Chapter 557: Recuperation Trip (2)

Qing was gravely injured.

In truth, if she hadn’t been born with a body that doesn’t catch infection, she would already have coughed out her last breath. If luck had played out differently, maybe she would have opened her eyes back in her hometown; maybe this time she would have been flung into the medieval West, and the legend of some grimy Western beggar would have picked up where it left off.

But no one can know such things.

In any case, this is what a body that resists contagion looks like — stubborn and tenacious.

Only, that’s all it was.

Apart from the forearms below the elbows, hardened like iron by the Minority Demon Arts, there wasn’t a single intact place on her.

First, a major wound.

From shoulder to the opposite thigh.

Naturally, one of those three idiot heads got cloven — and of course it had to be the same head she lopped last time. At least, that was Tang Nana’s professional opinion.

“You should be grateful it didn’t get lopped off there. If the angle had been a touch wider, or half a finger higher, one side would’ve been nothing but ornament.”

“I get called ‘three-head-this, three-head-that’ anyway. Hm. But, Nana — shoulder to thigh? Wouldn’t the scar look glorious? Maybe I should leave it, skip the scar-healing powder. Like a veteran who walked right up to the gates of the afterlife — very manly...”

Tang Nana’s fist ached.

She had never felt her low martial rank so bitterly. There was no place on the torso worth punching, the rest was too solid; only her own knuckles would suffer.

This was the drivel coming out of the mouth of someone who had just come back from the dead. How could her gut not twist.

They’d dashed out of the manor, claimed a medical room, and kept vigil in absolute bedrest for four days.

After three full nights of feverish groaning she finally opened her eyes; while they were filling her in on what had happened, this is the sort of thing they had to hear.

For the record, when they slipped out of the manor and linked up with the troops, the “drumrolls and thousands of cannons” had been pure bluster.

How could the army, in a single night, march from Suzhou to Hangzhou — and in the meantime finish deploying artillery?

An army is made of men on foot.

They weren’t steppe riders like those Tatar barbarians who sweep the land on horseback. Wang Ssangryong alone had galloped in on a horse, panting.

He ransacked the Hangzhou Thousand-Household Office for men, conscripted every village drum, and ringed the manor.

First you beat the drums to stop the fighting; then you create conditions to escort Her Ladyship to safety.

Qing, hearing it, had to admit the Grand General was a true commander.

A masterful stratagem of empty bluff!

Granted, from what they said, even without him they could have slipped out while the martial scouts and the Blood Fiends tore at each other.

Even so, he did his part.

Hangzhou was still crawling with snakes; if they hadn’t pursued into the manor, the ground outside was no less treacherous.

It was Wang Ssangryong and his troops, encamped in formation, who secured the space for treatment.

“Hm. The General.”

A man may step out for a nighttime stroll.

But someone had watched, snitched, and tattled.

Even so — Flower Realm achieved, perhaps it was time to restore the traitor Wang Ssangryong to favor. Qing was seriously considering rehabilitating him.

Right at that moment—

Rrrrrumble!

A tremendous roar burst forth — like a thunderbolt falling, the earth rending, a mountain collapsing!

Qing’s face went rigid.

Tang Nana didn’t even flinch.

If anything, she answered as if she had expected it.

“Ah, you’re hungry, Qing? We fed you rice gruel, but you’ve been abed for days.”

“I—I’m going to die. Food. Meat. Sweet and salty meat. Steamed — short ribs. And just the basics: cow, pig, chicken, duck. Fish is fine.”

Pfft.

“You starved for days and you want grease? Hm. Fish would be better. Fish soup, maybe.”

“No, meat. Meat...”

“Hmph. Sit tight.”

Tang Nana headed for the door.

Behind the screen, the door slid open — thock — then thock again as it closed.

—How is the little mistress?

—How’s Qing? Sounds like she’s regained her senses.

—And our lady...?

—Still unconscious. She needs rest. Don’t crowd the door — go on.

Seemed everyone was gathered out front.

What, was I actually unconscious?

Like those scenes in stories — I was really listening in as a spirit while Nana monologued beside my senseless body?

—Liar. I heard it. You were talking.

—What is this, then? Want me to needle you next? Hearing things now? I’ll jab a long needle in that ear and clear it right out. That’ll open it.

—Nope. If you lie, they cut tongues.

—What? You done talking?

—Tongue-cutting. You’re ignorant. And done.

—Why you— calling me ignorant, you little...!

Tongue-cutting is a punishment.

It’s dealt to slanderers or to prisoners who claim the torturer did so-and-so; you can redeem it with two gold ingots.

Punishments in the Central Plains, treason aside, could be commuted for silver or gold.

In any case, piecing together the leaking whispers, Nana was trying to block visitors.

It was reasonable enough — for a patient, the best convalescence is to do nothing, sleep, and sleep again.

But I wanted to see their faces.

And I had to check if anyone had lost a piece of themselves.

So Qing drew a breath and—

“Guys—ack!”

Even calling hurt — shouting presses the chest and drives pain.

The door rattled and in tumbled familiar faces.

“Lady Ximen!” “Little mistress!”

Gunyeong and Miss Moyong dove first, clinging to the bed; Ye met Qing’s eyes quietly; Nana stood farther off, visibly displeased.

San and Jegal watched from a sensible distance— when suddenly a lout shouldered the women aside and slammed onto the bedside.

“Sword-Friend! Sword-Friend! What was that technique! Was that the Dokgo Nine Sword Forms — the very sword left by the Heavenly Martial Emperor! What do you call it! What vision does it hold! In all my life! Never! Never such a beautiful single cut! What— what do you even— I’m so— I can’t— consonants won’t— vowels are spilling— I stayed up all ni—”

Namgung Sinjae’s fervent shout slowed; his words slurred.

