Chapter 522: Chaos (8)

The crowd wanted the next challenger to appear—wanted the life-and-death duel to continue.

Not an avenger—a challenger.

By nature, a “challenge” meant shoving aside the one already seated; it was a bid to settle rank against a superior.

That was how the crowd saw it.

But who takes revenge just to amuse onlookers?

You could click your tongue at avengers who weighed this and that, tallying odds as if revenge should be done “properly.”

If the hatred were truly deep, wouldn’t they rush in without thought?

The thoughtless did exactly that—their eyes went red with rage—and they all died in Yubang County’s arena.

The truly dangerous grudges were daggers you could not evade, thrust in silence the moment the enemy showed a gap at their most vulnerable. Those who endured for the right time and weighed gain and loss—those were the genuine avengers, the truly dangerous ones left.

Not yet.

We’ll see how long she can strut around looking glorious.

Of course, Qing knew this.

Those who didn’t step out still fixed her with blazing eyes, sclera bloodshot red, killing intent spilling as they glared. Men who might jump in mid-bout—she had to keep a constant watch on them.

But you can’t avoid them forever.

In truth, the more life-and-death duels she fought, the more one-sided the disadvantage became—for Qing.

Her enemies were studying her.

What techniques she used and how. Which hand she favored, which direction she slipped when evading, what her habits were, and how many finishing moves she still kept concealed.

All the hotheads had already rushed out.

The ones left were openly observing to analyze her piece by piece and seize the initiative. The more she fought, the more they sussed her out.

In that sense, Qing was driving herself to an extreme.

In short: just cash in—by advancing and paying them back.

An Absolute and a Flower Realm master were as different as the colossal wall she had seen in her heart-image. You dare “analyze” an Absolute—transcending Absolute—transcending-transcending Absolute?

Go ahead. Try all you want.

Once I step into the Flower Realm, all that data becomes worthless. Every bit of it turns to wasted effort.

Which meant: she needed to reach the Flower Realm quickly.

Damn it—it was right there at the tip of her nose, like a sneeze caught at the nostrils—ha, haaa—if she could just let it rip with a clean ah-choo, she felt she could vault into the Flower Realm. She was missing some decisive stimulus—something.

Like craving something to eat.

Properly salted. Rich and melting, tangling the tongue. Sweet, but never cloying. So hearty and sharp she’d let out an involuntary roar—gaaah.

Anyway, she craved something delicious like mad and could not, for the life of her, recall what dish it was. It was maddening.

So she was tasting different things.

It just happened that the tasting took the form of life-and-death duels.

Which meant: for now, do what could be done.

Smeared in blood, Qing sat demurely once more before the little awning’s low table and reviewed the fight.

This time the problem started with putting the net on in the first place.

How had she failed to avoid it?

Because they’d read the trajectory of Wave-Skimming Steps.

They’d sown nets at her escape points; she had run straight into the snare.

How did they know where I’d appear?

By hook or crook she used that peculiar “felt experience” that had been hammered into brain and body—an unknown sense from the crooked path. But with the trigrams underfoot twisting the world into an array and her field of view layered and expanded, even she found it dizzying, complicated beyond belief—while she was the one using it.

Did they have formation experts among them?

To the onlookers watching the instant she set foot on Wave-Skimming Steps, she soared, rolled, and sprang with eight afterimages, scattering in all directions with dazzling motion—but she herself had no way to feel what she looked like.

So—hm. She didn’t know.

Only this: it wasn’t an unbeatable escape art.

Why, even back home, in electronic games people predicted the instant-move—so-called “blink.” She’d shown it enough times; they’d roughly mapped where she might pop out and simply threw nets over several zones.

It was the moment the invincible myth of Wave-Skimming Steps shattered.

Wait, wasn’t it the supreme footwork, an invincible divine art?

If some ragtag on the Evil Path could read it, was it really a “divine art”? Should she peel off the purple border?

Anyone hearing her would blow their top. Greedy sow— as if there were any flawless martial art under heaven. With Wave-Skimming Steps alone, there were men the world over who’d charge in at the cost of their lives, and here she was, belly full, complaining.

