Chapter 472: I Don’t Believe in Legends (8)

The Blood Sect’s Empty-Blood Hall master, Am Haryong, stood at a crossroads of decision.

The original purpose of the Blood Sect’s Grand Scheme of the Empty-Blood Tides was simple: pit the Righteous and the Evil Path against one another, fan the flames, and escalate it until it became an all-out Great War.

But the rumors had only just begun to spread among the Righteous factions.

As with any alliance, decision-making took time.

How long would they dither?

Meanwhile, the heretics kept fighting among themselves.

At this rate, instead of a Great War between Righteous and Evil, it was going to devolve into a civil war within the Evil Path.

Of course, for the Blood Sect, there was no downside in that.

Whichever side lost numbers, the Blood Sect profited.

But what if a great profit was whittled down into a small one because of someone’s meddling?

It wasn’t so easy to shrug and say, “A profit is a profit.”

In Qing’s hometown, people told a story about the difference between the successful and the failures.

If you bought an item for one nyang and sold it for ten, you made a profit of nine.

But if you bought it for one nyang and sold it for nine?

The failures would say you made a profit of eight.

But the successful would say you suffered a loss of one.

Because an item that could have been sold for ten had been sold for nine—meaning, in the end, the jeweler took a loss.

Of course, there was the exact opposite saying too.

That those who counted the single nyang as a loss failed, while those who focused on the eight gained succeeded.

Why did the same story yield completely opposite conclusions?

Because this kind of “self-development” book didn’t care what it wrote.

What mattered was that the listener came away thinking they had read a fine book and had become a better person.

That was how authors could brag endlessly—about how they persevered, how they rose again and again after failure, how their success came not from parental support but from their own indomitable selves—and still make money off it.

Am Haryong was the type who focused on the single nyang loss.

But he wasn’t the sort to wallow until the loss grew to two, three, or more.

“Release the Four-Sided Writ.”

“What? Already? The Righteous haven’t even swarmed in yet.”

“The Absorbing Qi Demonic Art has to end up in heretical hands if there’s to be a fight. If it falls into Righteous hands, the Nine Schools and Ten Great Houses will simply hold a ceremonial burning.”

The heretics went mad for the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art.

If one could truly master it, one could become not only the greatest under heaven, but the greatest devil under heaven.

And the Evil Path was chronically short of profound arts worth calling divine.

So whatever it was—divine art or demonic—they’d seize it and try to cultivate it.

But the great Righteous sects had plenty of divine arts already.

Safe, powerful arts. Why risk a technique like Saljungsal, the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art, which drove one to madness?

Better to burn it away than leave a source of disorder in the world.

In Qing’s hometown, they had a phrase for this: kicking away the ladder.

The Righteous, already secure in their foundations, didn’t need the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art. If someone else learned it and challenged them, it was far better to erase it from existence altogether.

“If the Righteous charge in as things stand, the heretics will be wiped out. If we want it believed the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art passed into heretical hands, there’s no choice.”

“The Clever Rabbit Digs Three Burrows.”

Burrow one: unleash a bloody clash between Righteous and Evil at Mount Lao’s flanks.

Burrow two: if that failed, hand the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art to the Evil Path, triggering a grand collision with the Righteous in response.

And if even that failed?

Then pin the blame for disruption and reckless execution on Eon Yeonyeong, the Empty-Soldiers Hall master.

Three burrows. A clever rabbit. Who was that clever rabbit?

Me! Gwi San-man-bak! And who is Gwi San-man-bak?

Me! Am Haryong!

Am Haryong swelled with self-satisfaction, shoulders rising in pride.

His subordinates, used to this sight, felt no awe. Only another question came to mind.

“Then we’ll release the Four-Sided Writ.”

****

It was the middle of the night.

Suddenly—fweeeeee—a keening whistle, then a streak of fire trailing a tail as it shot skyward.

BOOM!

A brilliant blossom of flame bloomed in the heavens.

And then, after a pause—

Fweeeeee—BOOM!

And again, after another pause—

Fweeeeee—BOOM-BOOM!

Fireworks, at this hour?

Startled townsfolk ran out at the blasts, then froze, gazes riveted upward as one by one flowers of fire unfurled in the dark.

Fireworks were the luxury of New Year festivals in the provincial capitals.

Why were they going up here, and so stingily?

A proper display needed dozens at once, filling the sky with sparks.

Instead, the shots came intermittently, slowly. Two, maybe three every quarter-hour.

But the Central Plains was starved for spectacles, and even this was enough to draw necks craning, eyes locked skyward.

Peasants even woke their families, dragging them out to watch.

And the martial world, chasing rumors of the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art, was not about to roll over and sleep through such noise.

They spilled out into the night as well—only for dozens of fireworks to suddenly erupt all at once, painting the sky above distant Mount Lao in rainbow flame.

“Wooooooah!”

The common folk erupted in cheers.

