Chapter 457: A Sad Legend, What Kind of Legend Is It? (7)

Rags remain rags, even if you wash them.

At least they didn’t stink.

The newly woven straw raincoat was still stiff, not fully broken in.

But at least it didn’t stink.

Yeah, the day before yesterday... that hadn’t been it.

With a straw pack slung on his back and a stick in hand, a perfect mountain woodcutter was born.

Humans are pitiful beasts who judge by clothing, not content.

Disguising a sword as a walking stick was so easy a child could do it.

Step one: find a long, straight branch sturdy enough to hold the blade. If none, cut one.

Step two: wrap it in a layer of inner energy to stiffen it, then set the blade straight.

Step three: cover the hilt with dirty cloth. Perfect walking stick, complete!

As long as you had inner energy, even a seven-year-old could make one.

And yet—among their group, two couldn’t manage this simple trick.

Qing climbed the slope, lost in such idle thoughts.

Halfway up the hill, a hollow opened onto a clearing. There, ringed with walls of buildings, stood a fortress-village.

From below it was hidden by the hill. From above, concealed by the forest behind.

A perfect hidden settlement.

Qing strolled casually toward the gate.

****

Ha Cheondae was nineteenth rank among the Tyrant Force Sect’s Second Generation.

In more familiar terms: the nineteenth disciple of the second generation.

There was a reason they used “Second Generation Nineteenth Rank” instead of just “Nineteenth Disciple.”

The so-called Ten Evil Celestial Sects had to be different from the rest.

Of course, whether calling elders Heavenly Venerates, the first disciple First Rank, the second Second Rank, the third “Hey you, punk”—how much distinction that really made was questionable.

In any case, Ha Cheondae spotted a straw-cloaked figure climbing the hill below.

Carrying something long and thick as a staff—was that a staff, or a weapon?

Was it a martial artist or not? Hard to tell.

Ha Cheondae called cautiously to a man lying sprawled out on a mat.

“Brother Suhwa.”

That was the difference between calling someone a “Second-Gen disciple” and a “Second-Gen rank.”

When ranked by number, the relationship became harsher, colder than senior and junior.

Brother Suhwa was seventeenth rank.

Only two places higher, but those at the bottom were always the most conscious of such things.

So Ha Cheondae didn’t dare touch him, or shout.

Just whispered gently to wake him.

“Brother Suhwa.”

“Uhhhn? Uhhhg. What?”

“Someone’s coming.”

“Who? Who’s coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You don’t know? You think life in Second Rank ends if you don’t know? If you don’t know, that’s it? You useless bastard—if you don’t know, find out! What, do I have to find out for you and report back? You think life in an organization is that easy?”

It defied common sense.

If a subordinate didn’t know, wasn’t it the senior’s job to find out? That was why seniors were respected—because they knew more, did more.

Being born earlier or joining earlier wasn’t respect-worthy in itself.

But heretics were those who walked a different path.

Thus the Evil Path—those who followed another way.

“...I’ll find out.”

“You damn wretch, waking me from my nap? A useless bastard. How about I call everyone below me and above you for roll call, huh?”

Which of the two was really useless: the one keeping watch who reported suspicious movement, or the one loafing around asleep?

And “roll call,” my ass.

There was only one man between Seventeenth and Nineteenth Rank.

Calling him would hardly be a “roll call.” That was just a summons.

Ha Cheondae fumed, but years of heretic life had trained his face to betray nothing.

He leaned to a peephole in the wall.

A suspicious figure walking leisurely, as if out for a stroll.

But the closer he drew, the less suspicious he seemed.

Straw raincoat, pack on his back. A staff—far too thick and heavy, but still.

Just a woodcutter.

“Brother, looks like a mountain woodcutter.”

“Looks like? Is your report supposed to be vague?”

“He is a woodcutter.”

“From the village? Deal with it. No—if it’s a woodcutter, capture him alive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ha Cheondae peered again.

The woodcutter’s leisure made his blood boil.

Step, step. Pausing to look at grass by the roadside. Then distracted by a butterfly. One slow step, then another, draaaagging.

Ha Cheondae couldn’t take it. He leapt down, swift footwork carrying him forward, blade flashing out to point.

“Who are you?”

The woodcutter dropped to her knees at once.

Kneeling and pleading was the commoners’ best defense against the sword.

“Aigo, milord. What is the matter?”

“Hm? A woman? Whatever. Who are you, and why are you here?”

“This girl is Onyeonyeong. I was only on my way home.”

Ha Cheondae grinned.

“Suspicious. Show your face.”

The brim of the straw hat lifted.

A worn, smudged woman’s face, her nose crooked.

But no rags could hide that beauty.

A storm of beauty, a gale striking him full in the face.

“Khhm. Still suspicious. You’re not hiding something dangerous?”

“Something dangerous? No, I—”

“Enough. I’ll search you myself. Strip off your clothes and kneel.”

Searching women was the heretics’ pastime.

