Chapter 531: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (4)

She was dressed like a beggar, sitting on the ground, smiling like a fool.

An unvarnished fact.

Was she in beggar’s rags? Yes.

Was she smiling like a fool? Look closely—yes.

Was she sitting? Yes.

What, did no one think about how this looked to bystanders?

Qing was free of the past and its hang-ups.

“Good grief, you’ll be the death of me. Why are you like this? Is it because you’re broke?”

“No. I have money. I’m rich.”

She flipped her purse up with a snap and spread it open.

It wasn’t all gold, but here and there gilt glints—no small sum.

Yet everyone gazed down at Seol Iri with something like pity.

As travel funds, sure. But “rich”?

Even if Qing herself didn’t realize it, she was the true magnate of the age—owner of everything belonging to the Heavenly Demon Divine Sect (people included).

And the rest of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society?

Just plain rich. Tell them, “Give me spending money before I go out,” and a solid gold bar came flying. You had to specify silver for change to avoid the nuisance. They were scions of the Central Plains’ Ten Great Houses.

As for Tang Nanaa—from the wealthiest of those houses—within Sichuan she didn’t even need to carry money.

“You know me, right?” Three words; done.

Bill the Tang Clan later and they paid back double; shopkeepers craned their necks waiting for the young lady’s next visit.

“Then why are you sleeping outside if you’re rich?”

“Miss Seo Mun said she was staying here.”

“Then send word in that you’ve arrived.”

Seol Iri shook her head.

“No. Everyone knows where Miss Seo Mun is lodged. I mustn’t show myself lightly. There are many with impure aims.”

If she made a show of “oh, I know her,” then enemies—or, if not enemies, people with ties, or with infatuation—would try something.

So, thinking of Qing, she’d just camped at the door until Qing came out.

Mm. Admirable.

But what did that make Yo-ye, then?

“Ah—ahh...!”

Right on cue, Gongsun Yo-ye gave a small, stricken cry and bowed her head low.

“Maybe I’m not even qualified to be a friend...”

“Miss Gongsun? Enough. You’re the normal one here. Who on earth decides to sleep on the doorstep?”

“But Miss Seol—”

“Iri usually sleeps outdoors. Don’t you, Iri?”

“No. No.”

“Are we doing the ‘no lying’ thing or not?”

“No—yes.”

Seol Iri didn’t so much as change color—brazen as ever.

When she tailed them with no money, she’d tried to sleep in a rain-gouged drainage rut—more precisely, she did sleep there and got flooded. So what did she mean, “no”?

And if you’ve seen someone you know, shouldn’t you stand up?

Why are you still planted on the ground—did someone glue your butt down?

“Not going to stand?”

Seol Iri lifted both hands toward her.

Oh, come on. The nerve.

Qing moved to hoist her—when something small darted in and grabbed Seol Iri’s hands first.

“What, you don’t have hands or feet?”

“No. No.”

“Why does she talk like that? Was she always like this?”

“Hm. This is the first I’ve heard her talk at all. I thought she didn’t know Central Plains speech.”

Paeng Daesan added that—and then it turned into a tug-of-war: Tang Nanaa grunting and hauling, Seol Iri grunting and bracing for dear life.

****

The life-and-death duels were ruined.

Even I wouldn’t pick a fight in this setup. If only I had a Human-Skin Mask—that would be different.

Qing was freshly reminded of the mask’s power.

Those were the days—one human-skin mask and you feared nothing in the world...

She tactfully skipped the thought that was the path that led to this mess. A thief’s mindset, through and through.

The Divine Thief had chosen the next Divine Thief very well indeed.

By now even the crowds understood: no chance of a proper life-and-death duel.

When the Heavenly Flower Sword stood alone, people would giggle and shout “Three-Headed Beauty!” or “Clown!”—but now even the Gongsun family’s young lady held a choice seat.

New as the Gongsun clan was to the Ten Great Houses, the nearer wolf was always scarier than the far tiger.

