Chapter 452: A Sad Legend, What Kind of Legend Is It? (2)

“There are all kinds of techniques for disguise, but the most important part isn’t changing your face.”

“Eh? Then what is it?”

“It’s changing the features. They say a person’s impression is decided the instant you see them. I only learned this secondhand myself, but the one I learned it from made a name as a quack Daoist doing physiognomy, so I suppose it’s worth believing.”

By “that one,” he meant the previous Divine Thief.

Truth be told, the master–disciple bond of the Divine Thief line was always shattered, drowned in rancor, never escaping the chain of inherited grudges.

Which was why Cheon Yuhak actually found traveling with his disciple such a joy.

Even after enduring those tortures, she still wagged her tail calling him Master, Master. A good disciple.

Of course, that had only been possible thanks to the bleeding-hearted sacrifice of one old, wicked soul, but since neither Qing nor anyone else alive would ever acknowledge it, he was a true unsung hero.

“Oooh. Features. What kind of features?”

“The parts that stand out the moment people look at you. Since you already go around covering your face, if you just bind down your chest, that’s disguise enough.”

Qing’s expression soured.

“You have no idea how stifling and gross that feels. If you had real tits yourself, you’d know...”

“Better that way. It’s part of why I chose you as my disciple.”

“Eh? Master? You were looking at me like tha—”

“You brat. Don’t joke about something that disgusting. Anyway, people with strong features are actually easier to disguise. Disguises work best on good-looking men and beautiful women. And since you’re famous as a beauty, if you just hide your chest and do a little to your face, you become a completely different person.”

In Cheon Yuhak’s eyes, Qing wasn’t only monstrous with her qinggong. She was heaven’s gift to the art of disguise.

Look—she didn’t even sweat. Once you pasted something on her face, you’d never worry about it peeling off.

If only her height were a little more ordinary, she could carry dozens of identities without ever being caught. Such a pitying flaw.

“Really, without pasting anything to your face, if you just hide your chest, change your hair, and do your makeup differently, almost no one would recognize you. Add eyeglasses and—hm, let’s try it.”

So Qing followed his instructions: she thickened her brows, painted her lips bright red, extended the lines so they looked heavy.

“Jangmyeong? Number thirty-one.”

“Mm. Thirty-one.”

Together they parted Qing’s hair, braided it into four, then coiled two buns on the sides of her head.

They covered the buns with silk hair-wraps, tied them off with neat ribbons. The most popular dumpling-head style parents in the Central Plains loved for their little girls—cool in summer, easy to maintain, kept hair clean without constant fuss.

Qing popped on Cheon Yuhak’s disguise spectacles.

“Jangmyeong? How is it?”

“Ooh. I don’t recognize you. And you look really smart.”

“Not just looking smart. I am smart. Listen—Confucius said, ‘He who knows cannot beat he who loves, and he who loves cannot beat he who delights.’”

Zhi zhe bu ru hao zhe zhe, hao zhe zhe bu ru le zhe zhe.

Qing had known that phrase even before crossing over. Never dreamed it was Confucius’s line.

“Wow. You sound smart. Say more! Say more!”

Cheon Yuhak gave her the look of someone enduring a fool’s antics.

“Confucius said, don’t keep company with those inferior to you. Hm? Oh no, Jangmyeong. If that’s true, then by Confucius’s words you shouldn’t even talk to me.”

Wu wu bu ru qi zi.

Do not take as a companion one beneath yourself.

Cheon Yuhak’s brow bulged with veins. He hurled a slab of pork fat at Qing’s face.

Jin Jangmyeong’s smug little smirk was a bonus.

“You brat. That doesn’t mean don’t befriend the inferior. It means there is no such thing as an inferior friend! Confucius said every passerby is a teacher and has something to learn—would he separate people into worthy and unworthy? Who teaches such a rotten misreading?”

“Ah. Scholar Oh of Yeongcheon told me that.”

“You little punk. Third from the bottom in his class, and he spouts what? Since he’s third from the bottom, he thinks everyone except two people is his friend? This is what happens when fools half-learn and then spread nonsense.”

Qing could argue she was wronged. Who could know what Confucius really meant?

The writing of the Central Plains was primitive—interpretations shifted by the reader.

Cheon Yuhak’s version was the gentlest. Others read it as: don’t favor one friend above the rest.

Others said the “inferior” meant not in knowledge or wealth, but in virtue—meaning don’t consort with the unvirtuous or the wicked.

Had Qing known, she could have shot back that no single interpretation was the “answer.”

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

So her proud claim of being smart had no basis, and was void.

Anyway. They had the luxury suite. Qing turned to the mercury mirror fixed in the wall (expensive mirrors were nailed down everywhere in the world so thieves couldn’t snatch them).

“Wow. That’s me?”

Cheon Yuhak smiled, satisfied with the genuine reaction.

But Qing only said it because she wanted to.

Her reflection always looked strange to her. Mirrors weren’t common here—no matter how often she saw her own face, it never felt familiar.

Still, what stared back was no longer the beauty she’d grown used to, but a striking, intellectual stranger who looked like her IQ was three hundred. Impressive.

But Qing’s mood deflated.

This wasn’t the kind of disguise she’d expected.

And Qing never held back her tongue.

“This is it? I thought you’d slap on prosthetics, fake faces, masks to pull over...”

“You brat. The simplest methods are always the best. Do you think pasted faces stay for days? On an oily-skinned bastard, it’ll slip off in two hours. Use harsher stuff, and it won’t come off at all—you’ll blister, swell, pus will fill and burst. Miserable.”

Here, “pus” meant acne, pimples—back in Qing’s old world.

“What about skin masks?”

