Chapter 498: Snow-Claw-Zhao-Zhao-Zhao-Zhao-Sword: Speak of Cao Cao, and Cao Cao arrives (15)

The Empty-Blood Hall technicians’ twenty-odd years of sweat and blood had crystallized into the Grand Bloodshed Plan. Its fisherman’s profit was never meant to start until the “secret manual” leaked.

Watching the martial artists split into orthodox and heretic and then splinter again into “us” and “me,” venting old grudges as they hacked each other apart in the grotto—that was just a little bonus on the way.

If the plan had run in full, the real show was supposed to begin now: a fight between those trying to run with the divine art and those trying to rob it, swelling from this narrow Shandong Peninsula and rolling clear across the Central Plains.

Grand Bloodshed—literally, a prelude to rivers of blood.

So then what?

When the treasure room chests opened, the design called for another burst [N O V E L I G H T] of gorgeous fireworks.

And so, in the still-bright evening of late summer turning to early fall, an out-of-season fireworks display went up.

Against a sky where the sun still threw light like a furnace, human-made sparks were nothing by comparison.

Still, you couldn’t miss them.

At night, fireworks vanish into blackness if you aren’t looking; by day, they tell on themselves—billows of thick smoke and the gunpowder sting needling the nose. See the bloom, smell the bite, and you know something went down.

Like right now.

“Th-there! Look!”

“It’s the divine art! The divine art’s been lifted, no mistake!”

“The divine art? So, they’re bringing it out?”

Whether they’d been waiting to spring an ambush from the start or had been wandering Mount Lao late and clueless, the signal rose and jabbed elbows into ribs for all to see. The fighters scattered across the slopes had only one move—stampede.

Lucky, in a way, that there were four stone gates—now three—so the crowd thinned out a little.

Of course, for the fighters in front of the gates, it cut both ways: fewer gates meant a higher chance the owner of the divine art would pop out right here—or, unlucky them, more competitors to split the prize.

At the South Gate of the Shin Family Tomb:

Half expectant, half wary, a knot of fighters watched as some woman burst out in a rush, flung her arms wide to the sun like she were worshipping it, and—

“Come at me, you cocky world! I’m back!”

“...?”

The air went flat as ice.

In the awkward quiet, Qing slowly lowered her arms, cheeks heating. Then the Human-Skin Mask tugged a smile into her spine.

Don’t fold. Chin up. It’s nothing.

You’re not Sword of Heavenly Fire Seo Mun Surin!

You’re the Peerless Thunder-Smile Girl, the greatest lady of all, Eon Yeonyeong!

“Everyone! Run! Jeollak Fortress Holy Lord! Pobidon! And that—what is he—even thinner, that stringy barbarian! They’re going to keep the divine art for themselves and start a bloodbath to shut mouths! They’re right behind me! Run, all of you!!”

With that, Qing broke into another sprint.

“W-wait! Stop!”

“This isn’t the time! Run! All of you, run! They weren’t Flower Realm—they’re demon practitioners, demons! Crazy demons are on our heels!”

“Pobidon!? Pobidon of the Five Vagabonds was a demon!?”

No one batted an eye at Jung Gichung—the Jeollak Fortress Holy Lord—being a demon, or that dried-up barbarian either.

Everyone who mattered already “knew” Jung Gichung had crossed that line; they just lacked proof. And barbarians—well, of course.

“Ruuuun!”

Qing shrieked and threaded herself right through the crowd.

“Central Plains bastard, idiot bastard! You bastard is that bastard! Why you not cut legs!”

“You barbarian shit—then why didn’t you cut them yourself instead of gawking!?”

“Central Plains head make glorious trophy! Follow great me, the Buddha! Buddha merciful! I merciful!”

“The hell!?”

Heat blew through Jung Gichung’s skull.

Why didn’t he cut her legs?

Because he couldn’t.

