Chapter 534: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (7)

Mm. I’m not getting a read.

Qing may look thoughtless, but in truth she’s the craftiest woman alive, measuring angles more closely than anyone—especially the exit angle. She’s far worse, in fact, for thinking first and foremost: if it goes wrong, can I get out?

Getting in is the easy part. You make the opening. First strike, sure victory—one exquisite beat of surprise and you’re through. This vicious pseudo–Central Plains girl doesn’t give a damn about grounds or face, those basic human decencies you’re “supposed” to mind.

But “Japanese”? Samurai? Is that even right? Do samurai exist in this era? Do they even call them that in this world? For “samurai,” their look is busted. That’s no samurai—that’s a cluster of short primitives. Wow, sobering. Give me my samurai back.

You have to know even a little to test or stab—but with no sense of whether they’re tough or weak, even Qing, mistress of the charge, went: Mm. This is...

“I’ll give you half a shichen! When the sun is half down, we attack at once. Open the gate, receive us with wine and pretty little beauties, and present the warehouse goods!”

Reading time from the sun is native skill for this era—day upon day, life stacks the data and your body knows it. In about half a shichen the sun would hang on the horizon; that’s what “half down” meant.

The raiders’ front man conferred with his pack, then stepped out again and cleared his throat.

“I correct myself. One gak. I grant you one gak by my mercy, so you need not shed vain blood. Surrender promptly!”

Qing was dumbfounded.

One gak is thirty minutes in her units. Who declares war and then gives a single gak? It’s barely time to gather decision-makers into a room.

Had she been versed in their history, she’d have known that the mere fact “islanders” declared anything at all was astonishing. Their wits don’t encompass the concept. What, declare before you strike? Why would we? Ah, right—cut off a limb first and then say, If you don’t want more cut, surrender.

She distrusted that confidence. “Surrender or die”—you don’t say that unless you’re sure. But we’ve got a wall. So what is this?

She was still weighing where these “islanders” ranked in martial terms when—

At last the Great General came pounding up, dropping beside Qing, panting raggedly.

“H-huff—the—those accursed island bast—huff—bastards—how dare they!”

“Ah, General.”

“Huff—hoo—those lawless curs—hoo—I’ll loose arrows at once and drive them off.”

“Not drive off. Remove.”

“Mm. You speak of annihilation? Mmm. The thing is—mmm.”

Then Wang Ssangryong snapped awake. This was Her Ladyship’s command! What in Heaven’s name was he saying?

“No! A-ha! Yes, that’s it! How could we let those heinous islanders trample the Son of Heaven’s land! Your servant Wang Ssangryong—”

“Hold on.”

Catching the hesitation in his tone, Qing stayed him.

“Are they strong?”

“No! With the Shandong Army’s elite, five of ours can handle one raider. We’re somewhat inferior in numbers but can overcome with spirit—yes!”

“Five to one?”

Not one soldier to five islanders—five soldiers to one islander. And he said it proudly.

How is that something to brag about? His posture said it was.

“And if they’re not elite? How many to face one raider then?”

“Mm. If they’re those weaklings in Hunan without real combat experience—twenty to one might still be hard. That Provincial Commander over there is a feeble sort.”

For the record, the Hunan Provincial Commander is Wang Ssangryong’s longtime rival; they’re thorns in each other’s eyes. Raise yourself and lower your enemy—politics etched into Wang’s bones.

Anyway, his answer was this: with twelve hundred troops, using the wall and arrows, they could certainly drive them off. But annihilation would cost much blood—though of course the Shandong Army stands ready to face them without fear and break jade in the end.

Qing thought of the soldiers. Naturally the soldiers should step up and exterminate these barbarian raiders, right? But... is that right?

Faces that called her “Immortal Lady,” “Divine Lady,” “Your Ladyship,” in a thousand reverent variations—faces that shyly offered her their snacks and wildflowers.

Soldiers in this era are men dragged in by the rolls instead of taxes. Do they have a rightful reason to bleed? These aren’t career professionals paid to face preordained battles. Do I force them to bleed?

Who am I? Even if I were something—same answer.

And if we merely shoot and drive them off? Will men who string necklaces from human parts suddenly grow meek—We’re spooked, we’ll go home? The moment the troops leave, they’ll come back.

Part of her just wanted to leap down and butcher the lot. But if she leaps, what about her friends? These fragile ones will overreach themselves and shout about guarding her; that’s guaranteed. Mm.

Ha. Being alone really is easiest.

So thought the very culprit whose face was blooming widest, giddy to be buried among friends. If anyone heard the truth of it, they’d say the girl who whines daily about missing her friends was just spoiled.

“Um—what should we...”

