Chapter 485: Snow-Claw-Zhao-Zhao-Zhao-Zhao-Sword: Speak of Cao Cao, and Cao Cao arrives (2)

There is a code of etiquette in which the victor shows courtesy to the defeated.

A solemn rite to appease the dead.

A noble act of carrying on the will of the departed.

Namely: looting the corpses.

Of course, few had the foresight to drag along silver and gold into this deathtrap, but in their place, not a small number of jerkies and rice balls turned up—snacks that drew a smile to Qing’s face.

Then, as she pushed her hand deep into the pack strapped to one of the corpses’ backs, her fingers closed around something large and hard.

The greasy feel of an oiled waterproof wrapper.

Oh, what was this? Could it be? A luxury confection?

She ripped the cover away at once, only for her shoulders to slump.

“Tch. Damn it, a manual.”

No luxury snack—just a secret manual.

At that instant, her martial-window flashed to life.

A glittering update, like a certificate of authenticity, guaranteeing the manual was genuine.

Leave it unopened and the damned thing would keep winking at the corner of her vision, pestering her until she looked inside.

She opened it, brushed across it, and checked the martial art now registered as a reserve skill, not yet carved into her brain.

Taesan Blood Claw. A claw art edged in red.

Qing sighed in disappointment.

Not purple. Not gold. Just red.

The more she thought on it, the more cheated she felt.

If they were going to mimic that side, shouldn’t they at least combine a bunch of worthless three-rate arts like this and rank them up? Or grind them up as raw material to strengthen something else?

Imagine—Moon Maiden Sword Formula plus nine. How glorious would that be?

Upgrade it, and the blade would blaze—not that her sword didn’t already shine, but imagine it flashing in magnificent gold. Right?

Such were Qing’s blasphemous thoughts.

But she already possessed the best finger-shredding technique in the business.

Bored, she dropped the manual aside and began ripping strips from the corpses’ intact clothing.

For all that she wielded the sword crudely, she had not forgotten a swordsman’s duty.

Even a kitchen knife slicked with pork fat grew greasy just slicing dressed meat—how much more when one hacked through raw flesh?

A blade required cloth for proper cleaning.

“Here, Jangmyeong. Wipe your sword too.”

Ripping extra for the others, she tossed strips around as if doling out favors, then sat down herself and set to polishing her edge.

But she stopped there.

She should have followed with a second pass, oiling the blade after the blood and clotted fat were gone.

But fat was fat, wasn’t it? Human or animal, it was all grease. Clean was clean enough.

Casting her eyes about, she saw the two-sword wielders wiping away at their twin blades.

That was the fatal drawback of dual-sword styles: twice the damn maintenance.

In truth, the real reason one hand was usually kept free was distance management.

One hand for the weapon, the other for auxiliary techniques—short or long range, one could cover both.

That was why dual-weapons never became mainstream.

Not that Qing knew or cared.

With the likes of the Tathāgata Divine Palm and the Heavenly Demon Light Ray to swat enemies at range, why bother picking up a second sword?

Instead, she munched happily on rice balls scrounged from the dead while her companions polished their steel.

Rest was good. She could have lingered forever. But that was not how the world worked.

When they finally moved to depart, Qing noticed Joo Ayo Lee Hyhye, crouched in a corner atop a subdued man, showed no inclination to leave.

Whether she stayed or not was no concern of Qing’s.

But if she later decided to leap up and demand a fight, that could be troublesome.

“We’re leaving. Aren’t you coming, Miss Jo?”

“I’m not ‘Miss Jo’—and anyway, Joo Ayo is just a byname.”

“Funny how it sticks to the tongue. So, Miss Jo?”

“Ugh. Forget it. Absorbing Qi Demonic Art, whatever—it was a mistake coming here. Like I’d ever master something like that. Honestly, I just want to go back. But the way out’s blocked, so I’ll stay here and rest. After a day this mess will burn itself out.”

Her expression showed real exhaustion.

Qing replied,

“You can just go back now. I poked the gate we came in through. Solid stone all the way through. Cut it open and walk out.”

“What? Really?”

“Of course, there might be traps on the way. Ones we missed coming in.”

“Bah, those I can handle.”

“Or the tunnel might collapse, so better to smash through fast. There are five exits anyway. Lose one, no big deal.”

“...Why are you even telling me this? Ah. Because it’s to your advantage if I leave.”

Lee Hyhye shrugged.

“Fine. I won’t thank you. But it’s not a bad deal. You don’t want someone dogging you either.”

But her three slaves thought otherwise.

“We are grateful for your kindness,” One-Slave said, bowing low. The other two followed suit.

“Hey! What does that make me? Just the rude bitch now?”

“Heh. Did I show poor manners? Then punish me, mistress. Whatever the lash, I will gladly receive it. A whipping would be most welcome today.”

“Then me too.”

“Mmm. Indeed.”

Lee Hyhye’s face twisted.

“Fuck’s sake. Why do these bastards cling like this? Won’t you just fuck off?”

“Then beat us bloody and cast us out. Do as you will.”

“Goddamn it... my cursed fate.”

She clearly loathed it, but their gazes shone with adoration.