Manual or no, he had taken a taste of the first move and learned one thing firsthand: the “divine art” was in that lunatic woman’s head.

And when you’re dealing with a living manual, the correct method is simple: feed them the best meats and rarest dishes, serve them peerless beauties, sweet-talk them, build relations.

Because memorizing someone else’s recited mnemonics verbatim is basically suicide.

Twist just a handful of qi pathways and, even if nothing seems wrong at first, as backlash deepens you’re finished. If luck holds, your dantian shatters and you spend your life a cripple; more likely you rampage in a fit of heart-devil and get put down—or your tendons and meridians all kink and you die miserable.

Unless, like Qing, the cosmos itself verifies whether your martial art is sound.

When she tried to slip the net, sure, he’d had no choice but to throw Steel Rings at her legs and arms.

But at worst a coin-sized ring punches holes—nothing a decent doctor can’t fix.

And besides, she’d been wedged in a wall, butt stuck and kicking—huge, heavy, helpless.

Why make a mortal enemy by maiming her?

So Jung Gichung watched the pack behind them; Pobidon Jang Sonam cracked jokes and tried to coax her back.

Amukhalab knew all this, too. He’d stood there with his mouth clamped shut, watching. Now that “Peerless Thunder-Smile Girl” had fled, he had the gall to whine about not cutting legs.

“Fine! I’ll send this half-wit to the Buddha today! Even the Buddha would want this idiot gone fast! Since when does a barbarian hawk the Buddha! The Buddha doesn’t even count barbarians as people!”

“Stupidity! Buddha is true barbarian!”

“The—! Even if you’re a phony monk—huh?”

Jung Gichung started to roar, then flinched.

Come to think of it... was the Buddha a barbarian?

The sutras came from the Western Regions... so if you split hairs...?

He’d been worshiping some barbarian’s idol this whole time!?

Jung Gichung short-circuited.

“Grand Tiger, Grand Tiger! Restrain yourself! This is no time for us to brawl! And there’s no need to get mad at a barbarian! Break the door and chase!”

“Grand Tiger” was Shi Mantaihu—Jung Gichung’s epithet. Pobidon Jang Sonam pulled him back at the right second.

Jung snapped awake and whirled on the stone.

All three carved at once.

The same three who’d once cut down the West Gate together—an almost poetic echo—as they now hewed through another stone door. If the first enlightened barbarian prince from twenty-five centuries ago had seen it, he would’ve smiled that subtle smile and called it dependent origination.

Only—“together” was doing a lot of work.

Each was digging his own exit, not cooperating. So with three carving, progress didn’t triple; each just poured his own Guardian Qi and chewed his own tunnel.

Light taps of feet pattered up behind them.

The (former) Solitary Blade, Jong Jeongpil.

Pobidon glanced back and his face soured.

“Brother Jong, stop showing off. Why so leisurely alone?”

“Brother Jang, I mulled over the Peerless Thunder-Smile Girl’s oration. Unless it was something she’d carried deep inside, she couldn’t have spoken such a great purpose. She’s blinded by the divine art for a moment and has set aside the spirit of the age, but in the end I believe she’ll return to us—the oppressed. With a little of my sincerity added, she’ll find the road she’s lost. Toward the straight path to the world of all under heaven. The martial masses will march, and march again, together.”

“Brother Jong? Did you hit your head?”

“My mind is clearer than ever. Only now is my heart truly beating. The Peerless Thunder-Smile Girl is merely wandering; if I add my true heart, she too will find the straight road again. To under-heaven. All our comrades moving forward together.”

“That—”

Crash! The stone gate collapsed, and Pobidon flinched and spun.

On either side of the round hole—the kind that would shock people if you told them it was “hip-sized”—each man had cut his own passage and vaulted through.

“What! Leaving me!?”

Pobidon sprang back a step, then tucked and rolled toward the larger of the two new exits.

Wham! The stone blew out into a big round gap, and the mass of meat that had earned Pobidon his nickname squeezed through.