To Jiangsu folk, even before that “promotion,” they were a local heavyweight more fearsome than the Five.

And yet the audience hadn’t shrunk; it had grown.

The culprit needed no naming.

Young Master Ok Girin had appeared; naturally the woman battalions stormed in.

Where did they even come from?

Do they just spawn from thin air when he shows up?

Undeterred by Paeng Daesan’s many unflattering reviews, the diehards cried, “We can’t lose our Ok Girin! Defend him to the end!”

Some wore rotted beggar rags—but with hair and face smartly done—an uncanny look: shabby clothes, meticulous grooming.

And the overlap, for most of them—

“Wow, look—look over there. Incredible. At that point she’d be better off not wearing a top at all.”

As part of counter-fandom tactics, Qing advised Paeng to keep his eyes on whichever fan had the most bare chest showing.

“Endure the reputation of being a lecher and a clown, and some will peel off.”

Paeng didn’t care about his reputation; the plan sounded plausible.

The result was a feast for Qing’s eyes.

But hadn’t she admitted, when she suggested it, that she wanted to ogle anyway—that they’d all go low-cut and she’d enjoy the view?

So Qing was unabashed.

“Paeng, look—bottom-curve showing, that one—wow, the nipple is about to show. No breeze today?”

“...Must you say that out loud?”

“Say what? That? And what’s ‘that’?”

Qing wore a sly, wicked smile and poked Paeng’s ribs.

“Ugh—hah... there’s nothing you won’t say.”

“Hmph. ‘That,’ you say. I wouldn’t know. Ah—Jeogal, you explain it. What is it?”

She poked Jeogal Ihyeon this time.

He bowed his head, face a ripe red.

Eh? A mountain-sized lump acting like a shy schoolboy?

An actual adolescent? No spine at all.

Or is he? He is the youngest, right?

Come to think of it, maybe he’s a late adolescent.

The lady members wore complicated faces.

One looked especially gloomy, shadows hanging off her.

Then Namgung Sinjae called Qing.

“Hey—Sword-Friend. Look at that woman there.”

“Hm? Where?”

“By that bright-red banner—see the one with the lime veil, chest plain as day through it.”

“Her? What about her? Looks ordinary.”

An insult that would make the subject choke if she heard it.

“Not the chest—the arm length. With a sword, that reach is perfect. For her height she’s got nearly an extra palm-span.”

So that’s why he’d stood quiet, just watching—

I thought even with all his “sword this, training that,” he was still a man with a taste for bare skin.

“My body’s itching if I stay still. Care to spar?”

“In front of all these people?”

Not shame—

But the more secret a martial art, the harder it was to answer; that was why martial men didn’t show off swordplay in public.

“Use what everyone knows. You know the Righteous Harmony Blade? If not, pick it up now. For a common street form, it’s surprisingly deep.”

“Oh, I know that one.”

“Knew it! A Sword-Friend would. Ironically, the more widespread a form, the more honest and simple, with the basics baked in. How about we grab a few today? Know Single-Iron Sword?”

“Mm.”

“Sunburst Sword?”

“Know it.”

“Silver-Kill Sword, Pheasant-Feather Sword, Jade-Ox Sword-Set, Chang’an Sword Form?”

“All of them.”

“Excellent! As expected of a Sword-Friend! Forgive me—I seem to have underestimated your zeal for the sword. Of course, a Sword-Friend would have learned them by crossing blades.”

They were simply common.

Common forms were easy prey for Qing—collector of arts, silent terror of curbside manuals, owner of the fingertip mnemonic-branding sorcery.

“Good—then everyone, let’s all pick up some sword today. Paeng, how long will you cling to short blades? Initiate into the world of the sword. Miss Tang as well. No matter how fine your poison and hidden weapons, in the end a martial person must take up a sword.”

Crack, crack—twin lines of popping veins.

Truth be told, among the Society, the non-swordsmen were few: the Paeng siblings—and Nanaa.

