Chapter 523: Chaos (9)

By the time we left Imgi County, not a single so-called man had stepped up. The same blowhards who never shut up about being “true gentlemen” went meek the moment the stage was set—ought to lop their pricks clean off.

So after three nights, camp was a blur of motion from dawn.

Destination: Hu’eum County, Jiangsu.

Qing now mostly knew Central Plains geography, but when it came to Central Plains history, she was still a “don’t-know” case.

From Imgi to Hu’eum was six hundred li.

And at Qing’s side stood, arguably, the greatest commander alive: Provincial Commander Wang Ssangryong.

In the Central Plains, a “loyal retainer” is like the tongue in your mouth—he says the things you want to say and screens out everything you don’t want to hear, all with honeyed teeth.

That runs opposite to common sense. You might ask, if that’s a loyal retainer, what happens to the country? Doesn’t it go to ruin?

It did, in fact.

Down to this day, countless royal houses collapsed under the “devotion” of such loyal retainers; call it “flowers don’t stay red eleven days,” call it the rise and fall of states.

And our next city, Hu’eum, was the hometown of a man who could not be a loyal retainer: the famous Han [N O V E L I G H T] Xin.

Han Xin—“the one who crawled between a man’s legs.”

If Han Xin had been a woman, maybe none of this would’ve been an issue, but Han Xin was a man.

Han Xin started as one more petty thug of Hu’eum.

Only, his talent for war shone; he served as Grand General under Emperor Gaozu, Liu Bang.

For his merits he was enfeoffed as Marquis of Hu’eum, a regional king of Jiangsu, and returned in brocade.

His character, however, was... something.

Back home in triumph, he strutted like a peacock.

Judging by that arrogance itself, right up until the day his head came off for treason a few years later, each moment must have been a delicious strut.

You could imagine that a man who once crawled between another’s legs had the grit to bear humiliation and promise himself tomorrow.

But Han Xin’s loathsome character is famous.

He killed comrades to hog the credit and pushed the state to the brink.

A petty scheme: “If the country is a little endangered, they’ll need a capable grand general, won’t they?”

He even smirked at his liege, Liu Bang, and said—right to his face—“Frankly, I built your unification of the realm. Your Majesty’s military knack? At best a tenth of mine. And that’s me being generous, ha!”

Add that mouth to that character, and of course his head had to come off.

If anything, Liu Bang was the one with a heavenly temperament.

He kept trying to excuse him—“Our Han Xin, yes, he’s a bit rotten, lacks a conscience, is arrogant and greedy, but he’s not a bad kid”—right to the end.

“Mmh. Turns out he was dumber than I thought. People rave about ‘endure the ultimate shame,’ ‘the more the better,’ ‘fight with your back to the river’ like he’s some giant.”

“Ahem. His talent for war was extraordinary. But this is the end of those with ability and no virtue. A loyal retainer should not seek rewards from his lord; he should ask what more he can do. Ah—personally, I, this grand general, baked some flatbreads. Will you try them?”

“Wow, flatbread!”

Flatbread: a primitive, ancient five-hundred-layer pastry.

You can tuck in sweet fruits, or fragrant greens like scallion or coriander, and any meat—minced or in big chunks—does just fine.

“What’s in the filling?”

“I didn’t know your tastes, so I baked a variety. Sweet ones, plain ones, aromatic ones, meaty ones—each a different kind.”

“Ah—did you bake these because of me?”

“Ahem. I just got bored during an extended rest and tried my hand; nothing more. It’s my first time baking them, so I was curious how they taste.”

“You didn’t have to. Mmph. Nom. Oh.”

Truth is, Qing ate anything fit for human mouths and called it delicious—back home they called that a dog’s tongue.

Because she’d lived on what people couldn’t eat.

Her threshold for “tasty” sat below the neighborhood mutt’s; she was the sort to savor dog chow as having its own bouquet.

Anyway: chomp chomp, slurp. Delicious.

“Wow, General, you could open a flatbread shop.”

“Hoho, thank you.”

Provincial Commander Wang bowed as if honored.

Only—was that even a compliment?

Telling the Provincial Commander who leads twelve thousand troops to open a flatbread shop?

Either way, seeing Qing beam and demolish the flatbreads without hiding her joy put a warm smile on Wang Ssangryong’s face.

Not because Qing ate well.

Who would dare think, “Her Ladyship eats so heartily,” or, “Does she chew and swallow at all,” or, “Those cheeks look ready to burst”?

Rather: another success today.

Every time Her Ladyship sees flatbread from now on, she’ll remember this general’s devotion.

A lifestyle-imprint, association-chain, ingratiation operation!

A truly fearsome stratagem of Wang Ssangryong’s.

He’d even “accidentally” split a seam on one with clumsy hands—the flatbreads were crafted according to plan.

So he kept plying his offerings; they marched and marched; he rode a white horse back and forth; the men’s morale never dipped. Truly an elite corps that feared no White-Horse Alarm.

And thus—Hu’eum!

A mega-city grown along the great canal that runs straight down from Kaifeng Prefecture.

Notables born here: Han Xin, and Wu Cheng’en, who wrote the Central Plains’ most popular novel, Journey to the West.

Its specialty is salt.

As the canal hub sending salt inland, it warehouses salt from Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Shandong; entire streets are nothing but salt depots.

Qing learned this from a direct briefing by the local Prefect Lord of Hu’eum.

