Chapter 550: Hanga Yoran (10)

The freaks brushing past Qing’s sides split into two kinds.

One kind turned their heads away as though they had seen something unbearable, shrieking as they scurried far off in a wide arc.

The other kind didn’t avoid her, yet carried a strange look of fear—some even bowing politely when their eyes met hers.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

Well, the first kind she already tangled with back in Guangzhou, so that explained itself.

But... were the Blood Cult fiends afraid of Seo Munqing’s existence?

Come to think of it—how did the Blood Cult intend to employ so many of these fiends in the first place?

Even if they had some method of control to stop these heart-hungry, eye-rolling monsters from salivating over every chest they saw, there’s no way they could separate foe from ally so neatly. They’d need a way to make them fight only the enemies of the Blood Cult.

You wouldn’t even need to think too hard—the key was surely the presence or absence of Heart-Seizing Power.

The ones scattering and fleeing were likely the Blood Ghouls she saw in Guangzhou. The ones staring blankly, wondering Why’s she coming this way? must be a different breed of heart-eating monsters.

Then? All the better for me.

Qing, watching the Blood Cult master Chang Sanya, noted he hadn’t caught on yet. Without delay she lowered herself, crouched, and slipped out of sight.

Truthfully, there wasn’t a part of her body unscathed—cut, stabbed, beaten as she cut off her enemies’ breaths.

Her torso—well, there was no medicine, no bandage, no needle at hand. Not that she was fragile or prone to infection anyway.

But the ache in her dantian, the blood channels crushed under the flow of her inner energy—those could at least be tended to at once.

Qing quietly settled her raging energy.

Right there, in the middle of enemy lines, she began circulating her cultivation method.

Even if she was off-mission—no heart could be this iron.

****

Meanwhile, the demonic warriors of the heterodox faction had been driven into an isolated ring, like a lonely island amid the tide of rushing fiends.

“Heart! Fresh heart!”

“Just one bite! Let me taste it, just once!”

“Just a taste, please! I’m starving—I can’t remember how long it’s been!”

The frenzied Blood Ghouls hurled themselves forward, sparing nothing of their own bodies in pursuit of hearts.

Blades pierced them—they charged on regardless.

They gladly gave up arms or legs if only they could drive a knife-hand into a torso and greedily wrench out a heart.

They even fought among themselves, grappling over who would claim the prize. It was a grotesque spectacle, but all the more chilling for it—demons of hell, caring for nothing but devouring hearts, even above their own lives.

Some leapt high, trampling comrades’ backs and shoulders and heads, springing into the enemy lines. Strategy? Hardly. It was simply madness—gluttony turned feral.

The exchange rate of sect warriors to Blood Ghouls was five to one, six to one—appalling. Yet the numbers were so overwhelmingly in the fiends’ favor that, in simple arithmetic, the sect warriors seemed doomed, unable to last.

But not quite.

Those cut down by the fiends were all low-level martial men, far below the true masters.

Even as the sect’s numbers thinned, what remained were the core experts, whittled down but growing all the more concentrated.

Which left Chang Sanya—self-styled Vice Lord of the Heart-Devouring Demon Palace, known to others as Vice Chief of the Flesh-Eating Gang—uttering an uneasy groan.

Twenty years.

Twenty years spent crafting, one by one, gathering his Blood Ghouls—only to see them melt away before his eyes.

The creation of a Blood Ghoul itself wasn’t difficult.

Feed a wretch ten devil-hearts forged by great sorcery—instantly, you had one. Once given a heart, it would obey commands over hunger for about ten days. A Blood Ghoul, produced just like that.

But after the feeding, their obedience waned, leaving them useless to the Blood Cult still biding its time in secrecy. Incomplete products.

So he kept them sedated with drugs, starved them to the brink, raised them on as little food as possible.

Year by year, they learned to suppress hunger and appetite.

Raise one like that for ten years, and you had a true Blood Fiend—a monster indistinguishable from a human.

The males became Bloodlamundo.

The females were fed beasts’ hearts to add feral instincts, then used as hunters, prostitutes, or courtesans. Carefully, frugally nurtured pets.

And now these precious fruits of effort were being squandered. How could he simply watch?

Chang Sanya’s gaze fixed on a point.

His target: the place where the Blood Fiends were suffering the worst losses—where a fat man and a gaunt monk stood together.

The fat man blocked the ghouls bare-handed—his clothes in tatters, down to his undergarments, yet utterly unharmed.

