Chapter 517: Chaos (3)

On the eve of a life-and-death duel, a warrior usually does one thing: put their affairs in order. They pester acquaintances for no good reason, blurt private truths they’d never said, jot down last words in case things go wrong—then strike a weighty pose and sit out the remaining time in “meditation.”

Qing, however, had a good time.

She ate and drank well and chattered literature with the scholars at Wang Xizhi’s old house.

Which led Provincial Commander Wang Ssangryong to a treasonous thought: is this...right?

It struck him the next day when the well-rested Qing ordered the rebels’ dueling ground raised again.

Of course, a grandee’s excellence includes warping his own thoughts. If irreverent notions might slip out in the flurry, better to recast the heart in advance—true loyal service. Perhaps Her Majesty simply had no thoughts in her head at all? He rolled the dice of impiety again.

Double-sixes!

Of course Her Majesty was extraordinary! She couldn’t even imagine being defeated—therefore she enjoyed everything with such easy leisure. Her Majesty is strong!

Anyway: Qing was in her private tent, slowly removing stitches.

In principle, you schedule out stitch-removal by the thickness of the skin and how much the wound pulls. Qing, as a lady physician in her own right, knew the fussy details. Face: five days. Scalp, belly, chest: ten. Back and legs, and the rest: five.

She also knew her recovery didn’t match ordinary humans’.

Roughly three times faster.

In Qing’s homeland, a six-week prognosis shrank to two. Zhongyuan didn’t count weeks of seven days yet—that was her homeland’s way of saying it.

She nipped knots with a fingernail and slid the threads free. A little scarring, yes. Ambiguous scars sank and faded with time anyway. And for what remained, there was a stingy powder called Jechang Powder that “melts” the scar away; it wasn’t even counted as a poison and, in her experience, it worked.

What kind of body is this—seriously?

Then: hm. A better thought.

It’s just excessively sturdy.

If you handle the mysterious inner qi of the universe, of course your recovery’s fast. Compared with others at the same tier, it’s not outrageously fast. A warrior’s healing outstrips commoners as a rule; a late-stage Absolute, say, tends to be double baseline. I’m just a hair—just a tiny hair—faster than that, and also don’t get infections. Tch. Constitution. It’s all constitution. And that constitution—mm, I’ve no idea...

Having stepped on a mental landmine for the first time in a while, Qing walked out to the dueling ground with a faintly queasy face. Queasy to her; to others, solemn to the point of awe.

They’d set a chair under the awning at the edge of the arena now. After twice having to scramble the thing up when no one came forward, they’d clearly decided to have a waiting spot ready from the start.

If she could just work the body hard when the mood’s down, she’d feel better. Coming and going, she’d seen plenty of men practicing combined-attack arts, timing their joins; would no one charge today either? If they saved it up for later, that would be tiresome.

She sipped iced tea.

The tart-sweet fruit brew wrapped her tongue; the gloom eased a shade.

She looked into the frosted cup.

Her lovely face blurred over the cold tea, a sheen of ice called up with a pulse of chill qi.

Sweet costs money.

If men of the Western Regions in this era knew, they’d fly into a rage: even children of houses too poor to buy sugar in Zhongyuan can manage a taste now and then? Froth at the mouth over it, why don’t you. But Zhongyuan, in this age, is the first empire under heaven; even the lowest tenant farmers cook meat in oil. Robe-wearing officials are all thieves and knife-holding toughs lord over the districts—and still the machine turns, because the land is that rich in goods. Not that Qing knew or cared. Even if she had known, she’d have said: if it rankles—make a revolution. (So she did.)

Now and then she still dreamed of the day she brawled with beggars over a single rat (and got beaten one-sided).

Now she wore good clothes and drank fruit tea thick with honey.

So this is what “meat and oil every day” feels like.

It was too fine a fruit syrup to drink alone.

Master. Teacher. Hyemae. Old-grandfather. Our Short-Blade Twin-Sword Club. That Seol family bastard and the rest... It would be nice if someone were here.

Honestly: yes. Life’s good lately.

No—life is delicious. Every day is joy and jolt. So I need to stay here.

A bitter smile ghosted over Qing’s face.

So I have to fight.

Not because I’m “bad,” not for the thrill of nerves sparkling head-to-toe when I cut a person.

First, reach the Flower Realm, and take a look at the Profound Realm, too.

See the end with that bombastic Destroyer of Worlds, that Noryeong-whatever, and settle it with Taechang as well.

“Power is what you—”

Not buying. Move along. What a peddler.

The Baleful Star, quiet of late, had tried another whisper. Qing shooed it away like a fly.

Then—suddenly?

Zhongyuan tea sets include a tea pick: a sharp stick for poking through leaves that clog the kettle’s spout. Plant the tea pick upright in the center of the cup and drive a cold surge through it—

Iced confection, perfect.

Because the cup was broad, the ice popped out broad too—like a lump of bread.

