Chapter 533: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (6)

In truth, the Central Plains army does not shoulder the duty Qing thinks an army should.

Back home, “soldier” implies protecting the nation and its people. The Central Plains army? It exists to guard the Imperial House, the Son of Heaven, and the land the Son of Heaven owns.

The people? How many people are there in the Central Plains—how would you guard them one by one? Besides, the common folk are like beasts: left alone, they’ll breed and grow just fine.

Bandits inland, raiders on the coast—if you tally it up, these predators will show up every single day of the three hundred fifty-four days of the year (a Central Plains year is three hundred fifty-four days). So what’s so special about “Japanese raiders”? They’re just pests like locusts—no end to catching them. If the troops sworn to the Son of Heaven spend their time chasing bandits, when are they supposed to train? More than that, when is a soldier’s most important obligation—the most important task of all—supposed to happen: farming?

Even so, there was a reason Wang Ssangryong was streaming a cold sweat—no, gushing it.

It was absolutely, absolutely not because any inner conscience, on the level of universal ethics, was telling him that failing to protect the people was wrong. He took it as a rebuke for letting those filthy barbarians dare trespass Central Plains land—letting them trample the august Emperor’s land.

For the record, trespassing the sea is fine. The sea is not land. In earlier days the people were forbidden not only to go out to sea but even to live near the coast; they called it the Sea Prohibition Edict. It was lifted about a hundred years ago, and now you can build houses by the shore and fish as you please—but you’re expected to swallow the raiders’ depredations.

In any case, Wang Ssangryong scrabbled desperately for excuses. The brain that normally whirred was grinding its gears; under Qing’s unkind gaze, his mind went white and faraway—

Just then, a ray of light!

“Still, the Provincial Commander isn’t wrong. I’ve heard Shandong is comparatively safe. Though because Shandong hardened its coastal defense, the raiders crowded into Jiangsu and the damage there is heavy.”

Namgung Sinjae covered for the Provincial Commander. The commander looked at the Namgung heir with a face full of gratitude, but Namgung Sinjae was merely stating what he knew; he had no intention of taking sides. He didn’t have that kind of political sense, and if he did, he’d grind it off and invest the points into swordsmanship.

“That’s right. Shandong, which used to be the loudest mess, is quiet now because those raiders all poured into Jiangsu.”

Gongsun Yo-ye added in an icy voice. It was her home turf; there was no way her tone would stay pretty.

Come to think of it, wasn’t this general the prime mover who dumped the raiders onto Jiangsu? Thanks to him, Jiangsu has twice the raiders.

“Ah. Is that so? Hm.”

Qing’s eyes returned to neutral. With Gongsun Yo-ye standing there, she couldn’t very well take the general’s side and say he’d done no wrong. But all the same, he had set up some kind of coastal defense—these “Thousand-Unit Posts”—and it had been effective. A Shandong Great General is supposed to protect Shandong; he can’t very well handle Jiangsu’s turf too.

Hm. So he is a great commander after all. Looks like I was right.

In a Romance of the Three Kingdoms arcade sense, Wang Ssangryong boasted politics in the nineties. Politics is also reading the room; he read Qing’s look at once and sighed in relief.

The truth was this: rather than blocking the raiders’ incursions, he thought, if we add fisheries to the garrison’s military farms, won’t we get salt and seafood? It was an embezzlement-ish measure to pipe surplus into his own pocket—turned, in the moment, into the thing that saved his hide. His intent was as impure as it gets, but as a result the raiders did greatly diminish and things quieted down. Truth and fact don’t always coincide.

Even so, Wang Ssangryong resolved: from now on, if raiders are spotted, order some cannon fire. It was a grand decision. Gunpowder is expensive, and astonishingly, troops have to buy anything beyond a pittance of basic issue out of pocket. It was a tear-streaked love-of-the-people that accepted reduced profits from selling salt and seafood.

Anyway—so much for Yego. The soldiers setting camp just inside the wall were in high spirits. Pitch the tents early, drink hard tonight, pass out happy.

Innkeepers, inundated by guests trailing the army, jacked up their rates; householders vacated main rooms, wearing warm smiles at the thought of a rare windfall.

Wang Ssangryong, for his part, stepped out to pay the required respects and receive the county seat’s hospitality. When she lacks friends to wrangle, Qing is the type who entertains herself being feted; with this many crowding around, she’s just as happy to stroll. Wang Ssangryong didn’t presume to invite Her Ladyship along: Her Lady isn’t one to abandon her friends to go accept a county prefect’s reception. A prefect is the lowest rung among city governors; he’s of the same rank as the Taoist and Deputy Taoist whom Wang works like day laborers. The tiers don’t match.

So: one lap of the city first. Paeng Daesan normally breaks out in hives at the word “stroll,” but for once he followed without a peep. No need to explain that the women’s corps, who’d been about to secure lodging, abruptly reversed course to attach themselves to the group.

“Anything worth seeing around here?” Qing asked. Jeogal Ihyeon’s answer was firm.

“Nothing. Sis.”

“Eh.”

“Security is foul because of the raiders—doesn’t everyone scurry home at sunset? Even if there were sights, the raiders don’t leave them be. That’s how towns by rivers near the sea are.”

How would “Japanese raiders” cross the sea—by running or walking on water? If they could, they’d found a religion; they wouldn’t bother with the hassle of sailing here to pillage. As it is, there are no proper warehouses to plunder right on the shore. And since they’re coming by boat anyway, they just ride the river straight inland.

“Then why not sink the boats?”

“From the boats alone, you can’t tell raider from merchant from fisherman. And what army would bother to use cannon without cause?”

“Mm. A complete mess.”

