Chapter 471: I Don’t Believe in Legends (7)

When Qing told a story, it somehow always turned out more intense than the original event.

Of course, it wasn’t just Qing—people in general did that.

So it wasn’t something like gilding her own face, not to that degree.

But this time she didn’t bother with details. She just said a village had been massacred, and so she couldn’t leave the heretics be.

“Hm. Even so, to impersonate the Blood Sect outright, and to use their insignia to pull off a counterintelligence ruse—that is cowardly, Sword-Friend.”

“Eh.”

Qing scowled.

This bastard?

After she went out of her way to tell the story, that was all he had to say?

But Namgung Sinjae stood firm.

“The heretics are always calling martial artists nothing more than armed bandits. And yet—why is it that one side is called the Righteous Factions and welcomed by the world, while those heretics are feared in the moment, cursed and mocked behind their backs? Do you know what makes the difference?”

“What.”

“It is that the Righteous take responsibility. A bandit with a sword? That can happen. But at the very least, a man of the Righteous must give his name when he robs. To accept the consequences of his deeds, and to bear even the grudges that result—that is the spirit of the Righteous.”

“Hm.”

It was one of those morally upright lines that were unfair in argument.

Plenty of counterpoints came to mind, but once spoken aloud they would only paint a person as trash in an instant.

Did a bad thing? Then it’s wrong.

There’s morality in this world, after all.

What answer could you give to that?

That everyone else does the same?

Maybe—but could you really live like that, following it all to the letter?

Careless words, and you were finished in a heartbeat.

So Qing, Jin Jangmyeong, and Murong Juhee all wore matching looks of indignation.

Elder Cheon Yuhak quietly averted his eyes.

Namgung Sinjae smiled faintly and asked,

“So then, let me in. Who are you planning to strike next?”

“Huh? We already set them all against each other. They’re so busy fighting that the treasure hunt is an afterthought. We just came down to regroup for now.”

“Then when will the regrouping end? How could you stage such a delightful affair without me? Hm, ‘Namjae’ is an alias too worn out. Sword-Friend, could you grant me a new one?”

“...Didn’t you just call me cowardly?”

“I like cowardice too. Those heretics are always acting cowardly themselves—why should we insist on responding with nobility?”

“...? Then why did you even—hm. Never mind.”

As if he’d ever been normal to begin with.

The “chi” in Sword-Fool meant idiot.

When he was absorbed in his sword, he was already called Sword-Fool—how much worse when the topic wasn’t swordsmanship?

“Hm. We’ve made the full circuit. For now we’re just watching, seeing how things develop.”

“Ah, so I was too late.”

Namgung Sinjae looked disappointed—though only for a moment.

His expression brightened as he suddenly rose to his feet.

“In that case, let us do what must be done.”

“Eh? Do what must be done? What do you mean?”

Namgung Sinjae grinned.

“Why, when a Sword-Friend meets another Sword-Friend, of course we must spar. Have your skills improved? I too have had revelations. Now, as Absolute sword-friends, we must match blades at last.”

“Oh. Absolute, is it? Now that’s more like my level.”

Jin Jangmyeong and Murong Juhee, left out of the tier, couldn’t help but feel bitter.

But no actual spar ever came to pass.

“You brat. Try growing some sense. I dressed you all in disguises so you wouldn’t be noticed, and now you’d make yourselves into the spectacle of the whole town?”

****

The chain of grudges, that linked-in stratagem of provocation, was a stimulus too strong for the people of the Central Plains to resist.

Because for them, a grudge was a debt that must be repaid, no matter what.

Fail to avenge it, and the entire world would mock you as not even a man. (A favor you might pass over—but never a grudge.)

So of course, when heretics from the next territory over killed your sworn brother while trying to eliminate competition, you had to avenge him.

But the grudges had kept on chaining.

Seven factions of the Ten Evil Celestial Sects fell into bloodshed, each preying on the other.

And before long, a realization crept in.

If they kept tearing each other apart, what if the Righteous struck?

Wouldn’t they only weaken themselves, handing easy victory to the Righteous?

So—let us call a truce, since we share a common enemy!

Of course, the Righteous were only a pretext.

They knew well the Righteous would not make the first move, would not ignite a full-scale Righteous–Evil war.

For all their hatred, the heretics had an immense faith in the Righteous—believing they would always be upright and proper.

The true fear was different: that if they kept fighting, their sects would weaken, and they’d be cast out of the Ten Evils.

The grudges were bitter.

But they could not take precedence over survival.

Even though those grudges involved the young masters, the heirs of their sects.

It was a grand decision, showing more responsibility than certain imperial scions of old—those who, upon the death of a brother, would abandon not only family but loyal retainers and even the common folk they claimed to love, ramming themselves headlong into a losing fight.

(Or perhaps it was only a matter of priorities: sworn brother >>>> retainers > common folk >>> horse > children.)

