Chapter 540: Poison-Blade Uproar, Poison-Blade March (13)

Qing pushed through the hanging screen of wooden beads at the inn’s entrance.

At this hour most inns’ ground floors would be quiet, a single waiter dozing on a table. But this was Hangzhou—packed to the rafters with people still clinking cups, a scene that had forgotten the clock.

The clack-clack of thick beads colliding hadn’t even died when—

“Welcome.”

As if she’d been watching the door the whole time, a neat-looking waitress hurried over with a bow.

“Food? Wine? Room? Bath?”

“Uh—start with some wine.”

Qing played dumb.

The waitress’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t repeat the question. She challenged:

“Really? That won’t do, will it? Wine—when someone’s waiting upstairs. You sure about that?”

Qing’s mind snapped bright.

Not a waiter—one of Nyonyeong’s strings. A corpse-puppet.

“Ninth floor. Xi Shi Room. No detours. Now.”

“Hold on—so you knew I’d come?”

“I didn’t. A tall woman walked in with three heads of hair, so I took a shot. If you weren’t the one, you’d have been just another crazy lady.”

Ah. Qing realized her slip.

The woman watched Qing with a sly, infuriating smile.

What was that face supposed to mean? Do you want to get hit?

Then—

“Hey! Waiter!”

“Yes, my lord! Coming right away!!”

The woman boomed back, voice like thunder, and sprinted toward the table that had called her.

Ah. So she was a waiter too.

Qing scratched her nape.

Damn. I was going to sneak in and, if she was asleep, tag her once—if inner power won’t stick, a joint lock will; twist the head off while she’s out and it won’t matter who’s high or low.

For the record, even in the martial world nobody calls twisting a head off a “joint lock.”

Qing watched the woman bow and scurry like a model waiter—then grinned.

Seo Mun Qing does not leave on a loss. If I go, I go winning.

Nyonyeong had said: the corpse-puppets with free will? They aren’t her subordinates; she doesn’t order them; she lets them live how they want.

Whatever her schemes, Qing trusted she wasn’t lying—about that much.

“Order up for our honored guest! Five-Spice Pressed Pork! And two bottles of Shaoxing!”

If this was a cover identity, she was a frighteningly seasoned waiter—voice and all.

Qing’s eyes slanted wickedly.

So you take being a waiter seriously?

She plopped into an empty table instead of headed for the stairs and made a show of loafing.

The woman, busy as a top, finally spotted the sprawled figure ignoring her “go up” and sitting to eat.

Her eyes flared and she charged.

“Hey—what do you think you’re doing? Up you go—”

“Oh-ho!! I about grew a crane’s neck waiting!!!”

Qing cut her off with a shout.

“You?”

“Do waiters here pick and choose their customers!? For heaven’s sake—no matter how long I wait—you won’t even glance at me! Is it okay to judge by looks like this? Today I was going to spend it all! All! Every last bit!”

Qing upended her purse. It avalanched across the table.

Gold tokens stacked like a pagoda.

Whatever she looked like, Qing was the real thing—loaded.

Heads turned.

The contrast of her shabby state and the glittering mound of gold.

“You—what are you—!”

“People! I slipped on my way and rolled in the muck—my body’s chilled to the bone—so I thought I’d warm my insides with good wine and soak in hot water lest I fall ill, but what do you know! The so-called waiter takes one look at me and won’t even answer when called! There are limits to disdain—no dog ever scorned a person like this! A dog would’ve had more courtesy!”

A murmur rolled.

“Uh—uhh?”

Kick up that much fuss and another waiter has no choice but to rush in.

If it were some ordinary lout, they’d sic thugs on her—Who are you to make a scene? But someone who can pile a mountain of gold on a table is hard to treat like a lout no matter what she does.

A bed-headed senior waiter, maybe roused from a nap, shot out like a lightfoot master and dropped to both knees before Qing.

“Mercy!! Honored guest!! Forgive us!!”

“And you are? You in charge here?”

“Mercy, mercy! Yes! I’m the head waiter of the Full Moon Hall! This girl hasn’t worked long—she failed to recognize a great guest—hey, you wretch, what are you doing! On your knees and beg forgiveness!”

“Uh—that’s not—”

“Not what! Didn’t I teach you the Way of the Waiter? Once they step into an inn, all are guests—treat them with the respect you’d give an elder! Beg pardon! Are a waiter’s knees made of wood!?”

“No, it’s—”

“Now!”

Fire spat from the veteran’s mouth.

At Hangzhou’s Top Inn, being a waiter meant standing at the peak of the trade. Even a “mere waiter” showed a master’s bearing—his roaring voice thundered with the authority of a tiger’s bellow and a dragon’s strike.

The woman’s face crumpled. She knelt and bowed her crown.

“I—I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Really? Truly wrong?”

“I—I’m sorry, honored guest—uh...”

The catch in her throat sounded genuinely stung, like tears.

Qing’s smile bloomed, triumphant.

Look at you—picking a fight when you’re nothing special.

“Hmph. Fine. I’ll overlook it today for the head waiter’s sake. Now—where’s the finest room in the famous Top Inn of Hangzhou? Since I’m in town, I ought to splurge once.”

Having handily put the nameless corpse-puppet under her thumb, Qing sauntered up the stairs in high spirits.

