Chapter 529: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (2)

“Wait—Steward Yang works under the Great General, doesn’t he?

So why is he bringing a report to me?”

For Steward Yang, it was the most natural thing in the world.

After marching together for days, who didn’t know who the true superior was?

“Who is it?”

“He said you’d know if I said the Nam clan and the Eon clan.”

“...?”

Seeing Qing’s face, Steward Yang had already gotten his answer.

“I’ll throw them out.”

“No, don’t. Bring them in.”

Whoever it was, Qing didn’t turn away people who came asking for her.

If someone asked to meet, there had to be a reason—she couldn’t just slam the door on them.

The two who came in—

“Mm. You two? When did you get here?”

“My lady...”

None other than Namgung Sinjae and Murong Juhee.

Qing tilted her head.

Why “Nam clan and the Eon clan”?

That was exactly why aliases were dangerous.

Even the one using it didn’t register it as their own name; how much more so a colleague’s alias? In a few days you’re going, “What was your name again?” and it’s gone from your head.

Hmm. Didn’t that bump on my back just get bigger?

I told them to go home—why did they trail me again?

But they were partners in the mess they’d made.

And Qing was the one who’d stepped up to shoulder it all alone when it turned into a problem.

Telling them “go home,” and then they go “hee-hee, free win,” and bolt for home—that would’ve been the weird part.

“We escorted Miss Jin to the Martial Alliance and came straight back. The elder there said he’d personally take her to the Divine Lady’s Gate, so we rushed to rejoin you.”

Unwelcome guests bearing welcome news.

Right—Jangmyeong is a baby; the world is far too dangerous for a mere first-rate baby.

At bare minimum you ought to be Peak Realm to tour around even with a guide—otherwise it’s like leaving a newborn by the riverside.

Every first-rate fighter in the world would feel mortally wronged hearing that.

But when Qing herself was first-rate, she’d kept her head down, stayed put, and lived on leftover food and pilfered produce.

Still, being first-rate meant you didn’t get beaten by beggars or chased by farmers, so—ah, so the martial world really was survival of the fittest.

The first-rate fighter’s survival of the fittest: the monopoly on top-tier leftovers that aren’t spoiled! The freedom to openly roast rats over smoke and stink! Plus the right to pillage fields at will!

So she could say it with a straight face:

To set out into the martial world, you need to be at least Peak!

“Ah—sister, would you try this? This is called braised tofu with pork—topped with shrimp roe and bamboo shoots—and you pour hot chicken broth over to finish.”

“Hm? What is it—soft tofu?”

“Tofu simmered with pork; shrimp roe and bamboo shoots as garnish; then a separate pour of chicken broth—an elegant dish.”

“Oh. Mm. Not bad. Mild and tasty.”

“Soft tofu—yes, the unpressed kind. In Hu’eum they call it ‘gentle tofu’: it isn’t pressed in a mold, so it’s uniquely tender, and they ladle on two kinds of red sauces by house secret.”

“Oh! Hey, this really is soft tofu.”

“This one is crisp sweet-set tofu. They firm the tofu sweet and fry it. If you dip it in this condensed milk, it’s even better.”

“Hm? That’s more a snack than a dish.”

Truly, having Jeogal Ihyeon at your side changed the sheer amount of information coming in.

Food tastes good even if you don’t know it—but if you know, it tastes better.

“This one’s stone-ground tofu. For tofu lovers, it can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the finest Korean tofu.”

“Eh? Korean tofu?”

“Ah—you know Korean tofu? Korea, that land across the Eastern Sea from the Shandong Peninsula—barbarians to some, but for tofu aficionados, they say you could eat it every meal; their tofu is the best, made by true masters.”

Qing blinked.

Why the sudden burst of national pride out of nowhere?

What was this—should I go find the tavern mistress to join in?

And tofu is the famous export? Why tofu?

Well, tofu here in the Central Plains never tasted quite like home.

Somewhere between tofu and silken tofu—either bland or salty—and the bean flavor muted.

