Chapter 504: Karma Drips Along the Thread of Life and Death (6)

When someone said “army camp,” Qing couldn’t help but think of the camps back home.

Long, low, rectangular buildings, overcrowded tenants swarming like ants.

And now she was seeing a proper Ming army camp.

...What? Why is it the same?

Qing was a little thrown.

Aside from the neat stone walls in place of iron palisades, the layout was the same: long brick blocks set along a massive parade ground. It looked every bit a giant military base.

Tall buildings were soft targets for cannon fire; timber frames were weak and burned easily, so they built with stone.

And since an army drew strength from being massed together, heating and cooling didn’t matter—you were soldiers, you hadn’t chosen conscription, just grit your teeth. What mattered was cramming the most bodies onto the site.

Thus, the birth of the long, rectangular, two-story brick block.

The only difference was one or two very chic Shandong-style houses tacked on—officers’ quarters, probably. That did sting a little.

A woman could not serve in the army.

Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t.

Not just “couldn’t”—if caught, it was capital punishment, extermination of the family.

Too many households, unwilling to send a man, had dressed up daughters as sons and sent them in their stead. That was why the law existed.

So these poor men were crammed into a city of twelve hundred without a single woman, living prick to prick, grinding against one another!

Of course, there were ways out.

You could pay to erase your service.

Or father a child on leave, wait for him to grow up, and pass the duty down.

But either way, a peerless beauty striding openly through such a male-only city stirred up an uproar.

Men ran past bare-chested. Weren’t those the same ones as before? Had they already circled back around?

To Qing’s eye, they were fine soldiers.

Every one of them stood straight, faces grave, eyes melancholy as they flexed bare chests and tightened muscles.

Farther on, by a small stream, naked men bathed.

Some flinched and covered themselves at the sight of her; others smirked low and stood boldly.

Oh, my eyes!

It wasn’t that Qing shrank from the sight of male bodies, but the damage straight to her retinas—internal injuries included—was unavoidable.

Finally, a rather handsome government building appeared in the center.

When Qing headed that way, her escorting soldier spoke up awkwardly:

“Um, not that way.”

“Ah. So not directly in, then.”

So instead, a guest hall tucked in a corner.

Qing sat, sipping the tea they offered... but no word came.

Only after a long while did someone appear, a man called Steward Yang.

(Qing thought “Yang Samok” was his name.)

“May I know your esteemed name? And what business you have with the Provincial Commander?”

“The Provincial Commander? Ah, yes. I came to meet him in person. Did you pass on the tablet?”

“It’s only just now being reported up the chain. Mm. Did you come alone?”

“Yes.”

“No other items with you, or expected to arrive?”

“No.”

“If there’s anything urgent you wish to tell the Provincial Commander...”

He tapped the pouch at his waist.

Clink, clink—coins rattled.

Qing, already well adjusted to the Central Plains, understood perfectly but pretended not to. She just stared blankly.

“Is it... heavy?”

“N-no, not at all.”

Disappointment plain, he slumped his shoulders and left.

More time passed.

“The Provincial Commander will not receive you.”

“Hm. He won’t? You’re sure? He really should.”

Qing narrowed her eyes with a smile. Steward Yang flinched.

“You mean he refused even after seeing the tablet? Really? I didn’t imagine I’d be treated this poorly.”

“P-please, just a moment—please wait a little longer!”

Thankfully, Steward Yang had sense enough to say that before rushing off in a real panic.

Soon after, the Shandong Provincial Commander came flying in—almost literally.

The instant he crossed the threshold he launched forward, slammed his knees to the ground, pressed his forehead to the floor, and folded his hands. A perfect flying-prostration.

Even clad in gleaming, polished top armor, he’d glided half a hall’s length before sticking to the floor. Say what you would, a Provincial Commander who could do that had practiced martial basics.

Behind him, Steward Yang’s eyes wobbled, legs trembling, and when Qing looked his way, he collapsed onto the floor.

A delightful chill climbed Qing’s spine.

This... was a princess’s power?

I made them tremble.

I could rule them.

The difference was that, unlike masochistic attention-seekers, Qing’s sense was perfectly, literally true.

She flicked her hand. Steward Yang scrambled to the door, reached it in a rush, and barred it tight.

“Your ladyship is...”

“I’m Qing, an outer-gate disciple of the Divine Lady’s Gate. Her Majesty entrusted me with this tablet, but as it concerns palace affairs, I must beg your grace to forgive me for not disclosing. Without Her Majesty’s leave, I cannot say.”

“Her Majesty” was the universal title for someone of the very highest rank. But if a woman showed up with the Empress’s identity tablet and said “Her Majesty,” who else could it be?

Even the tokens had ranks: acquaintance, friend, kin, benefactor... each with its grade.

But what Qing held was no such grade—it was the Empress’s identity tablet itself.

A noble person shares her token: treat this woman as you would me.

If the word “princess” spread, it would be awkward.

If people dropped like plague victims to kneel everywhere she went—hm, it might be amusing.

