.

But that was the job of the youngest.

Hovering, signaling “I want to help” without lifting a finger.

If the youngest tried to actually help, everything would get ruined. Watching and learning—that was her role.

Pretending to help was just the trick for being doted on.

“Why’s the table exactly the same as yesterday? No, worse. Last night at least we had egg porridge.”

Meals in the Central Plains were divided into “chae” and “ban,” what Qing’s homeland would call side dishes and staple.

Staples had their own hierarchy too: plain porridge was level with rice, but to match egg porridge, you’d need something like egg fried rice.

“Eh, porridge in the morning? Besides, you need ingredients to make it.”

“What? What’s porridge got to do with morning?”

“Hey, you need rice to have strength.”

“What? Rice and strength—what’s that got to do with each other?”

Utter nonsense to a Central Plains native.

But to Qing, common sense.

Porridge in the morning?

Porridge was for the sick, or to finish a hotpot.

“This is the same hodgepodge as yesterday.”

That was Qing’s limit as a fake cook.

Back home too, there were those who excelled at mystery stews made of fridge scraps or leftover fried rice. Qing was at that level—

but she knew what flavors went together and could balance seasoning, so even her slapdash food was edible.

“There’s a chicken coop out there. Should’ve butchered a few birds and boiled them down.”

Qing grinned sheepishly.

“I don’t know how to kill chickens.”

“What? Why not?”

“Uh... are you supposed to know?”

Cheon Yuhak caught himself.

Of course not—his disciple was a martial artist, not a farmer.

“Khm. Well, you were so good at camping out, picking fruits, mushrooms, herbs, I thought you’d know how to hunt too.”

“I can hunt, but I don’t know how to process them. If I just roast them, they’re gamey and tough. Burnt outside, raw inside.”

“That’s because you don’t drain the blood and fat. You should’ve said sooner. Once we reach Mount Lao, I’ll teach you.”

“Oh! Master, you know how?”

“I picked it up as a hobby.”

“Then can’t you teach me now? I saw cornstarch in the kitchen—fried chicken would be delicious.”

“When are we going to butcher chickens? We’ll be back in Jimo soon. We can eat well at an inn.”

“Still, wouldn’t it be useful to learn when there are ownerless chickens?”

Qing’s scholarly fervor—for food—burned bright.

If only she were this serious about martial arts, she’d be at the next realm by now.

So, with an impromptu chicken-slaughtering lesson, she enjoyed a fruitful morning of study.

For Qing, always sincere about eating, this was the moment she learned the art of poultry slaughter.

Hell yes. Now she could eat birds.

Birds everywhere—watch out.

That very moment, every wild bird in the Central Plains shivered. Coincidence, surely.

****

Back in Jimo County.

Truth was, they hadn’t gone to Mount Lao yet for a reason.

“If you’re going to stir trouble in the mountains, you’ve got to hide your identity. Otherwise, how’ll you bear the grudges?”

“Oh. And?”

“You change your face. Come on, learn it too. It’s not hard. Changing a person’s impression isn’t so difficult.”

So after unpacking, they wandered through Jimo’s market, buying all sorts of things.

Starch, glue, paste. Sewing tools, wax, honey—honey, why?

Tendons, fascia, intestines, every kind of grain flour.

An inscrutable shopping list.

Then they returned, and the formal lesson began—

the makeup arts of the Divine Thief.