Chapter 484: Snow-Claw-Zhao-Zhao-Zhao-Zhao-Sword: Speak of Cao Cao, and Cao Cao arrives (1)

Could you really imitate a human voice—or capture it and play it back—using nothing but the Mechanism World’s craft?

For something to show up in a prehistoric, primitive Central Plains era like this (cue the “You Pass” necklace) it was far too advanced.

Even if they were Empty-Blood Hall technicians of the Blood Sect, it meant they couldn’t have embedded a polite “The door is opening” announcement that chimes when the stone gate rose.

In fact, never mind announcements—the stone gate couldn’t even move itself.

It was pure cottage handcraft: a pulley-rigged, manpower-hoisted manual door.

Empty-Blood Hall technicians swarmed it and, heave-ho, started cranking the stone disk open by brute force.

“Isn’t that a little too manual?” you could complain.

But you had to account for the Shin Family Tomb being a burial complex carved out of a mountain.

If you wanted to mount even one mechanism, you had to dig out the space for it yourself.

If people had to operate it anyway, sweating once was more efficient than tunneling through solid rock.

While the Empty-Blood Hall technicians poured sweat by the bead, the fighting kept going.

Stone scraped stone with the grinding howl of a mill, but when blades flashed everywhere and blue-edged steel danced in the air, who cared about a millstone’s little cry?

Only—among the Evil Path brothers—there was one it struck like thunder: a Second-Rank fighter of the Ironblood Sect they called Pole.

“The door! The door! The door’s opening!”

He made such a ruckus over a single stone gate, but you had to understand Pole’s point of view.

He’d been getting carved up by a monster-witch—Central Plains parlance, a fiend wearing a human face—who looked like she had slipped on someone else’s skin (Qing, an orthodox Taoist on the surface).

Most of his torso had been grooved into a checkerboard and stained a livid red; Qing, in short, was lost in a trance of slaughter.

Then came the millstone sound.

Over there, a gate showed itself slowly rising.

For Pole, it was a ray of light, the best salvation imaginable!

“A gate?”

“Yeah, a gate! Since the door’s—”

“Don’t need it!”

What sudden obsession with a door?

To Qing, the door was out of mind entirely now.

What mattered was that the bastard in front of her wore the Ironblood Sect’s uniform.

Wasn’t he one of the ones who erased an innocent mountain hamlet off the map just to secure a cozy ‘resting room’?

And now, out of things to sell off for his own skin, he’d started hawking the poor door.

Then—hmm? A door? What door? The stone gate?

Qing’s eyes, hazy and drunk on pleasure, cleared.

The killing intent wrapping her mind bled away, and the empty half-dizzy, half-sage gaze unique to a Taoist replaced it.

In other words, Qing snapped perfectly back to normal.

The smile that had bloomed too wide and oppressive settled into something faint.

Her Human-Skin Mask seated itself true; the monstrous wrongness vanished like it had never been, and the hell-born rakshasa turned, in a blink, into a clear-water orthodox Taoist—a scene so dramatic it stunned the eye.

At that sight, Pole let his heart drop.

Ah, it’s over. I survived...!

Right as he tried to sigh in relief, his heart twinged—

“Huhhk—why...?”

He stared, trembling, at the blade lodged in his solar plexus.

“There used to be a nameless hamlet on the skirts of Mount Lao. Now there isn’t. Why? Because the bastards of the Ironblood Sect erased it.”

“Over some country bumpkins...?”

At the same time, Qing turned her blade downward.

Her creed never changed:

A sword must come out a different way than it went in.

Pole’s body, split straight from the pit of the stomach to the groin, poured onto the ground.

For reference, Qing was perfectly normal.

With his insides spilled, Pole fixed the opening gate in his narrowing, choking view with desperate eyes.

And his last words:

“The... door... opened...”

Even with the door open, the fact he died must have eaten him alive.

You tell them why they’re dying and they still blame the door—what in the hell is wrong with the Evil Path?

Qing flicked her sword to shed the clinging blood.

