Chapter 545: Hanga Yoran (5)

Qing swept the surroundings with a hard, cutting eye.

Eon Yeonyeong lay on the floor, shellacked in blood. Women ringed her as if standing guard.

So that was why they’d drenched themselves—after a bloodbath, the corpse-puppets that remained had fallen to “guarding that bitch.”

And weapons. Anything that could be a weapon.

As Qing glanced about, fwip—A sword flew in and came to a polite stop before her.

A smear of blood and yellowish grease on the tip—ugh—made Qing suddenly relive the pain in her chest.

It was the very sword Heart-Plucking Demon Princess Yu Ryang had stabbed her with.

A woman’s sword—somewhat short, quick, and of thin blade, a typical Central Plains softsword that easily flexed and swayed.

One reason Yu Ryang had failed to punch through Qing’s pectoralis major was likely that soft, yielding blade.

Only, the thing wasn’t some sacred relic that moved of its own will to cut down foes; why was it bobbing up before her with its hilt politely offered?

Because someone was controlling it.

Qing cut her eyes at Eon Yeonyeong and clenched her teeth.

You’ll “give” me a sword—so do it yourself?

You dogshit bitch. I won’t let you go.

I absolutely will not.

Qing took the sword in hand.

Compared to Moonlight Sword No. 10 and the maul-backed crescent blade, both wickedly massive weapons, this new blade’s endlessly feathery weight failed to please in the slightest.

Why is this so light?

Hmph. You don’t deserve the name Moonlight Sword.

Your name from now on is Skewer. Skewer.

Of course, heavy weapons had mysteries of the heavy, light weapons had mysteries of the light; hard blades their own mysteries, soft blades theirs.

And the proper degree shifted with the user’s strength besides. Even so, the former Heart-Plucking Princess’s sword—now Skewer—simply didn’t suit Qing.

Qing kicked out of the bath.

They’d surely rented the suite for another half shichen at least—yet there the insolent lot were, intruding on someone else’s changing room: two four six—seven!

Four stood in place; three women crawled on the floor, leashed like dogs. Hm. Astonishing hobbies—no, tastes must be respected.

“Who—” “Lady Yu Ryang!” “Grrrr—!”

“Yu Ryang isn’t here! In! stead! I! will! serve! you! scalding! water!”

Qing barked, and swung the huge wooden water tub—shhhraa!

“Gyaah!” “Grrakh!” “Hot!”

Blood Sect lackeys, doused in hot water, danced and convulsed for joy.

Leashes slipped free in the scuffle; the three women—dogs? both, so bitches—charged Qing at once.

Sword in a firm grip, Qing instantly read why the bitches wore collars and ran on all fours.

Martial arts were devised to face enemies who stood on two legs—no one had written them assuming freaks who sprinted on all fours.

Low to the ground, they rushed in!

A sharp pounce aimed cunningly at the lower body.

Likely the leg-grabbing squad.

In the instant, Qing’s right foot lashed out with a roaring vigor.

The top of her foot cracked the first bitch’s cheek—teeth flying in a merry spray.

Riding the rebound, Qing’s body turned; her left leg coiled so tight the toes brushed her hip, muscles swelling like a bow drawn to its limit—

Bang!—or so it sounded as her unusually long leg snapped out again—crack!!—into the second bitch’s cheek.

Mandarin Ducks Kick—left-and-right knee like iron maces.

In truth, the Mandarin Ducks Kick was never a technique imitating that bird, symbol of marital harmony. Who would found a martial art on a short-legged paddling fowl? Perhaps if it had long, lithe, elegant crane legs.

“Mandarin ducks” meant always a pair—two as one.

In martial terms, the “ducks” were a pair of consecutive kicks, left and right.

The bitches spun off to left and right, teeth snowing.

The last, the one farthest back, sprang through the gap—boing!

But Qing’s right leg was already lifted high, the sole level with the ceiling.

