Chapter 508: Karma Drips Along the Thread of Life and Death (10)

Qing had worked out what she considered a balance of force.

A life-and-death duel, and the opponent was an Absolute?

One-on-one no longer even constituted a proper life-and-death duel.

That wasn’t conceit; it was her objective self-assessment, understood through countless bouts.

People loved to say there was no higher or lower in martial arts, that if you plumbed any art deeply enough its terminus was the Ultimate, the completion of the discipline.

As all waterways flow to meet at the sea—“all streams return to one”—that was what “all streams return to one” was supposed to mean.

But is that actually true?

No—nonsense from the start.

If a rusty iron blade with broken teeth meets a divine sword forged from meteoric steel—do you really need to test which way it goes?

The claim “there is no higher or lower in martial arts” is near impossible to utter with a straight face by anyone qualified to say it.

If the one who learned a supreme art says it?

That bastard’s boasting because he learned a supreme art.

If the one who learned a third-rate art says it?

That bastard’s never touched a supreme art; how would he know whether there’s a difference?

If—barely—the one who learned a third-rate art became a famed grandmaster and says it, it sounds plausible.

But humans are petty and sly; the instant he says it, you think:

Sure—easy for a naturally gifted bastard like you to say!

Supreme arts are the fastest road to completion.

They turn a commoner into a prodigy, a prodigy into a genius, and a genius into an ascendant immortal.

How many of those did Qing have?

If the frame wasn’t violet, it wasn’t a supreme art; if it was gold, it was “might as well learn it.” She was a pig at table.

She also had brute inner power.

Her Governor and Conception meridians, polished with the Tendon-Changing and Marrow-Washing Classic, launched true qi with such force it wasn’t just “knocked the chamber pot over”—it flipped the whole damn outhouse.

Add to that the greatest raw strength of ancient or modern times, and it was embroidered silk with added flowers.

Or: a golden elephant with added fire.

A steel elephant breathing flame.

Who in the world beats that kind of monster?

So even if it was an Absolute, a one-on-one life-and-death duel gained Qing nothing.

Two? She’d crush one on the opening exchange; whether one was left or two from the start wasn’t that thorny a choice.

So—three.

About three might finally make a properly tricky call.

And Flower Realm one-on-one—

Honestly, it spooked her a bit.

But you had to stomach that much if you wanted to step past Absolute-(snip)-Absolute-Qing and brush the Flower Realm, didn’t you?

At this point she’d thought maybe there wasn’t really a match for her on the road—except Eon Yeonyeong, who, as printed, “the Destroyer of Worlds ranged the world.”

If you’re the final boss, shouldn’t you sit quietly in the audience hall and wait for challengers?

Does it make sense to just roam around and bump into me by chance—not once but twice?

Granted, Eon Yeonyeong might feel wronged.

Am I not allowed to roam?

And the second time wasn’t chance—someone impersonated me, so I went to show my face.

But Qing had her own grievance.

You can’t run the world like this.

And she was in a hurry.

She needed power.

First tag the Flower Realm, then finish circling the Absolute Sword Wall and complete Solitary Nine Swords; then, maybe, she could almost—almost—see the Profound Realm.

Entering Demon was out.

Even if she scoffed at “one measly notch of realm” (something no martial artist should ever say), she needed at least the Profound Realm to scheme for openings.

If she fell into Entering Demon—honestly, for someone like her—breaking free again might be beyond her.

And on the way, swing by Hangzhou, then go to the Martial Alliance in Kaifeng and ask about corpse-puppets.

Doesn’t Eon Yeonyeong know corpse-puppets a little too well?

Even if she’s the favored daughter of the Eon Clan of Jinju, famed for corpse-puppets—how would she know a corpse-puppet’s feelings?

Wow. She knows them really well. Are you... a corpse-puppet?

Of course, there probably wouldn’t be proper information.

Corpse-puppet arts were the Eon Clan’s secret.

Like asking the Tang Clan’s poison shop for advice via the Martial Alliance.

Still—if they were on the same side, they could at least offer counsel, no?

