Chapter 536: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (9)

This primitive, ancient martial world is a place of brutes—barbaric, vicious louts.

It isn’t Qing’s homeland.

Grudges don’t sputter out as words and end as half-burned logs, leaving only ash on the heart.

This is a world that proves things cleanly—with a blade, so there’s no aftertaste.

What are Central Plains folk to me? Hm. A bit extreme—how to put it?

A bipolar slider for sociality they work like pros?

To the close and the strong, they’re kinder than any people under heaven; to strangers and the weak, there are no more pitiless, cruel sons of bitches on earth.

The martial world Qing grew up in and the martial world Qing stands in now differ in color from the root.

Thinking on it, before she entered the Divine Lady’s Gate, the world had been nothing more or less than a dim, murky den of malice.

Who knew that being a “high disciple” of the orthodox side would make living so dramatically easier?

But that’s because Qing is strong.

At Peak she had no rival her age; when she crossed beyond Absolute into her own “Absolute Qing,” nothing short of true monsters could bar her path.

But what about my friends?

If I could, I’d be some screen-shaped cosmic something and shove enlightenment pellets straight into their skulls.

But that’s impossible.

And even if they train their arts to the hilt, they won’t become like me—stronger, eyes and ears sharpened, abilities beyond the human frame.

So I have to protect them.

I go first, clear the dangers; if the “right kind” of bastard shows up, I can let them have real combat under my supervision and grow them.

Which means I need power.

Not “promising for my age,” not merely “quite strong.”

Power—power beyond Absolute, the power of Ideation.

So a warrior in desperate need of strength steps to the lip of the valley no warrior should enter—the valley of temptation.

A warrior’s mind—or soul, or heart, or heart-image—names are messy, definitions vague for the wellspring of a person’s awareness.

Splack.

Ripples run over the shallow pool of blood, concentric rings sketching geometric lattices as they spread in countless numbers.

Beyond lies a wall made of human leavings—flesh, bone, sinew—a huge, glistening thing.

In its middle, a small hole beckons: come in.

The opening to the Demon—the Demon’s mouth.

Step through, crawl on your knees beneath savage instinct, and you can enter the state beyond Absolute—the brink of Entering Demon.

Your martial way surrenders to the weapon’s native urge: the killing impulse of a war tool.

But are humans creatures who can’t master their instincts?

Grand name or not, Entering Demon—restraining the lust to kill isn’t particularly hard.

Because people have values more important than that—bonds, standing, face, property; too many precious things to guard to be yanked around by a mere impulse.

Unless a person has gone blind with rage, it’s true you often can’t tell a Flower Realm master from one skirting Entering Demon at a glance.

So just shut your eyes.

Don’t fight human nature.

Crawl once across the blood and soak yourself head to toe—and the dreamlike state waits just beyond.

So with strength urgent as it is now, it’s not so strange that Qing sets her foot on the threshold of Entering Demon... except—

Flop.

Qing sprawled spread-eagle on the running blood, arms and legs flapping—

maybe remembering that short-lived fad back home of drawing angels in the snow.

To most, the reek of blood is salty and fishy.

To Qing?

Mm. Fragrant. Mmm. Now I want blood pudding. Blood-pudding hot soup. In a stone pot, heap the blood and dried radish greens and bean sprouts—mountains of softly soured kimchi on the side—

“Sss—my mouth’s watering.”

Lying there in the blood with arms and legs thrown wide, Qing stared up at the sky crammed with the Baleful Star.

Whether it’s real or not—who knows.

This is the same inner world where, back then, I scrapped with that mental parasite—no, was she a parasite or the real thing?

Either way, it was inside me.

Just like, in the illusion of the Sword-Barrier, I never knew whether the Great Emperor I saw was the real one—or, as he claimed, the “Great Emperor born of me.”

So whether this Baleful Star is “real” or not—what of it?

Real Great Emperor or the Emperor born of me, either way the forms were transmitted.

Whether that’s the true Baleful Star of Heaven’s Slaughter, or just the baleful star born of Qing—why does it matter?

What matters is whether it helps.

And right now is exactly when I need help.

If it helps, I’d ask not just the Baleful Star but a stray mutt by the alley.

As the Master said, too.

“Excuse me. I’ve done every fool thing to actually hit Flower Realm—so why won’t it click? Now when I use my arts, I keep seeing phantoms, okay? I don’t know if they’re real or not, but the person who made the art keeps showing up to tell me ‘this is this’ and kibitz. Doesn’t that mean I’m right before Flower Realm?”

[...]

“It’s right there—one grain more, this much, a single sheet of paper—so tight I could die, and I can’t find words for it. It shimmers right in front of my eyes—so why won’t Flower Realm happen? Why can’t I step into Flower Realm? I’m going to explode.”

[...]

“Hello? I thought you could talk? Was that all pre-recorded prompts? Lord Baleful Star? No—Lord Baleful Lone Star? Any advice at all?”

[...Do you desire power?]

Reluctant, like it answered because it had to.

“Not that—don’t tell me to ‘go in there.’ Why would I dump stacked-up merits for Flower Realm and step into Entering Demon? Just... a bit of something useful?”

The sky-filling Baleful Star—covering nearly nine-tenths of the night—closed the countless eyes budding on its surface, all at once, in pained resignation.

In nonverbal, if you had to translate it: what kind of woman is this.

Qing grumbled.

“Oh please. Don’t clamp your mouth like a mute and play dumb. And ‘do you desire power’—what era is that sales pitch from? Don’t say that anywhere. I only indulged you because it’s you. Imagine booming, Do you desire powerrr—ugh. Who buys from a shady voice like that? Wow, power! Yes, I’ll take one—does it come gift-wrapped? Buy two, get one free? At High Noon General Store they throw one in if you buy two—should I—”

The star’s surface twitched.