Standing on her left, torso canted, right leg thrust perfectly straight—both legs making a true line as if propping up the sky.

Rrrrummble! The heavens howled.

Heavenly Demon Conquest Step—One Step Shakes the Heavens.

Just a step—yet the sky itself shuddered in fear.

For a flicker, the back of a man crossed Qing’s mind.

Heavenly Demon—parasitic mind-thing—why are you striking a pose? Been a while—should I drag you out and beat you?

Qing’s foot fell.

Crunch—The bitch’s head mashed like a crushed cracker—then the single step that made even heaven dread stamped the inn’s floor. Soot-black demonic qi ringed out in waves—

One. Two. Three.

A half-zhang radius of flooring flipped and blew apart.

Thick boards shattered to flinders; through a hole about a board wide, the inn’s scanty frame laid its bones bare.

Luckily, a changing room sat beneath this changing room. Qing hopped down with a light bound, rrrk—wrenched a door open, and sprinted the corridor.

There’d been twists and turns, but fine—she could just bolt straight for Suzhou like this.

Ah—shit—my Moonlight Sword, my gold......

The gold she could count toward the repair bill. But this Moonlight Sword had truly been to her taste.

The thought of what she’d left behind tugged at her—

—Where is that bitch!? —My lady!! —The Heavenly Flower Sword! It’s the Heavenly Flower Sword! —My Absorbing Qi Demonic Art! Where is it!

Qing swallowed down her regret at the racket behind.

Weapons weren’t things you clung to for a thousand years; you used them, they wore out, you bought new ones.

And whose “Absorbing Qi Demonic Art,” you little shit? Who left that with me? Wasn’t that Pobidon, the fat bastard?

Qing gripped the railing and kept dropping from landing to landing.

The riskiest way to go down stairs—an uncivilized, retrograde technique.

But Qing’s physical abilities were first under heaven. Strength, flexibility, spring, balance—to the degree she’d surpassed human—she could try it.

In a blink, Qing hit the first floor.

She wove through the bustling tables, snapped a bead curtain aside—and, at last, escape!

—or like hell.

Her eyes met a line of warriors filling the space before the nine-storey pavilion, sealing it in.

Qing drew a breath—hoo—and stretched.

“......Ah, the night air is lovely. Hm. Or is it chilly, being autumn? Shall I go back inside?”

She turned with glib nonchalance—

“It’s the Heavenly Flower Sword! Seize her! Lady Yu Ryang said if we fail she’ll never spare us!”

Damn. No sale.

And they were Blood Sect scum besides.

Really—who else in front and behind had three heads of peerless beauty besides the Heavenly Flower Sword?

Especially with her chest soaked in blood, the cloth clinging to make it even more prominent.

Qing neatly abandoned re-entering the inn.

A melee would favor her—but innocents would be dragged in.

She couldn’t. She mustn’t.

“Come on, then!”

Qing hurled a bold shout.

A clear, lovely voice that rang beneath the night sky.

At that exact moment, as the Blood Sect lackeys leapt forward two steps—bong!!

The majestic boom of a great bell filled the world; then—thoom—the ground-shaking tremor.

Through the staggered ranks, Qing flashed in like a slender beam of light, scattering three sunset-colored crescents.

What the hell! You said come! Why are you the one coming!

The Blood Sect lackeys had a right to feel wronged.

But all things were always in motion; even now, moments of a great journey hurtled between the stars at unimaginable speeds. There was no such thing as a person truly standing still.

From this angle, waiting and running were the same phenomenon—closing relative distance. Back in Qing’s homeland, they proved it.

And by origin, you could even say Qing hadn’t exactly lied. Maybe. Perhaps.

Only, the vicious sword-qi Skewer traced kept stuttering and springing off in places.

First, the weapon was too light.

Here and there the hard ones—the Blood Fiends—were mixed in; the soft, whippy sword failed to transmit Qing’s monstrous strength cleanly.

