Chapter 527: Chaos (13)

Jeogal Ihyeon’s job was to guard Tang Nanaa.

Jeogal Ihyeon had no complaints.

To begin with, his tier was in fact short of standing against Absolutes.

And the Jeogal bloodline’s strength lay, by nature, in watching a battlefield from the rear and tuning it toward advantage.

(So Jeogal Ihyeon thought.)

Therefore he ought to fall back, shape the overall formation, and pursue the more favorable—and perfect—victory.

Thinking that, Jeogal Ihyeon was at that very moment committing criminal dereliction.

No “tuning” at all—just standing there blankly, stunned.

His forearm, thick as Tang Nanaa’s waist, still did its job: even standing there like an idiot, the hulking Jeogal Ihyeon gave pressure and served as her cover.

And Tang Nanaa, like a squirrel flicking in and out of brush, kept popping out and ducking back.

So why was Jeogal Ihyeon stunned?

Well—how could he keep his wits after seeing that valiant crescent blade move like that!

A crescent blade was a heavy weapon among heavy weapons.

If you couldn’t bolster your strength with inner qi, it couldn’t function as a weapon at all.

What practical use was a weapon that left you panting after two swings?

Thus even in the army, only the lifetime elite who trained imperial military arts handled it.

And that beautiful iron maul—what on earth!

As a counterweight specialist, Jeogal Ihyeon could tell from the lustre it wasn’t plating but solid steel; at that mass it had to be about ten geun.

Judging by the iron head and the blade, call it roughly fifteen-plus on the blade side; in total twenty-five geun—a heavy weapon the world had never seen.

And there was a woman swinging that hulking iron as lightly as a willow twig.

“About” twenty-five geun, yes—but with the center of mass thrown to both ends, once you actually swung it the effective weight went far beyond that—an eldritch thing.

Qing’s crescent blade snapped through sharp angles; the clashing swords rang and skittered far away.

The overwhelming mass difference in weapons forced open the enemy’s locked stances.

Then the iron maul wobbled and split into three in their eyes; the terrified foe dare not meet it, jolting back to roll on the ground.

Showing the mysteries of quickness and change with that weapon?

If you lifted a weight like that, inevitably the weapon would swing you.

That’s why heavy-weapon schools revolve in circles: to add to insufficient muscle by drawing arcs.

But that divine control—

When she used the blade, the iron maul at the fist stayed close, so the body didn’t list; when she used the maul, the blade stayed close, so there was no stagger.

The method of crushing a heavy weapon and ruling it completely by strength alone—everyone knows it; no one can do it!

Every single move—the pure essence of power beyond human limits. How much raw might did that demand?

She even leapt while holding it.

Qing sprang lightly with the maul-bladed crescent and—boom!—punched down onto a warrior’s shoulder.

The shoulder struck by the iron maul burst; an arm popped off and tumbled.

How do you beat someone with a bludgeon and get that result—magnificent. My lady, you are magnificent. This younger brother is truly moved. Today I have seen a new world.

Inner qi couldn’t explain it.

It was purely human strength.

No—that was strength not permitted to humans.

How could a person have that power?

Unless every human has a different limit—ten men, ten colors; a hundred men, a hundred colors.

Then, as Xiang Yu the Mighty once did, perhaps among all humanity under Heaven—no, among all humans of all ages—she was the most beautiful bearer of strength!

A scene flashed through Jeogal Ihyeon.

The training yard that day.

Someone had lifted a two-hundred-fifty-geun counterweight.

It fell from a height and gouged a pit where it hit, then rolled.

And Big Sister hurt her shoulder.

As if she’d overexerted with one hand lifting something too heavy.

Jeogal Ihyeon’s eyes chased Qing.

Strength that ignored the laws of the human world.

The single most beautiful sight in Jeogal Ihyeon’s not-so-long life.

Meanwhile, in the martial world, a poison-user’s tier is counted about half a tier higher.

In truth, poison is dangerous but awkward in the martial world.

In Qing’s homeland, if poisoned you went straight to a hospital and lay in the ER; if you brought the culprit toxin or the body of the venomous creature (if dead—this is not an instruction to kill it), that is, if you could identify the poison exactly, your survival rate shot up—good to remember.

Anyway, back home, poison was a fearsome weapon you simply had to endure unless you borrowed the power of medicine—and even with cutting-edge medicine there existed killer toxins you never survived, like “deer-antler fungus nuclear-fission black tea.”

Deer—this is why you watched out for deer.

But in this pseudo–cultic Central Plains where people went buzzing through the air on the universe’s mysterious energies—yet remained just as primitive—how about here?

Once your inner-qi control reached a certain level, you could guide the toxin and delay it.

Given time, you could purge it yourself.

Lower-tier warriors pinched the poison to their fingertips and squeezed it out in drops; masters—like their bodies were incinerators—burned toxins away.

As for trash-tier? Trash should die.

Or else bow politely and ask, “Hehe, good sir, would you happen to have an antidote?”

Even a Flower Realm fighter needed only a breath to burn out an infiltrated poison and be fine again, and could suppress and delay toxins mid-fight.

And poison has a ceiling.

Leveling up didn’t make poison plus-one, plus-two—or special, very special, or uniquely superlative.

For these reasons, the higher you climbed, the weaker poison-users got.

Even so, the martial world rated these craven poison hands about half a tier higher.

Because in many-on-many fights, a poison adept’s impact was immense.

Nine—no, two had bolted early—so the seven avengers were having the time of their lives dying.

