Chapter 518: Chaos (4)

Which is stronger: many troops or a few elite masters? In Zhongyuan, that question is an eternal brawl.

People love to say “three against one.”

It isn’t because Zhongyuan fetishizes the number three—Heaven–Earth–Man; upper–middle–lower; early–mid–late—that a Flower Realm equals three Absolutes and one late-stage Absolute equals three early-stage.

It’s because four beat one.

A four-directions combined attack—front, back, left, right at once—is the basic and most powerful form of combination.

So two against one is insufficient.

Four against one—an easy win.

Three is the mushy middle: even if they charge together, one quadrant stays open. It’s the number judged “handleable.” Three.

The argument begins there:

If you lower the grade of the three but increase the headcount, does it help—or hurt?

Once it lights up, the debate leaps from collars to fists.

Pro–attacker remarks:

“Obviously four is better than three, five than four, six than five. Even if the grade drops, once all four sides are sealed it’s practically death. The back, especially, is a warrior’s weakest point. A man who already lacks one hand to guard front and flanks—how will he defend his back? And a thrust to an unguarded vital, even from a lesser grade, is lethal.”

Anti–attacker remarks:

“Spouting without knowing martial study—‘sealed on all four sides’? No. The moment a lower-grade man inserts himself, you aren’t sealing four sides—you’re opening one. Swap one Absolute for three of Peak: a combination still strikes from four sides; four is the limit; one will be idle. And it won’t be three Absolutes holding three quadrants—only two—while Peak fills the fourth with a paper wall that a high hand cuts in a heartbeat. The encirclement is worse than with three Absolutes.”

No one hired them, no one paid bounty; they spoke purely for hobby—or for the authority of the raconteur. “Commentary,” though no one recognized them nor granted a dais. By Qing’s lights: prehistoric personal broadcasting.

The commentators’ eyes blazed.

“Hah! Two Absolutes can check an arm apiece—therefore three late-stage of Peak is far better. Simple sums a child knows. What dullard fails to grasp the obvious?”

“If you take one wolf-hound from a tiger hunt and replace it with a puppy, is that really a help? Which of you fears three tail-wagging dogs more than a single wolf the size of a calf?”

“Friends! We have an imbecile who says three puppies suffice to bring down a wolf-hound!”

Even so, the gap between Absolute and Peak is not “hound versus puppy.” Narrow-eyed stares slid toward the “elite minority” commentator.

Had Qing heard, she would have clicked her tongue.

A sloppy leap of logic is worse than silence.

When it’s just two arguing, you can mix in ad hominem and shout to win; with an audience, you must persuade the crowd—not your opponent.

Anyway. So in practice—is it disadvantageous, or advantageous?

For Qing?

All the better.

Qing charged the Zhangpyeong swordsmen.

Her left hand opened in an elegant fan, showing the heart of the palm as it stretched forward.

“Tathāgata Divine Palm!” “Evade!”

They had drilled for it, it seemed. They cried “Evade!” at once and sprang away from the diagonal traced by Qing’s left hand.

Teng—like tapping a bell with a spoon.

Qing grinned, impish; a sharply pointed canine flashed.

Hanging flowers on a bare tree.

Deceive by adorning the branch with blossoms.

Even with the same move, the man who takes one step and cuts profits, and the man who panics and hops about loses. I move less than you; you move more than me. In martial study, one way to enact this is with feints and deceit.

With a single false start she cracked their front and seized a gap to enter—what a gain.

Qing stamped on a Zhangpyeong disciple rolling on the ground and burst forward—Advance-True. The feel of bone compressing to splinters—kruk—an exquisite cry as entrails twist and blood rises. She slanted her forearms to take and shed blades from left and right, then one step, two, three inside.

At that straight line’s end stood a Zhangpyeong disciple, eyes wide, frozen.

You might think, “How can a man in a life-and-death duel freeze?” But faced with the unexpected, the human mind goes white and locks. The first instinct a warrior must overcome—the fatal human habit. So what is he—second-rate? They even dragged out men who barely count as warriors?

Qing’s point slid out, soft as breath.

The edge kissed past the neck.

The large vessel beside the spine snipped—blood barked rough—chuk—and then tick, tick to the beat of the heart. In the same instant, Qing’s curious Metal-Hand technique shot out. Fingers flowed with the soft theft of Invisible Godly Hands—Zhongyuan’s finest pickpocket art. She took the net as if she’d owned it all along.

Oh. A net.

I’d wanted to try one.

She snapped the net from her hand.

Only—nets had their own craft; clutch and throw does not mean it blooms and wraps your foe.

The bundled wad thumped a Zhangpyeong disciple right on the kisser.

“Urk!”

Weight of the net—and the murderous force behind it—kicked his legs high and flipped him flat. The two rushing behind caught their comrade and went down under him.

Qing bolted on, back to the trio doing slapstick.

The Zhangpyeong plan, of course, existed: forward elites would check Qing and halt her; the rest would seal retreat and form a wheel to grind her down. But because the front line broke from the start and Qing punched through, she hit the rear in a blink and exposed the second- and third-year disciples.

The World’s Greatest Beauty took one step; dozens of sword-lights flashed.

One-Hundred-Eight Asura Sword, Seventh Move—

Ten Thousand and One Thousand Strikes.

Ten thousand beasts and a thousand more under heaven; one sword that bears ten thousand and one thousand fangs.