Not that “Korea” was even her home; what national pride—please.

This wasn’t the past but a pseudo–Central Plains—or a parallel world—or even a game—so what Korea?

Qing just chuckled it off.

She only missed the cutting-edge spices and carbonation her homeland’s top minds had engineered. Not the homeland itself.

Ah—now that I’ve thought of it, I suddenly crave carbonation...

Anyway, why was everything he offered tofu?

Well, the coagulant for tofu required a great deal of salt; without seawater it was hard to make.

So all warm coastal regions pushed tofu as their specialty.

“By the way, sister—are you by chance doing any external conditioning right now?”

“Hm? External arts? Not really.”

Jeogal Ihyeon’s eyes lit up.

Frankly, the Qing he’d seen wasn’t much different: she ate and slept; secret midnight hypertrophy sessions were unimaginable.

Which meant it was simply natural strength.

The highest Way under Heaven was that which existed unworked; what the Daoists called nonaction-nature.

Strength by pure nonaction!

“Yet your strength is tremendous, isn’t it? In the clan’s training yard you lifted a two-hundred-fifty-geun iron maul one-handed.”

“Oh—that. I showed off a little for Hyangi. Is Hyangi doing well?”

His eyes flashed again. As expected!

“Goodness, it’s awful. Every day he whines about wanting to see you—he’s practically love-sick. Ah! On your way back from Hangzhou, why not drop by and show your face?”

“Ah. Should I?”

“Except—”

“Hu’eum beef noodle soup. A warrior ought to eat meat. What good is bean curd for a warrior’s strength?”

A brusque voice cut Jeogal Ihyeon off.

“Mm? That’s exactly what Paeng would say. And tofu is a complete food, okay? Protein—well, Sani wouldn’t know the term—but for putting out power, lean chicken is better than beef, and tofu is better than both.”

“Wait—what is that? A secret to strength? White chicken meat—bean curd—ah, so that’s the—”

“Enough. Huainan is the old name for Hu’eum. In short, these noodles can only be eaten here. Eat them while you can.”

Paeng Daesan cut him off again.

He didn’t know why, but something about this motormouth rubbed him raw—an off-note, something vaguely subversive.

Just look now: the guy who always spoke at length yet politely was shooting insolent glances.

Qing, for her part, thought nothing of it.

Jeogal always talked too much; Sani always griped and still picked up the bill.

More to the point—

“And you? Why are you tagging along?”

“...”

“What, not even going to answer?”

Meanwhile Tang Nanaa was neatly stealing every dish Murong Juhee’s chopsticks reached for.

“Hey now, Nanaa, you can’t do that.”

“But why is she even here? Is she trying to slip into our society meeting?”

“Compared to Changbin, who only put his name down, she at least fits us bet—well, maybe not fits, exactly.”

Thinking on it, “fits” was generous.

She’d sat hugging her knees and nodded off to white noise; if anything you’d have to say she didn’t even qualify as an observer.

Murong Juhee’s face crumpled, so Qing changed tack.

“Participation rate alone puts her higher, doesn’t it? That makes her an honorary member.”

“My lady...!”

“Tsk. Says who. I don’t accept it.”

“Then shall we put it to a vote? Members of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society—those in favor of admitting Miss Murong as a member, raise your hand!”

Four hands went up, Qing’s among them; only Tang Nanaa snorted through her nose.

And just like that, Murong Juhee—lightning admission to the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society.

—

Meanwhile, the Great General trembled.

How far did Her Majesty’s connections reach?

Look at the faces of the youths gathered here.

Namgung! Paeng! Murong! Jeogal! Tang!

All the heirs of the Five Great Houses together—and they’d come to help in the hardest hour. True friends indeed.

Of course, their intentions were plain as day.

They said court and clans did not trespass—but even if the two didn’t intrude on each other, they did help each other.

They showed their faces, helped one another, everyone benefitting together—so this was the harmony of the nation’s administration and the local grandees who truly ruled the land.

