Chapter 459: A Sad Legend, What Kind of Legend Is It? (9)

Qing considered her own realm to be Transcendent Absolute Qing.

If others heard it, they might laugh, saying it was a shameless way of gilding herself with gold.

But in truth, Qing had already hunted down several Flower Realm masters, proving it.

Near-infinite inner qi.

And an output unlike any other.

The strongest primate’s physical attributes—strength, stamina, balance, elasticity, flexibility—Qing surpassed them all.

She was stronger than any monkey could ever be.

And what of her intelligence, which spiked only when pressed to the edge?

It was like that insect, “Teacher Bar.”

So Qing had the right to put transcendence on her tongue.

But her Master?

Of course, Cheon Yuhak was a Flower Realm master.

But since he had not surpassed its limits, he was Flower Realm, not Transcendent Flower.

Qing already knew the enemy camp contained at least one Absolute-tier master.

If an Elder of the Tyrant Force Sect fought Cheon Yuhak in this situation?

Naturally, Cheon Yuhak would be forced to face several at once—in scholarly terms, he would be gang-beaten.

So Qing’s heart grew urgent.

She could not yet inherit the mantle of Divine Thief.

She hadn’t learned how her Master so effortlessly stole things as if by nature.

She lacked the very temperament for it.

Cheon Yuhak had seen her aptitude, but not her disposition—if she became Divine Thief now, she would do nothing but wreak havoc.

The Divine Thief of this age would storm in screaming, “Hand it over! Surrender it, and I’ll take your life as a bonus!” She would be known not as a thief but as a murderous brigand, a soul-stealer.

****

The truth was, Cheon Yuhak could switch trades from thief to assassin anytime he wished.

But because it was Cheon Yuhak, he was an assassin.

An assassin: the stabbing guest.

In Central Plains culture, a “guest” referred to an exalted person, so in fact it was not a slur but an honorific.

It was in memory of Jing Ke, the righteous man who tried to assassinate Qin Shi Huang but failed—“Damn, the dagger was too short. Should’ve brought a longsword.”

One who launched a suicide strike for the world, doomed to die whether he succeeded or failed, could not be called a mere murderer.

So the word “assassin” was a title of respect.

As an aside: if someone had just fed Qin Shi Huang a mouthful of mercury, he would have died anyway.

But because they tried stabbing and failed, he grew only more violent.

Of course, in those primitive days of mineralogy and toxicology, mercury did look like a miraculous elixir.

In the end, Qin Shi Huang actually died of mercury poisoning.

In any case, Cheon Yuhak did not wish to place the burden of murder on his precious disciple.

With no wife or children—naturally disinterested in women, born to wander—Qing was already like a daughter to him.

Murder was a poison that rotted the spirit.

And his gentle disciple’s hand was already vicious. To Cheon Yuhak’s eyes, she looked far more corroded inside than she showed.

What choice did he have?

Even if his elders lamented, he would take some of that weight from her shoulders.

So Cheon Yuhak drew his dagger.

A sane man would never lavishly decorate the most important tent.

Why announce to the world, the VIP is here?

But heretics were never sane.

Cheon Yuhak strode straight toward the largest house without hesitation—and heard a sound most foul.

The wet slap of flesh.

—“Damn bitch, can’t you tighten up? Shit, this country slut’s hole is wide open like the Longmen Grottoes! Am I just fucking the air?”

Cheon Yuhak’s eye twitched violently.

Perhaps his disciple was right.

Do such men deserve to live?

Regardless, it was the perfect moment for an assassination.

When lust consumed a man, even the most alert failed to hear the world around them.

Slip in, slice the throat, slip out.

Cheon Yuhak ghosted into the house.

What he had not foreseen was the Elder’s twisted tastes.

A young man in the act of rape.

A woman limp, tears dripping endlessly from her hopeless eyes.

And an old man clutching his own genitals while watching.

The Elder’s gaze met the Divine Thief’s.

“Young Master! Get clear!”

Young Master? So the boy was precious?

The Divine Thief loosed a bolt of internal force.

But the pampered young master flung himself aside to save his own skin.

The blast buried into his shoulder instead.

“Aaagh!”

The young master’s scream.

Cheon Yuhak lunged to finish him—

“Not so fast!”

The Elder surged forward, a great blade cleaving straight, a streak of red qi.

Cheon Yuhak’s starlit phantom hands brushed the side of the blade, redirecting it with Invisible Gentle Hands.

In one exchange, they measured each other.

He’s two levels above me. This is bad.

A Flower Realm this weak?

Cheon Yuhak’s face filled with dread. The Elder’s aura surged higher.

This was the weakness of the Divine Thief: vulnerable in open duels.

He survived only through cunning and the countless stolen tools at his disposal.

Cheon Yuhak gripped the dagger hanging from his wrist cord.

The young master kicked through a door, fleeing.

But the old pervert blocking the way was no trivial opponent.

Cheon Yuhak slowly backstepped, setting his stance, clearly ready to defend and strike back.

The Elder also held, observing, wary of traps.

In truth, the Divine Thief was only bluffing.

What did he have left?

Dragon Rope. Feathered Needles. Smoke bombs. Silkworm Thread. Seven throwing knives. Blades hidden in his shoes...

