Chapter 538: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (11)

Suzhou, day three. Normally, by this hour the camp would be tearing down tents and striking the staging ground.

But the soldiers were unhurried to the point of laziness.

“Chief of a Hundred, breakfast is served.”

“Uh—ugh—breakfast? What’s that supposed to be...?”

“Fried dried river fish and pumpkin–garlic-scape–eggplant stir-fry, and East Sea Soup—”

“Fried dried river fish” meant they’d tossed some sun-dried minnows into oil. The pumpkin–garlic-scape–eggplant stir-fry, like all army “vegetable stir-fries,” was half-sweated in grease and called done. East Sea Soup was the soldiers’ slur for a broth with water like the East Sea and nothing solid in it.

“Take it away. Ugh. That doesn’t just chase off my appetite—looks like you clubbed it to death. I’m going back to sleep. You eat it.”

A truly dismal breakfast.

Then again, dismal army meals are a universal constant across cultures.

It isn’t soldier-bashing. It’s that there are so many corners to skim for kickbacks, and if a group has no professional kitchen or cooks, you’ll get the same whether it’s an army or not.

So why were troops who swore, “We eat lunch on the road!” sprawled out like this from a late morning?

Because we decided to stay an extra day.

Why? Because the Divine Lady wants to see the Sword-Testing Stone.

In other words: sightseeing, thus the delay.

Not that anyone complained. The soldiers nodded like it was only natural.

Right—if you’ve come to Suzhou, you ought to see Tiger Hill. You’ve been training in arenas until now; how could you not look around this fine Jiangnan land?

And thus: Tiger Hill.

Strictly, Tiger Hill Mountain. But its crown rises only ten jang—about the height of a ten-story building back in Qing’s homeland—no more than a gentle swell of a hill. Calling such a hump “mountain” is embarrassing, so everyone just says Tiger Hill. It’s Suzhou’s top tourist site. Somehow this little knoll brims with sights—prime, optimized sightseeing.

First, the summit tower: the Tiger Hill Pagoda.

Su Shi, the Poet Sage of the Central Plains, wrote that there’s no greater pity than coming to Suzhou and missing the Tiger Hill Pagoda.

Seven stories, sixteen jang tall—half again higher than the hill itself—a colossal structure. Its signature feature: it leans.

“Oh, this one. I know it. The Leaning Tower.”

Even in Qing’s homeland they called it the Central Plains’ Leaning Tower.

The Tiger Hill Pagoda would have grounds to object.

It went up two hundred years earlier, after all; if anything should be called the “Western Regions’ Tiger Hill Pagoda,” it’s that other tower. What sense is there in dubbing a senior by two centuries the “Central Plains Leaning Tower”?

But even the locals only joke about it—no one pushes the claim in earnest—because compared to the Western one, its tilt and height don’t quite measure up.

If it’s unfair, lean harder.

“Miss, do you see the pond below? That is the Sword Pond—where Helü, King of Wu (not that other Wu), is said to have cast away three thousand treasured swords he’d collected. Nothing’s ever been found, so it’s likely chroniclers’ exaggeration. But aren’t you curious how such a tale arose? People say the pond’s shape is like a blade—ah, it’s hard to tell from up here, but from below it stretches long and straight—”

“You never shut up, do you. Hm. Here—eat.”

Qing cut off Jeogal Ihyeon and Paeng Daesan offered over a pretty pink, lustrous rice cake.

“What!? Daesan? Where’d you get something this nice?”

“Picked it up on the way.”

Qing narrowed her eyes at him, though a smile tugged her lips.

Qing had no idea what her own face did to people.

That sly, pretty smile of hers—wicked to the point of bewitching.

Paeng Daesan’s brow twitched.

“Don’t you go batting your eyes like that.”

“What? Why?”

“...Because it makes you so punchable someone’s liable to oblige.”

“I was trying to be irritating.”

“Mm.”

“Also, where do you keep ‘picking these up’? Share the source. Feels like there’s a spot where people are dropping treats in bulk. I should just scoop the lot and stash them.”

Paeng Daesan fake-coughed and snapped his head away.

Qing, ignorant of the circumstances, was pleased.

What’s this—has my Daesan turned over a new leaf?

He can’t stand to see my mouth empty lately.

He’d always grouse and then buy food and snacks readily enough.