Qing’s attempted getaway was checked with ease.

No matter how convincing the acting, no one was letting anyone stroll off who’d just come out of a lit-up Shin Family Tomb.

“Hold it! Stop!”

Qing stopped.

The fighter who’d shouted blinked. He hadn’t thought she’d actually listen. Her meek halt softened him a shade.

“S-so—what happened inside?”

“I-I don’t even know. They kept making us fight each other...the traps fell like rain...I got lost...and then, all at once, demon practitioners started butchering people, saying no one would make it out alive...”

“Demons...!”

“Yes, demons! They’re coming! If you don’t run now, right now—!”

“Calm down—steady. These demons, meaning Jeollak Fortress Holy Lord, Pobidon, and that skinny barbarian—no, which barbarian are we talking about?”

“Something like Fishcake—Fishcake Triple Mix? The evil demon who reaches out and bursts people with a blood-red palm river—”

“Great Adept! Amukhalab! You mean the Freak Monk Amukhalab!?”

Fighters who’d been eavesdropping with pricked ears repeated the epithet and the name.

Oh. So he was a famous barbarian?

“Y-yes! That was the name!”

The reason Qing let herself be “stopped” was simple.

If she ran, it would stink—make them chase harder. But if she played along, got these fighters and the three Flower-Realm idiots to clash, she could slip out in the noise.

Better yet, with everyone tripping over each other, she’d have time to ditch the Human-Skin Mask and become Seo Mun Surin again—or not “become,” return to—plenty of cushion.

Then the ruckus would end.

“Just—”

“Lady! Central Plains bastard!”

Two demons burst out, bellowing.

They faltered a heartbeat later, shading their eyes against the blaze and blinking hard, high-level vision adjusting. When sight returned, they found themselves ringed by a crowd and hesitated.

Qing roared.

“Brothers and sisters of our Sect! Enemies! All units—attack!”

Our Sect? Brothers and sisters? Attack?

While the fighters stood gaping—

“Fine! You curs are Blood Sect scum! Hnh—barbarian! For once, we join hands!”

“Agreed!”

You don’t parley with the Blood Sect. You attack on sight. That’s the rule.

Amukhalab drummed the air—papapapap.

Countless red handprints stamped into being in front of him, like palm-marks smearing a pane of invisible glass.

“Great Adept! Scatter!”

“The Freak Monk strikes! Kill him!”

Some shouted to evade; some charged; men collided; chaos bloomed.

Amukhalab set both palms and shoved the blood-red air forward.

The field of prints unfurled and blasted out, scything into the fighters.

“Aaagh!” “Damn it! Kill them!” “Those bastards have the divine art!” “Saljungsal!”

In the uproar, Qing let herself be buffeted, edging outward, outward.

As expected—another clean job.

I try to be modest, but objectively I’m too good.

Anyway, who comes hunting demonic arts with their head on straight?

She slipped, slow and steady, reached the edge, and stomped once—light, quick.

Bolt and run too far and you stand out; better to blend inside the pack.

And now Eon Yeonyeong can bow out for good. Master and the kids will be waiting up top.

Ah. Time to go home.

Master, I miss you. I miss you.

Qing’s mouth curled into a wicked grin.

Eon Yeonyeong—closed for business.

Peerless Thunder-Smile Girl—shop’s shut.

“Oh my. Is the impersonation over already? Mmm. Quite entertaining, actually.”

A breathy, velvet whisper brushed her ear.

“But it would be such a shame to end it here, don’t you think? The Peerless Thunder-Smile Girl’s miserable death—oh yes. That would be perfect.”

Gooseflesh raced up Qing’s nape.

Not sound-transmission—someone actually whispering.

A smiling voice with no smile in it at all. Gentle on the surface, soaked through with clear, clean malice.

“Severed tendons, smashed bones, burning at the stake, flayed skin—which ending would you like? Ah, no need to choose. I like them all.”