Chapter 512: Karma Drips Along the Thread of Life and Death (14)

Three Absolutes out of sync.

Fine—better than one Flower Realm.

Qing shook off a light thread of tension.

Truth be told, Qing’s way of fighting—nicely packaged—could be called “knowing how to win.”

Blindside with a sudden jump; lure a lapse with a pretty face; fog their minds with patter; when facing many, slip inside and make them your shield, and so on.

Unpack it without niceties?

A dirty, cheap brawler.

But this time, it was a square match.

Martial artists and spectators might disagree, but to Qing, it was.

Yes, she had borrowed the army’s aura.

But that only sifted out riffraff; for those who’d come ready to die if that’s what it took, what use is a thousand troops?

Once it comes to grips, soldiers are useless; as for the arbalests on the towers, they’re decorations. In a ring packed this thick, who’s loosing arrows?

This was a duel of masters who changed places in a blink.

Who shoots an arbalest not knowing who it’ll hit?

Only a god-shot: in the Central Plains, Mr. Hu; in the Western Regions, Mr. Tel; in Qing’s homeland, Mr. Go; in fiction, Mr. Re.

Besides, Qing liked to use a wide field, and this arena wasn’t wide.

Start wagging her tongue here and the whole Central Plains would be saying the Heavenly Flower Sword’s mouth is a gutter.

So by any measure, this was a fair fight.

Qing let her sword hang and looked at the three avengers.

The tallest swordsman among them spoke.

“I am Dan Huacheol of Osun County, and my younger brother was Dan Huarak. Dark skin, thick lips, right eye a little small—a fierce-faced youth of thirty-three. Do you remember him?”

Bread popped into Qing’s head for no reason.

But she held it in.

Not something to say in public.

So she answered instead:

“Was he a righteous man?”

Dan Huacheol grinned thinly.

“No. But it is reason enough to fight you to the death.”

“I see.”

Qing looked to the others.

One more swordsman. One spearman with a short spear.

They each stated their ties.

A swordsman avenging a sworn younger.

A spearman avenging a disciple.

Then silence.

They advanced step by measured step and stopped just outside measure.

Exceedingly cautious.

They weren’t underestimating Qing; left alone, they could hold the standoff forever.

Qing drew in a slow breath.

Breath is a martial artist’s life.

On the inhale, the lungs swell and the body turns keen and quick; on the exhale, when the breath is empty, you’re vulnerable.

So—bait.

When her breath flipped from exhale to inhale, they’d rush in together.

Qing inhaled slowly, then began to exhale even more slowly.

Her chest sank, sank—and the instant the last of her breath left—

“You barbarian bastard! What the hell are you doing!”

A voice cracked like a bell.

Thick with meat even in the resonance, a voice Qing knew too well: Pobidon Jang Sonam, the fat one of the Five Vagabonds.

“This one said! This one will not forgive the parentless who pushed this one! You piglet like a pig, this one remembers the feel of lard touching this one’s back!”

The Freak Monk’s freakish shout followed.

The thinnest man in the crowd kept jabbing hands at the fattest, in ambush after ambush.

Bloody hand-shadows filled space in a blink, slapping belly fat, chest fat, everything.

“Great Handprint! That’s the Secret-Lineage Great Handprint!”

“Indeed the Freak Monk! A master of the Western Regions!”

A fight broke out in the seats for no reason, and the “knowledgeable” rushed to provide live commentary.

Slap-slap—fat being drummed.

“That’s a strange art called Dried-Meat-Three! That’s not flesh—that’s armor to guard the body. As body-guarding it can match the Vajra Indestructible Art!”

“But the side effect is you have to pack on fat. I hear he can’t even wipe his own backside!”

More commentary piled on.

Pobidon exploded.

“You crazy barbarian, where do you think you’re throwing handprints! I didn’t push you! And what’s this about not wiping! Nonsense!”

“Do not make this one laugh! Of those Central Plains men with sufficient lard, only you are here! And also—maintain cleanliness! Somehow this one shared a stink!”

“Lunatic! I said I didn’t! And I didn’t push—I breathed. You’re nothing but bones, so you got shoved and blame me!”

At that, the commentators raised their voices in chorus.

“Who could push a Flower Realm master? But if he was shoved while someone breathed without malice, then with no killing intent and no expectation, even a Flower Realm master can be caught!”

“No master is free from weight; as you know, the famed ‘Thousand-Catty Drop’ overcomes lightness of body to exert a thousand catties of force—it doesn’t increase the weight itself!”

“No! Then how do you explain a master dropping straight out of the air? Thousand-Catty Drop is a refined method of using inner strength to increase body weight in an instant!”

“What is this fool who knows nothing, blurting whatever his brain invents!?”

“You—ignorant of martial arts—how dare you raise your voice!”

“What—what was that!? You punk, you done talking?”

On one side, the thin one and the fat one scuffled; on the other, the debating commentators, hot with analysis, grabbed each other by the collars and shook.

What a mess.

Qing’s face creased—just as a sudden sluice of air stroked her skin.

The feel of a massive body shoving aside the atmosphere as it closed.

A sense earned by experience—a faculty of awakened arts.

KANG! Sparks leapt in front of Qing’s eyes.

Sunset-colored qi and white qi crashed; gritty sparks sprayed.

Qing’s body skidded back with a hiss.