At the level of the Five Great Houses, they were such mighty magnates that they almost never bowed to anyone under a Deputy Provincial Commander. But could any Deputy Provincial Commander compare to Her Majesty’s august person?

Thus even the proud Five Houses would gather, calling themselves her intimates.

The Great General’s loyalty swelled.

It had shrunk a little every time Qing stuffed herself and rubbed her distended belly, or immediately after when she put on her coquettish act—but now it floated higher and higher like a kite in a gale, almost touching the heavens.

What the Great General’s devotion would bring him, no one knew yet.

He held the longest, stoutest string; perhaps he would soar.

Or perhaps, like Icarus, he would fly too close to the sun and burn away.

So—after the boisterous banquet ended, the Great General sidled up to ask,

“Your Ladyship?”

“Yes?”

“Forgive my presumption—but that Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society—does it, by chance, have any conditions for joining...?”

“Eh.”

****

Well fed and well amused, the party set out for the next city.

Taizhou!

A city in the heart of Jiangsu, remarkable for how unremarkable its history was.

Two thousand years old and more—and no great personage, no deep imprint on the annals of the Central Plains.

If you had to pick, you’d say it had many handsome caves?

And Qing—hm.

So much for life-and-death duels. That door was shut for good.

Ruined.

The canopy over the dueling ground had grown into something like a colossal mobile pavilion.

All the direct heirs of the Five Great Houses occupied seats.

No matter how great your grief for a father, son, master, or friend, you didn’t actually want to leap into that hellfire of blazing spice and burn yourself alive.

A vendetta only meant something if you took revenge.

That was one of the few virtues of the Central Plains folk.

They didn’t let outrage drive them to self-destruction; when forced to swallow a grudge, they sought some way to settle it, and if the field was unfavorable, they withdrew and promised themselves a later day.

Their hatred was hotter than any people’s—but they had the rationality to balance it with greater joy and profit!

So Qing wanted to peel her friends away.

The life-and-death duels were just a pretext to push herself into Flower Realm; with the Great General’s cooperation, it wasn’t all that dangerous.

But with these kids? The duels were as good as dead.

She’d also hoped to tie off a few grudges while she was at it—but who knew what some truly unhinged maniac might try?

So Qing’s heart fluttered uneasily.

Hm. Maybe once we reach Suzhou, I should slip off alone to Hangzhou?

But they’d catch up fast.

Eonyeonyeong didn’t specify a time; if I just slide over at night—except I’ve been sharing a bed with Nanaa and Miss Murong, so there’s no way they wouldn’t notice...

Instead of peeling off, though—what was this?

She woke up, and somehow their number had grown by one.

“Miss Seo Mun. It’s been a while.”

A faint, wildflower smile.

A presence so soft you’d say she wouldn’t stand out anywhere—comforting and plain, to speak kindly—anyway—

A sudden phantom sound: rrrrr—like a tiny toy dog growling.

“Shh, Nanaa. Don’t. Miss Gongsun? What brings you here?”

Gongsun Yo-ye took Qing’s hand.

“I heard Miss Seo Mun was about to do something big. As a friend, I thought I should help. My family’s in Nanjing—it’s just next door.”

“Oh—um. Thank you. But it could be dangerous.”

“I’ve worked hard to catch up to Miss Seo Mun. I had an awakening not long ago—surely Heaven’s August Emperor means for me to aid you. Even if not, I still want to help.”

That was one reason the elders of the Martial Alliance doted on Qing.

A friend who pricked a martial artist’s pride by her mere existence was both gentle whip and tasty carrot; she drew the orthodox late bloomers into training and raised their level.

Of course, the biggest factor was the innate charm of a natural-born mass-murderer with immaculate manners.

In any case—

Gongsun Yo-ye’s smile was slight, but her goodwill blazed like light.

And Qing, soft to kindness, what could she do?

“Uh—so. Hm. Have you had breakfast?”