And Namgung, who used to say twin-sword wasn’t “proper sword” but demonic path—now quietly left Qing out since she carried two swords.

“A common weapon means easy to find. Imagine having one sword form at hand—you can pick one up in a fight and go.”

“If we follow Brother Namgung’s logic, shouldn’t we learn saber? The demonic-path types mostly use sabers.”

“Exactly! As Brother Paeng says, the short blade is for the demonic path.”

Crack. Uncle, add another vein to the tally.

Paeng Daesan regretted opening his mouth.

Obviously there was no profit in trying to talk with a Sword-Fool.

“It’s not a bad idea, is it? Sani, pick up a few sword forms and it’ll help against swordsmen. Nanaa, you’re on poison duty—if someone grabs you, that’s trouble.”

“Huh? Me? I was just going to take an antidote and pop poison bombs. I have a lot of charges.”

“That’s fine when you’re alone.”

“Hmm.”

“Then add a short-blade form too. As Paeng says, the demonic lot use short blades; learn one and you’ll handle them better.”

“Reasonable. I’ll pass. Pure iron admits no impurities.”

Even Qing wasn’t so ignorant—she knew impurities made steel much tougher.

But there was no need to dignify nonsense; she pretended not to hear.

“Do we have to say ‘short blade’?”

“Then call him a twin-sabers man, Sani.”

“...Haa.”

And so, instead of life-and-death duels, the schedule changed to a post-beginners’ practice meet for late-blooming orthodox kids.

****

“Sister! Will you try this? Red-braised pork. If you speak of Huaiyang cuisine, you can’t skip this.”

“Pan-fried soup buns. Bottom crisped in oil, tops naturally steamed—hm—soup dumplings.”

“Qing, want to try this? It’s the fish head—this is hard to find done right. Here—ah—”

“My lady, this is lion’s head meatballs—it’s my favorite. Please try—”

“Miss Seo Mun. Pressed duck. They say if you come to Jiangsu and don’t eat pressed duck, it’s like you never came. Among Nanjing dishes it’s the crown; I recommend it without reserve.”

Three chopsticks shot in toward Qing; three small plates piled before her—

Two sticks belonged to Tang Nanaa, who’d lifted hefty slabs of cheek meat from the fish head; one to Murong Juhee, who’d speared a great cube of pork and held it in her fist.

What... what was this?

Did she look that hungry?

Qing glanced back to where Provincial Commander Wang Ssangryong stood, eyes fixed on her, cradling a small dessert bowl like a treasure.

And why was the Great General—

“Mm. Thanks—thanks, but I do have hands—”

“Arms are getting tired here. Qing?”

First, relieve poor Nanaa’s trembling chopsticks, shaking with the tender fish head—

A head popped up out of nowhere and snatched the choicest morsel—Qing’s portion—right from under her nose.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Ice-Snow Flower. Seol Iri.”

“You little—!”

Tang Nanaa’s eyes sprang into axe-blade slits.

Qing’s beyond-human eyesight had already caught Nanaa’s tricksy hand—

Not just eyesight; as the owner of Metal-Hand Techniques—the finest of Invisible Godly Hands—she could read an opponent’s metal-hand technique at a glance.

“Shhh, Nanaa. Don’t. No poison.”

“But she—”

“Play nice. Iri, you too.”

“Yes.”

Seol Iri answered promptly—

But the air between them stayed icy.

Nanaa barked at everyone by habit—but Seol Iri, for her part, kept veering just so, needling.

Mm. These two really don’t mix...

Qing clamped lion’s head—that oddly named meatball Murong had speared—into her left hand.

Now there were three plates in front.

She thought for a beat, then reached a conclusion.

They’re having a who-can-feed-Qing-the-most contest, aren’t they?

Then I can’t lose.

So she dug in—chomp-chomp—without mercy.

For the record, what the Great General held was a Nanjing snack-dessert called sweet red-bean soup with rice balls.

Velvety, honeyed red-bean porridge with chewy little dumplings bobbing in it.

Mm. That was good. I liked it.