Chapter 554: Hanga Yoran (14)

Tang Nanaa worked frantically over Qing, who sat cross-legged, dressing the wound.

“I—I can’t— I can’t live, I can’t live...”

She poured on Hemostatic Powder, smeared a thick layer of wound salve; the hands that had climbed from thigh upward halted at the chest. No—why is she, again—really, really...

Moisture blurred Tang Nanaa’s sight.

Even knowing that not being sliced exactly in half along that diagonal was a blessing, and that those muscles were as hard as ten-thousand-year cold iron so even needles barely went in—even so, wasn’t it a miracle that her belly hadn’t split and her intestines hadn’t spilled out?

Shuddering, Tang Nanaa muttered, “Ugh—this—why—why won’t it come off,” and wrestled off the damned, stubborn vest and waistcoat she’d forced on, then wrapped them.

She’d already dusted Tang Clan’s Hemostatic Powder—the best in the Central Plains—and spread Golden Wound Salve; those muscles were too solid to stitch anyway, and stitches would surely break Qing’s concentration and ruin the timing.

So there was nothing more to do.

But—but...!

Even so, she couldn’t leave; she twisted in helpless panic, afraid that at any moment Qing’s head would suddenly droop—afraid she would just sit there like some damned living Buddha—why had this idiot girl ended up like this—what do I do, what do I—

Then it happened.

A corner of her vision brightened—behind Qing’s head, a single flower rose, faint and gentle.

“Ah.”

Tang Nanaa stared blankly at that flower.

If Qing was this desperate, she—how could she shake like a fool.

She scrubbed her eyes dry with a firm swipe of her sleeve; when the wrist passed, the eyes left behind no longer trembled, set and steady.

Tang Nanaa briskly scooped the fallen throwing implements and medicine vials from the ground and stuffed them tight—into her sleeve, against her chest, down into her skirt.

Xuanyuan Sword—the blade of the greatest emperor of the Central Plains.

A god’s sword that, with one sweep, could hew a hundred thousand foes.

Back at the contest, Qing had recoiled—“what kind of broken, busted cheat is that”—and even then it had only been sword-qi; now the ever-stretching gang-qi that ran out and out left onlookers speechless—divine might beyond reason.

So Gongsun Yoye alone locked down the rear sector.

“Long! It’s long!” “Move!” “It keeps extending!”

They acted like dullards, those Blood Fiends—but weren’t they terribly crafty?

They stalked Seo Mun Surin, pounced for her whenever they could, and kept changing the lines of incursion. They had realized that if they rushed all at once they’d only be mass-slaughtered in a single slice.

They opened distance and came one by one in a chain to steal her breathing; they leapt high and low, crawled, shifted elevation, angled in on the diagonal, even shoved a dead comrade’s corpse out front to try to block the gang-qi.

Even so, Gongsun Yoye held the line and let not one through—because from the earliest past she remembered, all that time swinging a sword had made her responses sure.

But what human can bear and wield a newcomer’s authority?

So the gang-qi flowed by burning life, burning true essence.

A life she would gladly have burned for the clan—how could she begrudge burning it for a friend as precious as her clan.

Her only friend—no, not the only one any longer—but for her most precious friend.

Still, it was a pity.

If she could live even a day more, half a day, a single shichen more, she could spend that time with Seo Mun Surin.

Pity—but not regret.

When a thing must be used at the time it must be used—what’s the fuss?

Seol Iri and the Blood Fiends had much in common.

“Cold!” “So cold!” “Ice dragon!” “So cool!”

First, their vocabulary sat at the same level.

She would insist not, but anyone could see she wielded the same tier of words.

Second, she did not spare her body.

A style that ignored defense, all-in on attack.

Granted, Seol Iri could protest.

For Blood Fiends, orders were a supreme task above their own well-being. To carry out orders, even if they conserved their lives, it didn’t matter if they themselves were hurt or killed—they’d been modified that way.

Compared to that, what sort of martial art was ice-craft?

Worst for destructiveness and lethality; and the sequelae were filthy and stubborn—frost-split, frost-shattered wounds that were lucky to leave “only” scars.

Sequelae that would never fade in a lifetime—an art with a dirty, messy aftertaste.

So most warriors, when facing the price of ice-craft, shrank back and their momentum ebbed; it was an art you used with a vicious resolve—fine, I’ll die and you’ll be crippled.

