Chapter 509: Karma Drips Along the Thread of Life and Death (11)

Officials of the Central Plains loved a certain house layout: the four-sided courtyard manor.

You marked out a square, raised walls, built the structures onto those walls, and placed a garden at the center.

The finer the manor, the higher the walls and the broader the garden. The Prefect’s manor was less a residence than a fortress—its wall a story and a half high, rearing up in the city center like a keep.

That was a Prefect’s prestige—just as the Provincial Commander was hailed “Great General” above his title, so a Prefect was styled “Prefect Lord.”

Qing’s eyes sparkled with the work ethic of a carpenter as she inspected the house.

Qing was diligent only when she wasn’t being a warrior.

Regardless, the Prefect’s head was a storm of thoughts.

He’d meant to host the Provincial Commander; he had, by sheer blunder, ended up hosting Her Highness.

What sort of lady-official was she that the Provincial Commander trembled and bowed so low?

From Provincial Commander upward they called them great generals.

Usually that meant the official in charge of military affairs arrived last in any procession.

In a state with chronic bottlenecks in appointments, it meant she was a woman who could promote the handful above him—or back him with power beyond that.

A royal? Or a confidante of Her Majesty the Empress who held the real reins?

The Prefect flogged his brain building the relationship chart.

A relationship chart—in the Central Plains’ native human-management method—which in Qing’s homeland was pronounced guanxi.

Should he tell His Excellency the Left Chief Councillor that it would be wise to grab the Provincial Commander’s coattails now?

Or...

Even monkeys fall from trees, and if you eat rice cakes lying down, they stick in your throat.

The Prefect had indulged in daydreams too long.

So he forgot something critical.

Only when he reached the banquet hall did he realize—oh, hell.

Inside—

“Oh, there are already guests?”

“Mm? Prefect Lord? Don’t tell me.”

“I—if we could—perhaps—tea, a single—”

But before he could patch it, a servant already prepping inside flung the door wide to receive his master.

And—

“Oh.”

Qing was impressed.

Not dressed so much as draped, lovely beauties knelt demurely, hands together, waiting.

“Draped” was the exact word; cloth that should have sat on the shoulders clung instead to the inner bend of their elbows.

This had been a drinking party to receive the Provincial Commander.

Of course they hadn’t prepared only drink.

These were the city’s first flowers.

At a Prefect’s rank you didn’t need to strain to summon the city’s finest courtesans.

Becoming a high official’s concubine was every courtesan’s dream; if the Prefect Lord held a banquet, they rushed each other to attend.

So the looks the courtesans gave Qing were not entirely kind.

Who’s this woman who doesn’t play in our town?

Why crash someone else’s event?

And with that face and that body—why is she a courtesan?

If she just loitered before the palace, she’d reach the Son of Heaven at once, wouldn’t she?

Half wary, half awed.

As they faced each other awkwardly—sliiide—the courtesans’ robes slipped down.

Garments of light silk were made to slide off skin, not cling.

“Oh.”

Qing admired them again.

Two men turned ashen in an instant.

The Prefect’s face went dark purple; Wang Ssangryong’s blood drained so far he tinted blue.

Two ways to express the same feeling: We’re fucked.

And right here rank made the difference.

In any sudden crisis, a Flower Realm master moved before an Absolute, and an Absolute before a peak master.

In office rank, the Provincial Commander was about late-Flower if you insisted on mapping it; the Prefect was about mid-Absolute—no match in the arts of face-saving.

“Cut!!!”

Wang Ssangryong cast “Cut!”

Immediate tail-severing.

I know nothing and did nothing.

All of this was the Prefect Lord’s doing.

“Prefect Lord!! What in heaven’s name is this!!”

“I—well, that is—”

The Prefect was sweating rivers when—

“Oh. May I join in, too? I do hope I’m not barging in without tact.”

“Cut!!! Prefect Lord! Your hospitality is truly magnificent!!”

Wang Ssangryong flipped his stance on the spot.

“I shouted from sheer admiration. When I’m too impressed, I have a habit of crying ‘Cut.’”

The Prefect was flabbergasted and aggrieved.

The man who’d just been about to pin this on him dropped his mask in a heartbeat.

So that thick a hide was how you made it to Provincial Commander—no mere iron face but ten-thousand-year cold iron; arrows would bounce off that skin. A ballistic face—yes, that was general’s material.

Whatever the case, Qing swallowed.

And a thought surfaced.

Sani had promised to take me to Luoyang’s First House...

Ah!

I was too busy; I missed Young Master Ok Girin’s secondhand-hardware mega bash.

(Not yet held. It was scheduled to happen if Qing went.)

I meant to go tease Miss Paeng hard—Hebei, hm... I’ll swing by Hangzhou then stop in and say hi.

Anyway, Qing had a great time.

The two grand officials did not dare chase or trifle with women in Her Highness’s presence, which was a bit of a pity for courtesans angling for concubine seats—

And one man was dragged along willy-nilly:

Former Solitary Blade, now True Redblade—Jong Jeongpil.

He was not one to enjoy the company of women; he was not exactly thrilled.

Of course, he wasn’t like Chang Bin’s crowd.

A Flower Realm master of the Five Vagabonds’ stature lacked nothing in women anywhere under heaven.

So he just slammed back drink after drink, broadcasting his boredom as he glared at Qing.

Didn’t we have business to discuss?