While Qing sank into thought, the warriors were still buzzing, reeling from her declaration: if it annoyed you, step up.

“Three Absolutes? One-on-one with the Flower Realm?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean.”

The listeners were flabbergasted.

If many strike one, it’s a vile combined assault! And if a master beats down a lesser, it’s vile behavior too.

By the sacred law of the Central Plains, vile deeds mean you’re free to avenge at will.

Win like that—what about the blowback?

Never mind the top woman among Absolutes coming for you.

The enraged Martial Alliance would proclaim you a public enemy and post a kill-on-sight notice.

And dragging an army behind you—how do you say that with a straight face?

With your own soldiers forming your rear line, what life-and-death duel?

If things go bad, they jump in; if you win, artillery flies as revenge?

Regrettably, what seemed fair enough to Qing felt—fuck, absolutely fucked—to the warriors.

So they balked, watched each other, and no one called for a life-and-death duel.

They kept on like that until Qing surfaced from her long think.

Huh? No one’s stepping up?

Then—time to go.

“No challengers? In that case, I’ll take my leave. General, shall we?”

“Mm. Standard-bearers!”

The warriors were stunned all over again.

Didn’t you say you just happened to be going the same way?

“Shall we” my ass—this was open escort.

The standards snapped, the troops moved with swagger toward the city gate, and the warriors blocking the front spread left and right to open a path.

Absurd or not, no one wanted to brush a moving trap that would obliterate three generations.

But just then—there, centered in the opened lane, one warrior planted himself with handsome poise.

A familiar face even to Qing: Solitary Blade—no, no longer Solitary Blade—Jong Jeongpil.

Ten-Thousand-Slayer Wei Damyeong hailed him.

“Well now, Brother Jong Jeong, how long have you been here?”

“From the beginning.”

“If you came, you should’ve greeted me. What kind of younger brother stares blankly and pretends not to see his elder? Brother Jong Jeong, you can’t go about life that way. Even if it isn’t an elder—when you see someone you know, you should go first, say hello, ask after them. Ties may be said to be empty, but in the end all that remains are ties. So you—do some courting, too—no, how old are you to still be alone?”

“...Mm.”

Jong Jeongpil forced a tone of calm, trying to keep the mood steady.

But Qing didn’t miss the trembling at the corner of his eye.

“Man can’t live alone. Find a partner, have a home to go back to, have family—then your martial arts surge. Always clamping your mouth shut like it doesn’t matter—yes, just like now. Don’t be like that. Hm—tell you what. Next month I’ll arrange something. First you have to meet a woman for your eyes to lock or your bellies to lock, to catch feelings or have a child.”

The nag rattled like a machine gun.

Wait—this uncle had addressed me with formal courtesy earlier, a gallant gentleman; why did he suddenly turn into the neighborhood auntie, infinitely meddling?

Granted—people like that exist.

Polished and gallant when you don’t know them.

Once you’re close—endless meddling and nagging, unable to hold back “kind advice.”

“Look at you now—no, you—what era is that outfit from—hold on. Didn’t I see you in that same outfit last year in Yeonju? Man, even if substance matters more than appearance—given the same flavor, the dish with fancy garnish is the one your chopsticks pick up. Dress a bit sharp and women will follow. Shuffling around half a beggar, you’ll make even the woman who almost liked you blanch and bolt—”

Qing thought she knew why Jong Jeongpil hadn’t greeted Wei Damyeong.

If it were her, she’d pretend not to know him too.

Ten-Thousand-Slayer was likely a man who, wherever he went, never got greeted back.

Qing’s look turned faintly pitying.

Jong Jeongpil noticed and glanced her way with his characteristic blank face—

But there was, somehow, a hint of communion? Or a plea, in his eyes.

“Ahem. Great Hero Wei, I know you and your dear younger brother have deep affection, but I suspect Great Hero Jong remained here because he had business with me.”

“Ah! Look at me. I’ve made a fool of myself again. Brother—we’ll talk later—no, let’s dine together tonight. I do all this for you, so don’t dismiss it as nagging.”

