Chapter 481: I Don’t Believe in Legends (17)

Qing’s “lifeline” was not, aesthetically, a great look.

She’d slipped a noose around a man’s neck and was holding the leash.

For people of the Central Plains it was worse—perhaps some ancestral, unconscious terror.

Every Central Plains man and woman was heir to slaves and second-class citizens once lassoed and strung along by horse-riding madmen.

That was before a certain Mr. Zhu stood up, took matters into his own hands, and took the throne.

So in the Central Plains, no matter how harshly slaves were treated, collars were rare.

At most, constables used them when escorting criminals.

Even so, there were those focused on the lifeline’s ghastly appearance.

Lee Hyhye’s three loyal slaves shot sparkly, ill-fitting eyes from their hulking frames.

Lee Hyhye let out a deep sigh.

“I can’t. No, I won’t. Walking around like that? That’s straight-up lunatic behavior. Rumors are bad enough as it is—what does that make me look like?”

Her slaves drooped in dismay.

Qing, listening, was a little offended.

What? Picking a fight?

Then—

“Ghk.”

An Yunjuk made the sound of his windpipe being pinched shut and proactively went whump! onto his tailbone.

It was a collision hard enough to worry for his coccyx.

Why did a man walking perfectly fine topple over?

Because a terrifying strength yanked the leash.

A force strong enough to rattle the cervical vertebrae clamped his airway tight and dragged him back.

Even a decent master could do nothing.

And An Yunjuk wasn’t even that; all he could do was roll across the floor from the shock to his tailbone.

Tatatang!

Sparks spat from the stone wall at the same time.

Arrows fired viciously, skimming him by a hair and thudding into innocent rock.

“Hah... hah... hah.”

Blood beaded at the tip of his nose where the arrow had grazed.

Having escaped death, An Yunjuk looked at the small divots in the wall and rubbed his sore neck.

The coarse rasp of a thick hemp rope.

It really was a lifeline...

He exhaled in relief.

The throat-squeezing collar somehow felt easier to bear.

“Whoa, a trap!”

Qing’s eyes lit up.

There really were traps.

And very professional ones.

She studied the wall the arrow had come from.

No arrow slits in sight.

But with eyesight beyond human, she made out a vague outline and felt along it.

A bumpy stone face, with a hole hidden within the deep black shadow cut sharp under the torchlight.

Wow—purely malicious.

A simple formation change followed.

The single file stretched out into a line abreast.

Cheon Yuhak and Namgung Sinjae took the flanks; Jin Jangmyeong and Murong Juhee moved inside.

Slaves to left, right, and rear, with Lee Hyhye centered between the two groups.

They moved again and—clunk!

An Yunjuk’s body dropped straight down!

The leash snapped taut! Dangling. Kicking.

“Ghk! Ghrk...”

His airway jammed shut.

Clutching the strangling lifeline in desperation, he suddenly felt his scalp tear as his body went weightless.

“Khhk—k-kh!”

He gasped raggedly.

Qing, unconcerned, stepped to the gaping floor and peered down.

Far below, rust-pitted iron spikes thrust their tips to the sky.

“Urk.”

At some point An Yunjuk crawled over, eased his head out for a peek, then recoiled in a panic.

After that, whenever boredom threatened, a trap would spring for An Yunjuk.

A neatly cut block dropped from the ceiling with a boom!!.

A massive axe-blade whooshed through the air.

Hissing hot oil poured down.

Spearpoints surged up from the floor.

Each was different, like a preview reel of what may be ahead.

After about eight brushes with death—not that anyone felt particularly sorry for him—the long corridor finally ended and a great grotto opened up.

The grotto had four bare open passages; counting the way Qing had come, five.

Opposite stood a single closed door.

Above it, a row of lamps shone bright on an inscribed plaque—so no one would miss it.

“Rest”

They were being told to rest.

Qing was incredulous. So was everyone else.

What—now it even provides rest breaks?

“What do we do? Want me to cut through?”

“Don’t. It’s not too late to decide after we see how this plays out. And you—”

Cheon Yuhak frowned; his lips moved.

—You. Disguised or not, aren’t you being too careless? Hiding your face and name won’t make swords and traps pass you by. Try settling down and acting with some composure.

“Eh? About what?”

—Did we come here to sightsee? Even if you and I can pull our bodies out, what about that little brat following you? Why so thoughtless?

“Ah.”

It felt like a bucket of cold water over her head.

Honestly, she’d gotten a little high.

The Human-Skin Mask smothering her face made its presence known every moment.

Every moment it reminded her she was hiding who she was—and she’d gotten giddy without noticing.

It wasn’t that Qing was stupid or careless so much as a side effect of being in disguise.

Anyone from Qing’s homeland who’s done reserve military training would get it.

Someone who normally fussed over dirtying their clothes and washed off a single splash at once—put them in uniform and they’ll flop right down in the dirt.

Your everyday self and your reserve-soldier self are two different people.

So you sit, lie down, jabber, and make a scene on dirt, grass, or stone whenever you have time.

By the same token, the middle-aged men in reserve training spout baseless claims because they’re “experts,” “rich,” or “VR challenger-tier masters.”