But with her born strength, she held like a statue; only a short line scored the packed earth beneath her stance.

Cowards—an ambush now?

If a fight breaks out over there, Central Plains manners demand at least you pause to watch until it settles, even if you don’t help settle it.

Thoughts of a connoisseur of ambushes.

Two swords. One short spear.

Qing backstepped again and again, arms working.

Four colors of starlight drew trails, struck, and shattered; iron on iron rang without pause.

Wave-Skimming Steps? No. I [N O V E L I G H T] can take it.

If danger so much as tickles me and I flee with shadow-splitting Wave-Skimming Steps, I’ll only get worse at handling pressure on the back foot.

Can’t have that.

Qing gritted her teeth and parried, shoved, and kicked clear.

Dan Huacheol’s long sword had ridden all the way down the Moonlight Sword to the guard.

Qing tried to wrench free, but the two blades tangled and rotated, clinging like they’d been glued—dogged steel-on-steel.

Then—swish—something long cut the air.

Qing whipped her left palm behind her right ear.

The right-side swordsman’s edge struck her forearm with a KANG, a thunderclap right under her ear that rattled her eardrum.

Beeee—ringing.

No time to care. The short spear hissed—aimed at her left flank.

Qing drove her hips forward.

With a ten-part flow of Greased-Stream Flexion, her spine bent like a bow past human limits of suppleness.

A cold draft raked the deep groove down her lower back.

Bang—fire sparked behind Qing’s eyes.

Three foes, three weapons—but a human has only two hands.

A fist, begging for it, slammed into the belly she’d thrust forward—an inch deep.

Hrk—her chest cinched, breath squeezed.

But the puncher—Dan Huacheol—didn’t look pleased.

Like he’d smashed a brass wall, pain lanced his knuckles. His shock told him his emission had been blocked—no damage done.

Guardian Qi honed against brutal cold doesn’t betray its master.

It just hurts. A lot.

The spearman seized a double wrap of Qing’s hair and wrenched.

Belly aching and now hair-grabbed, Qing ground her teeth, scowled, and locked her neck.

Qing’s raw strength isn’t normal.

She isn’t a bulging muscle-bird like Madam Peng’s braggart; until you feel it, you can’t picture it.

Qing yanked her head—and the spearman, clutching tight, lost his center and lurched in.

Her eyes clicked with the remaining swordsman’s.

His surprise lasted a blink. He snapped his blade back tight, raised it overhead—hiss!

His sword split Qing straight down.

Qing parted into eight.

The swordsman, feeling his edge cut only air, checked all directions without delay—and Heavenly Flower Sword filled the ring with afterimages.

Arms spread and swooping, arms spearing like a diver; tearing on all fours like a beast; leaping, sprinting, wheeling like a swallow.

For a moment his eyes locked with the spearman’s half-transparent face, dragged along, dangling from Qing’s hair as if flying.

Why are you like that?

Don’t ask me. Help.

One Qing touched down from the air and regained her color.

Then—boom—like a giant needle stabbing her brain, pain.

Qing gasp-vented.

For an Absolute to force out a technique of the Ideation boundary is one thing even an imitation of is laudable; backlash is inevitable.

She could manage it alone. But dragging cargo by the hair—the freeloader made the load worse.

So, reeling, chest locked by pain, Qing staggered—

and the spearman, regaining color beside her, flew on with the law of inertia and rammed Qing in the back.

Qing tumbled hard across the ground.

She sprang up and hurriedly stuffed her hair down inside her collar at the nape.

Yanking a woman’s hair? Cheap.

Are you a woman yourself? I should tear your balls off—no, I will.

Born a man, die a woman.

Qing glared at the spearman still rolling—and then paused.

Manufacturing eunuchs is fun, but beyond the ice cliff in that snowfield of the mind is even more fun.

Three foes—she’d managed somehow. Two? Not even a fight.

Qing rubbed her struck belly.

It would bruise, but that’s just burst capillaries in the skin. She braced her hidden abs hard and felt them answer, stout and fine: all right, we’re good.

At this rate—doable, no?

Their unity was off.

What about next time, when some “Four Fiends” or “Four Monsters” type who share a sobriquet tighten ranks to avenge a sworn brother?

Qing flung her sword a shade clumsily.

If she pulled her hand outright the thanks and pleas for mercy would stop the match.

The spearman, who had rolled like a log across the floor, sprang up, sprinted back, and clicked shoulders with his fellow avengers.

“Ah! Alas—the Heavenly Flower Sword let the opening slip. You might wonder why. But martial forms were meant to face a person standing on the ground; there are no forms for cutting the prone.”

“Indeed. And isn’t the Heavenly Flower Sword a righteous martial artist? Look at her declaration here—to face three of equal realm at once to settle grudges. A chivalrous one seeking fairness by her own skill—attacking a man rolling on the ground would not have come easily.”

“Ahh, so that’s it!” “So that’s how!”

At last the commentary reached Qing’s ears.

Somehow, the thin one, the fat one, and even the collar-grabbers had all shifted focus to her.

It was weirdly one-sided commentary.

But people without ties root for the weak over the strong, the few over the many, the disadvantaged over the favored.

And this was three men against one beauty.

Men root for the beauty; women root for the woman warrior. Of course.

Qing only wanted fitting opponents and a life-and-death duel to temper her training.

Unintentionally, her reputation was climbing fast into the sky.