Qing thought a moment, then pulled out the Taesan Blood Claw manual.

“This came off one of the Mount Tai Demon Lord’s lackeys. Interested?”

Her teacher had said claw arts were brutal by nature, not inherently demonic.

And a red-tier art was hardly anything to cling to.

But when Lee Hyhye read the title on the cover, her eyes widened.

To Qing, it was “just red.” But to wandering rogues, red-tier bordered on a lifelong dream.

Why else had Lee Hyhye risked her neck sniffing after a rumor of the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art?

“Taesan Blood Claw? Really? What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. I’ll just give it to you. Try living a little nicer, will you? You’ve been a bit much, but I’ll let it slide. Didn’t you say you use claw arts? Here.”

Lee Hyhye made a sour face.

“You don’t know... but there’s no claw art greater than this. It’s a red-tier technique that’s produced masters of the Flower Realm.”

Explaining rather than snatching it was sign enough she wasn’t all bad.

Qing smiled.

“I’m a swordswoman. Claw-arts aren’t for me.”

“Stop saying it like that—it’s claw arts, not ‘clawbop.’”

“Fist-arts, palm-arts, clawbop—it’s all the same. Anyway, clawbop should go to a clawbop-user. Me keeping it’s pointless. Just share some goodwill with others instead. Look—see that guy eyeing you from his wounded comrade’s side?”

She gestured across the chamber.

Lee Hyhye scratched her head, then finally snatched the manual.

“My name’s Lee Hyhye. I don’t owe debts. I’ll pay this back one day. When I’m not hiding behind an alias, acknowledge me. Now, let’s go. You there—if you want out, stop hovering and come along.”

Thus Joo Ayo’s group departed.

Qing tightened her grip on her leash.

“Come on. Our turn. Move, An.”

“Uh... maybe you could let me go too?”

“Nope.”

“Why not me?”

“Who else will trigger the traps? Relax—you’ve got the lifeline. Move.”

She’d already been generous enough. There was no saving a cur like him.

And so, pushing An Yunjuk ahead, they passed through the stone gate long since opened.

“Damn it, An, can’t you walk faster?”

“I-I’m wary of traps...”

“Everyone else walked through already! The traps are spent. That’s why you’re in front, in case.”

“But in case is what worries me...”

“You’ve got the lifeline, idiot. How many times have I yanked you back from the brink?”

For a moment he did quicken his pace. Then, before long, his steps dragged again.

“That’s it. Sword drawn. If you stall in my reach, I’ll stick you.”

“Mercy, please... I can’t stop trembling, anything could jump out...”

“Traps don’t trigger on their own! They need a trigger!”

Just then, the floor vanished beneath Qing.

An instant trap—no trigger required.

The void swallowed her, and cries rang out behind.

“Big-Sister!”

“Lady!”

“Qing!”

“Sword-Friend!”

Names real and false alike spilled out, panic-stricken.

Only a gaping hole remained where Qing had stood.

The four leaned over.

Below, among a bed of upward-pointing spearheads, Qing sat, grimacing, staring back up.

“Sister...? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Not a scratch.”

Jangmyeong exhaled in relief.

For Qing had once endured the wilderness naked through winter, honing her Guardian Qi to perfection.

Her danger-sense alone triggered it instantly.

Coupled with her inhumanly hardened flesh, such primitive, gravity-driven traps were nothing.

Ten men deep might have harmed her—but this shallow drop? Meaningless.

“You fool, watch where you walk.”

“Damn it, why trigger without warning!”

As if traps ever warned before springing.

Unscathed, she grumbled as Cheon Yuhak lowered a rope and hauled her up.

Once atop, Qing casually thrust her backside at Jangmyeong.

“Check my ass. Any blood?”

“A little. Just a little.”

“Figures. Stung like hell.”

She rubbed at her rear. Red dots blossomed across the white cotton of her trousers like ladybug spots.

Elbows and soles, reinforced by arts, might have withstood it, but her backside had taken a puncture or two.

“Then my pants must be torn too?”

Jangmyeong tugged the fabric wide.

“No holes. No tears.”

An Yunjuk stared, bewildered.

What was she? Human? The blades weren’t dull—why was she fine? Couldn’t she just die already?

Qing twisted to peer back at her polka-dotted rear.

White trousers now ruined—too stained to wear, too intact to discard.

“Damn it. Shoddy traps. Won’t even catch a rat.”

Watching from afar was an Empty-Blood Hall technician.

He was dumbstruck.

Why the hell was she fine?

Even if it was a one-use, cheap contraption, those spears were forged of solid iron.

How could she just shrug it off? Was her body made of steel?

He had stayed behind precisely to set off the trap and cripple her.

But now—

“Shoddy traps? Won’t even catch a rat?”

Her muttered complaint came clear through the voice tube.

The technician’s brow bulged with veins.

Shoddy? Worthless?

Each spike had been hammered with care, crafted with devotion.

Two decades—his life’s work poured into these traps.

All those sleepless nights, every ounce of thought bent to making them more gruesome, more lethal—mocked in an instant.

His teeth ground audibly. His eyes brimmed with venom.

Fine. Let’s see just how many of my “worthless” traps you can endure, bitch.