Qing’s gaze wavered. What do I do? The soldiers... we’ve come to care for each other; how can I drive them into the jaws? Who am I, with what right?

But let the raiders go? Knowing what they’ll do? No. That’s wrong. Unacceptable.

If I step in... but my friends? Averaging it, those damned islanders take twelve and a half soldiers to one. If the kids jump in because of me and get hurt—

Is it even mine to decide? But I can’t just stand by. I can’t.

Nor could she brood forever; a gak passes in a blink.

So at last Qing swallowed, hard, and opened her mouth.

A white flag fluttered above the gate.

Jang Seok—once a salt-slave, now a guide for the raiders—bared a cruel smile. The formal name for such a man is “traitor,” “collaborator with foreign power,” a grave slur and insult.

He had words of his own: all the Central Plains ever gave him was beatings and rotten slop unfit for a dog, plus the lash of the saltworks. How is that fair pay for labor?

“Ha-itt, Shogun. (translated) The sheep are saying they will receive the General.”

“A pity. Resisters are more fun.”

“Even sheep know their place. They say the god does not bring calamity if you don’t touch the god.”

“Then I am the god? Heh. What do Central Plains sheep know of valor. You lot, move! It’s time to wet ourselves in blood!”

Of course, they had no mind to take women and tribute and leave meekly. To return to the Sacred Isle boasting valor, they needed more noses—proofs of conquest. Proofs come back as loyalty. Central Plains folk are excellent livestock; not a scrap to waste.

The raiders swaggered toward the gate—and, close now, the gate screeched open in welcome.

Three carts stood revealed at once. Burlap covered them; you couldn’t see what was inside, only the bulging shapes thrusting up.

The general cocked his head; his bright pate glinted, catching the desperate last light.

“Nani? What’s this?”

Qing’s uncanny hearing—and her linguistic knack—caught his words. What is this?

Qing snorted a laugh.

What else—cannon. It occurred to her: why risk people at all? If you’ve got a good tool, a human should use the tool.

KWA-ROONG!

A crash like lightning at your nose! Pebbles rained from the battlements; the gate under her feet trembled and tickled her soles. A roar that shook heaven and earth.

Three guns packed full of iron shot. Qing watched the majestic destruction. Ragged metal shards rammed through human hide and flesh and punched out the far side—then, even spent, still buried themselves in other bodies.

A boisterous straight line—the fastest thrust—splitting into thousands upon thousands of branches. It wasn’t quite the power to skewer two men at once; that was because the projectiles were irregular, not because the force was lacking. Mm. How do you block that?

Qing, anew, grasped the cannon’s force. From a ways off—if you “took it light”—you might endure with Guardian Qi. Up close? Mm. If a cannon aims at you, don’t dither. Run.

From atop the gate she saw it: like the raiders’ peculiar haircut, the center was cleanly parted. The survivors were the flukes scattered left and right—stunned by the carnage. Some stood blinking; some plopped down, at a loss; some dribbled piss. Their eardrums still rang from the blast, and in an instant their comrades had been burst into meat tatters you couldn’t even gather as a corpse. Not a single whole body—just a half-spread fan of bright red mud.

Qing launched off the wall. Moon Maiden Mountain Walk—the anti-gravity gait. Not truly resisting gravity; the effect is an illusion of falling slowly, grace making time itself seem to slacken. Watch a beauty alight and anyone will feel the world slow.

Qing flicked raiders away with taps. To onlookers it was flick-flick; to those struck, it was thud-thud—bones snapping crisp under an iron-leg, nuke-leg.

“R-run!”

She’d hoped to see some of that samurai skill—but they showed her their backs. As with all bandits, once the head breaks, all that remains is a collection of individuals with character defects.

A pity—yet also a relief. Because—predictably—some baggage had followed her when they should have stayed put. Even the frail Short Blade & Twin-Swords members could handle chasing men who’d lost their will to fight; it wasn’t all that dangerous.

Even so, Qing’s gaze swept her friends. All right? Any danger?

A blade whooshed up to her face. Of course, Qing doesn’t have blind angles just because she glanced aside. She lifted her hand and caught it; the famous islander blade rang—and shattered at once against her wrist.

Those blades are sharp, but they’re known for snapping. If they fail to bite clean, they break. Against Qing’s near–Vajra-hard forearm—the hardening of her Lesser Demonic Art—it was a perfect anti-matchup.

From the feel, she gauged its force. Sharp enough; without Guardian Qi, below Peak you’d be sliced if you took it wrong.

So she clenched a resolution in her heart.

Not like this. I have to shake them and go alone. Beyond their frailty—I shouldn’t drag friends into a personal matter.

My business is mine to bear. Do your own. Clean and neat. Right? Only me, by myself. Alone, and only alone.