The woman protested.

“How could you say such a thing in broad daylight, milord, please—”

“Hoh? Do I have to strip you myself?”

“Then... if I take off my clothes, you’ll let me go—”

“Of course not. You’ve got holes to hide things in. I’ll have to search those too.”

“Please, milord—”

“Why is undressing so hard for you? Then this elder will help.”

Ha Cheondae blew hot breath and reached out.

The woman blew hot breath and reached out too.

To his shock, though later, her hand reached him first.

This was the principle of the later strike landing first.

Two fingers jabbed into the hollow at the base of his throat—

One into the notch between collarbones, one a thumb’s breadth above.

“Ugh.”

Ha Cheondae now had two new holes in his windpipe.

Air flowed directly into his lungs, bypassing nose and throat. A strangely refreshing breath.

“......!?”

But without air passing the throat, no sound could be made.

With one hole you might wheeze, but with two—no chance.

“I worried what to do if they turned out innocent. But of course—they’re heretic scum.”

Her hand flicked sideways.

Ha Cheondae clutched at his throat—then a flesh-colored pillar drove straight into his eyes.

Agony like burning—then, like a candle snuffed, the world went black.

“......!!!”

He clutched his eyes.

The warm liquid running down his cheeks was not tears, but thick and sticky.

The woman spread her arms wide.

Then—crack!—a clap.

Not palm to palm, but Ha Cheondae’s skull caught between, ears crushed.

Air compressed, bursting his eardrums.

Throat, eyes, ears—burst!

Air whistled violently through his punctured windpipe.

If it had passed through his vocal cords, it would have been a scream.

Blind, deaf, mute, Ha Cheondae wailed silently, blood pouring from his eyes.

Then he felt her grip his arm.

And—crunch.

More air hissed.

Qing’s expression was strange.

Mm. No scream—kind of unsatisfying.

Like watching a skin flick back home on mute—what’s the fun without sound?

Still, the sight was rich enough.

A nameless heretic thug, skilled only in harassing women—his arm hung useless below the shoulder, crushed bone.

Blood pouring from eyes and ears, writhing helpless on the ground.

Still unsatisfying.

Qing nudged him a few more times with her toe, completing the Seven Orifices Bleeding.

That was when blood flowed from all seven orifices: two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, and the throat.

She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the village.

He was bald, so the collar was all she could grab.

His demand to strip earlier explained that.

The heretic convulsed, thrashing—but blind, deaf, mute, and crippled, all he could do was kick his legs.

Qing dragged him to the gate.

Oddly quiet.

Didn’t they see their comrade’s fate?

Even if not, didn’t seeing him dragged bleeding raise alarms?

Why so silent?

Qing listened.

Hissing breath.

And above—the snores of someone sleeping.

Mm. So this was the discipline of the Ten Evil Celestial °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° Sects?

A commander could be forgiven for losing a battle, but never for failing in watch. Unless this was “supply detail”? Whatever.

She flung the crippled heretic before the gate, stomped his knees to finish the job.

Blind, deaf, mute, every limb broken—he could only twitch.

A pity he couldn’t hear her say why he’d been punished.

If she could’ve told him “you were crushed because you were evil,” he might’ve thought, If I’d known, I’d have lived better.

Qing vaulted the gate.

“Well, well.”

One man had even laid a mat and fallen asleep.

Even when Qing drew near, he only snored.

Her fingers rose, blade-straight.

A sting at his throat. He jerked, trying to curse—but no sound came. His eyes flew open.

Too late.

Her hand yanked his hair savagely, whipping his body.

Suddenly—weightless, the dizzying plunge of free fall.

Crunch.

His tailbone shattered on impact.

Not fatal—who needed a tailbone?

But with a murder demon masked in the guise of the world’s greatest beauty descending after him, not so fortunate.

He squirmed, rubbing his ass, pain sparking electric from his tailbone.

Then—cold steel against his neck.

He raised his head carefully.

“Shhh. Quiet. Look there.”

On the ground crawled Ha Cheondae.

Bleeding from seven orifices, limbs useless, writhing feebly.

Qing mimed clutching her throat.

A pierced windpipe meant no voice. But a hole could be blocked.

The man, Jang Suhwa, clutched his own throat.

“Who—”

“Someone asked me to avenge Danga Village. Do you understand?”

“You dare touch the Tyrant Force Sect—”

A sting at his throat.

Just a shallow cut—but enough to remind him.

“You dare?”

“N-no!”

Another sting.

“Shhh. I told you quiet.”

“Y-yes. Yes...”

“I have a few questions. Will you answer honestly? Or would you rather be blind, deaf, and mute like him?”

“If you spare me...”

“Mm. Well, fair enough. Give and take. Answer well, and I’ll let you live. But no lying, understand?”

“I won’t lie.”

So Qing began with the basics.

Who are you.

Where are you from, and how many came.

And—who else remains in the village.

“Now, last question. Why did you kill those poor villagers?”