Why are you having such a blast among women?

Qing simply ignored him.

Save a drowning man and he demands your bundle.

I rescued you from the hell of nagging; now you want to police my fun?

What, because you turned red, you hate a glittering banquet like this?

But Qing had no time to think.

“Though I serve in the army, beyond office and the martial world, as one who trained the martial path, how could I not revere a great master who reached Absolute at twenty? Regardless of age or sex, I have long admired the Heavenly Flower Sword—allow me to offer a cup!”

“Oh, don’t say that. Ahh, that’s good.”

“I too! Though I am but a bookish man, from childhood I yearned for the martial world; I gave it up as an old body. To meet a famed great hero—my joy is like salmon fighting upstream. Let me offer a cup as well.”

“Age is just a number. Even now isn’t too—mm, never mind. Cheers.”

Ahhh—Qing poured fire down her throat.

In truth, thanks to her poisonous-blood constitution, water, wine, toxins—or the fetid flow of a sewer—were all mere hydration to Qing.

But it still felt good.

The two grand officials watched Qing’s eyes.

The way she drank—this was no ordinary drinker.

Indeed, the rumor that the Heavenly Flower Sword was a booze-hound had spread far.

They said in a drinking match she downed strong liquor by the vat without a change of complexion.

So—no need for tact; keep filling her cup.

“Busy with military affairs, I linger at the brink of peak; in the arts I’m far your junior. Here—senior, accept a junior’s cup.”

It was the lament of the former Solitary Blade listening in.

Why, with an Absolute and a Flower Realm master at table, were they paying respect to the lesser?

“Hey now—that’s a bit much. Gkh—Jimo Noju? Right?”

“Ah! You know Jimo Noju! Shandong has the clearest water in the Central Plains—didn’t the First Emperor of Qin say the elixir would be found there if anywhere? The best wine uses the best water—thus the world’s finest is Noju, brewed with Mount Lao’s water: Jimo Noju. Here, a cup.”

“Mm. Mount Lao. Damn.”

Qing threw it back. Aahh—Mount Lao was lousy, but the wine was grand.

So when her cup ran dry, the Provincial Commander on her left and the Prefect Lord on her right vied, watching for her eye, to refill it first.

The courtesans flanking Qing were stupefied.

If you’re going to fill every cup, why did you call us?

Was this a drinking party or a conditioning drill?

Sit—stand to pour—sit—stand to pour—

Drinking while working out—yes or no?

Whatever the case—

Qing had a lovely time.

****

On such-and-such a day,

Jong Jeongpil asked Qing, theoretical mentor of communal martial learning:

A Provincial Commander and a Prefect are great officials among officials—their power like savage tigers, feared by all, lording over a mountain ridge with the pride of kings.

How, then, do such tigers flip on their backs and beg like house dogs before you?

Qing replied:

It’s wrong to judge by one surface. There is no profit or convenience in it—only the friendship of fellow travelers for a short stretch of road.

Qing spoke utter nonsense.

She did not mingle with them as a princess looking down on subordinates; to Qing they did feel like friends met on the road—so it wasn’t entirely a lie, strictly speaking.

“Mm. In that case, I’ll ask no further.”

Jong Jeongpil answered.

Meaning: he’d let it slide.

Thus, again,

Jong Jeongpil asked (...):

“You surely presented a dreamlike future where all warriors of the world share martial learning and everyone in common inquires together. Was that merely a lie to dodge the crisis of the moment?”

“Umm. Frankly speaking, well—ah—yes?”

Qing answered, watching his face.

But Jong Jeongpil did not show anger or disappointment.

“Yet when I heard it, I knew it wasn’t something one conjured with a casual thought. Did you devise that creed yourself, or was there another—from whom you once heard it and remembered?”

The respectful “you” naturally slid down to the informal.

Qing didn’t care; she wasn’t seeking honorifics anyway.

“Mm. Let me see.”

Qing chose her words.

That bearded man hadn’t even been born.

Or had he? He was from way back—maybe he was writing now? How would I know.

In truth, not only the bearded man but his bearded great-grandfather wasn’t born yet.

How would Qing know that.

But that much wouldn’t stop Qing’s tongue.

Because Qing’s mouth could contend for first under heaven.

“In the past, Wang Mang said: people fight because they covet each other’s property. If they possessed no property, they would not fight. Therefore I will seek the peace of the world.”

In truth, Wang Mang wasn’t a red; he was simply a man of no-property—or of all-property.

People fight over property.

So, for your sake, I will take all the property.

Then I’m rich. You’re paupers.

He died beaten by the mob that rose—still.

“Why speak of that usurper?”

Jong Jeongpil’s tone rose a notch.

Among the Four Great Fools of China—Wang, Dong, Cao, and Sima—Wang Mang held the red banner.

For the record, the rest: Dong Zhuo held body fat; Cao Cao, other men’s wives; Sima Yi, treason.

To be fair, Sima Yi might plead his case.

All four “Great Fools” were traitors, and if you didn’t betray, your clan would certainly be exterminated by somebody’s bastard who’d botched the sons’ upbringing.

Call it treason by necessity.

But Sima Yi became the byword for treason because he did it twice.

Once to Han, once to Wei.

Anyway, Jong Jeongpil’s heart sank.

The creed he had truly admired and wished to make a rule of life—to hear it traced to Wang Mang’s words.