Even so, the reason Seol Iri was still surging and driving in a host of ice dragons—first—was that her originally miserable inner strength had been shored up by learning Ice-White Divine Art and, after that, a ruthless period of energy-accumulation.

But the reason Seol Iri fought was not some paltry paying-back of a favor.

In Seol Iri’s life, the only kindness shown her had been a small pity from her uncle, that Seol family bastard.

Warmth she could not understand, never having had a family.

But now she could understand.

A mother’s warmth cradling a child; an elder sister’s feigned indifference as she cares for her younger; and the heart the elder sister has when she looks upon the younger.

Seol Iri, who had lived alone with no one to lean on, now had a family. Strangers, foreigners with not a drop of shared blood—not even of the same people.

A warmness her own people, her own blood had never once given.

So Seol Iri breathed out cold once more.

My mother. My elder sister. But I’m older, so—my younger sister.

“Tang sis! This way!”

Ice-White Divine Palm smashed into the foe.

One Blood Fiend flew—but another vaulted over the top and came lunging.

Seol Iri raised her left arm to block, yanked her right in tight—ready to give up an arm if that was what it took to slice a throat.

Shwick—suddenly a thick long needle jutted from the airborne Blood Fiend’s eye.

“Hey! You! Are you really going to act like a crazy bitch? Could you maybe not? Do I have to take care of this side too!?”

“Mm. No. I mean—no.”

“What? Why do you talk like that—and why are you dropping forms!?”

“My choice.”

“Wh—what! You! You! In front of Qing you pretend to be all prim—putting on every last bit of fake demureness—!”

“Seol sis! Leap!”

At that, Seol Iri scattered rime with a flutter and sprang high.

A Blood Fiend’s corpse skimmed beneath her feet and crashed into the one that had been charging; they tumbled across the ground together.

Reason two why Seol Iri was still going strong:

Jegal Ihyeon matched her well.

Reading the battle, it would have been a big loss in total strength for Murong Juhee to stick to Seol Iri and bodyguard; coordinating, he took the role instead, set the formation, and volunteered.

Of course Seol Iri rampaged so violently she kept pushing into places his hands couldn’t reach, but then he would call on Tang Nanaa’s help—and somehow, someway, they kept slipping past the worst crises.

“Seol sis, this way! Do not break formation! Miss even one and it’ll reach you!”

At that she scampered right back to position.

For a moment she wondered why only Seo Mun Surin got to be just “sis,” while the rest were Seol sis, Tang sis, Murong sis—but the next Blood Fiend rushed her, and she thrust her arm out again.

A flash—Chang Sanya’s sword-qi, and Namgung Sinjae’s twin swords, all drew the most perfect routes to converge on one spot.

Royal Sword Form—Namgung Sinjae ground his teeth.

Wasn’t this a shabby excuse for a sword, shameful to the name of a sovereign—how could someone who was only barely blocking and dodging dare to call himself royal?

So—three blades—clang!

In that instant, along the track carved by Chang Sanya’s sword-qi, formless edge tore the air to shreds with savage force.

Namgung Sinjae, looking disgraceful, dropped to a crouch and barely slipped out of that destruction.

Ideation—a Flower Realm warrior’s projection.

Along the sword’s path, a half-beat late, an invisible blade lashes out; it was only good that he had recognized that swordcraft earlier—otherwise he would have been hit unknowing by a vicious hidden edge.

Wind-Dragon Ascends Sword—when it reaches the utmost, the winds fanged behind the sword—the blades of wind—chew the foe.

The record had described it exactly.

Chang Sanya flicked his blade from afar toward the crouched Namgung Sinjae—a horizontal cut skimming low; the wind-blade would follow and pounce.

But—clang!

Peng Daesan dove, hurled himself, and intercepted the strike with his saber.

The crescent Chang Sanya had been sketching low snapped off mid-arc.

Whoosh—the keen wind scraped Namgung Sinjae’s neck by a hair, leaving a fine line.

“Kh—thanks!”

“Move!”

Peng Daesan rolled to his feet and barked.

No time to give thanks—get up and help.

Knowing him, Namgung Sinjae sprang up, ran with both points down, tips skimming the ground—and clang! Cut across the air to knock aside Chang Sanya’s next rising slash.

Truly a vile, dirty swordcraft.

All it did was open distance and, from far off, slash with invisible blade-qi—hidden edges you couldn’t see.

Normally such means would guzzle inner energy—but would a Blood Sect demon who grew his dantian on human hearts have “normal” inner strength?

