Chapter 521: Chaos (7)

Tang Nanaa’s ears pricked.

Her face could not have been more serious.

Anyone could see she was about to use the Focused Listening Art.

The Focused Listening Art gathered sound to hear; when one needed to catch distant voices or whispers, nine times out of ten it was a technique for eavesdropping.

Watching her, the Tang Clan Young Master, Tang Jinchul, had only anxiety in his eyes.

Of course, it wasn’t as if his little sister’s look was new or surprising. He saw it all the time. But even so, he couldn’t just let it slide when the target of her eavesdropping was the League Leader of the Martial Alliance.

Up to now she’d always listened at the Clan Lord’s study, the Elders’ hall, the Disciplinary Court mid-meeting, the ladies’ separate quarters, the reception room while guests were being greeted or even the rooms where they stayed—just the harmless mischief of a pretty, curious youngest who meant no harm.

So this time, painful as it was, an older brother had to deliver a stern lesson.

“A-ah, hey—no matter what—”

“Shh. Be quiet, brother.”

“Th-that’s not okay...”

Tang Jinchul’s stern lesson, over.

Do you know the Tang Clan’s power ranking?

Tang Nanaa: rank one. Tied for rank two: the chiefs of the Medical Hall, the Ten-Thousand Poisons Hall, the Ironworks, the Powder Room, and the Accounts Office—plus the still-spry Great Elder direct elders who drank tonics like water.

Thanks to that, the Clan Lord Tang Tuzhuk—already far down the list—and then all the mothers in a row after him, and then the Tang Clan Young Master Tang Jinchul: even if you counted fingers and toes, he didn’t make the cut. He was the weakest of the weak.

So how could he possibly defy the Clan’s true sovereign?

The Martial Alliance’s reception room had decent soundproofing.

Exactly decent—no more.

Reception rooms were never meant for grave councils, just for light conversation, tea, laughter, and exchanging courtesies.

And above all: who on earth would dare listen in on the League Leader of the Martial Alliance?

No matter how ill-mannered, ignorant, and shameless a reprobate, if they had the slightest common sense they wouldn’t even conceive of secretly eavesdropping on the League Leader in the Alliance’s own halls. The backlash on one’s house or affiliation would be catastrophic. Above all else, League Leader Jo Hyeonryang stood second among the Ten Masters Under Heaven; who would shoulder that retribution?

But Tang Nanaa could.

And if she got caught?

She had the Tang Clan’s rank-one Name-and-Tears ultimate: “Ten-Thousand Blossoms in the Dew!”

With eyes gone wide and tears the size of washbasins trembling on her lashes—“I was just so curious, I’m sorry, sniff, hiccup, sniffle”—she would drop to the floor in full prostration and apologize. Wouldn’t she be forgiven?

Just like always.

Therefore, Tang Nanaa bore no guilt.

When even a League Leader blurted “Heavenly Flower Sword!” in surprise, of course Tang Nanaa pricked up her ears. And then the people inside kept talking carelessly, so not even a Profound Realm master thought to lay a wager and raise a sound-blocking veil as a minimal precaution.

Why? They let their guard down.

They failed to recognize that, right next door, the unofficial Princess of Sichuan—the wickedest woman under heaven—might be listening.

Granted, Jo Hyeonryang had grounds to protest. At the last Martial World Tournament, Tang Nanaa had been making her first foray into the rivers and lakes; what respectable late-stage expert would ever imagine a junior—with all her faculties intact—would dare to listen in on her elders?

And across East and West, ancient and modern, taking other people’s words and starting trouble with them—this was the fate of a wicked woman.

So Tang Nanaa could only clench her little fist and spring to her feet.

“A-ah, where are you going now? You should greet the League Leader first.”

With dignity, Tang Jinchul stopped his sister.

Tang Nanaa looked at him—

“Oh, right.”

“I know you’re excited to be outside Sichuan, but still, first we greet the League Leader—”

“Give.”

Tang Nanaa thrust out her hand, bold as brass.

“Huh? Give what?”

“The gold tokens and the poisons. All of them.”

“A-ah? The gold I can maybe understand, but poison, why? What I’ve got isn’t Grandfather’s modified blend, okay? They’re deadly—”

“Quickly. I need them all.”

