Chapter 469: I Don’t Believe in Legends (5)

The little restaurant Yang’s Garden in Heilongjiang.

A strange scent rose heavy from the dishes crowding the table—bitter, refreshing, and sharp.

It was the distinctive aroma of a herb called xiangcai.

But xiangcai was one of those herbs that split opinion.

Those who liked it would go crazy over it even if it was just tossed in oil.

Those who hated it would glare at a single leaf.

The customers here were of the latter sort.

They had even politely asked that it not be added.

And yet—

“Without xiangcai, it’s not true Northeast cooking. You came to the Northeast, you eat the Northeast way.”

They had asked for it to be left out, but he went ahead and added it anyway, spouting nonsense.

Maybe it was pride in his Dongbei cooking that made him insist.

Or maybe he just tossed it in out of habit while cooking, then thought it too wasteful to start again with new ingredients—especially since the customers were just a defenseless old woman and two women young enough to be her granddaughters.

But now, his true reason could never be known.

“Grrrhhh...”

The cook collapsed to the floor, frothing blood from his mouth.

A hole was blown straight through his belly by a strike of the Minority Witch’s true Minority Demonic Art.

He writhed on the ground, skewered open.

For the crime of adding xiangcai against their wishes, the cook died.

Though anyone who hated xiangcai would say he had committed a capital offense.

For the record, in Qing’s homeland this xiangcai is called cilantro.

As the cook’s blood spread across the floor, Sosu Shinpa poked through the dishes on the table.

“Tsk, tsk. Not a single dish without that foul weed. Tsk. Chugoo, you mustn’t. You mustn’t eat such things.”

A hideous-looking dog, about to lap up blood, whimpered at her scolding, covering its eyes with a paw.

A rare smile touched Shinpa’s lips.

Then a plate of fried rice floated up and landed before the dog—an elegant use of Empty Force Object Manipulation, a feat only true masters could perform.

The dog shoved its snout in and gobbled with loud smacking noises, sounding like cattle grazing.

Shinpa watched in silence for a moment, then scowled again as the cilantro scent rose.

“These Northeastern bastards... Do they have nothing else to eat, that they choose this filth?”

“It’s worth eating once you plug your nose.”

It was Eon Yeonyeong, her proud nose pinched tightly with tongs she had procured from who-knows-where.

Shinpa clicked her tongue.

“You think I should lower myself that far?”

Yeonyeong released the tongs with a sly smile.

“Still, this tangchoyuk made it through unharmed. Oh my, the taste is quite unique! Shinpa, ahh—”

“Take it away. The stench of that damned xiangcai has ruined my appetite.”

Still seething, Shinpa dumped a steaming bowl of mifen (thick-noodle Northeastern rice noodles) onto the floor.

The scalding broth splashed across the cook, who was already dying with a hole in his gut.

He shrieked, coughing blood.

Yeonyeong nodded at the sight, then suddenly said something out of the blue.

“Indeed, I’ll be visiting Mount Lao.”

She said it like she was just going for a short trip to a nearby mountain.

“Hm? Mount Lao? Is there such a mountain nearby? The only Lao Mountain I know is in Shandong.”

“That’s the one.”

Shinpa’s expression soured.

“What nonsense? The Great Plan is about to begin, and you’re running off? The Malgal dogs are already raising hell about when we’ll act. And if you go, who’ll control the jiangshi?”

“Doesn’t the sect have business at Lao Mountain as well? Elder Gui Sanmanbak seems overwhelmed—he begged me for help.”

“Hmph. That geezer only knows how to tinker with machines. Let him be. How long will it take you to get all the way to Mount Lao?”

“It’s only forty-five hundred li.”

“Most don’t call forty-five hundred li ‘only.’”

“If one travels a thousand li a day, it takes less than five.”

“You mean that bizarre coffin again? You’d lock yourself in it for five days?”

“Oh dear, not a coffin. A resting carriage.”

A “resting carriage”—a bed-wagon.

But to Shinpa, it looked like nothing more than a giant coffin with four handles.

With four Blood Jiangshi carrying it, it looked less like a carriage than a funeral bier.

“And why call it being ‘locked in’? One just lies back and sleeps.”

The Blood Jiangshi neither eat nor sleep, never tire.

They could run for twelve hours a day, day after day.

Of course, sprinting a thousand li a day would burn through their lifespans fast.

A ruinous waste of the sect’s resources.

But that cost would be borne by Am Haryong, who asked for aid—not by Yeonyeong.

Hadn’t she asked him plainly if he truly wished her help?

Shinpa still looked displeased.

“Tsk. Why would you help that old bastard, who’d devour you if he could?”

“Oh my, but we’re all of the Blood Sect. We should help one another, should we not?”

“Tsk. These people don’t know the value of craftsmen—they just use them up. When will you leave? Wouldn’t it be better to crush those Malgal dogs first and then go together?”

“If you came with me, Shinpa, could you endure five days lying down, eating rice balls in a resting carriage?”

Shinpa’s face twisted.

Five days lying still in a coffin-like box, eating and sleeping?

No aged crone would choose that.

****

They circled Mount Lao once.

The chain of vengeance among the Evil Path bastards had also come full circle.