Thus, at the crossroads where rivers and gorges divided Mount Lao into north, west, and central peaks, the leaders of the heretic search parties gathered.

The Absorbing Qi Demonic Art was no small matter.

So their ranks were high—grand elders, former supreme elders, or even sect masters themselves.

But the sight of those sect masters drew unfriendly looks.

A sect master’s seat was supposed to be heavy.

What shame, barging in here like this.

We have sect masters too, you know.

Ours only held back because if they came in person, it could escalate too far—provoke the Demonic Union, or invite a swarm of Righteous factions.

But those shameless bastards brought theirs anyway.

And the words were not kept inside.

“Ah, how diligent your Lordship must be, to personally lead your men into these backwoods. Surely, as a sect master, you must be burdened with pressing affairs.”

Got nothing better to do?

“Why, is not a leader one who charges ahead with quick footwork?”

Light of ass, aren’t you.

“Truly, a blessing for the entire Demonic Union. Ah, the Union Leader should be told of this.”

Are you thick in the head?

Why not just shout to the whole world that the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art is here?

The sect masters’ brows twitched.

“Thank you for your words, but surely we are here to discuss a graver matter.”

What, you want to fight right now? You sure about that?

“Ahem.”

“Enough. Our Guangryong Fortress will let this pass—if Choryu Bukducheon issues a formal apology.”

Guangryong Fortress had sent neither master nor heir.

Which meant they had suffered least.

And if they framed the deaths of their disciples as casualties of treasure-seeking, even the grand elder would not be blamed.

But Choryu Bukducheon was outraged.

They had been attacked first—why were they being asked to apologize?

When had a victim ever apologized to the aggressor?

Even as aggressors themselves, they had never apologized.

Now they burned with fury.

Their supreme elder drew his great blade.

“The height of shamelessness! You earthworm bastards dared ambush us and even harmed our young master of Bukducheon!”

“Ha! What nonsense! Why would we strike at another sect’s heir?”

“Denials are useless! Look well—the proof our disciple died to obtain from your scheming hands!”

The elder hurled a token to the ground.

Guangryong Fortress’s grand elder snatched it up.

“This... Fifth Son of O Cheonryong? Why is his token with you! He was slain in Hyun-ga Sancheon’s attack! So you’ve joined hands with them against us!”

“What are you saying! Why would we attack Guangryong Fortress!?”

“Deny it if you like, but I saw it myself—men in Hyun-ga Sancheon robes committing the massacre!”

“No! We did not!”

Hyun-ga Sancheon’s elder beat his chest.

“We too lost our young master to Suwang Fortress’s attack! We were busy gathering his body, torn apart by those fiends—how could we have—”

“Bah! You struck first! You lost your heir, and now you try to pin it on us!”

The accusations flew, voices rising, weapons bared.

Murder hung in the air, a heartbeat from erupting—

And then someone thought: wait, isn’t this strange?

“Hold! The situation is too odd, too coincidental. Let us lay it out. Hyun-ga Sancheon attacked Suwang Fortress—”

“We did not!”

“No, just for the sake of argument—”

“Argument!? We didn’t!”

“Fine, then call it a claim. Suwang Fortress claims Mysterious Clan Mountain-River struck first. And Mysterious Clan Mountain-River says Guangryong Fortress struck them. Guangryong Fortress says First Flow Big Dipper River. First Flow Big Dipper River says Rooster Forest Sword Sect. Rooster Forest Sword Sect says Jeollak Fortress. Jeollak Fortress says Tyrant Force Sect. And the Tyrant Force Sect says...”

All eyes turned to the Sixth Elder.

“We were attacked by the Blood Sect.”

“Blood Sect!” “Blood Sect!” “Blood Sect!”

The cry rang out from every side.

“The Blood Sect? Are you certain? Do you have proof?”

“The bastards even left writing in blood! And what writing it was! Bold, majestic, so grand you could sell it and feed generations! Strokes thick and straight, unshaken, mastery of all the Eight Methods, a style complete in form! And the spirit in it—truly, a force to shake the world itself...”

“Hm?”

The sudden praise for calligraphy made everyone tilt their heads.

“Well then, let us see this Blood Sect writing.”

“Ah. That... it was written on a wall, in blood. If only it had been left on a corpse instead...”

The Sixth Elder muttered regretfully.

But the storm had come down hard.

Writing in blood on a wall could not survive that.

The heretic leaders exchanged glances.

Was that bastard just lamenting?

What, if it had been left on a body, would he have preserved it? Stuffed it and hung it up?

His young master slaughtered, his disciples butchered—and he’s mourning the loss of the writing?

They’d heard he was obsessed with calligraphy, but still.

And yet, seeing him like that, they realized he wasn’t lying.

An idiot like that couldn’t fake such regret over something that never existed.

Inadvertently, he had convinced them.

And left the heretic search leaders with another gnawing question.

Just how extraordinary was that writing?

How extraordinary must it have been, for the talk of the Blood Sect to turn into a lecture on calligraphy?