But he was different now.

The guy who used to only crack when I begged—playing hard to get—

Now he’s like a grandmother frantic that her grandchild hasn’t eaten, pressing treats into my hands nonstop. And talking while he’s at it: Here, eat. Eat this and keep that mouth shut. Don’t waste strength—eat this.

Ask where he got it and it’s: Found it somewhere. Somebody gave it to me. A peddler looked down on his luck so I took some off his hands.

What is this—“new potatoes are delicious”?

Is he trying to act cute?

But the rice cake was good.

Pink makes you expect honey or sugar, but the plain bite with no filling was an infuriating deception. They’d oiled the surface like it would be chewy, yet the texture was closer to steamed wine bread—infuriating again. And the faint sweetness that rose—truly, infuriating.

Infuriating enough that something had to be done.

Three counts of infuriating. I’ll chew you to punishment.

While Qing chomped and punished the cake, Tang Nanaa popped up and planted herself in Qing’s path.

“Again with this. Qing, I’m hungry too, okay?”

“Huh? We had lunch before the climb. Already? I’m still stuffed to death—how are you hungry already? Didn’t you eat a lot?”

Tang Nanaa’s brow twitched.

Because it was Qing saying it.

Even if it’s Qing, there are words you never want to hear from Qing. From a woman who eats ten times what others do, and then gulps down every snack that weasel-faced Paeng hands her with zero shame? Unbearable.

“Ugh—I don’t care. Aah—”

“No, don’t—what are you doing—if it wasn’t enough, you could’ve said so.”

Tang Nanaa crammed the nameless, infuriating treat into her mouth in one go. Qing watched: Mm. She must be really hungry. Then eat more lunch, why don’t you.

“Miss, look! The carp down there are as big as a forearm.”

“Oh, really? Wow, that’s huge. If you simmer it long the soup’s good. The bones are a hassle, but carp soup—mm—carp soup’s nice.”

“......?”

“......?”

“Ah—Miss! Do you see that pavilion? That pavilion is Sun Wu Pavilion! Sun Wu, the Sun Tzu who wrote The Art of War—this is the very training ground where he drilled the soldiers of Wu!”

“That Sun Tzu? Are you sure? Really?”

“Yes! Wu’s rise to hegemon was not from Helü’s prowess but from his two stewards—statesman Wu Zixu, and the Great General Sun Wu. Thus a nation’s rise and fall comes from the loyal talent one employs—Qi had Guan Zhong, Qin had Shen... Chu had Sun Shuo’ao, Yue had Fan Li, and Qin also had Baili Xi, and—”

“They’re selling those over there. Eat.”

“Daesan—what’s this now? For me? Wow, Daesan, when did you get this thoughtful?”

“Hmph. I’ve never slighted anyone where food is concerned.”

“True. That’s true. Heehee, thanks.”

In any case, Tiger Hill was fun.

With this crew, any road would be fun even without Tiger Hill. But it justified stretching the schedule a day.

And at last: the Sword-Testing Stone.

If Qing had said, Let’s just play for a day, someone would have gotten suspicious. But given Jeogal Ihyeon’s grab-bag of trivia—the man could chatter day and night for ten days straight if you let him—

Come to think of it, why is Jeogal getting chattier? He wasn’t this bad before. Now he dogs our heels and adds narration.

—Qing found a good pretext inside all that.

The Sword-Testing Stone.

As the name says, a stone on which a sword was tried.

This is where they say the most famous weapons of the Central Plains—the legendary twin husband-and-wife blades, Gan Jiang and Mo Ye—were tested; specifically, Mo Ye.

Helü, King of Wu, who supposedly gathered three thousand treasured swords.

His greed for blades was second to none, so he summoned the smith Gan Jiang and ordered him to forge the finest sword from the finest stock.

Gan Jiang had learned iron-working with the master smith Ou Yezi, so the king said, You can do it too, can’t you?

Gan Jiang forged the swords.

His wife, Mo Ye, helped; some places say she cut her hair into the mix, others go full “Emile Bell” and have her fling herself into the furnace.

Thus two swords were born.

He gave them their own names—Gan Jiang and Mo Ye—a pair of husband-and-wife blades, the legendary masterpieces, complete.

But of the two, Gan Jiang offered only the wife’s blade, Mo Ye, to Helü.

