Chapter 466: I Don’t Believe in Legends (2)

Making a Hell of Villains.

Ingredients: Villains. The more the better.

One. Please cut the ingredients into large pieces.

Crushing the limbs works best, though methods they can undo themselves, like dislocating their own joints, are best avoided.

(If you punch a hole through their throats, you can also enjoy a quiet Hell of Villains.)

Two. Dig a hole.

Since their arms and legs are just decorations now, it doesn’t matter if you don’t dig very deep.

Three. Once the hole is dug enough, toss all the ingredients in, and your Hell of Villains is complete!

To taste, you can taunt them, mock them, throw stones, jab spears, or even go down and roll around a bit, letting their broken limbs make them feel pain.

The recommended method is the so-called “You get it, right?”

Say: “From now on, kill each other. I’ll let only one live.”

Then you can watch a spectacular sight of maimed villains gnawing and trampling each other, each desperate to be the sole survivor.

Of course, even if they tried to help each other, it wouldn’t do any good anyway.

“Mm.”

Qing organized the method in her head.

She ought to leave this behind as a secret manual, an execution method for villains, a record that would last forever.

But if it fell into villains’ hands, it would cause great harm to the world. So, regretfully, she would have to keep it quietly to herself.

The fact of being in a woman’s body was truly lamentable.

If she were a man, she could have pissed down on them and enjoyed their panicked scrambling.

Of course, there’s nothing saying a woman can’t do the same.

But why bother giving those bastards a show?

They’ll never get the satisfaction.

It was dusky evening.

With Qing’s superhuman eyesight it was still clear, but to someone with normal night vision it would already be pitch black.

Qing looked down into the pit with a chilling gaze.

Half a jang deep?

Standing inside, the earth above would reach the tip of one’s nose — a shallow hole, really.

But once your limbs are ruined, even that half-jang becomes an insurmountable chasm, like a thousand-jang cliff.

Qing stared at the floor where muddy red water welled up, then tossed out a remark.

“Let’s hope the drainage is good. Still, with this many people, if it starts flooding you can all just drink it dry, can’t you? They say yellow earth is good for the body anyway.”

For the Korean people, yellow earth is the very panacea of nature — spread on the ground, plastered on walls, even made into pillows.

Hm? But now that she thought about it—why call it “yellow earth”? Isn’t it red?

If Qing saw real red earth, she’d probably say, Ah, so that’s why they call it yellow earth, the true red earth is actually bright red.

Her question was only natural.

The Central Plains folk had never seen real red soil, yet they named their own dirt “yellow earth.”

Why?

Because whether the dirt was brown, black, or even flesh-colored, it was still the earth.

Black is the color of Heaven, yellow is the color of Earth. That’s all.

Such were Qing’s thoughts as she looked at the villains flailing in the mud.

She turned her body toward a cliff four jang high.

A stone mountain had its advantages: the rock was jagged, so even in rain there were overhangs to shelter under.

“Should we light a fire now?”

“Yeah. Do you know how to light one in the rain?”

“Mm. More strength?”

“Forget it. Watch and learn.”

Stone mountains usually have many pines.

On the coast, only pines resistant to sea wind can survive.

So what about Mount Lao, a stone mountain by the sea?

“Pine heartwood catches fire even when wet. This place is nothing but pine, but if you’re in another mountain, find a pine.”

He rummaged the bundle of firewood and pulled out a big chunk thick with resin.

“The more resin, the better and longer it burns. Who picked this up? Good work.”

Cheon Yuhak stripped the bark.

He shaved out thin, fluttering strips of the core like a plane shavings wood.

Then he held a fire striker to it. In no time, despite the damp wood, flames leapt up.

He tossed in bark scraps, stood thin sticks over it—

In moments, a campfire was blazing.

Of course, it looked easy only because Cheon Yuhak was a master of the Flower Realm.

Who else but a master would slice wood chunks like tofu?

And as with any true craftsman, his practiced ease made it seem casual.

“Oh.”

“But—cough! cough!—wet wood smokes. Never light it in an enclosed space.”

They were in a nook between rocks, not quite a cave.

Smoke drifted up and out, but the lingering fumes stung their eyes and burned their noses.

Was it safe to make a fire? According to the Master, it was fine.

They were deep inside, with a cliff above and forest in front. Few would ever notice.

And with darkness so thick, even the rising smoke wouldn’t be seen from afar.

They lit the fire and roasted the deer they’d slaughtered earlier.

The smell was rank, but food always tastes better outdoors.

They hung wet clothes to dry, changed into spare outfits, lay listening to the rain and chatting idly.

The only bother was the hard stone ground.

Not that Qing minded—she could sleep on gravel and not be worse for it.

But Jin Jangmyeong and Murong Juhee tossed uncomfortably, unable to sleep.