He tipped sideways; Seol Iri, brows pinched, stepped neatly aside.

Thud — Namgung Sinjae hit the floor.

A long needle jutted from the nape of his neck.

Behind him stood Tang Nana, arm outstretched, eyebrows raised.

“Hey. Patient’s convalescing. Ever hear of bedside manners when you visit the sick?”

“Th—thhe n—ame— of the mo—ve— pleath—”

Even poisoned, Namgung Sinjae persisted in asking the name of the form.

Everyone else only stared down at him like he was spilled food waste or something worse.

“Lady Ximen—” “Little mistress—” “Qing—”

Words burst out at once.

They looked at each other, traded glances, tried to settle on something silently—

“Qing—” “Lady—” “Little mistress—” “Are you—”

Mm. No agreement at all.

But it was obvious what they would ask: are you all right; does it hurt. So Qing answered first.

“I’m fine. There isn’t a spot that doesn’t hurt, but nothing I can’t bear. My channels took a hit, but left alone they’ll mend. No infection in the wounds; with rest I’ll be sound. So don’t worry.”

They visibly relaxed. Qing spoke again.

“Ah. Honestly my chest hurts — a lot — and there’s a more serious issue...”

All faces turned grave at once.

Qing’s smile spread — sly as sin.

“This body. Entered the Flower Realm.”

Tang Nana had guessed as much, seeing the first blossom flare like a halo. The rest had been too busy holding their posts to notice.

They drew breath to congratulate her — and Qing cut them off.

“Oh? You don’t know what the Flower Realm is? It’s short for the Realm of Harmony. Ever heard of ‘ideation’? The mind’s power to twist the world. From now on my will is law — the realm where you bend the world’s rules. Can you even imagine how many things I can do now? Of course you can’t. You’re not Flower Realm. How would you understand?”

Their faces soured all at once.

All except the one nailed by the numbing needle.

“Hnn— c—congra—tula—shuns—!”

Even garbled, it was praise.

Qing bestowed a gentle smile on the friends staring at her in disbelief.

“Ah, of course I’m a peerless master and you’re, what, at best a bunch of ‘super-elite’ nobodies — but you’re still my precious friends, and as members of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society you have my respect. Me? Elitist? Please. No matter the gap in realm, we’re friends.”

Then, with a smug little laugh—

“Though naturally, without the Flower Realm you can’t understand me.”

Qing cackled, delighted — then, ow, chest pain; then, unable to help herself, she snickered again — and, ow.

Everyone watched coldly as she performed this majestic clownery.

Pick one: laugh or hurt.

They wanted to smack her, but you can’t hit a woman mummified head to toe in bandages and hiding behind her condition.

Whatever they thought, Qing was perfectly satisfied.

She had reached the Flower Realm — how could she possibly hold it in.

****

Qing being infuriating wasn’t new.

When she hit the level beyond the pinnacle she spent days lighting starry sword aura for no reason, bragging, “Bet your house doesn’t have this,” and other nonsense.

“Ah. A little dark? Hiyap. Sparkle, sparkle.”

Bean-sized clumps of force rose to float above her head and shoulders, scattering faint starlight.

Aura Orbs — the emblem of a master in the Flower Realm.

In truth they’re weak, and the act of launching inner energy into open air and condensing it is extremely difficult, costly in energy, and demands intense focus.

It’s far stronger — and easier — to infuse hidden weapons with inner energy and throw those.

So while any Flower Realm master can form Aura Orbs, they’re not used in real combat.

They’re mostly shown before a fight: a silent threat that says, I’m Flower Realm — kneel.

If you insist on using them, you fling them at range as a substitute for hidden weapons when you’ve nothing else in hand.

So, well — everyone sighed. Fine. She’s excited. Let her have it.

And she had reason to be.

Last year Qing was exactly at “maiden age.”

That means twenty.

So this year she’s twenty-one.

Flower Realm at twenty-one?

Reaching the level beyond the pinnacle at twenty made her the youngest in martial history — but twenty-one?

What kind of person skips a whole realm in a single year — well, late autumn now, so a year and change?

Hard to believe.

Flower Realm at twenty-one?

How do you believe that?

Even seeing the Aura Orbs with your own eyes, you’d think she used some trick to fake them.

Unless you’d witnessed that one stroke she showed — the one she said was a legacy of the Heavenly Martial Emperor, a form of the Dokgo Nine Sword Forms — that sublime moment. Otherwise you wouldn’t believe it.

But they had seen a vast realm where the world itself flips — a great domain of ideology.

Was it plausible? Yes.

Even when she first stepped beyond the pinnacle she had wreathed herself in hundreds of thousands of strands of sword energy that filled the world.

You might suspect she was the sort who could force such things even at the lower realm if she staked her life.

But they knew Qing.

She often said foolish things, and at a similar rate she talked total crap; half of what came out of her mouth wasn’t worth much.

But she wasn’t a liar. If she said she’d reached the Flower Realm, there was no reason to think otherwise.

So — well. The world really is unfair.

(Anyone overhearing would be furious. Heirs of the Five Great Houses and the Ten Great Houses, plus the lady of Bing Palace — the finest bloodlines, raised wanting for nothing — carping about “unfair.” Of course, Seol Iri had a right to feel wronged.)

“How is it? Brighter? Still dark? Ah, can’t be helped. Then, from the supreme master of the Realm of Harmony — the sup— reme— mas— ter— the Heavenly Flower Sword herself will especial— mmph.”

A giant steamed bun stuffed into Qing’s mouth.

“Stop yapping and eat.”

“Ahm— thish— bod— y— of— Har—mo—ny—”

Even with her mouth full, she didn’t forget to get those five syllables — “Realm of Harmony” — out.