Grumbling, Qing suddenly caught a spark of insight.

Anyway—wasn’t it the art of a sect that had already been destroyed?

If Wave-Skimming Steps were truly invincible, wouldn’t they all have survived? Why would they be gone?

If the sect’s departed disciples could hear, they wouldn’t have much to say. The sect’s arts were all divine techniques that broke the laws of the human world—but in the end the disciples were just human. Factions formed among senior brothers, they fought, mutual destruction, the sect vanished.

So rather than excuse it as internal strife and mutual slaughter, it was far better to say the art had a flaw.

Wave-Skimming Steps wasn’t the answer to everything.

Good thing she’d learned this against manageable foes—if later a Flower Realm master had read her with timing-arts and smashed her, her back might’ve been blown open.

So what should she do?

When, and how, should she use it so the enemy couldn’t predict it—or even if they did, would have no choice but to let her go...

Either way, each life-and-death duel brought Qing precious experience.

As much as her enemies analyzed her, she fought desperately to erase her own weaknesses.

Thus the unseen clash of spear and shield ended unseen, and today’s duel ended as well.

Looked like this town had dried up too.

Qing didn’t like the flow. If she let too much pile up for later, it would be rough. Wasn’t there some way to make them rush her?

****

The South of the Yangtze—Jiangnan.

To Central Plains folk, “Jiangnan” meant Suzhou and Hangzhou together, and it was, by universal consent, the number one pleasure district in the Central Plains. That consensus was extraordinary among Central Plains people.

By birth, Central Plains folk loved their hometowns to an absurd, almost violent degree. Bragging about one’s home province, prefecture, city until it came to grabbing each other’s collars was so common that, in social clubs, hometown talk was practically a taboo.

In that climate, for everyone to agree Jiangnan was the Central Plains’ top pleasure quarter—that was something.

Cuisine? Our town’s the best.

Letters? Literature—our town’s the best.

History? Also our town.

Scenery? Our town again.

Geography? Ours.

Pleasure? Ah. That’s Jiangnan.

Still—our town’s right behind Jiangnan!

Such was Jiangnan’s majesty as a pleasure district.

It was also a city of “men of letters.” That phrase might conjure ink-fragrance and paper-scent—but in Jiangnan, “man of letters” did not mean anything good.

Layabouts sprawled on cushions, guzzled wine daily, kneaded courtesans, and mouthed verse—“man of letters” was the fancy wrapper they used for themselves. Small wonder their interests, now as ever, revolved around beauties.

So whenever they gathered, the talk was the same:

Who is the greatest beauty under heaven?

Among beauties, who is the greatest of all ages?

A new courtesan named Fiery Flower has joined Moon-and-Flower Pavilion—said to be stunning.

What? Then what are we doing sitting here?

Who are we? Jiangnan’s men of letters.

Let’s wager on who “pins up her hair” first.

Jiangnan’s courtesans were acknowledged the best in the Central Plains; their noses reached the sky. Even prostitutes who sold their bodies chose clients by qualifications. If they were like that, how much more the green courtesans who did not sell their bodies?

To “pin up her hair” meant to coax them—by words or talent—into bed. So the wager was: who seduces her first.

In Qing’s hometown idiom, these were “woman-mad bastards.” The shoe fit perfectly.

What, then, was Jiangnan’s literary set most obsessed with now?

A beauty staying at Tai Lake Sword Sect in Suzhou. The men of letters called her Immortal Maiden Seol; martial artists called her the Ice-Snow Flower—Seol Iri.

Last autumn, Seol Iri had joined Tai Lake Sword Sect in Suzhou as part of a provincial tour for famed late-stage talents. The term was until winter’s end.

Yet winter had long passed, spring and summer too, and autumn had come again—why was she still in Suzhou?

Because they fed her.

Not just food—good food. Plus pocket money; the best guest house suite; opportunities to spar. Her expression was always cool and proud, yes—but in truth?