What was that again? Was reserve training a club for successful people?

Remembering home for the first time in a while, Qing reviewed her behavior.

Then she looked down at the leash in her hands.

“Hm. Mr. An, maybe [N O V E L I G H T] the collar’s a bit much. I should take it off now.”

“N-no!”

“Come on, I might’ve gone overboard. I’m not saying it as a figure of speech—I’ll take it off now.”

An Yunjuk had walked at the very front.

And taken every trap that poured out.

Tracing his regrets back past “caught by a crazy woman,” he realized he’d stepped into a deadly, ill-fitting arena far beyond his station.

A second-rate just starting to tinker with qi work—what Absorbing Qi Demonic Art?

He shouldn’t have been fooled by his sworn brothers; he should have stayed quiet in Gonyang.

What? They’d fight to the death for the demonic art, so if he hovered, he could steal it?

One cool thought would have shown how absurd that was—but “a martial art that makes you the best under heaven” had blinded him.

And in this savage hellscape, what was saving his paltry life?

The lifeline. The lifeline!

An Yunjuk flattened himself to the floor.

“No, ma’am! Please—your grace is as vast as the seas and rivers—please don’t take back the lifeline you’ve bestowed on this wretch, please...”

“You don’t have to beg that hard...”

Qing turned back with a sour face.

Cheon Yuhak sighed deeply; Jin Jangmyeong shook her head.

What? Why?

Anyway, since it said “rest,” they rested.

A small urge bubbled up to smash the shut stone door right now—but there was no reason to spit on printed instructions just for spite.

In other words, she just wanted to make a mess for no reason!

Qing tamped the impulse down hard.

She swallowed the itch and stretched out on the floor.

Lying there, watching the ceiling patterns ripple in the torchlight, Jin Jangmyeong inched in and slipped under her arm—click—hug.

Then Murong Juhee carefully sat by her head and—click—set Qing’s head on her thigh.

When Qing looked up, Murong Juhee averted her eyes and muttered an excuse.

“The floor’s hard...”

“You didn’t have to.”

The floor was hard—but Qing’s head was harder.

If she set her head on the stone, it was the floor that would be uncomfortable, not Qing.

Like a lump of millennial cold iron pressing down, whining.

Not that Qing refused kindness on principle.

A bare head on bare stone wasn’t exactly uncomfortable—but it wasn’t comfortable.

And thighs? Very comfortable.

Like master, like disciple: Cheon Yuhak also lay back with a pack under his head.

His doctrine was: when you rest, don’t half-ass it—rest properly.

Meanwhile, Namgung Sinjae was the only one “training,” swinging his twin swords—no, per his own phrasing, his Two-Sword—alone in the center of the grotto.

They were enjoying a strangely peaceful rest.

Munched a few rice balls, because peckish.

Murong Juhee’s careful hand stroked Qing’s hair.

Jin Jangmyeong purred like a cat, snoring on Qing’s shoulder—hmm.

Sleepy...

Qing was dozing, feeling very good—

Taktaktak—footfalls thrummed up through the floor, snapping her awake.

What? Why am I sprawled out like this?

Some formation trick?

For the record, the Blood Sect technician watching felt wronged.

The Empty-Blood Hall tech watching these punks sprawled out just because the plaque said “rest” was grinding his teeth and seeing his blood pressure climb.

Qing was sprawled because she was the kind who, standing, wants to sit; sitting, wants to lie; lying, wants to sleep.

And once one person sprawls, it spreads.

And Qing wasn’t the only one in disguise. The party couldn’t shake the indulgence that anonymity’s freedom and sweetness bestowed.

So the Blood Sect technician’s blood pressure soared through a peaceful interlude.

Everyone rested in their own way, got peckish, ate lunch.

Then came the footsteps.

The party snapped to and followed the sound.

Soon, a group of martial artists emerged from one of the grotto’s passages.

Six of them.

Judging by their uniforms—where were they from again?—anyway, one of the nasty bands holding some village.

One looked injured; another had him piggybacked.

They’d clearly been clipped by traps.

They spotted Qing’s party, flinched, and drew steel.

Qing pointed—click—at the plaque above the closed stone door: “Rest.”

The newcomers stood there with weird faces, at a loss, then, when Qing’s side didn’t react, bunched up and took a corner.

After that, at short intervals, more martial artists filtered in from the other passages.

There were five passages; heads began to fill the grotto.

Qing’s group had not only entered among the earliest of the ten-man companies, they’d also broken through quickly thanks to human bait plus slave An Yunjuk—so they’d had time to rest.

The pitiable ones came out last from the last door.

When the last man stepped through—

Thud!

The plaque above the closed door—the one that read “Rest”—fell on its own and crashed loudly.

The last group didn’t get to enjoy even a taste of rest before the next phase.

All eyes rose.

From the ceiling, another plaque descended on ropes.

“Prove your right to own the Divine Art by fighting. Only when only twenty-one hearts beat will the door open.”

Qing furrowed her brow.

Huh? Kill each other, just like that?

And why twenty-one, not twenty?

Either way, the condition to open the door was clear.

Tension slowly pooled through the grotto.