The gaunt monk supported from behind, hurling wave after wave of blood-red palm strikes—wherever they landed, heads, arms, legs burst apart. Clearly the famed esoteric arts of Western Tibet.

Together with gathered warriors, they held their ground, leaving only heaps of wasted ghouls at their feet.

But then—wait. Why were they the only ones fighting?

Where was the Heavenly Flower Sword?

Chang Sanya whipped his head side to side.

Could it be—she ran?

A cold shock plunged his heart.

The Demon King had already lost his daughter. If he lost his sworn enemy too? That wrath would surely fall upon him.

“Heavenly Flower Sword! Where is that bitch! Find the Heavenly Flower Sword!”

The low-tier Blood Ghouls, eyes already rolled back with hunger, didn’t even pretend to listen.

But the near-complete ones, those with scraps of reason, responded—

Or rather, they reacted.

Heavenly Flower Sword? Is that food? A sword? A famous sword? Why?

Their innocent eyes blinked up at their master. Newly awakened Blood Fiends had no way of knowing what a “Heavenly Flower Sword” was.

“Damn it—the Heavenly Flower Sword! That bitch’s name is Seo Munqing! Find Seo Munqing!”

Seo Munqing? Who’s that? Is she food? A person? Don’t know. You? Me neither. Hah, me neither.

Chang Sanya clutched his chest in frustration.

These stupid beasts!

“Forget it! Just do your jobs! Wipe out the sect bastards!”

With a stomp that shattered the floor beneath him, Chang Sanya launched skyward.

His body, propelled by exquisite lightness skill, soared high above the buildings—leaping roof to roof toward the outskirts.

But then, looking down on the battlefield, his eye caught someone—one figure alone, seated cross-legged, apart from the carnage.

Amid the slaughter—death and blood and torn flesh everywhere—there was someone outside, alone, in meditation? Of course his eyes would be drawn.

At first, Chang Sanya dismissed it.

Must be a corpse, seated in death.

The Blood Fiends wouldn’t ignore a living, beating heart. Surely he had died in that pose.

Two rooftops later, another thought struck him.

No. If he’d been killed by Blood Ghouls, he’d have been ripped to shreds. They didn’t stop at the heart—they devoured blood and flesh alike. No way an intact body would be sitting cross-legged.

Crash—his step rattled tiles as he landed on a roof.

And looking closer—clothes soaked in blood, color unrecognizable—and yes, yes, that...!

In an instant, Chang Sanya exploded with rage.

Not only had she slain the Demon Princess and dragged sect warriors here, ruining twenty years of plans—now she sat in tranquility, tending her inner wounds, at this moment?!

“You bitch!! Seo Munqing!!”

“...Ah. Busted.”

At the erupting killing intent, Qing sprang up, blade in hand, and cut into the Blood Fiends.

The low-grade ones shuddered and fell back. The rest were hacked apart before they could even attempt resistance.

At once, Chang Sanya realized the truth.

That bitch had mastered Heart-Seizing Power!

And from the way the fiends recoiled—she’d achieved no small mastery either!

How could one hailed as a righteous heroine do this? Damn these hypocrites!

He stamped and vaulted forward, shattering a roof beneath him, body launched like a cannonball.

Qing split into eight shadows and slipped aside.

Behind her—boom! A heavy impact rattled the air.

A bad memory surged up. Damn it—she hated enemies dropping out of the sky most of all.

Then, suddenly, a Blood Ghoul loomed before her, staring blankly.

What are you gawking at? She lopped its head off, spinning—

But the lack of resistance felt oddly unsettling—

“That’s her! That’s the Heavenly Flower Sword! Oum, An, Vahal—! Don’t kill her! Break her limbs! Maim her! Hold her down and hinder her! That is the top command!”

At once, every Blood Ghoul except the lowest-tier swung toward Qing.

“...Ah, shit.”

She cursed her own luck. Shouldn’t have thought it, shouldn’t have jinxed it.

“Break her limbs!”

“Don’t kill the Heavenly Flower Sword—block her!”

“That’s her! That’s the Heavenly Flower Sword!”

“Break her!!”

“I’ll cut her!”

“Me too!!”

They surged all at once.

But their speech—it seemed off? Odd?

The ones who avoided her stench earlier weren’t this dim—they were sharp enough, only maddened by hunger.

So why were these ones dumber—but obedient?

Qing stepped forward—Sacred Maiden Sword, Heavenly Maiden in Grand Boldness.

A clean stroke split a fiend in half.

Not a lofty form, but with its ruthless ferocity, it struck fear into enemies—a technique Qing favored.