From the dying curses and last words they gathered, it seemed none had found even a trace of the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art.

There were rumors of suspicious caves.

But according to the great map Tian Yuhak had borrowed without permission from his master, they were just natural formations.

A couple were marked with warnings: “Too deep—enter and you won’t return.”

Likely some Evil Path fools still wandered those dark caverns, starving to death.

Ten days of “treasure-hunting.”

When did treasure-hunting start meaning ambushes, frame-ups, and sowing discord?

This was no hunt—it was just chaos.

So they decided to rest.

The Evil Path sects were now so busy huddling together for survival that they’d abandoned searching.

And with everyone sharpening their blades, ready to stab, there was little chance the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art would be discovered anytime soon.

And so—back to Jimo.

Ten nights of rough camping had left Qing’s party looking like utter beggars.

As they entered the city, groups with sharp eyes followed discreetly, clearly itching to ask what had happened in the mountains—perhaps by force.

But their tailing soon ended.

Qing’s group strolled naturally into Jimo’s First Guesthouse, Mount Lao Pavilion, the most luxurious inn in the city.

Looking like beggars, yet moving as if they belonged in the most expensive rooms?

Then clearly—they were not to be touched.

The survivors of Jimo had learned prudence.

If someone looked dangerous, you let them be.

Survival had its reasons.

Not everyone gave up, though.

One man from the tailing crowd, sharp-eyed and wary, followed them inside.

The moment Qing entered the guesthouse, the serving boy dashed up.

Of course, the serving boy of Jimo’s First Guesthouse was the same as saying he was the “First Serving Boy of Jimo.”

By now, he knew not to judge beggarly appearances too quickly.

You only threw out beggars after you were sure they were beggars.

A simple wisdom—but one many inn boys across the Central Plains failed to grasp, suffering for it yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

“My lord, what do you require?”

“The best room. And bathwater. Now.”

Qing’s hand flickered with a mysterious motion.

Her unseen hand of Hidden Shadow Divine Arts dipped into her storage sack, and something heavy and golden arced out.

The boy caught it by reflex, his arm sagging under the weight.

Gold was heavy.

He swallowed at the gleam of the gold ingot in his palm.

One might wonder why she carried such heavy bullion up a mountain.

But she hadn’t.

It hadn’t been there when they went up.

It was there now.

A gold ingot that had appeared from nowhere along the way.

Well—among their party was a true magician and a magician-to-be.

Such conjuring was hardly difficult.

“I’ll prepare it at once! Hey, Jorang, escort our guests to the Immortal Herb Chamber! Doongdoong, Daesik, Cheojam—get the bath ready!”

The best room of the city’s best inn was always named after a local symbol.

Here it was the Immortal Herb Chamber, named because Emperor Qin Shi Huang had once scoured Mount Lao for the elixir of immortality.

And so—after ten days, to soak in hot water at last.

“Haaaah... This is true paradise.”

Unlike Qing, who had bathed twice in rainwater, her master and the little ones might have wept with joy.

Perhaps Qing should have held back as well—after all, paradise was sweeter after suffering.

Once clean, it was time for quick disguises.

Moyong Juhee, donning her false chest again, grimaced.

Even washed with soap and rinsed clean, the thing gave off a sour reek.

The flaw of its material—pig bladders that had swelled and festered under rain.

She had learned the true burden of wealth these ten days.

The false chest was heavier than her real one.

Ten days of carrying it all day left her shoulders, neck, and back knotted with pain.

Every morning she woke with a stiff neck.

And the stink—strongest to her own nose—clung to her.

How did Milady endure this daily? Hers were twice the size.

But hers were crafted by Jin Jangmyeong, tailor-made for her body.

Anyway.

Once refreshed, they descended for a light meal.

The moment Qing’s group entered the hall, a man in a bamboo hat at a corner table narrowed his eyes.

It was one of the men who had tailed them.

“Boy, what’s your best dish here?”

These were top-class guests, polished and gleaming.

The boy drew in a breath to answer—

“Just bring the ten best dishes, in order. Master, what would you like for your meal?”

“Dishes are ten, but you order a ‘meal’ too?”

“Of course. There are four mouths, aren’t there?”

Qing glanced at Jin Jangmyeong and Moyong Juhee.

“I’ll pass.”

“Me too.”

She didn’t get their agreement.

So Qing sulked.

So stingy.

If everyone ordered different things, they could share and taste more.

Dishes are dishes, meals are meals.

“Fine. I’ll eat alone then. Boy—milk porridge, three-delicacy claypot rice, and stir-fried beef intestines.”

Quite a lot for “alone.”

But the boy didn’t blink.

Nor did the other guests.

The rich always ordered far more than they ate.

It was the simplest way to flaunt wealth.

So everyone thought nothing of it.

These must be people with gold to rot.

But it was too soon to be surprised.

What if they didn’t waste a single bite of that massive order?

What if they devoured every dish to the last crumb?

Someone might faint from shock.

“Ye-eep! Huuuup...!”

The boy bellowed, reciting the dishes’ names with a voice that shook the rafters like a Shaolin lion’s roar.

And in the corner—

The man under the bamboo hat slowly rose.