The higher she climbed, the slower her feet.

Honestly—pretending a little rank and everyone yanks you around like this. What a rotten woman.

It’s not like a person can’t pose once in a while.

Did I pose and swindle anyone? Did I tank my reputation with filthy or freakish antics?

Of course I did—all of it.

But if you’re Blood Sect, what does a little extra hatred change?

It’s like cutting wine with wine, water with water.

Raises the infamy, if anything. Since it’s Blood Sect’s infamy going up, shouldn’t I be thanked?

Ninth floor.

In an ancient world with no elevators, does it make sense to stick the premium suites on the ninth floor? Not the time to digress.

The room assigned to Qing was a named premium suite—the sole top-tier room left on the ninth floor.

As befit the Top Inn of Hangzhou, the suite was lavish.

Qing ignored that; she slid open the outer door and hopped straight to the tiles.

She’d scoped the Xi Shi Room while walking the corridor. Soundless—she skimmed the narrow eaves of the ninth floor like flight.

The outer door of the Xi Shi Room whispered open.

No breath inside; Qing’s body slipped in like a ghost.

An infiltration fit for a divine thief.

“My. Taking that way in?”

Crash—caught the instant she entered.

On the wide bed, under a film of silk, Eon Yeonyeong turned only her head. Their eyes met.

Qing lifted a hand, awkward.

“Mm. Nyonyeong—hi. You’re not asleep?”

“Hmm. Hard question. If you call it ‘sleep’ to close one’s eyes, blur one’s mind, and feel only the flow of time—then yes. I was asleep.”

A bright, welcoming smile unfurled.

A pallid, sickly beauty whose face looked one breath from going out—smiling as if she were burning her life to force the flower open.

Qing stared a breath, blank.

Get a grip.

That face. It’ll kill me.

“Heehee. I never imagined you’d bring the army. You’re awful.”

“Hmph. I didn’t break the arrangement. We’re square. I’m going.”

“Oh my, not yet. You owe me atonement, don’t you? Thinking it over, I recall you caused a scene at the Black Spot and used my name.”

“Ah. Right.”

Ah, right? Anyone sane would pop a blood vessel at that. Eon Yeonyeong, still reclined, only smiled.

“Here—sorry. Happy? I’m going.”

“Truly, Seo Mun Surin. I didn’t know apologies could be so devoid of sincerity. But—”

Her smile turned deep.

“Are you sure you can still be that stiff?”

Sword-shapes rose, whispering, over the bed.

Qing snorted.

“That doesn’t work anymore. What—going to take my head?”

“How could I? Ah—what a pity. You were so cute, trembling and watching me for cues. But I like this, too—using my favor to stand so proud.”

Only then did she lift her upper body and swing her legs from the bed.

The thin quilt slid and pooled—and she was bare, porcelain white.

Qing drooled before she knew it.

Oh. A windfall. No—no.

“Planning to seduce me? You think that’ll work? Sss—gulp.”

“Heehee. I’m glad you’re... rather satisfied.”

“Satisfied, my ass. Why are you sleeping stark naked? Are you some world-class temptress—sss—why is my mouth watering.”

Not a line Qing should deliver.

Some do sleep naked; but a shameless person who strips even when sharing a bed with friends? There is exactly one in this world.

“Oh my. On a bed of this grade, it’s surprisingly nice. In a private room there’s nothing to be shy about. If Seo Mun Surin tries it once, you’ll understand. How to describe silk skimming skin? Swish—swish.”

“Admittedly... that tracks.”

“...?”

Eon tilted her head. Deciding that was the usual nonsense, she clapped her hands lightly and shifted the air.

“An apology and atonement aren’t quite the same, are they? An apology is a heartfelt word; atonement demands proper compensation.”

“Coming all the way here isn’t compensation? You put me through all that and you still want more?”

We’d need a briefing on what “all that” was. At this point Eon Yeonyeong looked like a bodhisattva. Of course, no bodhisattva in history sets new records in observed evil karma every time you see her.

“It isn’t a hard request. Just—help me with a bath. And you’re a mess yourself. Perfect timing.”

“Eh.”

She smiled.

“Let’s bathe together.”

****

“Princess.”

“Do you want to die...? Get out...”

Mahi snapped.

Being forced awake is, at baseline, deeply unpleasant.

What set Mahi apart was that her growl contained not a shred of pretense.

But—

“The Heavenly Flower Sword has appeared.”

“The Society Lord!”

Mahi’s eyes flew open.

Why seek the Society Lord when the Heavenly Flower Sword had appeared?

Because in Mahi’s heart the sequence went: defeat the Heavenly Flower Sword → a righteous-and-demonic war erupts → ask the Society Lord for a reward → ask the Society Lord for marriage—kyah!

Whatever passed through her head, her face flushed scarlet. “Eek—what do I do—what do I do—” She rolled left and right across the bed, flailing, and only after a good while did she come to.

“Hah. Sneaking in at midnight like a rat—typical orthodox hypocrite.”

A late attempt at gravitas.

Her chief disciple, Yeon Yul, had seen it all. She pretended to see nothing and asked evenly:

“What are your orders?”

Mahi’s grin showed.

A sharp fang caught the lamplight and glinted.

“What else? Loose the kids. And send word to Big Sister Eon. I’m going myself—tell her to hold that one tight.”