Second—ahh, tss, agh—she should have bound her chest to keep it from jouncing.

When that massive mass heaved and sloshed, the gaping wound abraded and screamed.

Qing ground her teeth—then—whump—formless force blasted out; her killing intent surged.

In that instant, Qing’s pupils split long and vertical.

An ill-omened hue cleaved her blue eyes in half. Like a beast’s feral glare. Wounded beasts were the most dangerous of all.

One-Hundred-Eight Asura Sword. First Move—Forbidden Blood Wolf.

Do not corner a wounded wolf.

Qing’s bared fangs, snarling, were chilling to behold.

Her sword-line pared down to simpler strokes.

A graze at the nape, a rip across the belly-skin to spill the guts, a skim over the limbs to cut only the great vessels—fang-work that hounded blood, blood, blood.

Up spouted blood, and what rained was blood—the hiss of a fountain, the squirt like a water-jet, the wet thuds of clots, the viscous runnels in ropes.

“Kill her!” “Damn it, where—” “Right here!”

At some point, Qing let go of the sword.

Her hands spread wide—clap!—with a head between them; blood pipped from every hole—eyes dangled on strings—gyaaa! a hideous scream.

Left to right, right to left—the source of the screams flipped. She seized an ankle, swung, slammed person into person—crunch! crack! thud!

Truly the image of a wolf plunging into a flock.

And Qing was soaked in blood before she knew it.

Was this how a demon ran amok?

But there was plenty of Qing’s blood, too.

The Asura Sword’s beast-heart-image turned pain into power and dulled agony into faint pleasure—but it carried a grave side effect: it made her throw her body in with no thought to herself.

Overuse might awaken certain tastes—but that was a private like-or-dislike that harmed no one else; so long as you didn’t broadcast it, it was fine.

Even so, Heart-Plucking Demon Princess Yu Ryang had done one thing right.

Celestial silkworm silk, for all that a mere thread was powerless before sword-qi—no cloth could stop steel-qi that sliced rock and iron—

Even so, celestial silkworm silk was the sovereign of fabrics.

It stopped half-baked sword-qi.

What should have been a rush that shredded strips of skin merely left long, switch-like welts.

Stab-wounds here and there were inevitable.

Cloth by nature was helpless before piercing force; the weave opened and gave to holes.

It was then—

“Kyao-o!”

Behind Qing, a Blood Fiend came in at calf height, flying like a beast.

With a weird, unique cry, it bit her calf; then its arms locked her shin, clamping tight.

Qing—shit—stumbled; a sham sword-qi slashed for her crown. She caught it on her wrist—and then, rrragh!

Running on all fours, barking and howling and growling, a whole pack of Blood Fiends came flying at once with every animal cry under the sun.

What Blood Sect? Wasn’t this the Beast Palace!?

One bitch on her bare leg; one on her forearm, teeth sunk at the wrist; one on her shoulder—

—and then, a sharp nip!

Qing jolted.

Some bitch bit her butt!

Her mind reeled—so shocked she gasped, eek—breath knocked out, gooseflesh whooshing head to toe!

So startled that the Asura Sword’s heart-image unraveled, the beast’s pupil shrank, and even the ominous killing mood of the Heavenly Killing Star drained clean away.

No wonder her strength slackened, spasms rippling through her; even her Guardian Qi went slack—and the beasts’ teeth—chomp!

“Gkkah!”

The searing pain made Qing lurch—and then the animal pack piled on in full.

Her awakened spatial sense read the flow of the air—six bodies arrowing in, arms and legs flung wide. Five traced elegant female forms; one was flat-chested—ah, long, rich tresses—no, that one too was a woman—hold on, why were all the beast-mimics women?

Was that the Blood Sect’s taste? Filthy pigs!

Then, a flash of a man wearing a collar like a beast whipped through her mind.

Ah. Right. Come to think, it made sense. Aesthetically correct, even.

And—wham-bang!

Qing went down under the women, crushed beneath them.