“Nanaa. This isn’t the clan compound. If you behave rashly—”

Her expression flipped.

Eyes wide and glittering, a starlight different from Qing’s fell into them. With perfectly clear nostrils she somehow managed to make a nasally, plaintive sound and smiled sweetly.

“Come on, brother-dear. Give Nanaa, quickly. Nanaa needs poison.”

“Uh? Mm, I really shouldn’t...”

“Brooother-dear. Mm? Mmm? Mmmmm.”

If Qing had seen it, she’d have sooner bitten her tongue and died than deploy coquettish charm—third-person self-reference and all—to win by a “little-sister routine.”

But Tang Nanaa was a wicked woman without blood or tears; she spared no means.

And above all, she knew—because her entire life had taught her—that it worked.

“Uh, this is dangerous, so use it... gently.”

A remarkable truth, learned here and now!

Even poison is less dangerous if you use it gently!

Tang Jinchul began yanking things from who-knows-where without pause—concealed weapons and vials of venom—and pushed them into her hands. Tang Nanaa packed them away—sleeves, inner bosom, waistband, chest—ramming them in tight, and without a single bulge showing, they vanished without a trace.

Not just Tang Nanaa: among the Tang Clan this sort of uncanny stowage trick was basic training.

“As expected, big brother is the best! Then I’m going out to play, okay?”

And she sprang up and zipped out.

Hmph. That brat only calls me “big brother” when it suits her.

Looks like she made plenty of friends at the last Martial World Tournament.

Having handed over everything—self-defense venoms, concealed weapons, the lot—and left himself nearly disarmed, Tang Jinchul smiled, satisfied.

****

Within the Martial Alliance, gatherings of like-minded people for social clubs were strongly encouraged.

The tighter the orthodox martial world bound itself together in positive ties, the stronger its cohesion became and the greater the Alliance’s influence.

So the Alliance not only encouraged it—they practically begged people to mingle, offering all kinds of support. “We’re forming X Society for Y activities with Z and so-and-so”—submit signatures or a joint petition, and perks followed. They invited notable figures, posted notices to recruit interested colleagues, even handed over rooms and facilities: “Use these.”

The Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society was not a social club formally registered with the Alliance.

But with the Heavenly Flower Sword in it, and the scions of the Five Great Houses all mixed in and goofing off together—how could the Alliance pretend not to see?

At the club desk they fretted: Why haven’t they come to register—will they wait so long it turns into a geriatrics’ club?

It was a super-elite society: the Heavenly Flower Sword plus the Five Great Houses’ heirs. Their activities were wholesome sparring (plus fine-dining tours), no less. Publicize it, and late-stage talents could cross hands, share insights, and all advance together—what a picture.

In truth, top-tier clubs like this usually didn’t bother registering; they just enjoyed themselves. So the desk staff could only sigh.

And when the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society floated that extraordinary name and explained, “Short blade means saber, twin swords means jian,” not a single person applied to join. Likely no registration would ever be filed.

Even so, for a club like this, the Alliance quietly smoothed their way. For example: they slipped in and out of the Alliance’s top-class guest house without permission—and the attendants were told to treat them well. They used the back garden like their private training yard—and management looked the other way. An unspoken permission, handed down with a nod.

So the Society’s members naturally set up shop at the Alliance’s top guest house whenever they came and went.

Today again, those lazing around were Young Master Ok Girin—who had chosen a spot away from the ladies—and, before anyone noticed, a zealot who had hauled in stacks of iron bars and mauls for strength training.

Paeng Daesan whistled his sleek saber through the air; in one corner Jeogal Ihyeon was sweating as he worked the weights.

“Hmph. How carefree you are. Qing is out there right now gritting her teeth and fighting a pack from the Evil Path, and this is how you waste time?”

Tang Nanaa appeared out of nowhere and scolded them.

A woman who hadn’t shown her nose this whole time suddenly showed up and raised her voice—ridiculous. But more than that, what she said snagged their attention.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? Exactly what I said. I’m going to help Qing. Come or don’t.”