Strictly speaking, not “the taste of dying” but just plain dying.

The toxin kept spreading; if they wanted to live, they had to finish off the enemy fast and sit to full-lotus to expel it—but that ghostly, doglike poison-hag flung hidden weapons the instant they tried to back off and disperse the poison.

And it wasn’t just any poison.

It crept, stiffened muscle, and tightened breath. Painless—so even if you gathered your mind to drive it out, it wasn’t easy: a sneaking kind.

So the petitioners for vengeance dropped one by one and rolled across the ground.

At last, two remained.

While the vicious Heavenly Flower Sword and that unknown handsome man with the mighty jawline closed slowly, the two revenge-seekers traded looks.

Grim, set eyes.

As if to say, Even dying, we can’t just die; a man should leave some small trace on the road he falls.

The two looked at each other and nodded.

Then, as if choreographed, they threw their last move—and in that instant their hearts matched.

Screw this—throw them and run.

“Out of the way!” “Do you think I can’t withdraw!”

In a breath they both spun and sprinted.

Shoulder to shoulder, they glanced at each other, unable to hide how absurd this was.

“So—you too?”

“If you run, who holds those bastards?”

No one, obviously.

But both had a belief.

With spectators watching, once they got some distance, that poison witch wouldn’t dare fling hidden weapons or use shock palms.

Even earlier, when she aimed at legs once she had a little range—it was just to make a miss hit dirt instead of a bystander, wasn’t it?

So if they opened distance and got near the crowd, fear of a wild shot would keep her from killing with a throw.

And it worked.

“Eh.”

Qing watched the two backs as they turned and fled.

Ah. Right. If you ditched your face, you could run.

Why didn’t I think of that?

Qing gathered inner qi—then hesitated, let it drop, and kicked off.

The crowd was too close; if she threw a Tathāgata Divine Palm and they dodged, it’d be a civilian massacre.

But they’d taken needles—they wouldn’t get far. Chase them down and—oh, perfect—use their defection as an excuse to call the duel off.

Qing took one step, two, and—

“A beast-loving pervert who humps male dogs dares command Me! Behold the Buddha’s boundless mercy that teaches you your place!”

A bright, ringing shout—and the man on the left collapsed.

Bloody palm-prints stamped clear across his mashed body.

Truly compassionate Buddha’s palms—seems the Buddha of the Western Regions was a bit vigorous.

The man on the right reversed direction at full sprint and took to the air.

He came straight at Qing’s crown; she thrust out a hand on reflex; five long fingers stopped his head with a click.

Behind, Jeogal Ihyeon’s eyes bulged—but Qing’s spatial sense wasn’t that wide, and even if it was close, “bulging eyes” wasn’t something even Elder Cheon could sense at that range.

Even if she had—she’d just think the muscle-man’s pride was pricked.

Qing looked to the turn point, puzzled—and there he was: flab incarnate, Fatty Pobidon, shaking his belly and snorting.

Truth was, anyone who shouldered through the crowd to claim a front-row prime seat wasn’t a civilian.

They were top hands among warriors; choosing to bolt toward the living road wasn’t a wise call.

So two ran; six died; one tried to run and got done in by a spectator.

The crowd’s reaction was... well.

Mm. Great show, but.

“Are we supposed to cheer for this?”

“It was four versus seven, wasn’t it? And on the Heavenly Flower Sword’s side there was only one more Absolute.”

“But she used poison, and... honestly, even if all nine had come in clean, more than half would’ve been down. So is this... right?”

“Mm.”

If even the crowd sounded like that, how did the avengers feel?

One versus nine: the Heavenly Flower Sword could die—fine.

Better: the time had finally come for me to step out.

Except the suddenly intervening “friends of the victim” had wrecked the whole thing.

So they ground their teeth—those bastards wouldn’t be spared.

No—kill those bastards first!

Then how would that bitch the Heavenly Flower Sword feel—when friends close enough to step out for her died because of her—

“What’s this vibe? We won and everybody’s sulking? Ha! Called it. Right—craven poison, is that it? If you’ve got a problem, come on! The Tang Clan doesn’t refuse a challenge!”

—Truly tragic; shame she happened to be that venomous hag of the Sichuan Tang Clan.

The avengers shifted their aim.

Even so, Tang Clan brats were... yeah, no.

If you named one force in the martial world no one wanted to poke?

Anyone you asked would give the obvious answer.

Shaolin!

Second place? Also obvious.

The Tang Clan of Sichuan.

Poison-using psychos. Hit you once and they cut off your limbs—those vicious bastards.

So every eye swung to the handsome man with the mighty jawline.

“I am Paeng Daesan of the Paeng house.”

In that instant—KYAAAA!!!—women’s screams filled the world.

“Young Master Ok Girin!” “Most handsome under Heaven!” “I loooove you!!!” “Young Master Ok Girin!”

Suddenly the whole world rang with a din.

“Show us your face!” “How is he still handsome even covered up!” “Ahh—I’m going to faint...”

And it just would not stop.

The avengers winced at the shrill cries and turned pleading eyes to the last remaining hulk.

Surely not you too?

Couldn’t be.

If he’d trained external arts that far and wasn’t a Shaolin monk, he couldn’t be from a righteous great-house—mustn’t be.

And the big man, surprisingly polite, cupped his fist and spoke.

“Ah—khm. Come to think of it, we jumped into a life-and-death duel without exchanging names. I am Jeogal Ihyeon of the Jeogal house.”