A perfect finish to the nagging. Wei Damyeong, consummate.

Thus freed, Jong Jeongpil dipped his chin to Qing again—thanks—and strode up to take his place at her side.

The hitch: Qing sat a magnificent white charger, and the commander’s horse named White Heron held his head high, posing with pride.

So Jong Jeongpil, standing beside her, ended up looking, somehow, like a groom meant to hold the reins.

****

Qing had subdued the Heavenly Demon’s Soul—the mind of the First Heavenly Demon—and as the superior party she could draw it out and summon it at will.

Qing’s marvelous party trick, yet to be shown to her friends—the secret art: Heavenly Demon Summons.

For the record, when she showed it to Seo Mun Surin, she got properly punished; she hadn’t yet used it to enliven an actual drinking party.

Provincial Commander Wang Ssangryong possessed a similar sort of summoning as a killer move.

Its name: Official Summons.

Only, his was a far loftier discipline than Qing’s Heavenly Demon Summons.

Qing had to call to bring the Heavenly Demon’s Soul; the Provincial Commander need only enter a town and the technique auto-triggered—officials prostrated themselves and came bearing gifts.

Like Qing’s own bloodline’s traditional game back home and the old arcade—workers who pop up when you mine minerals and bring them in.

Thus, the instant they reached the reservist compound—the wall-tower garrison every city possessed—a fat man welcomed their party with cloying warmth.

“Ah, Commander! What joy to be honored with your passage! A great general so busy with affairs of state—truly a loyal subject through the ages, a vast blessing upon the imperial house!”

A loyal, capable general set discipline by his mere presence and kept enemies from approaching—he was a ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) blessing to the state in himself.

That was exactly what the fat man was saying.

“Ahem.”

Wang Ssangryong coughed.

On an ordinary day he’d have laughed boisterously—“Kehahah, I am that very general!”—and praised himself.

But the phrase “imperial house”—right there—made Wang very, very uncomfortable.

You little shit—Her Highness is right beside me; say that and what does that make me!

The fat man—the Prefect’s—eyes trembled.

What? Did I make a mistake?

To be fair, a Prefect ruled a metropolis and its district—an exalted grand official.

Of course, next to the Provincial Commander who commanded all Shandong’s troops, he might as well be a peasant, a fragile being.

So he could only watch for cues.

“Wow. General, you’re really respected! No wonder—your troops are elite; I figured you were the capable type.”

Wang Ssangryong’s face brightened like the sun.

“No, no, what are you saying. You flatter me.”

There was a ragged, beggar-looking fellow (Jong Jeongpil) present, and Wang almost slipped into automatic honorifics; he barely choked them back.

The Prefect grasped the delicate hierarchy at once.

Compared to the Provincial Commander, a Prefect might be “peasant,” yes—but in any other context, it was the kind of lofty office you could boast of for generations: “Our ancestors were Prefect Lords; our house is a Prefect-Lord lineage.”

And a high official of the present dynasty possessed ten-thousand-point intuition—one glance to see through ranks, a wondrous gift.

Call it the official’s demonic eye—or true eye.

“Hehe, the road must have wearied you! I’ve prepared a modest table to ease your labors—please attend and lend the occasion your light.”

Though his body and gaze faced Wang Ssangryong, Qing somehow felt he was speaking to her.

This was the terror of officials!

They wielded uncanny abilities no common sense of the Central Plains—or modern science back home—could explain!

Non-directional communication like this; ghostly workers who existed on the rolls with no bodies yet drew stipends; pardoning the guilty; wealth with no source that somehow bubbled up and piled high...

“Ahem, drink in the middle of an operation—”

Gulp. Qing swallowed.

“Ah—my throat is parched! What man slakes a great thirst with mere water! Prefect Lord, I accept with thanks!”

The general was suddenly, urgently thirsty.

How loud could a swallow be?

Small and faint—but to Wang Ssangryong it was grand and resounding.

Such was the mysterious power of officials.

Wang would likely remember this exchange for a very long time:

Her Highness enjoys drink. Important.

Thus—Yubang, day of stay—Day One begins today.