Tang Nanaa, freshly informed by her eavesdropping, rattled off what she knew with all the credit-seeking flourish in the world: the Absorbing Qi Demonic Art this, Heavenly Flower Sword that, apology march, blah blah.

Jeogal Ihyeon chimed in—“No, elder sister, Absorbing Qi Demonic Art!? Do you mean the Shin Clan’s technique from a hundred and eighty years ago? And Eon Yeonyeong—!? Elder Eon—no, the former inspector—no, apology march!? You know apology march! That’s from the Zhao tale of Lin Xiangru and Lian Po; in other words, ‘bearing the punishment before one’s elder’—a sublime—hm? Are you listening, Elder Tang?”—and so on.

But Tang Nanaa hadn’t come to converse. She’d come to notify. Wicked women are not good listeners.

“No, and Qing too—if that was going to happen, she should’ve told us to come with her in advance. With Sword-Fool and—”

“Wait. Namgung went with her?”

At that, Paeng Daesan’s eyebrow twitched.

Tang Nanaa didn’t notice—because she had no interest in Paeng Daesan whatsoever.

“Hmph. And that Gunhwa woman, why—anyway. Are you going or not?”

“Mm.”

With the ultra-low, ultra-subsonic groan that melted maidens’ hearts, Paeng Daesan slid his saber into the scabbard with a chak.

He was going.

Once upon a time Tang Nanaa would have squealed how dashing and babbled about husbands—but now it only made her eyes hurt. Where do you get off posing cool?

“Of course we must go at once! But will just us suffice? We should inform the Alliance’s combat unit and at least invite an Instructor—”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said Qing asked the Martial Alliance to hold back on support. If we show up with an Instructor, what does that make her?”

“Uh. Mm. Yes.”

So the direct heirs of three of the Five Great Houses joining up didn’t count as “Alliance support,” did it?

But Jeogal Ihyeon possessed a beast’s body and a sage’s brain, and now he realized the wise course was to shut his mouth and fall in.

Thus a portion of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society moved out.

****

“Next.”

Bathed in blood, Qing stood alone.

She made no sound, but her chest swelled and fell hard; breath coming short, she panted. It was a place that drew the eye naturally anyway—so everyone quickly took the measure of her condition.

The avengers’ eyes lit.

She’s fatigued—now’s our chance, isn’t it?

Is she hurt? She’s soaked in blood; impossible to tell what’s hers and what’s not.

One might call it shameful to dither and weigh this and that while stepping forward for revenge. But revenge only counted if it succeeded; fail and it was a dog’s death. So the avengers ground their teeth while watching for someone else to step in first—someone to sap her strength in back-to-back bouts and open a wound or two.

In the end, no one stepped out.

Because they had just learned something new: even if they substituted other numbers for an Absolute master, she would still accept the life-and-death duel.

The apology march schedule wasn’t even halfway done; plenty of time remained to prepare thoroughly.

This would have been the perfect moment for Flower Realm experts to come forward. But Flower Realm experts were in a bind as well.

Facing a much younger fighter—an Absolute at that—was, by itself, a loss of face for a Flower Realm veteran. If they could win easily, maybe. But a loss, or even a scrap that looked the least bit close, meant humiliation broadcast to the whole world.

And could they be sure of victory?

From what they’d seen of these life-and-death duels, when it came to the core purpose of martial arts—killing the enemy—she was a devil. A lower-tier fighter just beneath them in raw cultivation, but unmatched in irregularity and quick improvisation. Exactly the opponent masters most hated to fight.

Weak saber-qi or strong saber-qi, saber-qi is saber-qi—get pricked wrong and you’re injured, and injury leads straight to defeat. So the Flower Realm experts kept watching, trying to pare variables to the minimum.

Besides, this time they’d swarmed her; others would try the same later. No need to rush.

So no one stepped out.

To a crowd that couldn’t fathom these calculations, it meant something else: one person had gagged a dozen mouths of hate; this was the bearing of a peerless master who stood against ten thousand.

Their tongues itched; they were dying to trumpet this awe-inspiring might.

“Hey, listen—so I went to the Heavenly Flower Sword’s life-and-death duel to see her settle old grudges, and you wouldn’t believe it—”