They could not even counterattack; they were hard-pressed just to chase and hack at the roots of his swordcraft. Even when they forced a rebound, the recoil whisked him far away.

An endless game of tag—unfair, with the “tagger” the one getting pummeled and rolling.

Chang Sanya drew back his sword.

Anyone could show a quick blade swinging at empty air; Peng Daesan still had three steps left, and Namgung Sinjae had lost his balance.

No! Namgung Sinjae stamped down anyway—crack—pain lanced his knee—but Chang Sanya’s sword came free and swung—

Whick! Clang.

A flying dagger, suddenly streaking in, deflected Chang Sanya’s blade up off its line.

The trajectory alone was odd; the energy it held was laughably meager—an ambush that, even if you took it, would barely scratch you.

But who would dare try to body-block a Tang Clan hidden weapon?

His mouth tasted sweet with iron, his body screamed for air, and his lungs couldn’t cope—inhale and exhale collided midway, and his airway felt like it would burst.

Look at Brother Peng—

Skinned head to toe by wind-blades he hadn’t managed to block—

He was probably in the same state.

Peng Daesan slammed a palm to the ground and heaved himself upright.

His deeply gashed forearm shrieked with indescribable pain, but he clenched his teeth and drove forward again.

Hadn’t he strutted that he’d “hold out like a champ”?

Hadn’t he even pulled that frivolous, stylish peacocking only Jo would do—

There was no way he could be lying there dead like a disgrace, meet Qing with one more lost, and wear that grief-stricken face.

A guy who butts in to “help” as a friend with not a single reason beyond busybodying—and yet, when it’s his own business, hugs it to himself and runs, giving no one a chance to help—selfish bastard.

That bastard had finally stuck one foot out and opened his heart.

If he disappointed her now, he would live like a stubborn fool the rest of his life.

All right then—what can’t I hold out against?

Just holding—ha—damn it.

Peng Daesan ground his teeth.

“Just hold”? When he and that bastard were both Absolute?

He should be felling the foe, then, bloodied and ragged, sneering, “What took you so long? It’s already over—should I wait more?”

If he’d known it would be like this, he would have trained.

Instead of touring about to dodge the clan’s nagging, he should have swung his saber one more time.

Instead of slipping away when his elder sister teased him, he should have traded one more set and one more spar.

The time he’d wasted till now cut to the bone.

If he could go back, he’d trade every moment for cultivation.

Fine—except for when he went to Kaifeng.

Peng Daesan snorted; a sudden laugh burst out of him.

Asura. Descendant of Asura.

Then he’d taken a punch—yeah—those hands were damned spicy for real—worthy of Asura’s heir, he had thought.

He truly had seen a flash before his eyes. Ha. Right. A fist like thunderbolt.

All at once Peng Daesan drained the force out of the saber he was sending forward. His left hand snapped in tight.

At his flank—crackle—lightning spat.

Tic—the emptied saber met Chang Sanya’s sword, couldn’t check it, and was shoved aside.

But in that instant—just that fragment stolen when the clash bled speed—just that tiny gap—Peng Daesan’s left hand speared out as a streak of thunder.

Mixed-Origin Thunderbolt Palm, Eighth Move: Settled.

By the time you turn your head at the sound, the lightning has already fallen; thunder strikes first, and only after does it give light and roar.

Chang Sanya saw the palm streaking for his thigh and jerked his leg back in panic.

Peng Daesan’s hand only raked the place where the enemy had been and smashed empty air—

KWA-RUNG!

“Graaah!”

With the thunderclap, Chang Sanya screamed and skittered back five full steps.

Which is to say—no closer than five steps.

“How dare—!”

The struck Chang Sanya’s eyes rolled white again. How much patience did a demon who had entered Demon have, after all?

Gripping his sword in both hands, he raised it—up, all the way behind his head—elbows folded, tips pointing to heaven.

“No!”

Tang Nanaa shrieked, tore at her sleeves in a panic—but her groping hand found only an empty inner pocket—of all times—

Shlick!!

Chang Sanya ripped the air with all his might.

He simply chopped down with full strength—back humped, knees bent—until the blade sank deep, almost to the guard, in the earth.

Shameful form for a warrior, one could say—but a half-beat late, the force he’d packed overflowed, surged into shape as a dark edge, and came rushing right to their faces—

And then—

the sound of a great temple bell rolling out and covering the world.