Chapter 541: Hanga Yoran (1)

Mm. What am I even doing.

“Goodness, you’re awfully skilled at attending a bath. And mm, after mustering troops like that as well—were you perhaps a favored lady-in-waiting to someone very high in the West Palace, Miss Seo Mun?”

Eon Yeonyeong had taken a spectacularly wrong step.

Qing had only gotten used to it by doing it.

She’d coaxed water-fearing Murong Juhee gently through washes, and she’d tended Seol Iri when she was bedridden after a vicious fever and multiple fractures.

And neither of those two had been normal.

Murong Juhee had to be handled like a skittish child; Seol Iri had to be handled like a patient.

Qing learned anything fast.

So of course she’d picked up how to bathe dummies in no time.

Unaware of that, Eon Yeonyeong only sent over a meaningful smile.

A smug little smile too, like she’d ferreted something out.

Qing felt no obligation to correct the mistake.

Whatever. Let her be wrong.

Contrary to her thoughts, Qing’s face as she worked the lather on was all seriousness.

Qing had learned the Rapture Swaying Art from Gyeon Pohee.

The Rapture Swaying Art was a Sex-Arts method that guided the other party to the brink of rapture.

Because no matter how superhuman you were, at the instant of rapture—at the crest of pleasure—the upper elixir field opened wide, your mind turned hazy, and the balance of essence–qi–spirit lurched hard out of true. In that moment, while the soul-and-spirit that anchored the flesh rolled its eyes back and slipped out for a blink, the plan was to snatch away the innate true qi—more precisely, the core of it, the Original Vitality—clean.

So the art had two pivots.

Lead the other party into rapture.

Do not enter rapture yourself.

Qing’s life had gotten survivable thanks to the second.

And this time she needed the first.

A sequence where the shadow-qi film sheathed on her fingertips teased key points just so—if “sequence” was even the word for it.

Qing at times just brushed, at times pressed slow and steady, at times teased like a feather, and slid as softly as silk.

Long fingers gliding up a spine, along the lay of muscles, over hollows and plump flesh.

A delicate playing as if riding a rotten gold wire.

A slow spiral here, a faux-innocent goad there, a sly pinch and a tug, then a kind rub upward to soothe.

It was a terrifying Sex-Arts method that amplified pleasure by degrees.

So why?

Why wasn’t there a single sliver of a breathless moan—hell, not even the ghost of a ticklish giggle?

What? That’s not how this is supposed to go.

Did Hyomae teach it wrong?

No. Hyomae being wrong about something wouldn’t be shocking, but then the move wouldn’t have been registered in the martial window.

Mm. I should’ve done a practicum on Hyomae.

But that felt like a bridge too far.

If I’d played along when Hyomae coyly pushed, I wouldn’t be here fretting about whether this works or not.

Qing’s plan was this:

Blast her into rapture—send her mind not just past the Peach Blossom Spring but all the way to the starry hometown beyond the clouds.

If the soul-and-spirit were out, who cares if she’s “beyond Profound” or “life-and-death duel stage.”

And then—zip—right in that instant: a clean assassination.

A heart as ruthless as they come, means be damned—the brainchild of an absolute sex-demon killer.

So... this really is that fabled stone-maiden, anorgasmic type.

Damn it, Eon—were you the densest creature alive on top of everything else?

Isn’t it only natural that a life-and-death duel claimant, a “strongest” claimant, should at least be third-rate in this department?

What do I do? Should I just go teach her the Maiden’s Rapture Art right now?

A huge wave of chagrin washed over Qing.

Damn it—if it wasn’t going to work, you could’ve warned me.

Then I’d at least have stuffed my private greed to the brim while I was at it.

“Now. My turn, yes? Huhu, what a wanton body you’ve got. My, my.”

“Haah. Do whatever you want.”

Qing only let out a long sigh.

She almost pinched a vital spot viciously, but it wouldn’t be a fatal wound anyway.

And besides—maybe because she was blatantly a ghost of a woman—Qing had a fierce hunch it wouldn’t work on her either.