Of course, “Mother,” “Lady”—those were impious titles. Still, once the token was [N O V E L I G H T] shown, word would reach the palace regardless. That was that, and this was this.

“Please sit at ease. I’m the one barging in with an impossible request.”

“Yes, madam.”

“‘Madam’ sounds too old... hm. Never mind.”

She’d thought of telling him to just call her “Miss Seo Mun,” but decided that wouldn’t be wise—for the Commander’s sake as well.

“I need to reach Hangzhou, but martial riffraff intend to block my path. I want to request an escort. Tell me—where is the Jiangsu Provincial Commander’s Office?”

“There is none in Jiangsu. However, the Governorate of the Central Army is located in Jeozu County, Anhui.”

In her homeland’s terms, the Provincial Commander’s Office was a corps; the Governorate was Army Headquarters.

The man kneeling before her was, in Central Plains terms, a corps commander.

“Jeozu? What kind of name is that? Hm. Where is Jeozu County—far?”

“About one hundred seventy li northwest of Nanjing.”

“Mm. Not far, but a detour. And dragging Shandong’s troops all the way to Hangzhou would be too great an imposition...”

Wang Ssangryong’s eyes gleamed. To call it “imposition” meant courtesy owed; custom in the Central Plains required a matching return. Crisis meant opportunity. Perhaps the rope to climb beyond Provincial Commander was right here.

“Your ladyship measures the reach of her blade. For this moment we have honed our edge; we cannot even begin to fathom the grace you extend. But we are ever loyal blades beneath imperial favor. Command us, and we will strike your foes.”

“Ohh. A loyalist for all ages.”

“All ages”—in all history. Loyalty second to none.

“Such words are too much! I, Wang Ssangryong—khhk—am overcome. If I should shed tears, will you permit me to weep here?”

“Uh... please don’t make noise.”

“Ugh—nnngh...!”

He truly mimed a silent cry.

Qing marveled.

So this was Central Plains flattery? Not raw groveling, but refined.

“I must pass through five cities to reach Hangzhou. For reasons I cannot disclose, I live as a martial wanderer under another identity. But too many thugs of the Evil Path are after me; I lack the strength. I ask the army’s aid.”

She did not yet know how powerful officials’ instinct for upward advancement was.

Another identity!

Wang Ssangryong’s loyalty surged hotter.

“They dare target your ladyship!? Give me a fortnight—no, ten days! I will shred those insolent traitors with three thousand cannon!”

“Ohh. Three thousand cannon.”

That, admittedly, she wanted to see.

There was a reason for the officials–martial world nonaggression pact: when martial artists ran wild assassinating, officials had no answer; when furious officials unleashed cannon and troops, the martial world had no answer.

Three thousand cannon in one province. Sixty-three thousand across twenty-one district posts. Mutual assured destruction.

In truth, officials were the more afraid.

Dynasties fell again and again, but the martial world lived on, simply changing names.

The “nonaggression pact” was more excuse for officials who wanted no entanglement.

“No. Soldiers must not bleed for this. This is a private debt, my karma. I only want troops to ring me so the thugs cannot rush in.”

And then, shamelessly, she put on a wistful expression.

She was the one who impersonated, drunk on anonymity, doing deeds unspeakable; caught and beaten, yet she wore the face of the innocent victim.

In truth, Qing was genuinely wronged.

Eon Yeonyeong, that wretched bitch. She deserved to be impersonated.

How dare she do this to me? What wrong did I do?

Since when was turning the worst woman under heaven into an idiot a crime?

And those Evil Path bastards too.

The struggle over Absorbing Qi Demonic Art was done. Take your loss and go home.

But they clung and groveled.

Fuck off, you bastards. What the hell am I even doing here?

Only Wang Ssangryong, blind to her thoughts, looked on in rapture.

“How can your ladyship call it private! Your person is the Mandate! What concerns you concerns the realm!”

“I’m grateful, but no innocent blood must flow.”

“Khhk! How to repay a grace as vast as river and sea! That you spare a thought even for such low creatures—if lightning struck me dead here, I, Wang Ssangryong, would die smiling!”

“River and sea” meant the emperor’s largess; a grace like river and sea was the most vast of hearts.

He lifted his hand high.

“I—I would offer a blessing to your ladyship. Would ‘ten thousand years’ be acceptable?”

“Uh... probably? But there are ears, so please don’t shout.”

Wang Ssangryong’s loyalty detonated.

“Ten thousand years”—at least imperial blood.

The Son of Heaven had been said to overwork himself sick, now daily “restoring with medicinal wine and cultivating spirit in meditation” for years.

For an official, that meant honor. In plain terms: that emperor bastard was doing nothing, just dallying.

Which was why the Empress’s power was said to be immense. (Though, to be fair, Her Majesty might protest: power, my ass.)

Either way, if a line ran straight to the Empress—if she entrusted her tablet—it had to be the Princess.

How could he miss such a chance?

Wang Ssangryong had come close enough to the truth.

This was why they said: old officials are frightening.

As for what fate his opportunist’s loyalty would meet—neither Wang Ssangryong, nor Qing, nor heaven nor earth yet knew.