But this time—another fiend’s blade thrust through the cleft corpse without hesitation, slashing for her wrist.

Clang! Her blade snapped, grazing the fiend’s cheek and carving a long cut—

“Wrist tough! Doesn’t cut!”

Qing realized at once.

These bastards had lost all fear.

And without fear, they obeyed blindly.

Her figure split eightfold again.

The fiends spread to match, cutting her off from every angle.

The moment she reappeared—slam! They body-checked her from behind. She staggered. A blade stabbed her thigh.

“Ghhhk!”

She screamed—but such screams, sharp and short, meant she could bear it.

The thigh muscles were the strongest in the body—and hers, hardened by Little Demon Art, were second only to her elbows.

“Thigh tough too!”

“Target her foot!”

“I’ll take the shoulder!”

“I’ll take the thigh!”

“Hand!”

“Upper arm!”

Qing gritted her teeth. Damn it—they acted like idiots, but they weren’t fools!

She slashed again, a diagonal strike.

The fiend thrust its arm forward, fearless. Her blade cut from palm through elbow and halfway up the bicep—stuck.

And then the fiend’s left hand clamped down on her wrist.

“It hurts! But I caught you!”

Not that they didn’t feel pain—its right arm dangled in two pieces. Yet still it clutched her wrist like iron.

Heat seared her shoulder—another fiend latched on. Another gripped her leg. Another coiled around her other leg. Yet another hugged her waist.

One by one, they weren’t much—first-rate at best. But fearless, unyielding, obeying blindly—they were shackles in human form.

“You bitch!”

Qing spun, fiends dangling from her limbs.

Weighted down like fetters, her movement dulled. Looking up—an onrushing wave of force!

She split into eight forms, but four shadows dragged down by fiends collapsed. She face-planted, scraping along the ground.

The stench, the wet drip from her nose, the stabbing agony in her skull—like lances skewering her brain. Her vision wavered thin and narrow. Ughh—damn it—hkk!

Even a single fiend clinging while she used Wave-Stepping Misty Steps had hurt her head. Now with four—it was backlash, plain and simple.

Besides—she was forcing techniques beyond her level, using shortcuts she had no right to.

Qing seized a fiend’s hair, yanked.

It resisted with all its might—so she twisted back, crack! Its neck snapped, grip slackening.

She wrenched another’s throat and sprang up—Moon Maiden Step, an anti-gravity leap.

“She flew!”

“Block the Heavenly Flower Sword!”

Fiends sprang after her.

What goes up must come down. As she fell, one reached out, mouth agape. She stomped its face—crack! Its skull burst under the demonic energy surging from her sole, propelling her skyward again.

Her weighted right arm clenched, slamming her fist into another’s ribs—crack! The torso caved, arms falling away.

She whirled and swung, hurling a fiend like a mace.

At last freed of her shackles, Qing darted nimbly through the horde.

Focused solely on evasion, her movements became serpentine, boneless—sliding between, beneath, behind.

She bent backward, slipped sideways, slid under crotches, spun at right angles, even dashed backward suddenly.

Fiends crashed and stumbled over each other, tumbling in heaps.

But she was only evading.

No matter how she cut them, they only offered their bodies, refusing to die. They clung, they clamped, they dropped their weapons just to hold her.

“You bitch! Stop scurrying like a rat and face me head-on!”

“Ha! Do you beg a rat for a duel of life and death? Old bastard—you can’t even catch a rat, and you’d lecture your betters?!”

At least whenever Chang Sanya swung his blade-qi after her, he took off a fiend’s limb or two in the process. Otherwise, she’d be trapped forever in this endless game of tag.

But she was weakening.

Even shallow wounds, after an hour and a half of this frenzy, bled her strength.

Her limbs felt heavy. Her blood loss was mounting.

Maybe dragging them here had been a mistake.

She thought it a perfect trick—to sever the Blood Cult and those damned art-seekers at once.

How was she to know hundreds of monsters awaited?

Qing clenched her teeth.

Don’t despair. Don’t falter.

This was her choice. Bite down and endure.

And then—

“Qing!! Down! Quickly! Seo Munqing!!”

A voice—deep, resonant, yet urgent, pleading.

Calling her by name.

Instinctively, Qing flung herself flat.

---!!!!

The ground convulsed. Buildings rattled, dust cascaded down.

Like thunder made flesh—an ear-splitting roar.

A sound beyond sound, battering not her ears but her entire body, skin and bones alike—an overwhelming detonation that shook heaven and earth.