A bestial eye split vertical, a yellow, greasy brute bit a great mouthful from the Zhangpyeong rear line. Edges flashed; blood geysered, pearled, and pattered down.

Blood-rain under heaven; a slaughter-yard on earth.

The air thick with iron stink—mm. Gulp.

Damn it—why does my appetite spike.

So this is one of the Ten Supreme Demonic Arts—always poking at the cracks.

Qing smothered the rising lust to kill.

“You wretch! Coward!”

“Eh? Me?”

“Is slaughtering the weaker the orthodox way? Come out front and fight fair!”

“Huh?”

Qing was dumbfounded.

What are you saying? You’re the ones swarming—

In an instant, Qing’s figure split eightfold and rushed back the way she’d come. A heartbeat late—shk—nets fell to blanket the spot.

Her eight afterimages cut the air in eight different shapes. One of them—graceful, a step at a time, drifting a page farther—slid into true color. A net dropped to “congratulate” it. The heavy bind of the mesh hit and Qing gave a strangled “Ack!” How?

“Kill! We’ve got her at last! Think we wouldn’t learn after seeing it that many times?”

Wave-Skimming Steps is a formation-cum-footwork that makes you appear behind your target, back to the foe. Even if you divide into eight, only a few lines run straight to the enemy’s back. Prepare in advance and you can cast nets on those lanes.

Qing pulled the net left and right.

A high-grade net, thick-twisted hemp with iron core—something even the Heavenly Flower Witch’s monstrous strength could not tear easily.

Tut-tut—the knots where cross and weft tied stretched and popped, but the mesh wouldn’t part; she floundered.

The Zhangpyeong elites, morale sky-high, raised blades charged with force and closed. First to arrive was To Ungung; as their spokesman, he swung a great, fierce saber-qi to split Qing head to toe.

“Die!”

Qing flung up the hands clutching the net.

Viewed another way, the net wrapped round her was also a weapon in her hands.

Charged with true force, it tightened and caught To Ungung’s saber-qi. Her ankle snagged in a mesh-hole; one knee shot up.

He’d thrown in his full weight—and the net merely boomed and swayed; sparks spat where force met force. If a net Qing couldn’t tear now carried her qi, it had the hardness to deflect saber-qi.

More sabers crashed in.

Qing twisted her waist and thrust the taut net between her arms.

Then she thrust the caught ankle forward, braced the elbows, and set the cords—vertical weft to bar a saber’s arc. With a phantom “boing,” a Zhangpyeong high-hand bounced off. Another blade swept to cut her sideways; Qing shoved her grand hips back, pinned the mesh with her foot, and lifted her crown. The strained cords pinged the great blade away—ding-ding—ringing wildly.

By hauling the snares strapped on her body in opposed directions to create tension, the trap poured to hold her movement became a fortress to guard her body.

Huh. Defense... not bad?

Qing wriggled, thrusting her arms briskly out through the mesh.

She half-tried to wear the net like armor—when a downward force pressed her head sideways. Ah—wrong hole. Her arms slipped free, but she’d laced it too tight; her head flopped to the side. Thanks to joints supple as oil, she could lie completely sideways without issue—but for now, the distance, the world, lay on its side.

She stood on one foot; the other knee hooked in the net and dangled.

“Don’t cut—stab! Where did you even find a net this tough? There are limits, you idiot!”

To Ungung bellowed—the very man who’d ordered the toughest nets “just in case.”

“Wait! Wait a moment!”

Qing tried to free her arms, tangled herself worse, pogoed on one leg—then smashed down a charging Peak-grade saber.

Where do you think you’re going, waving qi at your level?

Tzeng! The blade snapped with a crack and shaved past its master’s cheek, vanishing.

Before the swordsman could swallow the chill up his spine, Qing’s left hand shot—contact—down poured formless true force.

Deng!!

A proper temple-bell. From Qing’s palm, matter refracted in a round lens; the air wavered. The Zhangpyeong disciple vomited melted innards and collapsed.

The Tathāgata bell, struck with full strength, was larger and more majestic than expected. While the disciples flinched—and while the netted freak had even dropped her sword—Qing simply began showing her open palms in every direction.

Teng-teng-teng-teng-teng-teng-teng!

Qing could mimic about one scale degree with Tathāgata Divine Palm. In her homeland they’d have yelled, “Wow—school bell!”—a spoon performance. The disciples, who’d flinched and covered their vitals at the sight of her palms, stared at Qing, dumbstruck. What was that? It did kind of—

Deng!

A golden mudra manifested in air; that colossal hand gave a gentle push.

Gentle in motion—yet the man flew like hit by a cart, skipped once off the ground, and flew again.

Tathāgata Divine Palm, Fifth Saying—

Five-Phases Great Hand.

The world’s end that once barred the Great Sage Equal to Heaven—and the Buddha merely opened his palm. So it must have seemed to an ant before a finger.

“Don’t give her distance! Giving distance is worse!”

To Ungung shouted again.

Qing answered with a clamor of fake bells; the Zhangpyeong disciples flinched, coming and stopping.

Meanwhile Qing fumbled frantically around her head, grabbed a mesh-ring, and pulled it down—tucking her head neatly through. Then an arm through each side, and let the long skirt trail to the ground.

She looked as if she’d draped herself in a Western Regions wedding robe—loosely woven from cord.