How often had either of them slept outdoors?

Jangmyeong had trained quietly at the Divine Lady’s Gate.

Murong Juhee, heir of a noble house, had always traveled with the finest inns, never bedding down by a roadside fire.

****

One of the laws of the Central Plains:

Follow a river, and no matter how remote, you’ll find a village.

The borderlands are the exception.

There, if it isn’t a city, no one lives.

By this rule, it wasn’t surprising that even in a small valley along the upper West River between Mount Lao’s southern and middle peaks, there was a village.

Because the history of the Central Plains is the same as the history of corrupt officials squeezing peasants.

So peasants fled from predators like wolves and bears not as much as from officials, and hid in remote lands.

And when you add the insular village culture unique to the Chinese race—

Every mountain stream in the Central Plains hides some primitive hamlet, as if out of two centuries past.

Such was Jukwa Village, as hunters called it.

It was a village.

Until it became a branch of Ironblood Sect, one of the Ten Evil Celestial Sects.

The horrific fate of Jukwa Village, tucked deep in its bamboo grove, was the result of several factors.

A hunter, threatened at knifepoint, betrayed the location—forgetting the village’s kindness in sheltering him.

The villagers themselves, hidden so well, lit fires anyway, exposing their position.

But the true blame lay with the warriors of Ironblood Sect.

They claimed the place as a fine base and “cleaned out” the village.

So when Jun Gichung, the sect lord of Jeollakseong, returned from a fruitless search on Mount Lao in the rain, he was met with the villagers’ feelings made flesh.

“Tang-ah, my Tang-ah!?”

He rushed into the village square among the corpses of sect disciples.

And then, “Uwaaaah!” A cry as if his bowels were torn out—a wail the Central Plains called “pain of severed intestines.”

That was his grief.

Because among the dead lay the body of his own son, Jun Utang, young sect lord of Ironblood Sect.

Every bone in his body had been crushed.

His limbs were twisted up tight, bound into a ball with neat rope knots.

His bloodshot eyes proved it was done while he still lived.

Why send his son to search for the Demonic Art?

Because he never imagined anyone would dare touch Ironblood Sect.

This lack of imagination—this complacency—cost Jun Gichung his son.

In truth, many heirs of heretic sects were camped on Mount Lao.

The Demonic Union’s Martial World Tournament had been held, and of course heirs attended for networking.

When rumors of the Shin family’s secret treasure arose, they slipped away midway. Naturally the heirs led the advance.

If there was glory to seize, it would belong to the sect leader. But giving heirs a chance was still valuable.

“Who did this!? Who—argh! Find them! Find them now! Drag them before me!”

But the rain fell, the sun set—what search was possible?

Jun Gichung sat down hard, staring at his son’s corpse.

His disciples—called “holy disciples” in Ironblood Sect—watched their sect lord with fear, quietly gathering up the bodies.

Then—

“Lord.”

Jun Gichung’s head whipped around.

The elder, highest-ranked and thus forced to speak, shuddered.

Through the streaming rain, traces of bloody tears streaked his face.

Had Qing seen it, she would have laughed herself breathless. “Ha! With just a bowl of rice—no, a whole pot—I could gulp it down without side dishes. Killed others’ sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, yet he weeps blood for his own brat? Shouldn’t his eyeballs just melt and drip out instead?”

“My son, my son is dead.”

“Sir, you should see this.”

The elder handed him a tassel.

Jun Gichung seized it and peered at the octagonal wood bead threaded onto the cord.

One side bore the character “Gang.”

He flipped it. The other side: “Cheon.”

“Tyrant Force Sect...! Where did this come from?”

“From the hand of Oh Husam, third-rank holy disciple.”

Jun Gichung’s eyes burned blue with fury.

“Those bastards... how dare they.”

“Lord, please calm yourself. It could be a ploy to sow discord—”

“Discord!? You said it yourself, it was in our disciple’s grip! He clutched it in death to reveal the killer! To clear his injustice!”

“But—”

“They camped on the western slopes, didn’t they? I’ll demand the truth from those Tyrant Force Sect dogs myself.”

Just then—crack! A bolt of lightning.

Jun Gichung’s face turned ghost-white, shadows deepened black.

The elder would never forget the madness carved on that face.

****

At that same hour, Qing’s party was silent.

How many villages had once stood in these mountains?

How many peasants had been slaughtered?

They had seen the corpses dumped in the manure fields.

So when it came to crossing another one of the Ten Evil Celestial Sects, no one hesitated.

Still, since they had killed an heir, they chose caution tonight, not even lighting a fire.

They sat in silence in the pitch-dark.

Then Qing suddenly sprang up.

Why were they moping after killing scum?

Do the right thing, and hold your head high.

She shouted to break the mood.

“Sticky and clammy—can’t stand it! Let’s wash!”