Even for a snack she’d finger her empty purse—should I, shouldn’t I... I want it, but it’s too expensive. Her shoes were worn through—if only there were a clean pair someone left behind. Isn’t there a Heroes’ Banquet today? They serve delicious food there. In short: the picture of threadbare poverty.

So for Seol Iri, Tai Lake Sword Sect—feeding her well, giving her a fine room, stuffing her with pocket money—was a rather pleasant perch. Ask, and they produced martial robes, shoes, whatever she needed. And all they wanted was that she stay in the sect grounds. Not even a burden. So she ate well, was well cared for, and trained, and trained.

Open eyes, circulate qi, eat; circulate qi, eat; move her body and train, eat again and circulate qi; snack pilfered from the hall, circulate qi—then sleep late and repeat from the top.

Even someone as single-minded as Seol Iri sometimes craved luxuries not on Tai Lake Sword Sect’s menu.

Then she would quietly slip out of the guest house and prowl the streets. Some fellows would dash up to offer to treat her to something tasty. She had heard their names, but there was no reason to remember them, and she had no intention of remembering. So: “some fellows.”

For this reason, Tai Lake Sword Sect was starting to wish she’d head home. When the Evil Path had stirred suspiciously, having her there had been a great help—but that was a matter of days, not seasons.

The Five Beauties of the Martial World—her blazing looks snared people for a day or two. Disciples schemed to get close, neglected training, eyes rolling only toward her. Men of letters who belonged in Hangzhou had even set up in Suzhou—because word had spread that the Ice-Snow Flower had a weakness for fine food.

And still they had to keep giving her pocket money. She ate, slept, and dressed without spending a single coin—so what did she do with the allowance?

Answer: contemplation.

Before bed she opened her purse to admire the warm, golden glow and smiled faintly—that was the only emotion she ever showed. More exactly: not at the weight of the gold, but at the thought of someone eating heartily. This time, I should treat them—not mooch.

So today again, craving a hot, thick broth, Seol Iri stepped out of the guest house.

And then—

“Ah, Lady Seol. Have you heard the news?”

“No.”

“Uh—I hadn’t even said what news.”

“Do I need to know?”

“Not necessarily, but—”

“Then.”

A chill wind whistled.

Small wonder Tai Lake Sword Sect wished she’d go home.

But the disciple persisted.

“Wait, just a moment? I wondered if you might be acquainted with the Heavenly Flower Sword.”

At that, Seol Iri halted.

“Why Miss Seo Mun?”

“Ah—you hadn’t heard. All Suzhou is in an uproar. The Heavenly Flower Sword is leading troops this way, and—”

The Tai Lake disciple faltered.

Because faintly—very faintly—a smile blossomed on the Ice-Snow Flower’s face. A moment to fall in love all over again—

“When?”

“Pardon?”

“When does Miss Seo Mun arrive?”

The disciple started to answer—then, huh?

No interest at all in the part about leading troops—only when she’d arrive?

In fact, yes. Whether Qing led an army, a bandit horde, or foreign invaders on a raid—what did it matter? She was coming here.

“Mm, I’m not sure she can arrive. They say the Heavenly Flower Sword’s enemies are trailing the column to settle their grudges, so—Lady Seol? Where are you going!?”

Before he finished, Seol Iri spun and sprinted away.

The Ice-Snow Flower vanished in a gust. Left alone, the Tai Lake disciple thought, what was that? But that was a smile—right? Wow—wasn’t it?

Scratching his head, he told himself he’d had a fine sight to see. A vision to be stamped on his mind for life—no loss there.

He turned back toward the disciples’ quarters.

At the corner—

“Where is she now?”

The Ice-Snow Flower appeared out of nowhere—bearing a large pack wrapped in a thin quilt.

“Gah—Lady Seol? What—”

“Miss Seo Mun. Where is she?”

“Uh—Jinan, then Imgi, then Hu’eum, then Taizhou—headed for Suzhou. If you trace it in reverse—”

Before he finished, Seol Iri vaulted up and over the sect wall.

Left alone again, the Tai Lake disciple scratched his head.

What was that?