Qing flicked her tongue.

With bite force harder than a beast’s: crunch, crunch.

She slurped the fruit tea running down in a syrupy stream. Slurp, lick, crunch. Slurp-slurp, crunch-crunch.

A ridiculous sight: the World’s Greatest Beauty, flicking her tongue in a shameless way, licking ice.

So what did the onlookers think?

All the better. They’d come to watch a death-match of revenge—throats closing, bloody struggles—but just seeing this would repay the price of admission. They drilled their eyes into the scene.

Only the avengers boiled.

Some were biding their turn, watching for an opening to take revenge. Their undying foe was riding high. If that wasn’t taunting, what was—what obscene vulgar farce was this!

In truth, yes—taunting.

Qing knew this wasn’t exactly how to appear before a crowd this size.

But look at those revenge-mongers.

They were waiting for someone else to go first and wear her down. This was how you got them heated enough to charge. A kind of area-of-effect provoke. If it’s galling—quit watching and come out.

Perhaps it worked.

“Oooh.”

“Oh my, looks like a fight.”

At last! You’re here!

Qing’s eyes lit as she rose.

Alone?

Flower Realm? Hm. The Flower Realm is a bit rough.

For Qing, one Flower Realm opponent was trickier than three Absolutes.

Common wisdom had it that an early Flower Realm master matched three Absolutes in harmony. But for Qing—whose strength lay in massive inner qi and in defensive efficiency below the elbows—one Flower Realm was the scarier foe. The density of a Flower Realm’s qi differed from an Absolute’s; it would slice through Guardian Qi like paper.

Qing, quiet with the lift of tension, drew her sword.

The man spoke.

“I am the Roc-Sword of a Thousand Li, To Ungung. I am here to indict you for the murder of the Young Sect Master of Fujian’s Zhangpyeong Sect. Do you acknowledge that guilt?”

“Sounds like the Young Sect Master was among the ones I cut. If he’d announced himself, I might have avoided the unseemly crime of severing a lineage. Unfortunate.”

To Ungung ground his teeth.

She claimed there’d been no exchange of names—so how could she know who she’d killed? And if no names were exchanged, that meant his side had attacked without introducing themselves—therefore the fault was theirs? A crafty tongue.

Then Qing—oh. Right. Fair and square. No more teasing.

Still, for a Flower Realm master, you wanted the eyes rolled back a little to make them worth facing.

But honestly—“Young Sect Master”? Am I supposed to put my sword away for that?

While Qing was thinking it—

“Heavenly Flower Sword, you said you would face three Absolutes. Then tell me: how many masters of Peak will you accept in place of one Absolute?”

Ah. Not Flower Realm—he’d come to discuss terms.

Qing smiled and answered.

“How many did you have in mind?”

A vein bulged in the man’s brow.

What was this? There were limits to mockery. Strangely, anger climbed.

Qing felt wronged.

This time she was being kind. She was offering to meet him on his terms.

“You are late-stage Absolute, are you not? Don’t deny it—I saw with my own eyes your Oneness with the Sword—”

“Correct. Late-stage Absolute. And your point?”

Men whose tongues ran this long were usually swindlers. Qing kindly cut him off: if you have something to say, say it.

“...A late-stage Absolute can face two mid-stage Absolutes or three early-stage. One early-stage Absolute equals three late-stage Peak. One late-stage Peak equals two mid-stage Peak or three early-stage Peak. One early-stage Peak equals three late first-rates. One late first-rate equals two mid first-rates or three early first-rates, and then furthermore blah blah—”

What now.

Measuring brine with a hydrometer? A math test?

“To mix one mal of water to a salinity of five parts in a hundred: given light soy at two-point-something and dark soy at one-point-something, added in equal volumes, find the total—”

Qing blinked.

The crowd, heated to see a fight, shut their mouths in disbelief.

Not that the logic was wrong.

He meant to match “power” by a rough, commonly agreed schedule.

Qing sighed and answered.

“Fine. Do it like that.”

“Wait. One must consider that while the theory fits, as the gap in grades grows, the weaker side cannot practically manifest its—”

“Enough. Come as prepared.”

Qing cut him off. Not a mote of desire to haggle heads and headcount.

In the end, they fielded two Absolutes; six of Peak—early, mid, late mixed; ten of first-rate—early, mid, late; and then a swarm of second-raters. The nets in those second-raters’ hands, though—this time even Qing was a little speechless.

“Haa...”

She scrubbed her brow and let out a long breath.

The onlookers, too, felt this was a bit much, and glared at the brazen avengers.

Qing let her blade hang loose.

“Words are useless. Blood for blood.”

A tremor of awe rolled the stands. To hold her ground, proud and pure, before such numbers—how austere and beautiful was that bearing.

“To—strike!” To Ungung cried, and with a tidal roar they surged in a long wave.

Qing raised her sword.