Mm. And of course someone had to be standing right there.

A stranger of the martial world, suddenly drenched in blood, offal, and lumps of fat, jerked his head aside in a rush of fury—

“Fuck—who—ugh, my neck’s all stiff. Am I about to get a crick?”

Then he saw the culprit, and naturally just rolled his neck and pretended to loosen the muscles.

That was the sensible thing.

Pride was pride—but picking a fight with the woman who laughed while carving a man up alive was another matter entirely.

And yes, it would have been the same even if Qing had been a demurely feminine participant.

“Tell me, friend—when did you attain the state of oneness? I thought I’d caught up a little, but must you always be that far ahead? Truly a divine dignity worthy of my Sword-Friend!”

When a master who’d achieved oneness with his blade splashed you with filth, you took it.

Talk back, and you took a blade with it.

“Heh. What’s so hard about that? Catch me on a good day and that much is—hmm? Speaking of which, if you use twin-swords, how do you achieve oneness? Do only the two blades remain?”

“But of course. Twin-swords are two swords wielded as one; two blades acting as a single weapon.”

“Is it right to call that oneness? Is it even possible? The consciousness is just one.”

“But the weapon is not one.”

“It’s twin-swords.”

“I just said twin-swords are a single weapon. Therefore twin-sword arts are, sadly, a flawed discipline.”

“Excuse me?”

Murong Juhee’s eyes flared.

If he hadn’t been the Namgung clan’s eldest son, she’d have challenged him to a life-and-death duel on the spot; as it was, it was the kind of slur that would have forced the Namgung clan head—whose tolerance by the cup had been improving by the day—to apologize in person.

But as from the first meeting, Namgung Sinjae was not a man who weighed his words.

Maybe because he spent a childhood as the Namgung heir with no need to weigh them.

Or maybe he was just born this way.

“Isn’t it so? A warrior’s baseline is one weapon and one auxiliary art. Whether it’s a sword, a saber, or a long-weapon, you leave the off-hand to hand-techniques. If the main armament is worth ten points, the so-called close-quarters ‘brawling arts’ are worth, say, three. Thus a warrior’s output with weapon and off-hand together is thirteen points.”

Talk between masters was treasure without form.

If it was discourse between a late-Absolute master who’d reached oneness with the sword and a plain Absolute master, you had to prick up your ears despite pride; it was that precious.

So the Evil Path fighters pretended not to listen and listened anyway—some cocked their heads, some nodded, some took offense.

Those who cocked their heads:

I get “sword,” but what’s a “short blade” and what’s a “long weapon”?

(The answer is sword, saber, and spear.)

Those who nodded:

Right, right. Brawling counts as an auxiliary art.

Just as a martial artist isn’t the same as a weapon-fighter.

Though three points feels generous.

One point—no, half a point, maybe.

And those who took offense were exactly those auxiliary fighters.

But as quasi-warriors, what could they do about being offended?

“Now, if you pick up twin-swords, then your two armaments merge into one—just ten points. It’s worse than leaving one hand free.”

“Oh? That’s... persuasive.”

Qing nodded.

Murong Juhee looked very hurt.

To be fair—when it came to swords, Namgung Sinjae was usually right.

So Qing agreed and let it slide.

Namgung Sinjae was right exactly about swords.

About everything else, he said things worth getting smacked for.

“In that sense, the ultimate martial way is Two-Sword. Different blades in left and right—ten plus ten, twenty points across both hands, isn’t it?”

There it was.

In the end, the conclusion went weird.

“Then wouldn’t two weapons always be better? Why doesn’t everyone use double weapons instead of leaving a hand free?”

“Because the world is not filled with geniuses like me. Does it make sense to wield different swords in each hand? It’s too rough and difficult a road—people flinch early, give up, and compromise.”

“Hm?”

Qing’s eyes brightened.

She was, after all, not one to pass up a chance to tease someone.

“Is that hard?”