His mind raced, running through scenarios, which tool to use, what trap to set.

The Elder cursed inwardly.

That bastard’s scheming.

He charged in, blade first.

Weapons clashed in a deafening roar.

****

Racing across the village, Qing saw a pack of men rush toward her.

Her brow creased.

One ran naked, clutching his shoulder, manhood swinging.

Behind him, others followed in a horde.

What? Naked march? Why only one?

Qing immediately dropped to her knees, flattening herself on the ground.

A returning villager might act this way, she figured.

It worked.

A martial artist’s knees rarely touched earth—seeing her prone in a woodsman’s garb, carrying a pack, they assumed she was just a hunter.

Her predatory cunning was astounding.

From her homeland came a line:

When I kneel, it is only to gain momentum.

Her transcendent hearing and sense of space combined. At the perfect moment, Qing exploded forward.

Inhuman leg strength rocketed her into speed.

But time froze for her.

Damn it, he’s naked.

She had planned to kick him in the groin, send his spirit flying to the heavens.

But that was when pants were involved.

To actually touch bare flesh with her foot and shoe? Unthinkable.

Dignity had its minimum.

Simply put—too filthy.

But humans had tools.

Qing still held one such disposable tool. She slid her sword back into its scabbard and, with the flat side, scooped upward in a clean arc.

From her homeland there was a game of striking small balls into holes with long sticks.

Had they seen Qing’s stroke, they would have risen in ovation.

Even on a five-hole course, it would have gone in with one swing.

Two small balls crushed flat, pelvis cracked with splintering lines.

The Young Lord, Gang Sakmun of the Tyrant Force Sect, soared backward, crashing into the ground.

Qing clicked her tongue.

It had been like jamming her treasured Moonlight Sword into a wooden sheath: the sensation dull and unsatisfying.

Blood and other filth stained the improvised scabbard. She shuddered.

This one would have to be discarded.

But finding a good stick was difficult.

Then her eyes flared.

“The one who defiled my scabbard! Unforgivable!”

“Young Master!” “Protect the Young Lord!”

Heretics rushed, shaking their young master, even slapping him.

But once the groin is destroyed, no man can collect himself.

Meanwhile, a warrior stepped forward, qi blazing.

“Who are you! To dare provoke the Tyrant Force Sect!”

A fool picking a fight with words. Qing spat right back.

“When you ask someone’s name, it’s courtesy to give your own first! Don’t even know the order, you heretic bastard?”

“Fine! I am Gu Wi, First Generation of Tyrant Force Sect, Vice Tower Master Bi Woonyeong! State yourself!”

“I am Eon Yeonyeong of the vile Blood Sect! Blood Tax! Blood Tax! Blood! Blood makes innocence! Every meal must have blood! From this moment, this hunting ground is under our Blood Sect’s control!”

“What! What!?”

An identity none could have imagined.

The Vice Tower Master recoiled.

“What grudge does the Blood Sect have with us? Why target our sect?”

“The Blood Sect doesn’t need reasons! We came because we were bored, that’s why!”

And the Vice Tower Master accepted it.

It made sense.

Perfect logic, truly.

And when logic failed, martial law decreed—resolve it with strength.

“Damn! She’s a Blood Sect witch! You there, guard the Young Master! The rest, form formation! Dragon Formation, open!”

The Tyrant Force warriors swarmed to encircle Qing.

Whatever their sloppiness at leisure, they hadn’t earned their rank by gambling.

In battle, discipline clicked into place.

At that moment—

“Unni!” “Elder Sister!”

Two women struck from the flank, breaking the encirclement.

Qing was moved.

With such pitiful skills, yet they threw themselves in to help her!

As eyes turned toward the pair, Qing stomped.

Her true step burst a wave of black miasma in rippling circles.

The Vice Tower Master’s pupils widened.

The acceleration was beyond belief.

But a warrior revealed his worth in crisis.

He gritted his teeth, swung his great blade.

A line of qi sliced the earth.

In that instant, he realized—it was the finest stroke of his life.

If he felled his foe, he would surely ascend a realm.

But it missed.

The stroke carved only air.

No enlightenment came.

Because Qing had vanished.

She was above him.

Warriors rarely leapt.

In air, you lost direction, even balance.

It made you vulnerable.

But that flaw, turned around, meant escape from sight.

Qing raised the Moonlight Sword high. A torrent of qi smashed downward.

The Vice Tower Master hastily braced, lifting his blade with both hands.

Warriors avoided leaping for a second reason:

Strength came from the ground.

In the air, without special techniques, an attack relied only on mass, its limits obvious, its power weak.

Clang!

Even so, the sheer force drove his knees to bend.

Had his legs not folded, the rebound would have hurled Qing away.

But because they bent, the shock absorbed, Qing landed smoothly—then snapped a kick into his shin.

Crack.

“Aaagh!”

“Shut up!”

Qing’s fist, her Moonlight Sword gripped tight, the pommel weight jutting below—slammed into his shoulder.

The weight punched through bone, sinking deep.

What was a pommel?

Thicker than the hilt to keep the grip from slipping, flat below to add force when striking.

How much strength did it take to drive such a thing into the human body?

At least the might of the strongest human alive.