“You think wearing a false face doesn’t show? Some exist that don’t, but they’re insanely expensive and not even bought with gold. And they’re awful to wear. In winter, fine. In summer, sweat pools under your chin like a cyst. Ugh.”

“That! That’s how I feel when I bind my chest! Now you understand? Skin sticking, slippery, sweat dripping down under your breasts—”

“You brat, what kind of indecent talk to your master is that?”

“You’d get it if you had tits yourself.”

“Heh. When would I ever have tits?”

That’s the thing—no one knows.

Who chooses to have them? One day life just changes.

Even fondling your own grows dull after a day or two. No thrill. Better to knead someone else’s—then you’ll never tire, your hands always occupied.

Mmm.

Qing’s lecherous gaze slid to Jangmyeong’s chest, then fell, her brows drooping in helpless disappointment.

Should’ve brought Himhae...

She’d left her behind with Hwiyoung, who said he’d teach her martial arts. Supposedly he’d show her how to use Geongondae Kwon properly.

Qing had checked—no such technique anywhere.

Pressed him if it was real. He swore it was the greatest divine art, except incomplete.

Qing had accepted that.

If Himhae could reach the late Absolute Realm with something unfinished, then sure, it was divine. Too much for her, though.

Himhae... Qing wanted to grope her.

But Jangmyeong? Jangmyeong was still just a kid.

Why still a kid? Strange.

How long would she stay one?

Jangmyeong noticed Qing’s gaze, saw the pity in it, followed her eyes down. A vein bulged on her forehead.

“What kind of look is that?”

“Alright, enough play. Kill the old features, give new ones, and no matter how well someone knows your face, they won’t recognize you. Qing, twist your nose a little.”

Cheon Yuhak mixed the Divine Thief’s paste, stuck it to Qing’s sharp nose, bending it left.

Jin Jangmyeong had the chance to steal a priceless secret—but she showed no interest. She just pressed tight against Qing’s side, enjoying the cool breeze of the Han-Shim-Gong, radiating boredom.

Qing looked in the mirror again.

Just that crooked nose—and her impression shifted completely. Another person.

“Now when people see you, they’ll sigh, ‘Ahh, if only her nose were straight, she’d be perfect. Such a shame.’ That’s what impression means.”

People didn’t recall faces as precise portraits in the mind. They remembered features—assembled fragments.

“What about Jangmyeong?”

“First, make a feature. Do you know where a man looks first when he sees a woman?”

“The chest.”

“...You just say it outright?”

“You think I don’t know? I cover my face, so they don’t look there. Of course they look at my chest. I get it.”

“Men are built that way. Don’t be too offended. Anyway, for a woman’s disguise, it’s best to either bind down like you, or else fill out what’s lacking. That’s the advantage of your build.”

Jin Jangmyeong’s eyes sharpened like axe-blades.

Cheon Yuhak only snorted.

So came the next lecture:

The art of making a fake chest.

For Qing, starved for this, it was rain in drought, a spring in the desert. Her face bloomed with joy.

“Wow, really? Really convincing?”

“You’ll be shocked.”

“Make it now!”

Cheon Yuhak chuckled.

One of the Divine Thief’s tricks to hook disciples. And clearly, it still worked.

Qing watched, listened, practiced. Finally saw the result. Her jaw dropped.

What the hell. That’s just... real breasts.

Perfect size, shape, weight. Only a faint sticky offness to the touch, a hard bean in the center.

Then a thought struck her.

Wait.

Didn’t he say she was the first female Divine Thief?

So why all this effort into fake breasts?

In the Central Plains, a “fake chest” meant a wad of cotton sewn into cloth. But this—this was generations ahead.

Qing could never hold back curiosity.

“Is this a family secret art too? Why the hell does such a secret art exist? What’s it even for, that you make it this elaborate?”

With Jin Jangmyeong present, Cheon Yuhak only called it a family secret.

“Eh? Well, obviously you put effort into breasts. Khm.”

He’d answered like it was obvious.

He often forgot his disciple was still a woman, given how she acted like a rough man.

But in the end, she was.

Cheon Yuhak remembered the former Divine Thief.

—“Hey, smart-ass disciple, you’ve got no talent for martial arts. Hurry up and grind out four levels of Invisible Godly Hands, then Master will teach you something awesome.”

—“What is it?”

—“How to make women’s breasts.”

—“Whoa, amazing! Master, please teach me now. I’m ready to receive your profound instruction immediately!”

“Khm. When you disguise, the best method is to change your gender. A woman wearing a veil arouses no suspicion—add this padding and you’re convincingly a woman.”

“For that, it’s a little too real, don’t you think? It’s perfect. Jangmyeong, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. The touch is a bit weird, but under clothes—wow. It’s real.”

“With a bit of powder, even the touch passes. Oh, Jangmyeong, jackpot. Huge jackpot. Feast-level jackpot.”

“Mm. Totally.”

Cheon Yuhak sweated buckets.

Honestly, this was the fruit of generations of Divine Thieves’ obsession and refinement—the false chest, the padding.

But he resented being lumped in with them.

He’d never been into women. He preferred wandering the world to chasing skirts.

Coming from a good family, he’d never wanted for female attention. He had no need to mess with padding.

Sure, in his youth, he’d made a few for fun. But he never played with them.

Though when he cleaned up after his master, he often found them lying around, sometimes so overused they’d burst and he’d have to replace the bedding.

By looks alone, his master was nine out of ten on the “least likely to care about women” scale. Which made Cheon Yuhak sure he’d become a Daoist just to excuse never having women, not because of cultivation.

Either way, Cheon Yuhak felt a crushing, unjust resentment.

To not be able to deny what wasn’t true—what a damnable fate.