At last—a proper display!

But the martial artists’ faces hardened.

Fireworks, from Mount Lao?

Fireworks, rising from Mount Lao?

Some dullards wondered aloud, Why shoot fireworks there? Who’s doing it?

But most were quick-witted enough to realize:

Something grave had happened at Mount Lao.

And Mount Lao was precisely where the rumor said the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art—the Shin family’s “secret treasure”—was hidden.

Hotheaded fools set out immediately.

Some carried lanterns, torches, even candles. One actually clutched a stub of wax taper.

How they thought to challenge the pitch-black mountain with a single candle was anyone’s guess.

The mark of men with shallow thought but overflowing impulse.

They leapt into action, only to find their poor preparation led to blunders, forcing them into longer detours.

But even the candle-bearers were wiser than those who charged out empty-handed.

That was the true mark of men with no thought at all—only reckless drive.

For example: Qing.

“Let’s go right now!”

“Oh! At last, the time has come for me to prove my Two-Sword!”

So said Namgung Sinjae, eldest son of the Namgung Clan.

“You idiots, rushing out into the dark? You’ll be caught blind. The night’s black as pitch.”

Thankfully, the party had a great thief among them, one with common sense.

“Eh? Black?”

Qing felt wronged.

The moon was bright tonight.

With her superhuman vision, she could see outlines well enough.

Thought could be replaced with a honed body.

Even if one lacked sense, the transcendent body could make up the lack.

So between Qing and Namgung Sinjae’s half-witted contest, Qing could still claim the advantage.

“Besides, you’re going out like that? Might as well hang a sign saying ‘The Heavenly Flame Sword is here!’”

“Ah.”

It made little difference—fifty steps versus a hundred.

Qing’s transcendent skin refused even the smallest blemish; even adhesive padding couldn’t {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} cling, not even to fake a blemish.

Still, she didn’t like sleeping with things glued to her face, so tonight she’d left it bare.

So, disguises first.

They woke a runner in the night, bought oil, stocked up on lanterns as well as torches.

****

The Evil Path and the “red-haired foreign devils” had one thing in common:

They butchered natives, seized villages, and then felt smug pride about it.

These heretics, too, had taken poor villages by slaughter.

From a strategic standpoint, it was a coup: while others camped under rain or slept in the mud, they had seized good strongholds.

But they too were jolted awake by fireworks.

At first, they thought it was a flare announcing some discovery.

But when the volleys kept climbing skyward, their faces darkened.

“What are you doing!? Prepare a search, now!”

So, in a midnight scramble, heretics clattered up the mountain after the trails of fire.

And at the end—they found a vast stone gate none of them had seen before.

“What? How the hell did we miss a stone gate this size? Who searched this sector?”

“It wasn’t here before! Truly!”

“So what, the gate sprouted from the earth? Bang your heads!”

The ones who had searched the sector felt wronged.

Who could overlook something this huge unless their eyes were twisted?

They were the ones dumbfounded—and now forced to slam their foreheads to the dirt besides.

Beside the gate sat a marble-sized ornament like a polished crystal.

Had they looked past it, they would have seen a mercury mirror.

A shaft rose from there, with crystals set along its length, bouncing the light up in a zigzag until it reached more mercury mirrors—ending in the gaze of an eye watching from within.

A Blood Sect technician of the Empty-Blood Hall chuckled at the sight of heretics slamming their heads.

They had camouflaged the gate with care. No wonder the Evil Path’s lazy sweeps had missed it.

To see their superiors raging and their subordinates bruising their skulls—it was a delicious show.

Beside him, two ropes stretched taut, leading to levers.

Tags hung above them:

“Open Passage”

“Destroy Passage.”

Cutting one would trigger the mechanism: either the gate opened, or the passage collapsed forever.

But outside, the writing carved on the stone said something else:

“Shin Family Tomb, West Gate.”

“Offer the heart of a martial artist who has transcended their limits to this hollow, and it shall open.”

“Force it, and the passage will collapse, barring entry forever.”

Beneath was a neatly squared depression, obvious as any offering slot.

It was strangely kind writing, really.

Where were they? The Shin Family Tomb.

Was this the only entrance? The West Gate alone? Of course not.

How to open it? With a heart.

Force it? Never enter.

A gate that opened itself upon receiving a heart—it sounded impressive.

But in truth, the mechanism depended on the rope-cut levers inside. Neither fully automatic nor manual—half and half.

The technician merely watched the slot, then pulled the rope accordingly.

But how could outsiders know that?

“A martial artist who has transcended their limits...”

From among the Ten Evil Celestial Sects, the Jeollak Fortress lord, Jung Gi-chung, groaned.

It wasn’t really a riddle.

To transcend one’s limits was to complete oneself—become Absolute.

And to surpass Absolute was to reach Top-tier.

So the toll demanded was the heart of a Top-tier martial artist.

A truly murderous price of admission.