Why are they reporting to me, though?

And Hu’eum means Hongze Lake.

It’s no match for Jiangnan with Tai Lake or West Lake, but any city by a big lake tends to grow a nightlife.

So—wine with lake vistas!

As usual on the first day, we clung like a mooch to the feted grand general’s side—Provincial Commander Wang and the Prefect Lord may have viewed that differently—ate and enjoyed ourselves.

That made it the third city already.

There was no need to loiter four days even in Hangzhou; only Taizhou and Suzhou remained for arena events.

At this halfway turn, we’d best cut down the number of enemies.

So how?

Make them come.

On the second day, we ostentatiously did nothing but play.

A pity for the crowds who’d tailed us hoping to watch a life-and-death duel.

But because they took it for granted we’d duel, they kept pushing their numbers back—“later, later.”

Take a day to loaf, and they realize: not many duel days remain.

If I get badly hurt, the troops might bar the ring; at this rate I’ll be sent off without drawing my blade even once—let’s plant that urgency.

On top of that, we put up a proper arena in camp and posted a high-hung inscription:

“If we are mortal enemies who cannot share the sky for even a single moment, yet none of you calls for a life-and-death duel, then I must conclude your grudge is neither so deep nor so grave.

(You call me your enemy—yet you won’t come. Enemy, really?)

Those who staked their lives on demonic arts entered that path prepared to die; to paint them as ‘wronged’ would be a great discourtesy to them.

(Aren’t you even ashamed before the dead?)

Even had they secured ‘Absorbing Qi Demonic Art,’ the world would only have birthed one more great evil; you acknowledge I acted by right principle.

(I merely killed those who ought to die. Agreed?)

Therefore, having entered fair-scened Hu’eum, let us not stage another wretched brawl. Let us gaze upon the lovely ripples of Hongze and take our ease.

(If you won’t come, then just enjoy yourselves.)

I set a boat afloat and drank fine wine; its fame rivals Hangzhou and Suzhou. Today I would render this feeling in brush and ink and keep it as a memory.

(I liked it too; I’ll play more.)

If any of you still has a grudge to settle, write your name and press your palm below on this pillar, and I will consider it.”

Leave your name and your palm if you mean to fight.

I might—might—deign to consider it.

Translated bluntly, that’s what it said.

A lovely, elegant piece of merciless mockery.

The crowd marveled:

“Ha—clears the chest out.”

“I waited the whole time in Imgi and came away empty. Everyone kept peeking for cues about revenge.”

“Seems the Heavenly Flower Sword has more bite than I thought.”

“Isn’t she right?

If you died hunting demonic arts, maybe you truly deserved to die.

Even if you found them, all you birth is another demon lord. The goal was rotten from the start.”

So of course the arena rang with angry shouts.

“Graaah!” “Aaaah!” “Heavenly Flower Sword, you bitch!”

Others only grimaced and backed off.

What a deadly tactic.

Once you leave your name and your palm, you can’t keep “waiting for the perfect moment” and shuffling the order.

The Heavenly Flower Sword had, in effect, proclaimed to the world these were enemies who could not share the sky for a single instant; if you dithered, you’d be mocked. No more hiding behind “timing.”

And if you didn’t leave them?

That’s the same as choosing to keep playing.

It wasn’t mere jealousy at seeing the Heavenly Flower Sword at play.

When the moment finally came for a life-and-death duel, you ducked. Until you took your revenge, you’d eat every slur under heaven: coward, craven, chicken-shit idiot—take your pick.

If there were only a witness or two, you might shrug it off; but the five cities on this route are famously prosperous.

Prosperous cities connect by broad roads, and big cities bloom between them.

From Yubang, Imgi, to Hu’eum, there were four famous large towns we stopped in just to lodge.

So the people chasing a life-and-death spectacle multiplied.

Hu’eum’s population rivals the capital at Nanjing; Hu’eum folk alone could swamp us.

The quitters quit and promised themselves another day; those who still felt they had to swing a blade came forward with eyes bright and greasy with anger.

Transparent bait—but you take it.

The avengers thumped handprints and names onto paper and wedged them under the pillar.

Soon a forest of papers flapped in the river breeze—no, lake breeze.

A roaring tide of support, truly.

****

Next morning.

Qing ate a hearty breakfast and stepped into the arena.

“Oooh.”

All that because of a few lines—look at the mood.

They look ready to chew everything but their gold teeth.

Qing only showed a sly, annoying smile.

Flower Realm, you’re all dead. Today’s the day I enter the Flower Realm. Sit there and wait.

But what do I even call it when I enter the Flower Realm?

Once I step in, I go beyond it; “ordinary Flower Realm” won’t cover me.

Well—I have my reasons.

“Will... will you be all right?”

“Just watch closely. You know the signal, right?”

A duel is something I can end whenever I please.

If it gets rough, I slip out. Simple.

And if they won’t let go, there’s always the ultimate, unanswerable recourse—no one can argue with it.

Say a woman must rest a few days each month; say a lady is obliged to convalesce by the moon—and that’s that.

Mm. Embarrassing to say aloud myself.

Call it losing face—still a female warrior’s unstoppable trump.

And no, that doesn’t make Qing a coward.

Are serial bouts “honorable” to begin with?

The ones who watch every trick then pounce on the injured and exhausted—are they righteous?