Because he sensed his own end.

Helü received Mo Ye, admired the chill bite of its edge, and brought it down upon a rock.

The rock split clean through, and not a nick marred Mo Ye. Truly a sword of legend.

That split rock is the Sword-Testing Stone.

So it wasn’t much of an excuse for Qing to say, Let’s go have a look.

What’s strange about a swordswoman wanting to see sword marks?

Qing reads moves off a Sword-Severed Wall; maybe there’d be some insight. Friends, gather up—hand in hand we’ll go over the wall—and she herded them along in a rush.

And at last Qing looked on the scar.

Gongsun Yo-ye, careful but brimming with curiosity, spoke up.

“Seo Mun Surin? How is it? Do you sense any heart-image...?”

“Huh? It’s just a rock.”

Of course it’s just a rock.

Sword-Testing Stone my ass. It’s a split rock, isn’t it?

“What do you mean ‘just a rock’? Sword-Friend! You don’t see this keen cut surface? They say there are countless famed blades in the world, but the very best are only one pair—Gan Jiang and Mo Ye. Look—this baleful edge that hasn’t faded with the ages! Ah, if I could see them just once I’d die satisfied! Since this Sword-Friend aspires to Two-Sword arts, surely Heaven will open a path to the twin divine blades—but even so, this sword-stroke—truly—profoundly moving!”

Namgung Sinjae made a fuss.

But to Qing it was just a split stone.

There’s no way people with primitive, barbaric techniques two thousand years ago could forge a blade that cuts stone.

Even if it really was a masterpiece, same story.

The first martial art of the Central Plains—the Moon Maiden Sword—appeared in the days of Helü’s son, Fuchai.

Back then the Central Plains didn’t even have the concept of martial arts; even if this were a real sword mark, what would there be to see?

Qing concluded the Sword-Testing Stone was a sham, a tourist lure.

She did, however, understand perfectly why the state of Wu fell.

Helü, having obtained Mo Ye, thought: If I let this smith live, he could make another blade like this!

A supreme sword is supreme because it is one; if there are multiples, it can no longer be called supreme.

Therefore I must kill the smith.

A loathsome way to think; and who stops a king? So he did exactly that.

And when he died?

He refused to distribute the three thousand swords he’d hoarded. He would take them to the afterlife—bury them with me. Thus the Sword Pond.

The worst kind of bastard among bastards.

Across from the Sword Pond spreads a broad plaza strewn with red stones—the Thousand-Men Stones.

Helü died, and his son Fuchai built his father’s tomb on Tiger Hill.

Fearing tomb-robbers, Fuchai spared no effort to conceal the site.

When construction finished, he held a feast to reward the workers—and killed them all.

They say the feast ground ran crimson with blood, and the stones are red because the workers’ resentment won’t wash out. Some record claims the laborers numbered a hundred thousand—that’s, frankly, pushing it.

In any case, to “guard his dead father’s corpse,” Fuchai murdered the commoners he’d already worked to the bone, gagging them with death instead of reward.

A bastard sired a bastard.

The previous king, a bastard. The current king, a bastard.

Of course the country would fall.

Legend says the Nine Heavens Mystic Lady incarnated in Yue to train its soldiers for precisely this reason.

Heaven’s will was to smash the state of Wu ruled by that bastard.

Suzhou, first night: Nanaa and Iri.

Second night: Yo-ye and Miss Murong.

And the third night, Qing again took the bed with Nanaa and Iri.

Except Nanaa simply would not fall asleep.

At last, after forever of fidgeting hands, her fingers curled, her breath went deep and wheezy—so she’d finally dropped?—but then her sleep was bright as a cat’s. Let Qing so much as stir, and she’d wake like a ghost and mumble, “Ugh, Qing? What, you going to the privy?”

By contrast, pair off Gongsun Yo-ye and Murong Juhee and they’d slip away, nestle up, wrap around each other, and—sweet dreams; extended business trip to Dreamland; knocked out cold.

So—like this.

Qing slid from the bed like a snake, and saw the two of them cuddled up, faces soft with gentle smiles.

A faint smile touched Qing’s face as well.

And then, night. She dressed with care and vanished from the inn without a sound.

The road E Baek bemoaned in the past—the road of going alone.

A journey to a solitary island. A journey to a solitary island.