“It is. Swordsmanship addresses all four directions; its paths reach out into the world. Running two sword arts so they don’t interfere, harmonizing as they extend—practically impossible. But what’s near-impossible is not the same as—”

“Hng. Hand me your swords.”

Qing’s martial learning reached back to that primordial terror beyond the universe that hammered itself into her head and body.

In her homeland, it was the great old status-window’s contamination—mental and physical—that clawed even into the near-memory, the unconscious. Or so Qing believed.

Anyway, her eat-it-raw, untrimmed, brain-kneading study method apparently hadn’t felt like distinguishing right-handed from left-handed.

It just rammed both sides full.

Moon Maiden Sword Formula (Genuine) in her right.

One-Hundred-Eight Asura Sword in her left.

The first and only heir preserving humanity’s greatest orthodox sword—paired, at the same time, with a vicious demonic art among the Ten Supreme Demonic Arts—unfurled together.

Granted, Moon Maiden Sword had a right to feel wronged.

If you were going to pair up, at least use a purple-grade art—what’s with waving gaudy gold around and lowering the tone?

But Qing had a habit of making someone feel aggrieved just by breathing.

And if that had been doable for everyone, everyone would be walking around with two weapons.

Clang! The blades crashed and a short duel-dance snapped to a close.

“Eh. Not easy.”

“Oho! Impressive! But it’s still closer to imitation. Two-Sword disassembles each form and reassembles them so the pair fit; and even then, you mustn’t injure the true intent of either art. You only plucked two compatible moves from each style.”

Qing’s pupils quivered.

Truly a ghost—no, a sword ghost.

And then, voice to ear:

—And, Sword-Friend? Was that ferociously exhilarating sword just now the One-Hundred-Eight Asura Sword of the Ten Supreme Demonic Arts? How came you to learn the most vicious of vicious demonic swords? Magnificent! Show me more in detail when we spar later.

“...?”

You recognized that? She winced—and then, that conclusion? Why?

But Namgung Sinjae—well, you could understand him.

No—he understood and then some; he admired.

As expected of a Sword-Friend.

How could a true swordsman pass by a famed sword art and not stop?

Before the Ten Supreme Demonic Arts, it was a sword art.

Along the sword’s way, there was no good or evil; thus no orthodoxy or demonic.

Of course, if it hadn’t been a Sword-Friend, there’d have been no mercy.

It would have been the public reappearance of the Asura Demon Sword, a scourge of the martial world.

But once upon a time, after Zhong Ziqi died, Bo Ya snapped his zither strings; they called a friend who knew the sound zhiyin—the highest summit of friendship.

If that was for someone who merely knew a sound, then a Sword-Friend who knew the greatest sword under heaven—

That was when:

“Hey, are you two going to keep talking? Time to move, isn’t it? Everyone’s waiting.”

Joo Ayo Lee Hyhye cut in.

“Eh? Can’t we just go our separate ways now? The door’s open.”

“Hm?”

Qing looked around and frowned.

“What is this. Why are you all eavesdropping on other people chatting? If you’re going, go. If you’re resting, rest. If you’re tending the wounded, stay. Figure it out.”

At that, the hall felt a little wronged.

No group existed without a leader.

Even if no one stepped forward, humans instinctively picked someone to follow.

And right here stood a terrifying female headsman who had shown overwhelming martial might and an even more vicious will to kill, and had even detached the Mount Tai Demon Lord’s head.

The door had opened, but they’d kept glancing around and listening to that nutritionally empty Two-Sword theory for exactly that reason.

Qing waved her hand.

“What are you doing? Do your jobs.”

The fighters traded awkward looks, then disappeared beyond the stone gate.

Some supported the wounded and crossed the gate; others, with a look that said they were sick of it all, sat down beside the injured.

“We’ll go after a short rest. From the look of things, there’s no need to rush.”

From the way things were going, resting first or going first wouldn’t make much difference.

If another room came up that split by headcount, everyone would obviously wait.

If not, they’d either helpfully trigger the traps for each other—or we’d get the second plaque of “Now kill each other.”