And then—

“Aaaugh!”

Qing clutched her eyes and screamed.

Shapes—indecipherable, hammered straight through eye to brain. Tens, hundreds, thousands, ten-thousands, hundred-millions of sights and sounds at once, cohering into an impossible figure:

People. Naked people. People with their skin peeled. Beasts made of bones. Twisted limbs. Snakes knotting in obscene tangles. Corpses. Bloated corpses. Rotting corpses sprouting mushrooms in a rush. Flowers. Meat and blood. A burning cosmos. Tiny shoes never worn by an infant. Spores blooming on living sacrifices. Eyes, red eyes, blue eyes—irises split in two, then four, then eight—three eyes containing thousands of eyes—

“—Hh!”

Qing blew out a trapped breath in ragged gasps.

Somehow she was back under a feeble, wavering light; the canopy of a top-grade bed trembled overhead.

Her chest was hot—her left side cold.

Where am I?

Suzhou’s First House—Changtai Lakeside Pavilion, Taeyong Suite.

Right. We arrived in Suzhou yesterday.

Why the Left Chief Councillor is in Suzhou instead of the capital Nanjing, I don’t know—but you can’t exactly refuse hospitality from Jiangsu’s top official.

We all piled in, and—surprise—the Councillor plays hard.

That talent show—wow—truly something.

To manage such feats without cultivating martial arts.

Qing replayed the cheerful drinking party.

And... what’s this fiddling at my chest?

She glanced right.

Tang Nanaa—the “Poison Flower” of the Five Beauties—wearing an awkward, craven smile.

“Ah—uh—you’re... awake?”

“...You’re not asleep?”

“I was asleep, then I woke up. Then I couldn’t sleep again. So I’m just, um, a little.”

Tang Nanaa fidget-fidgeted.

“When people wake up, don’t they usually move their hand away? What is this—this brazen posture?”

“I tried, but my hand keeps moving on its own, what do I do? It’s not on purpose—huh? Why won’t it stop? My hand won’t move—”

“Sigh.”

Qing let out a deep breath.

Did a ghost die of not groping tits latch onto this girl?

It’s not like hers are small—so why mine—

No.

Thinking about it, hers are just useless ballast—deadweight with no application.

“Breasts are nice. Fine. Breasts. Go on—touch.”

“Huh? Really?”

“If I say no, you lurk awake every night waiting for me to fall dead asleep so you can sneak a feel. You’re a straight-up lecher. Enough. You should count being born a woman as heaven’s special favor. Just do it openly.”

People want what they’re denied.

And ever since I learned that little “yo-yo trick” from Yo-ye, it doesn’t scramble my head and tickle like before.

“Really? Then I’m really going to feel.”

“Mm.”

“I’m going to knead.”

“Mm.”

“No take-backs.”

“Mm.”

Qing answered on autopilot.

She’ll get bored and stop, sooner or later.

Suddenly—stab. A spike of pain in her head.

She reached to brush up her bangs—and felt something heavy pinning down her other arm. She turned.

On the far side, hugging her arm, slept—mmph—blinding.

Qing looked back up at the canopy.

A face too harmful to view at close range: Seol Iri.

Preferences are preferences, I guess.

Cool—beyond cool, icy.

How does she use Han-Shim-Gong in her sleep?

For people of Beihai, Han-Shim-Gong isn’t a “cold art” so much as heating—survival itself.

Anyone who couldn’t circulate Han-Shim-Gong unconsciously while sleeping died off; only those who could do it remained.

A soft doro-rong doro-rong snore.

From experience, when Gu-nyengi falls asleep, even an elephant stepping on her won’t wake her.

Only after waking does she scream at the pain—mm, Gu-nyengi would grit her teeth and whimper then.

Mm. That was a pleasing sight.

If I press just a little—ow.

Sting. A needle-stab throb flickered at Qing’s eye corner.

The frantic shapes still seemed stamped on her retina, flashing behind her lids.

Wait—no way—was that the homeland’s telegram warriors’ ace—a doomsday mind-breaker?

This deranged Baleful Star dares try that on me?

Qing shut her eyes.

And splash—

“Look—you blow your temper like that and of course you’re not the Baleful Star—you’re the Baleful Lone Star. No wonder you have no friends. If you hate it, say you hate it; if you like it, say you like it. Why the hell do you jam repulsive imagery straight into people’s heads?”

[...]

If the Baleful Lone Star is real, that was wildly unfair.

It had expressed dislike quite enough already—who was clinging to whom, exactly?

“Don’t you want something from me too? If you’ve got designs, it helps you if I’m strong, right? So I’m asking for a bit of help—why clamp your mouth shut? I know you have a mouth. I know you can laugh till your whole face splits—”

Qing trailed off.

Huh. How do I know that? Did I ever see it?

She rolled her head.

No matter how she groped her memory, she’d never actually seen it laugh like that. So why did she know?

And then, suddenly—

Blood. Tears. Old men trampled. A procession of the old dead. An old woman. A very old woman. A grandfather. A half-dead grandfather. Old men buried alive. Blood-tears pooling until the world floods—because in a hyper-advanced civilization there may be no country for old men—

“Son of a—!”

Qing snapped upright from the bed.

Tang Nanaa, startled, blurted a defense.

“Uh—uh—I only touched you because—you said it was okay? You said I could? It... might’ve been sleep-talk, but—”

“No, not that. Bad dream.”

On the other side, Seol Iri had been flung off, still curled around Qing’s forearm, snoring doro-rong doro-rong.

Qing’s grin bared teeth.

You little brat—are you picking a fight with me right now?