Then she’d hand down a sentence for impudence—“no troops for you” and “walk through, say, twenty cities” next—and Qing didn’t even dare try.

What am I going to do with her?

Qing’s inborn fate—her divine authority as an old-man butcher—didn’t only work on the elderly.

It worked across older, younger, and same age alike; it was just that old folks were exceptionally soft to it.

It wasn’t some charm stat thing like affability or good manners.

If you had to name it: intelligence.

Social intelligence.

An eye that sized someone up far quicker than most.

And from there, a bold tightrope walk—how far you could needle and press.

A wicked little social art that slipped in and out of a person’s heart without crossing the line too far, and never in a way that made you hate her.

So where was Eon Yeonyeong’s line?

Strictly speaking, she had none.

A target you could push forever.

Qing had never seen anyone this soft; even if she cut her neck, she’d probably say:

Oh my, Miss Seo Mun, do everything you wish—oh dear, you’re cutting my neck, what a rascal you are, huhu.

By the strong-against-weak, weak-against-strong law, shouldn’t Qing have wrapped her around a finger long ago?

Why wasn’t she wringing her dry already?

Because Qing had no clue where this favor sprang from.

Because I’m a blood-poisoned one?

Then if I stopped being blood-poisoned?

It wouldn’t be strange at all if her eyes flipped cold and she casually carved Qing to pieces.

The premise that she poured boundless affection because of “blood-poisoned one” was absurd on its face.

Most likely “blood-poisoned one” was just a pretext; through it, she had a scheme to accomplish something.

What was sure: it wasn’t something achieved by threats or force, but something that could only be achieved if I truly chose to help and go with her.

Qing looked at Eon Yeonyeong’s soft mouth as she carefully began to wipe Qing’s body.

She even hummed a nasal tune—thrumming with glee.

Those careful hands, scared she might hurt or leave a mark—would she treat her own child this way? No: parents usually scrub a layer of skin off their kids.

Then why?

“What’s your scheme?”

“Oh my, ‘scheme’? That stings. I’m only expressing my feelings.”

“Most people don’t call siccing a death chase on someone ‘feelings.’”

Huhu, went Eon Yeonyeong.

“Arms up, please? I confess I regret making a fuss. Time would have led you to understand me anyway. Seeing you after so long, I got hasty and threw a fit.”

“Throw a fit twice and you’ll kill a person.”

“So now I’ll leave it to the natural course. If I butt in, I’ll only earn your hatred.”

Left alone, I’ll end up in her arms—so she says.

What is this certainty—this confidence?

Because my face happens to be, well, exactly her type? No—catastrophically exactly?

Hmph. People don’t live on faces.

Granted, this one actually looks like she could live on eating faces.

It all fades with age anyway.

Ah. Or is it—

Like my still-radiant teacher, she’s confident she’ll keep that blazing beauty for a thousand years?

That when I age I’ll come to her at last?

No way.

You’d have to take me for a complete idiot.

Qing shut down her inner thoughts and played dumb.

“Haven’t you earned enough hatred already? You talk like this is all preordained. What is this—lovers’ spat?”

But Eon Yeonyeong only massaged Qing’s forearm until the suds bloomed, wearing that languid smile.

Qing just went limp.

Screw it. Whatever.

She didn’t feel like Eon would flip in the next instant.

Her touch as a bath attendant was clumsy as could be, but so careful and sincere it made Qing melt.

“Hnnh... mmm.”

Noticing the change, Eon Yeonyeong’s humming grew even jauntier.

So she could get this giddy—first I’ve seen.

In any case, a burden slid off Qing’s heart.

She’d slipped out in the dead of night—people would worry, she’d thought.

Judging by this, things were breaking good.

If I sprint hard, I can make it back. Mm... but do I really have to work up a sweat again right after a bath? Sleeping when you’re bone-dry is the best...

Handled like a precious treasure, it took a fair while to get her scrubbed head to toe.