Qing knew the Central Plains wasn’t exactly well-policed. Back when she was a beggar she’d seen all sorts of things happen at night in “big households” in so-called great cities; even not long ago, riding a carriage with Seol Iri, they’d rolled politely toward bandits.

Let alone actual barbarians.

What she couldn’t make sense of was this: “Japanese raiders” means Japanese, right? They sail here from Japan? In rowboats, even? Does that make sense? It’s not like this primitive age has cruise-ship freighters and grand maritime tech.

The answer came tidy and quick.

“Raiders!” “Raiders have appeared!”

Speak of Cao Cao and Cao Cao comes running—maybe Qing was getting her mouth in trouble again, not having learned.

But the commoners shouting it didn’t look particularly afraid. Because—

“Those damned raider bastards—heh—picked the perfect date this time.”

“Knew those shits would get a beating someday.”

“Seems Heaven’s not entirely indifferent.”

“Pfft. How naive. They’ll just scare ’em off at best. You think the troops will step up? And if they do, you think the raiders will truly withdraw? They’ll feign a retreat and charge in the moment the troops pull back.”

Qing swept a glance across her friends; they nodded to each other, then, in unison, stomped down and shot for the wall.

Pity the poor soldiers—caught in a storm when all they wanted was a good drink. Qing’s party vaulted the camp and went up to the battlements.

The Yego garrison on the wall stared—martial artists?—but didn’t move to stop them. They might help. When it comes to raiders, the martial world is more likely than the officials to pitch in; relief and friendliness came warm in their eyes.

Qing looked down on the “authentic raiders.”

What in the hell is that?

First impression: small. And filthy.

Beards unkempt—and from the brow to beyond the crown, shaved white, a bizarre sight. They leave the beard and maintain a bald pate? Yet they let the sides hang in greasy mats.

And the clothing—beggars? Worse than beggars. Filthy, tattered cloth wrapped around their bodies; some hid their torsos under turtle-shell cuirasses made of wood.

Then Qing’s brow pinched hard.

Not because one in ten of the hastily cloth-draped lower halves let the black tips of their members swing out. In her homeland, not for nothing called a nation of eros, there must not have been an underwear culture in the past. But is Qing the sort of maiden to frown just because she’s seen a man’s glans?

It was the horrors proudly hung at their necks and wrists: strung-up severed ears or noses; fingers and toes; even genitals and breasts turned into ornaments.

These bastards don’t just pillage.

Such tokens are for boasting among themselves: trophies taken from hunted humans—subhuman degenerates.

Qing had it exactly right: this is the signature of orthodox raiders. The islanders equate cruelty with greatness and take a victor’s massacre of the defeated as an ordinary right. Hence their collective punishment binds not just nine familial branches but whole villages. Their national temperament is to nervously watch each other’s eyes and ruthlessly ostracize the one who stands out—and to obey the strong like dogs.

“Open the gate at once and surrender! Produce fifty women under twenty! Then I shall be merciful and take only half the contents of your warehouses!”

“That’s Central Plains speech, isn’t it? Pretty fluent.”

“Sis, he’s Central Plains born. That one’s a handspan taller, and he wears a helmet to hide his head. He can’t stomach that disgusting islander cut, so he’s helmeted and pretending to be a raider.”

“Eh? Central Plains?”

“How would raiders know the lay of the Central Plains? That’s why colluding quislings like him exist.”

The more you learn about the Central Plains, the more staggering it is.

Qing counted them: maybe three hundred?

Three hundred is no small number. In a small city like this there’s at most a Hundred-Chief Post—one hundred twenty troops total. There are constables, but they’re peace-keepers, not soldiers—useless scarecrows on the battlefield.

So that’s why they dared stand proud at the gate and thunder demands to surrender.

Qing watched the savages and asked again. Having Jeogal along really is convenient.

“Jeogal. Do they have anything like martial arts?”

This felt like her first time facing foreigners from a truly different civilization, not Central Plains folk or barbarians (provincials). Surely the mysterious energy of the cosmos doesn’t belong to primitive ancient China alone. Maybe they too have techniques to run wild as superhumans.

“They would probably call it ‘martial arts.’ ‘Arts’ means ‘arcana’—mysteries like sorcery. Calling martial study a mystery is exactly the intelligence you’d expect of primitive monkeys.”

Jeogal Ihyeon, when you listen long enough, has barbarian contempt steeped into his bones. For a Central Plains man of this era, that’s basic education. The civilizational gap is truly immense; he’s not exactly wrong.

“There’s no structured Internal Study. But as with original martial arts, they’ll likely carry some inner strength in the form of a Primitive Inner Method. Ah—do you know what that is? A Primitive Inner M—”

“Hey, even I know that much, okay? I’m a martial artist, remember? And a far higher one than you, remember? You think I won Absolute at mahjong?”

A Primitive Inner Method is primitive qi-stockpiling.

As martial study advanced, it proved far more efficient to run external training and internal cultivation separately. Hence modern fighters learn weapons-work and inner-heart methods as distinct tracks and parallel them.

Before that, martial arts went like this: train hard and—behold! Somewhere along the line inner strength piled up! No one knows why, but what a marvel.

That is the primitive inner-heart method—a Primitive Inner Method.

Back then, people measured inner strength in “years.” Roughly, one full cycle is sixty years of inner strength—that is, by the pace of gathering qi without meditation through ancient, primitive, savage martial arts, about sixty years’ worth.

Now, by early Peak you’re sitting on roughly one cycle—and “sixty years” is an old phrase without a precise standard; besides, the drain on inner energy varies with the art’s type and temperament. There’s no need to state a total at all, so the unit fell out of use.

Qing gazed, wordless. In her pupils, quietly, a Baleful Star spread.