At this rate, how many clients could she take in a day as a scrub girl? Or is this one of those high-end, limited slots—charge a fortune?

The fact that stray thoughts crept in meant her tension had already sloughed off.

And honestly, even if she tried to keep tense, the other side being this gentle made it impossible.

So Qing came out having received a grand bath rather than given one.

“Phew. I’m so happy. Here, Miss Seo Mun—my present to you.”

In the changing room off the bath, Eon Yeonyeong lifted something with a flourish.

An elegant set of azure silk martial garb.

Even at a glance, you could tell: a masterpiece worth its weight in gold.

“They say you’re called A-Qing because you favor blue. This is a hand-made suit sewn full of someone’s love. The silk was woven from celestial silkworm, the dye brewed from northern indigo and set in three baths, and the cloth hand-dyed by me. Then stitch by stitch—worked an entire year to shape it into martial wear.”

Qing knew what celestial silkworm was.

The lord of silkworms—its thread said to be unmatched in toughness under heaven.

And single-maker, pure stock?

Like hosting a meal and starting by growing the rice—no matter how suspect and wicked Eon Yeonyeong was, the devotion sewn into that garb softened Qing’s heart.

A dangerous woman who might flip any day—but in this moment, she was sincere.

“Ahem. Normally I wouldn’t accept. I’m unusually magnanimous today, so I’ll make an exception.”

“Huhu. Allow me to dress you.”

Qing obediently raised arms and legs and did as told.

But why were the underthings off-the-rack instead of custom?

When you tailor martial wear, don’t you usually tailor the underthings too?

And they’re... no, they’re downright tight.

This way the chest is cramped, the bottom rides up—fancy outerwear ruined by lousy wear feel.

Save a drowning man and he demands your bundle—what a thief-bitch attitude. Well, she is the next Divine Thief, the best of best thief-bitches.

“Ah—right. The set I came in? You’ll wash it and send it after?”

“Oh my, ‘martial wear’? You mean that rag?”

“Hey—‘rag’ is a bit much...”

It was cheap, rough stuff, sure, but tough and broken-in—I was attached to it...

Where did I buy that? If I get the same kind and wear it a couple months, it’ll feel identical.

Honestly it was fraying. Got torn up a lot from traps on Mount Lao.

But the exchange rate was good. Couldn’t be helped.

Qing finished the long bath, hooked a thumb under the tight underwear cutting across the seat of her martial pants and tugged, and stepped out of the changing room—

—and there stood an imperious young beauty, still with a girlish edge to her, flanked by a maid.

“Huhu! Heavenly Flower Sword. As expected, the face is half-and—mm—somewhat handsome—no, very handsome...”

She blocked the corridor and shouted with brio—then faltered, as if something had gone wrong.

“Your Highness? Please, focus.”

“R-right! You dare interfere with our sect’s affair? I, the Heart-Plucking Demon Princess—ah—y-you!!”

The girl, finally mustering her wits to say something, suddenly let out a sharp shriek, snapped up her forefinger, and barked.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

Whose daughter points in a stranger’s face at first sight?

“Who are you?”

“Y-you! That outfit! Do you know what it took me to make it! I—raising those filthy worms with my own hands for the Society Lord—me, cleaning their shit, scrubbing every breeding box, measuring with a rule so the stitching wouldn’t stray—me, pricking myself thousands of times, one stitch at a time—you thieving bitch! How—how dare you—how could you—my precious—of his—mine—!”

When you’re too furious and too flabbergasted at once, speech jams and nonsense comes out.

That girl was exactly that picture.

But listened to closely, she did seem to be asserting ownership of the martial garb.

“Eh?”

Qing glanced at Eon Yeonyeong.

What? I’m sure she said she hand-made the outfit for me—from the materials up, tailored to me.

So why was another “maker” claimant appearing here?

Eon Yeonyeong, catching Qing’s look, smiled bright.

“Oh my. I never said I made it, did I? I said it was made by someone who poured in their love. That someone... is her.”